The Crossword Connection (5 page)

Belle curved her lips into a semblance of pleasure. She genuinely liked and admired Sara and normally greatly enjoyed her company. Today, however, Belle felt a strong impulse to call,
Time out! Rosco and I are getting married, and we could use less input from our friends and family.

Instead, she gave Sara an affectionate embrace and was rewarded with a doting smile. Belle noted the tidy suit and silk scarf, the white cotton gloves, the navy blue pumps: Newcastle's grande dame was dressed for an important excursion. The only thing she lacked was a wide-brimmed hat, but perhaps she'd deemed the weather too inclement for elegant headgear. “Albert was coughing horribly when I spoke with him. We must persuade him to stop smoking. It's taking a toll on his health. You talk to him, Rosco. He's your best man, after all.”

Above Sara's perfectly coiffed white head, Rosco winked at Belle.
“Albert
is his own boss.”

“He has a wife, dear boy. What does she say about all this? No
man
is his own master, Rosco. You're about to be married. You should know that by now.” Sara returned to Belle. “Now; dear heart, I'll handle everything. Captain Lancia is desperately willing to help. He's the
Akbar
's new chief. Where my brother found him, I haven't a clue. But from the man's Mastroianni eyes and basso voice, I'd guess Naples. There's such marvelous mystery to that port.… At any rate, he and I will organize all details for the cruise: which waters, and under which municipality's jurisdiction, and all that other folderol—”

“But—” Belle began.

“And if need be, I'll accompany you to City Hall myself and inform that little snip of a clerk exactly what happens to government employees who overreach themselves.”

“I don't believe—” Rosco tried to interject, but Sara bulldozed past him.

“After all, my brother has been overspending taxpayers' money for a good many years.…”

Belle sighed inwardly. How were these various folks going to coexist on her wedding day? A boisterous family of Greek-Americans, doughty Sara with her dated opinions about noblesse oblige, and Belle's own father, who'd become markedly incommunicative when she'd written to inform him that she was engaged to a private detective, one who'd attended a
state
university, to boot.

“There was a homicide downtown this morning,” Rosco said in an attempt to curtail Sara's monologue. “In Adams Alley. A homeless man.”

The old lady stopped in her tracks. “Why …? Why would someone do that? Isn't it cruel enough that people are forced to live on the streets?” Sara paused for a moment, then seemed to take a greater interest. “And Adams Alley? Very interesting that it should happen right in the middle of our new empowerment zone.”

“Pardon me?”

“Please Rosco, don't assume I'm a naive old bat. We all know what's going on in that area of the city and who the power brokers are. Tax incentives to encourage neighborhood growth, my foot. The only growth I can see shows up in the landlords' pocketbooks. And we all know who sits on the top of that heap.”

“I wouldn't want to jump to any conclusion, Sara. This death may be as simple as a squabble over a liquor bottle.”

“If I've learned anything in my eighty-some years, it's that life is not
simple.”

“He had a dog,” Belle added, “a puppy—”

Beneath her powder and hint of rouge, the staunch old face blanched. “Don't tell me the dog was killed, too!” A hint of tears appeared in Sara's ice-blue eyes.

Rosco answered. He tried to sound reasonable and calming. “The puppy disappeared, Sara. Just probably ran off.”

“We'll have to find it, then.”

Rosco affixed his professional smile. “At the moment, Belle and I have more pressing business. I'm sure the dog will turn up—”

Sara's imperious voice cut in. “Your fiancée and I will attend to the details of your marriage license. You, Rosco, will find that poor, defenseless dog. It's the least we can do.”

“I appreciate your concern, Sara, but let's let Lever and his homicide boys have a—”

But Sara Crane Briephs refused to be superseded. “You misunderstand me, Rosco. I'm engaging you professionally. I want that dog found.”

CHAPTER 6

“Kit. That's what Freddie Carson named her. You know, like Kit Carson, the scout in the Western territories …? Her fur was a little mangy like one of those coonskin caps you see in secondhand shops, and she didn't have a tail, but she was a cute little pup.”

Rosco dragged a discarded plastic milk crate over to the man's side and sat. In an almost Pavlovian response, he said, “What do you mean by
was?”

“I dunno, I guess now that Freddie's a
was,
I assume the dog's a
was
too. A puppy doesn't survive long on its own.… I had a dog once.… You don't have any smokes on you, by any chance?”

Rosco shook his head and looked the man over a second time. Determining his age was almost impossible. He could have been thirty-six or sixty-three. He hadn't shaved or bathed in a week, and he reeked of alcohol. Rosco had found him sitting at the end of the abandoned Seventh Street pier; feet dangling over the edge, an empty pint of cheap rosé winé lying beside him on the weatherbeaten wood planks. Rosco had discovered his name was Gus, and depending on whether he was on or off the wagon, his home was the Saint Augustine Mission or the streets of Newcastle or Boston. Presently, it was the streets of Newcastle.

“Did you know that Kit Carson was breveted a brigadier-general of volunteers after the Civil War?” Gus provided this curious bit of information as he spat into the water below. Evening had set in; the storm clouds had lifted, and the lights across the Newcastle River made the scene oddly romantic, considering the conversation and the principals involved.

“You got me there, Gus. I don't know much about Kit Carson.”

“Christopher, his given name was. Breveted March of 1865. For gallantry in the Battle of Valverde,” Gus slurred. He raised a finger for emphasis. “It's interesting, because the battle was actually in February of '62. Things moved slower back then. Course Kit died three years later.… Too little, too late. That's how I look at it. Just another case of the government makin' someone's life miserable. Custer, there's another one who was promoted to brigadier-general of volunteers. In 1863, two years after he graduated from West Point. His younger brother died with him at Little Big Horn. A lot of people aren't aware of that. They don't realize—”

Rosco interrupted the rambling tale. “How long did you know Freddie?”

“Say, you don't have a couple of bucks you can spare, do you? I was thinking a taste of wine might be pleasant about now. Warm me up. This hasn't been the mildest of Mays. You're welcome to join me. A regular little cocktail party.” Gus chuckled to himself.

“I'm not going to lecture you, Gus. But what I will do is drive you to Father Tom's mission. You need to get yourself cleaned up.”

“I'm not ready to see him or Heartbreak Hotel again. I don't need that kind of pressure.”

“Your decision. The mission is a whole lot warmer and drier than the streets.” Rosco was silent a moment. He thought about Gus, and the murdered Freddie, Kit Carson, George Armstrong Custer, lives misspent and lives fulfilled. “Find the dog,” Sara had said. How could anyone search for a lost animal and ignore a human being? “When was the last time you saw Freddie?”

“You're contendin' you're not a cop, right?”

“Does it make a difference?”

“Yeah, it makes a difference. I got no use for cops. I got no use for the government.”

“Right. Unless, of course, there's some crazy out there who's decided it's time to start killing off street people. You'll have plenty of use for cops then, I would imagine.”

Gus didn't respond. Rosco let the prediction sink in before he spoke again. “As I said, a lady asked me to look for his dog. I didn't really know Freddie—I bought him a cup of coffee once in a while—but that was my only contact. He seemed like a nice enough guy.… Did he have a regular place to hang out? Somewhere he might have deposited Kit? An abandoned building? One of the old train sheds?”

“You got me.”

Rosco paused, then tried another tack. “Okay, let's return to this question: When was the last time you saw Freddie?”

“Alive?”

Rosco studied Gus for a moment. “You mean you saw him dead? You were in Adams Alley last night?”

“I don't know. You got me confused. Maybe I walked down there last night. Maybe it was the night before … or a week ago. I don't know. Maybe Freddie was sleepin'; maybe he was dead. I don't know, pal. I been drinkin' straight for seven days. I don't remember anything.”

“So, when you saw Freddie … Kit wasn't with him. Is that correct?”

Gus raised his voice to a shout. “I'm tellin' ya I don't know. Maybe the pup was sleeping alongside him, maybe not. It's dark in that alley.… Wait a minute. Are you sayin' I killed Freddie? Is that it?”

“Relax, Gus.”

“Don't ‘relax' me, buster.”

“Look, Gus. I'm going to the mission to talk with Father Tom. Why don't you come with me? I'll give you a lift. Get yourself a meal and a bed … At least for tonight.”

“I don't want to see Father Tom.”

Gus raised his wine bottle, held it to the light, and confirmed its empty status. He tossed it into the inky water. “Why don't you leave me alone,” he grumbled. “I take back my offer to have you join me for a drink. I
rescind
the invitation.”

“Have it your own way.” Rosco stood and walked down the pier to his Jeep leaving Gus alone with his demons.

Father Thomas Witwicki looked more like a mobster than a man of the cloth. Midfifties, six feet five, and close to three hundred pounds, he had a nose that had been broken three times, short-cropped fiery red hair, and a limp that everyone assumed had come from a kneecapping in an earlier life. He'd founded the Saint Augustine Mission fifteen years prior with the sole resources of his own muscle and brawn and the sometimes capricious efforts of the very men he'd felt called to save.

Like the two nuns who supervised the nearby women's shelter, the priest had done his share of cerebral and spiritual arm-twisting to inspire a local business consortium to provide two vacant commercial buildings, which had been transformed into second-floor dormitories and two street-level recreation areas and dining halls that fed any and all who were hungry, providing they were clean and sober. Although he seldom wore his clerical collar, he was such a presence in Newcastle, no one ever mistook him for anyone other than who he was: good old Father Tom.

When Rosco entered the Saint Augustine kitchen, he found the mission's founder wearing a white apron and kneading bread dough. The priest looked up. Strangers wandering in and out of the premises didn't perturb him in the least. “Wash your hands. There's an apron in that closet.… You can give me a hand. There's nothing better for your soul than making bread.”

“Actually, I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“That much is obvious. You're either a reporter or a police officer, and you want answers about Freddie Carson. Well, you're going to have to work for them. Grab an apron, or grab that doorknob and go back where you came from.”

Rosco did as he was told. With a white apron tied to his waist, he crossed to the stainless steel table where Father Tom was working.

“I have to be honest with you,” Rosco said. “I'm not much of a cook.”

“You don't have to be. You just need a little forearm muscle, which you seem to have. Better roll your sleeves up another fold or two.… Wash your hands and dip 'em into the flour. Then grab a handful of dough about
yea
big, knead it like this for a minute or two, form it into a loaf shape, and place it in one of those pans.… Got it? A local supermarket used to supply our bread … stuff that had passed the expiration date. But the loaves began showing up moldy, so now we make our own. The same goes for the women's shelter.”

“We? Where's the
we?
I only see you.”

“The
we
in this case is you and me, young man.”

Rosco smiled, dipped his palms into the flour, and extended his right hand to Father Tom. “My name's Polycrates. Rosco Polycrates.”

“Greek, are you?”

“Third generation.”

“Thomas Witwicki. Don't ask me how it was spelled in Poland. The same as the poet, I would imagine.… Father Tom will do. So, what is it? Police or reporter?”

“I'm a private detective. I was with the Newcastle department at one time, but this visit's nothing official. I'm trying to locate Freddie Carson's dog, Kit.”

“Don't yank at the dough. You're not hauling in fishing nets, Rosco. Knead it firmly, but slowly and evenly. Otherwise it won't rise.… I'm afraid I don't have information on the dog. But it seems odd that you'd be more concerned about the whereabouts of an animal than the fact that a man has lost his life.”

“Maybe it's the Saint Francis in me.…”

Father Tom didn't crack even a tiny smile. “We take religion seriously here.”

“So do I.” Rosco's expression had turned equally grave. He kneaded dough for a moment. “I have a hunch that finding Carson's dog might possibly lead to the killer.”

“How is that?”

“The dog's a missing piece of the picture.”

“The pup could have run off.”

“It could have.” Rosco paused. “I spoke with a fella named Gus half an hour ago. You know him?”

“Gus? Of course. Where's he gotten to?”

“I found him sitting at the end of the old Seventh Street pier.”

“Sober?”