Two Down (14 page)

Fortunately, Sara’s gaze was intent on the cryptic in her lap; she didn’t see how deeply Belle blushed. “Yes, I am . . .” was the reluctant answer.

“And so you’re aware of the financial deal Shylock strikes . . . a hefty loan predicated upon the safe arrival of several heavily laden trading ships?”

Belle looked up and caught Sara’s keen stare. “All of which sink before reaching port and discharging their lucrative cargo,” the young woman answered.

“And what happens to Shylock’s daughter—his dearest female companion—as this disaster unfolds?”

“She disappears,” Belle said. “And her name begins with a
J
 . . .”

A
fter he left Belle’s house, it had taken Rosco only twenty minutes to retrace his path to the Pepper home. He’d been informed by Anson that Tom was deeply involved with pressing matters surrounding the G.O.L.D. Fund and had given strict orders not to be disturbed—“under
any
circumstances,” according to the butler. The injunction brought Rosco a certain sense of relief; after his discussion with Belle, he had no desire to be called on the carpet about possible hidden meanings in the perplexing crossword.

With Anson hovering at his elbow, Rosco wrote the following on the back of the envelope containing the completed puzzle:
Mr. Pepper—look this puzzle over and let me know your thoughts. I suspect it’s the work of a disturbed mind, but if you feel there may be more to it, give me a call.

He handed the envelope to Anson and left. Pepper
would make his own inferences on the crossword’s clues and answers—or he would not.

Lieutenant Al Lever and his forensics expert, Abe Jones, weren’t due to start work at Mystic Isle Yachts until four
P
.
M
. As a result, Rosco gauged that he had plenty of time to drive out to Warren and investigate the elusive truckers, Moe Quick and Bob Stingo. Establishing their whereabouts would hopefully fill in a large piece of the puzzle.

Warren’s run-down neighborhoods were as unwelcoming as they’d been on Tuesday, and the Stingo house appeared consistently dark and unoccupied. Rosco banged on the front and rear doors, but the house’s interior remained silent. The home also emitted a morguelike chill, the feel of a building that’s been without heat or human habitation for several days. He stood pressed to the kitchen door for a couple of long minutes, but detected no odor of cooking gas, food preparation, or dishes either washed or piled in the sink. The house smelled only of standing water, cold concrete, and aged vinyl siding.

He returned to his Jeep. The neighboring homes seemed equally devoid of life, although Rosco was certain he was being watched—if only by a nosy populace. He considered approaching one or two of those dwellings, then realized his current attire had “official snoop” written all over it. If he hadn’t been singled out as an undercover cop, he probably looked like something worse: a repo man or enforcer from a rental agency. None of these folks would open their door to such a heinous character, so Rosco turned his Jeep toward Duxbury Court and the Quicks’ mobile home.

Doris Quick seemed truly frightened to see him. Her ruddy complexion blanched; and she slammed the door in his face without speaking. But before Rosco had time to call out or knock again, he heard her voice whisper
through the door. “Okay, okay, I’ll open it.” The inflection made it impossible to determine whether the response was intended for Rosco or someone within the trailer. She reopened the door, but only enough to show her eyes, nose, and mouth. “Sorry,” she said in a halting tone. “I . . . I thought you were someone else.” She attempted a smile but failed.

Rosco assumed his most wholesome demeanor. “Better safe than sorry, I always say.”

Doris studied him, trying to determine his motive. “I suppose you want my husband.”

“Right . . . Just for a minute or two, Mrs. Quick. Is he home?”

“Nope, he ain’t.”

“I thought I heard another voice . . .”

“You didn’t.” Her jaw muscles tightened. Rosco could see she wanted to slam the door shut again. “And I told you, I don’t like being called Missus . . . makes me feel older than I should.”

“All right, then . . . Doris . . . I’m assuming your husband has finally checked in with you—that you have spoken to him since I was here on Tuesday?”

She took her time before responding. “I can’t say I recall when I last talked to him.”

Rosco scratched the back of his head and sighed as if in total sympathy with women married to fickle men. At the same time he was convinced she wasn’t alone. Rosco raised his voice. “Would you like to know where I’m headed right now, Doris?”

“Can’t say that I care.”

“I’m off to Ed Colberg’s marina. Do you have any idea who I’ll be seeing there?”

Doris didn’t answer.

“The police department, Mrs. Quick. They’re
investigating the possibility that the
Orion
’s fire might not have been accidental.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about that boat! I told you already!”

“I’m sure you don’t . . . But as your husband was one of the men who found the
Orion
, Newcastle PD will want to speak with him. Now, you’re certain you can’t contact him? No phone number? No emergency address? No motel he might stop in?”

“He could be anywhere.”

“The police will check your telephone records if they have a probable cause, Mrs. Quick. They’ll check the records of
everyone
involved in this thing. They’ll know exactly who you’ve called—and when.”

Doris thought for a moment. Her studiedly bland expression had become a frown of concentration. “Just a minute. I left something . . . cooking on the stove.”

Doris slammed the door and returned two minutes later. Before she could open her mouth, Rosco stepped up close to the entry. “Do you mind if I come in and get a drink of water?” He coughed. “I seem to have something stuck in my throat.”

“You have to go. I can’t talk anymore.”

Rosco placed his hand on the door to prevent her closing it. “It’ll only take a second.” He rubbed his throat and coughed again. “I don’t know what it is . . . Must have been a piece of dust or something.”

“You have to leave.”

“Are you alone, Doris?”

“Please go.” She leaned her entire weight against the door. Although Rosco realized he could easily push past her, he opted not to. He had no legal right to make a forced entry. Instead, he stepped away, and heard Doris Quick
slide the door’s drop bolt in place. Then he left the small concrete stoop and walked to the back of the mobile home. All the drapes had been closed, making it impossible to observe the interior.

Rosco returned to the street, slid into his Jeep, and checked his watch. He didn’t have time to wait and see who—besides Doris—exited the trailer; Lever was due at Mystic Isle Yachts at four, so Rosco eased the Jeep out of Duxbury Court, merged onto the interstate, and pulled into the marina parking lot at precisely three fifty-two.

The
Orion
and
Dixie-Jack
were berthed in the same locations Rosco had previously visited. The only difference was that both were now cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape ordering
POLICE LINE
—
DO NOT CROSS
in bold black letters. Ripped yellow tail ends fluttered in the ocean breeze like kite tails, but those playful gestures only made the crime tape’s presence more incongruous in an otherwise wholesome picture. Inboards, outboards, and sailboats, not under official scrutiny, bobbed gently along the piers. For yachting buffs, the view would have been tempting. Unfortunately, Rosco wasn’t one of them. Even the rhythmic slap of halyard rope against yardarm made him feel vaguely queasy.

There was no sign of Lever or his “unmarked” car, so Rosco entered the marina office, where he found Colberg working on the
Crier
’s crossword puzzle. The boatyard owner seemed to be filling in answers with surprising ease.

He barely glanced at Rosco; his nod was even less perceptible. “Polycrates,” he groaned in a tone that most people reserved for the discovery of poison ivy or a parking ticket.

“Lever still planning to stop by?” Rosco asked.

“Far as I know.” Colberg glanced up briefly, then resumed his efforts. It was obvious to Rosco their conversation wasn’t going to have an easy flow.

He gestured toward the puzzle. “Looks like you’re pretty good at those things Eduardo.”

Colberg answered with a grunt, then added a dismissive: “If you’ve been doing them as long as I have, it’s second nature. Like filling out a tax form.”

“Right . . . Well, some folks have a little trouble in that area, too.”

Ed tapped the newspaper with the eraser end of his pencil. “Seems this Graham babe’s on a Shakespeare jag today.
Macbeth
 . . .
Hamlet
 . . .”

“You know a lot of Shakespeare, then?”

Colberg finally looked up. Cynical pride creased his face. “Hell, I was English lit. in college. VP of the theater club, too. Big yuck, huh? Me . . . You try earning a living with a damn degree like that. Course, that was before I took to the beaches.” He paused. “Sales are where the action is my friend. Find something someone wants, dangle it in front of their nose, and sell it to ’em. Of course, in the yacht business it pays to know who has the bucks and who doesn’t.”

“Like Tom Pepper?”

“Not a buyer . . . a looker. Don’t let him fool ya.”

“I always thought the sign of a good salesman was being able to sell someone something they
didn’t
want.” Rosco said this with a smile, but his eyes remained watchful and hard.

“I got work to do, Polycrates. If you want the good lieutenant, why don’t you wait out on the dock?”

Rosco responded with a cheery, “6-Down: fifteen letters—PRACTICALLY DEAD . . . Good luck with the ‘work,’ ” then stepped outside just in time to see Lever’s
brown Ford angle into the parking lot. The lieutenant lumbered out from behind the wheel and walked to the car’s trunk, where his forensics expert, Abe Jones, joined him.

Jones looked like a young Harry Belafonte—a fact not lost on a stunningly large and ever-revolving list of lady friends. Sometimes Jones’s cronies at NPD even referred to him by this pseudonym, although a hearty dose of envy accompanied the jest—especially among those men who were married. Jones accepted their gibes as compliments, which only intensified the macho banter.

He and Lever each hefted a large black case from the Ford and headed toward the
Orion
. Rosco met them halfway.

“Why does it never surprise me to find you lurking in the underbrush, Polly—Crates?” Lever said as he extended a beefy paw to Rosco.

After they exchanged a handshake, Rosco said, “I like to keep on top of things, Al. It’s amazing how uncommunicative guys like Colberg become once the cops show up.” Rosco looked at Jones and added, “How’s it going, Abe?” The detective was one of the few who had never called Jones “Belafonte.”

“I’m not complaining, Rosco.”

Lever muttered a resigned: “Someone who looks like he just stepped out of
GQ
better not complain.”

“Exercise, Al, that’s all it takes.” Jones grinned.

“You’ve never exercised a day in your life, my friend.”

“Well, there’s many different forms of exercise, Al. I work out nearly every evening. Hey, if you don’t believe me, I’ll give you a list of corroborating witnesses. Maybe their phone numbers, if you play your cards right.”

“Ho, ho, ho.”

They reached the
Orion
and immediately switched into serious business mode. Jones placed his case on the dock
and sat next to it, letting his feet dangle over the boat’s charred gunwale. He remained silent for nearly two minutes while he studied the wreck. Finally he said, “What a mess. So . . . what do we need to know, Al?”

Lever pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and waved it over the
Orion
as he searched for a match with his other hand. “Let’s start with what started the fire and what put it out . . .How and when the women exited . . . Did they make it to the inflatable? Or were they forced to jump overboard?”

Jones laughed, shook his head, and said, “Hey, that’s simple enough.” He slid down onto the boat.

Lever found his matches and turned to Rosco while he lit up. “Not much to do but watch.”

Rosco shrugged. “. . . You never know.”

“By the way, I called L.A. It turns out Jamaica Nevisson’s blood type was A positive.”

“One call? That easy?”

“Never let it be said that Al Lever is a man without friends.”

“A pos. . . . Same as I pulled off the fishing boat.”

“Right. But we don’t know if that was boy or girl blood, do we? Mrs. Pepper was O neg.”

“Yep,” Rosco said. “I got that from Mr. Pepper.” He decided to move the dialogue forward at a brisker pace. “I took a gander at the
Dixie-Jack
before you got here, Al. It’s been scrubbed down . . . looks like a brand-new boat. You’re going to be hard-pressed to find anything worthwhile on her.”

Jones’s voice interrupted them. “Well, this is interesting,” he called from the
Orion
’s hulk. “What’d you say put this fire out?”

Rosco looked in his direction. “One of the guys who
towed her in said a squall blew in. He figured the rain doused it.”

“That’s not what I’d call a real accurate statement.”

“What makes you say that, Abe?” Lever asked.

“Well the rain might have
started
to do the job . . . slow it down, anyway. It’s hard to tell because it rained the other night, but there’s still CO
₂
residue all over this thing.”

“Meaning . . . ?”

“Meaning somebody hosed her down with a fire extinguisher. But good.”

“So, the women did it—and then jumped ship?” Lever asked. He made no attempt to hide his confusion.