The Crossword Murder (12 page)

“Or Peter Kingsworth ferried them.”

Rosco gave her a sideways glance that caused the Jeep to veer toward oncoming traffic.

“All right,” Belle said, “Scratch Peter. Charon, the boatman bearing souls across the River Styx.”

“Greek mythology … I know. I'm not as dumb as I look.”

“The expression is ‘I'm not as dumb as
you
look.'”

“If you're ten years old, it is.”

“I didn't learn it until I was fifteen!”

“Too much ivory tower.”

They both laughed, the ice broken. Belle was the first to resume the discussion. “But your assumption eliminates no one. Everyone in Newcastle has a boat. I have a boat. The mayor has a boat. Even the Senator has a boat.”

“I don't.”

“Yes, but you're odd.”

Rosco looked at Belle. The full force of the rising sun flooded her face, and she was forced to squint to return his glance. Her smile seemed warmer than the sunlight; it made her appear angelic.

“You're odd,” she repeated.

He smiled back and said, “Thank you.”

After five or six minutes Rosco eased the Jeep into a parking spot around the corner from the
Herald'
s front entrance. As Belle searched through her purse for meter change Rosco reached under the front seat and removed a small red canvas bag.

“I'll get this,” he said, hopping out and placing the canvas bag over the meter. On it was printed:
Meter out of order. Your parking courtesy of the Newcastle P.D. Have a nice day
.

“Where did you get that?” Belle asked with obvious envy in her voice. “I want one.”

“Actually the city hasn't used them in years, but I don't think the meter readers have caught on yet.”

As they began walking toward the corner an ambulance raced through the traffic signal, lights flashing, and siren shrieking at a level intended to wake people in Boston or even Albany.

“Jeez,” Belle said as she moved her hands to her ears. “You wouldn't think that much noise was necessary, would you?”

From reflex, Rosco stopped and watched the ambulance pass. About three-quarters of the way down the block it slowed and ducked into the
Herald'
s underground parking structure. Rosco stood silently for a moment.

“What?” Belle asked.

“I'm debating whether to go see what's up. Old police habits don't die easy.”

The sound of another siren pulled their attention back to the intersection. It came from a tan four-door sedan, obviously an unmarked police car, with a red flasher slapped onto its roof. As it sped by, Rosco recognized a familiar face behind the wheel.

“Al,” he muttered.

“Lever?”

“That's right … Look, Belle, I'll meet you in the
Herald
lobby. I'm going to check this out.” Rosco sprinted off toward the garage entrance, leaving Belle alone on the sidewalk.

CHAPTER 15

R
OSCO
REACHED THE
garage ramp at the same moment Lever's car made its turn. The vehicle was traveling slowly enough for Rosco to open the door and jump in alongside the detective; the leap from asphalt to rubberized floor mat was so seamless it looked like a circus routine.

“What the deuce are you doing here?” was Lever's none-too-gracious greeting.

“Just visiting. What's going on?”

“My wife tells me, ‘Lock the doors when you drive through the city. Anyone could jump into your car.' I should listen to her more often.” Lever worked the sedan through the poorly lit underground parking area, searching for the ambulance.

“What's this all about, Al?”

“Well, you figure it out, Rosco, you're a smart guy. Who do I work for?”

“Homicide.”

“Bingo.”

“Who got it?”

“Caucasian female's all I have.”

“
Herald
employee?”

“Beats me.”

Lever spotted the ambulance at the far end of the cavernous garage, wedged into one of the many hidden alcoves. He raced to a skidding stop beside it. Both men jumped from the car simultaneously.

“Hey,” Lever shouted. “Who told you to move that body?”

A uniformed officer stepped out from a parked car and said, “Good morning, Lieutenant. The paramedics say she isn't dead. They're getting a slight pulse. Might be able to save her.”

“Who the hell is she?”

“No positive ID yet. The night watchman was getting ready to leave, heard a scream and ran back down.”

“He see anything?”

“He's over there.” The cop pointed to a man in a blue guard's uniform leaning against the trunk of a dark green Chevy. “He didn't get a look at anyone. Says he was more concerned about getting an ambulance down here.”

Rosco eased his way to where the paramedics were strapping the unconscious woman to the gurney. She was severely beaten around the face and neck with what was obviously a dull instrument of some kind. Her flesh was pulpy and purple, and her eyes completely swollen shut. But even with the way her face had been rearranged, Rosco knew he'd seen her before.

After the paramedics closed up the ambulance and hustled off, Rosco ambled back toward the lieutenant, who was now questioning the security guard.

“So, you didn't see anything then?” Lever pressed.

“No, sir. Usually I get off at eight.” The guard glanced reflexively at his watch. “But my replacement was late. So I was waiting for him at the top of the ramp … At about eight-o-five, eight-ten, I heard this scream and ran down. It took me almost three minutes to find her. All these alcoves—I didn't know where to look first. I'm surprised this doesn't happen more often down here. They need a gate up top. Anyway, by the time I found her, whoever did it was long gone. So I radioed for an ambulance and police.”

“And you've never seen her before?”

“Nope. But I work the midnight to eight shift. There's a lot of folks I don't know. People who come to work after eight, I usually never see.”

“Okay, thanks. I want you to stick around until we're done here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lever watched Rosco approach. “You still here?”

“Yep.”

“Well, I've got to get a forensic crew in here, so don't touch anything.”

“What did the guard see?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you know who she was?”

“Not yet. Her purse is still here, but it's missing any form of identification.”

“Money?”

“Gone. Someone cleaned her out.”

“I guess she was mugged, then,” Rosco suggested.

“Looks that way … Armed robbery, she resists—they never learn, do they?”

“Nope,” Rosco agreed. “Tough way to save twenty bucks.” Then he put his hands into his pockets, turned, and walked the length of the parking structure. It was damp and sticky and gave off an odor that was typical of every seeping, ancient brick-and-stone basement. At the end, Rosco hustled up the exit ramp and onto the street. He was surprised to find Belle waiting in the shade of an elm tree.

“I know you said to meet in the
Herald
lobby—” she began. “Actually, I was going to come down and find you, but I have a phobia about those places. Maybe it's because I have such a rotten sense of direction … I'm afraid I'll get lost and never see the light of day again …
So
, what happened?”

“Someone tried to kill JaneAlice Miller.”

CHAPTER 16

L
AWSON'S, THE COFFEE
shop across from the
Herald
had become a Newcastle institution. It had been enthralling or infuriating customers for the past forty-odd years and its waitresses looked as if they'd been on duty since day one. So did its green-flecked Formica countertop and the booths whose banquettes were covered in cracked pink plastic. A newcomer might have expected the ads on the walls to run to hand-colored photographs of Ovaltine or Libbey's Dairies—even a faded yet still demure Breck Girl wouldn't have seemed amiss.

Rosco had taken a much-shaken Belle to Lawson's time-warped haven in hopes that the abundance of smiling faces would comfort her in some small way. It was one of his favorite haunts in this city, a soothing gathering place where the congenial murmur of conversation was interspersed with boisterous orders to and from the fry-cook and the ever-present jangle of the tarnished tin bell haphazardly affixed above the door. The aromas of grape jelly, underdone toast, rubbery bacon and coffee mingled gleefully in the air.

“But, why?” Belle asked for the second time since they'd entered.

“Lever believes it's armed robbery.” Rosco didn't go into his contribution to the theory.

“But that's a mistaken assumption, don't you think?” Belle sat close to him in the booth as if she were suddenly icy cold. “I mean, doesn't it look as if the same person who killed Briephs was trying to murder JaneAlice? As if she knew something that might be incriminating?” Belle shivered violently. “And she was almost unrecognizable?”

Rosco regretted including that particular piece of information, but added, “She'd been badly beaten,” as if it might somehow neutralize what he'd seen.

“I should send her some flowers, poor thing.”

Rosco didn't answer for a moment. “She's unconscious, Belle. She may not make it.”

Belle shivered again. “The scary thing is … this person is still out there.”

Rosco couldn't dredge up any words of comfort. Deep down, he was as upset as Belle. Briephs' death had been one thing, but the attack on JaneAlice struck closer to home. He'd been talking to her only yesterday morning and now she was on life-support.

“Lever's a good cop,” he said as he glanced across the street. “He'll catch whoever did this.”

“But he thinks it's just a mugging …”

“He'll dust for prints. He'll be thorough.”

“Murderers don't leave fingerprints! There aren't going to be any at Windword Islands—that's what you said. And if this was the same person who killed Briephs, there won't be any in the garage either.” Belle's large, frightened eyes leveled on Rosco's.

Here was a cop's toughest call: sympathy versus professional detachment. Rosco would have given his eyeteeth to remain hunkered down in the booth with Belle, but he had work to do.

“Look, Belle, Housemann said he'd be willing to give me a few minutes at nine-thirty. If I run across the street, will you wait for me here?”

Belle glanced out the steamy window toward the
Herald'
s imposing redbrick presence. Her expression changed visibly, as if she were persuading herself to remain calm and collected. “I'm fine.”

“And you'll wait for me here?”

She tried to laugh. “Aye aye, sir.”

“You don't have to be brave.”

“I am brave, though; that's the odd thing. In fact, I'm beginning to think I'm completely unflappable.”

“I won't be long. Housemann reminded me twice how valuable his time is—nicely, though.”

“You're still not convinced I'm right, are you?”

Before dodging across the street, Rosco spotted a red-and-white
Herald
vending machine. He dropped in two quarters, slipped out the morning edition and flipped open the pages until he spotted the crossword. Then he folded the paper neatly and scooted back to Belle. “Something to occupy you. My treat. Oh, and order up some eggs or something. They're great on the homemade hash browns … over-easy, that's my favorite.”

“Eggs? I thought I mentioned that I'm broadening my cuisine.”

“Well, waffles or pancakes then … They use real maple syrup here.” He pointed at the
Herald
. “There are no answers to yesterday's puzzle in there. I guess I'll just have to trust you.”

“Thanks, Rosco.” She looked up at him. “I mean it. You're a good guy … Don't let Housemann push you around.”

Alone with the puzzle, Belle swiveled it to face away from her. She didn't want to be tempted to fill in the blanks. The concept of a murderer being revealed in a word game had begun to seem absurd—as if she were treating Briephs' death and Rosco's investigation as a joke. JaneAlice's beating seemed to attach a permanent chill to her bones. She looked out the window and drank her coffee. But gradually habit overcame her resolve, and she found herself glancing sideways at the puzzle. The fact that yesterday's answers were missing had started to intrigue her. “Oh, all right,” she decided. “Rosco bought the thing. I might as well have a go at it.”

Slowly, she shifted the paper's alignment, scanning the clues and blank spaces with professional speed. “Wow,” she murmured. “Another one …”

PUZZLE #2

Across

1.
Deface

5.
Grace, Scot.

10.
___ laugh

14.
Other

15.
Forgets