The Crossword Connection (7 page)

“Give him space,” Belle repeated; then her thoughts shifted focus. Belle's brain was never still for long. “Space,” she jotted on a scrap of paper, “time, capacity, opportunity, distance. Musical reference,” she added, “aviation.” The theme for a new cryptic had begun playing through her mind. “
Lost in
——,” she wrote. “
Out of
——
out of time
;” beside this entry, she scribbled
“Edgar Allan Poe.”

The phone rang. She peered at her watch as she snatched up the receiver. It was 11:02. “Rosco! I was getting worried.”

Stony silence met her.

“Rosco?”

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, Annabella.”

Belle forced a smile to her lips. “Father! It's nice to hear from you. I didn't expect—”

“It's clear you were anticipating a different messenger, Annabella.”

Belle set her shoulders. “Father, what I was trying to say is that I didn't imagine I'd speak to you before your arrival for the wedding.”

“That is precisely what I wish to discuss, Annabella.”

Her shoulders grew firmer, her spine straighter.
We've been through this conversation already,
she thought.
My “questionable choice in mates” Rosco's “lack of an Ivy League education” his “career.” I don't want to participate in this dialogue again.
She changed the subject with a noncommittal, “How is the weather in Florida?”

“Benign.”

Belle's expression turned wry.
Benign
was not a condition she would have imagined her father capable of recognizing.

“However, I did not telephone long distance to enter a discourse on meteorology. I phoned to discuss your espousement.”

Belle nearly groaned aloud. “I appreciate your concern, Father, but I wish you'd wait and pass judgment after you meet Rosco. He's a fine man, and I love him—”

“Love is not the only ingredient in a marriage, Annabella.…”

Belle looked out the rain-gray windows.
That poor dog,
she thought as she half listened to her father's plodding lecture.

“… I simply ask that you consider this decision thoroughly, Annabella. You made a mistake once before—”

“I
have
considered it, Father.”

Silence echoed on both ends of the phone.
Another stalemate,
Belle realized,
one more in an endless line.
She took her eyes off the window and let her glance wander over her office: the foreign-language dictionaries lining the bookcase, the OED, her cherished 1911
Encyclopedia Britannica.
These were ostensibly the tools of a cryptic-constructor's trade, but they were also a legacy. She'd been raised to value intellect above all other attributes and to believe that the walls of academia were the only foundation that mattered. Those thoughts inevitably carried her to Rayanne and a contemplation on her parental conversations.

“You warned me not to judge a book by its cover, Father. Perhaps, you should wait until you meet Rosco before evaluating him.”

The voice on the other end of the line was not amused. “I was referring to scholarly works, Annabella. However, the purpose of my call is to inform you that I may not be able to attend the festivities. My sciatica has been bothering me again, and I fear a long train journey—”

Guilty relief rushed over Belle, but she did her best to temper the reaction. “You could always fly,” she offered.

“That's out of the question, I'm afraid, Annabella. You know how little I like airplanes.”

“But they're different nowadays, Father. They're far more comfortable—”

“Just as unsafe, however!”

Belle didn't respond to the accusation. Concerning the perils of air travel, her father had always been adamant. “Whatever you feel is best. I wouldn't want you complicating your condition.”

The conversation continued for another short minute. There was no more mention of Rosco and no further critique of Belle. Father and daughter concluded in polite formality. “I hope you'll improve quickly,” she said.

“It's an arduous trip,” was his noncommittal reply.

Belle dropped the receiver back into the cradle and wasn't surprised when it immediately rang again. One of the problems with her insistence upon having a single phone line with no additional services was a frequent busy signal. “Rosco? Sorry, my father called.… Where are you? I've been worried.…”

The line crackled with static, but no voice was heard.

“Rosco? Your cell phone connection's awful.…” She waited for a response. None was forthcoming. “Rosco? Hello?”

Only silence ensued.

“Hello? Rosco?” Belle waited a moment, then banged down the phone, disgruntled. “Why can't telemarketers leave you alone on the weekend?”

CHAPTER 8

The police photographer snapped a series of pictures of the dead woman while Rosco stood near the wall, watching the procedure. The flash ricocheted across the wet asphalt and drenched walls behind the Newcastle bus terminal. With each shot, the twin fire escapes at the rear of the converted nineteenth-century building cast angular shadows along the browned bricks, making the crisscrossed ironwork loom like enormous arachnids.

The flash popped a final time. Even at a distance, Rosco could easily see the woman's face. She seemed far too peaceful, almost as if she were smiling.

“Do they know how she died?” Rosco's question was directed at Abe Jones, who'd arrived at the scene ten minutes before Rosco and Lever.

“I haven't altered the body position. I'm waiting for the ME. He'll have to determine the cause of death.” As if he'd been reading Rosco's mind, Jones added, “She looks kind of peaceful, doesn't she?”

“Well, death'll do that for you.…” Lever coughed. “Maybe we'll get lucky here. Maybe she died of natural causes … just had a heart attack and expired in her sleep. Money or ID?”

Jones shook his head. “Neither … I hope you're right about natural causes, but unfortunately, this scene bears a striking resemblance to yesterday's. That's why I thought you should be called before anything was moved … day off or not. Sorry, boss.” Jones pointed up and down the narrow street. “Like the situation with Freddie, we have a mainly deserted alley—especially after dark—and a body positioned on newspapers: the
Evening Crier
and
Boston Sentinel.
All we're missing is the blood and the dog food.”

“And the pint of booze.” Lever reached for his cigarettes.

“Right. No booze this time. In fact, the woman doesn't look too badly off. Wet, dirty overalls … not what you'd call filthy, though. We have some death stench.… That's certainly not her fault. And her boots aren't in great shape, but hey, I've seen far worse.”

“A good deal of mud on them,” Rosco observed.

“Probably from walking through the park down on Third. I'll take samples and run a comparison.”

Lever nodded. “Who found her?”

“The lead came in on the tip line. Anonymously. But that's another reason I wanted the dispatcher to notify you, Al. The call was traced to a pay phone at Eleventh and Hawthorne.”

“The
Crier
building?” Rosco asked. Recognizing the location of Belle's office, he made no attempt to mask his surprise.

“Not the actual building,” Abe Jones answered. “There's a pay phone on the corner. However, we're talking about eight or nine blocks from here. The person who phoned didn't want to be anywhere near the scene when we arrived. I dispatched one of my men to dust the phone box for prints, but if the caller was cautious enough to establish a credible distance, I doubt we'll find much. I also contacted Sister Mary Catherine at Margaret House Women's Shelter. I figured she and Father Tom have a better handle on Newcastle's street people than anyone. If she doesn't recognize the woman, she should be able to provide other sources.”

“Thanks, Abe.” Lever turned his attention to Rosco. “Do you know how we get in touch with this Gus character you told me about?”

Rosco shook his head. “No. Apparently, he roams back and forth between here and Boston. Why?”

“Just want to talk, that's all. Maybe he knew her.”

“Well, if he's still in Newcastle, my bet is he'll leave as soon as he hears about this.”

“Let's not jump to conclusions, Rosco. It's possible she died of natural causes.”

“Wishful thinking.” Jones nodded toward the end of the alley. “Don't look now, Al, but your hopeful demeanor is about to evaporate.”

Rosco and Lever followed Jones's gaze and watched Carlyle plod heavily toward them. He carried a large black case in his right hand, a black umbrella in his left. If he'd had a hood on his coat, he would have looked like the Grim Reaper. When he reached the three men, he said, “What have we got?” No other salutation passed his lips. He gazed perfunctorily at Jones and Lever. Rosco, he completely ignored.

“Dead
Jane
Doe this time,” Lever answered. “I was hoping the causes might be natural.”

Carlyle remained standing while he scanned the scene in silence. He glanced up at the bus depot roof, briefly allowing the rain exposure to his face, then returned his gaze to the alley.
“Natural cause
is not a term I'd use, Al.… Homicide would be more like it. I don't think the subject could have fallen—or jumped—and landed in this position. Partially under the fire escape, lying on newspapers?” Carlyle shook his head. “Don't even hope for suicide. Looks like she'd made herself a bed same as our victim yesterday.”

He placed his case on the wet pavement, slipped on a pair of surgical gloves, and crouched over the body. “Vertebral column … neural arch …” He looked at his watch and made a note. “Odd … but interesting coloration. The bruise is nearly dissipated.… Do you have a name? Address?”

Lever shook his head.

“Money? Valuables?”

This time Abe Jones responded. “Nothing. We could be looking at a robbery gone sour.”

“No signs of struggle, Abe.… The face is calm.”

“Rosco and I noted that, too.”

Carlyle stiffened slightly but otherwise didn't react. He continued as if Rosco's name hadn't been mentioned. “I'm not liking this skin color.… Something doesn't jibe. Clearly we have a crushed cervical vertebra. This lady was put out like a light.”

“Could she have been killed while she was sleeping?” Rosco asked. “Hit on the back of the head? Something like that?”

The medical examiner didn't reply.

“What about it, Carlyle?” Lever asked.

“Possible but not probable. Your attacker would have to have a thorough understanding of human anatomy … a martial arts expert, maybe.
Maybe.
But again, not probable. If our gal were sleeping, her skull would have been in a similar relationship to the ground as it is here.… There's little to no flexibility in the spine—”

“So you're saying there's no way it could have been an accident?” Lever's voice was weary; he still hoped he wouldn't have to open a second homicide file in as many days.

“Not from my initial examination. The autopsy could prove me wrong.
Maybe.”
Carlyle retrieved his umbrella from Jones and said, “I'll get the van.” He headed up the alley, passing Sister Mary Catherine and a uniformed officer. Carlyle scarcely acknowledged them.

When the nun reached Lever, Al extended his hand. “Thanks for coming, Sister. I believe you already know Rosco Polycrates, Belle Graham's fiancé, and this is Abe Jones, the department's forensics expert.… And this person—” he pointed to the corpse—“is why we're here. Does she look familiar?”

Sister Mary Catherine took a reflexive step backward, then walked forward and knelt beside the body, crossing herself before whispering a few words into the dead woman's ear.

“I'm sorry to be so blunt,” Lever said. “But do you think you might recognize her?”

The nun stood and attempted to brush the dampness from her knees. “No … I've never seen her before. She's never entered Margaret House.”

“Not even for a meal? You're sure?”

“I remember everyone who comes through our doors, Lieutenant.” Sister Mary Catherine smiled gently and looked at Rosco. “I'm sure our volunteers remember them, as well.”

“Can you refer us to another agency—”

The nun shook her head. “This woman was not homeless, Lieutenant. She was not living on the streets. I'm sure your medical examiner will come to the same conclusion.”

“You seem pretty sure of that fact, Sister.”

Again, the peaceable smile. “I am.”

“Then would you care to take a stab at why she was sleeping on newspapers in an alley behind a bus station and had no money on her?”

Sister Mary Catherine studied Lever, an expression of growing comprehension and compassion on her quiet face. “I appreciate your concern, Lieutenant, and the strain you must feel … especially given yesterday's situation, but I've spent my life among the lost and hopeless, whether children or adults. Their faces are like road maps, showing each path taken, each disappointment, each mistake, each unfulfilled hope. This unfortunate woman did not live on the streets.”

“Okay, but—”

“I've said a prayer for her, and for you and your team of police officers, as well. There's nothing else I can offer you. Now, if someone could drive me back to the mission, I would appreciate it. I apologize if I seem brusque, but I have a great deal of work … among the living.” She touched Lever's arm in tranquil finality. “Of course, I will be available at Margaret House if you want to question me further … or should you wish to talk with some of our residents.”

Lever's glance moved from the nun to the dead woman and back again. He didn't speak for a moment; when he did, his tone was solemn. “Thank you for your time, Sister … and for your prayers.” Then he nodded to the officer who'd originally escorted the nun to the scene. As the two walked purposefully away, they passed Carlyle's van backing down the alley; Sister Mary Catherine briefly placed her hand on the vehicle's dark metallic side.