Two Down (17 page)

R
osco hit the roof—as Belle had anticipated he would. “What do you mean you went out to Allyn’s Point? Alone?” his voice demanded through the telephone line. Fear for her safety magnified the outrage in his tone.

“If someone actually kidnapped those two women, Belle, that person is playing for keeps. And
if
—as you suggested in another scenario—this is an extortion scheme targeting Pepper and his millions, and the women are already dead . . . Then you’re still dealing with a hardened criminal . . . and a sadistic one, to boot . . .” He waited a second or two, then added, “Belle, are you listening to me . . . ?”

“I am, yes.” She stared out her office window. She knew he was right, but that didn’t make the dressing-down any easier to take. In fact, her own criticism of herself made his more difficult to accept. Besides, she hadn’t even told him about the threatening phone call. Not that she was about to share
that
piece of information posthaste.

“You should have called me, Belle,” Rosco concluded. His anger had given way to old-fashioned worry.

“The puzzle read, ‘Tell no one.’ ”

Rosco sighed. “Belle, you’re a word person—some might say an egghead . . . but you’re not a cop.”

In spite of herself, Belle bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you should have basic training in law enforcement before dealing with criminals.”

“Tom Pepper told you he didn’t want the police brought in on this—and you listened to him.”

“That’s because I used to be a cop. I know what I’m doing.”

“As opposed to me? The
egghead
?” Belle’s question was delivered in the flat, challenging tone of a statement.

Rosco paused. Belle could hear him breathing slowly and deliberately. “Look, you’re a very smart person, that’s all I meant,” he said. “I can’t quote Shakespeare. You can. French and Latin phrases don’t roll off my tongue. You can jump hoops between languages. On the other hand, I’ve been through the police academy, and I’ve been out on the streets . . . I’ve learned to anticipate problem situations.” The particular stress he put on “problem” painted a vivid picture of just what those times entailed. “I also know when to carry a gun, and how to use it if I have to.”

Belle didn’t speak immediately. Instead, she continued gazing through the window. Midafternoon was giving way to dusk. The sky was still blue, but the color looked heavier and darker, as if the panes of intervening glass had been tinted an amber brown. “Rosco, I may not have sufficient experience with criminal investigations, but everything in that crossword indicated that I’d been designated as a liaison. If I hadn’t gone alone—”

“Why you, Belle?” Although Rosco’s tone was gentle, Belle found herself growing irritable again.

“Why not me? You’re working for Pepper. Most folks consider us to be . . . to be . . .” Annoyance at the situation wouldn’t permit her to say the word “couple” instead she opted for a noncommittal “involved.”

“Only people we know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you’re presupposing this kidnapper—or extortionist—is a local who’s attuned to the personal relationships of every citizen of Newcastle.”

Belle could see Rosco’s point, but her stubborn streak refused to concede the argument. “Then why were those first two crosswords sent to me, the third to Tom, and the fourth delivered to me again?”

Rosco’s response was a weary: “Those are questions we don’t have answers for yet.”

“But I do! The first puzzle comes to me; I answer the clues, but fail to respond—or so the constructor assumes . . . Ditto with the second crossword . . . although, meanwhile I decide to publish it—and talk to Bartholomew Kerr . . . The puzzle’s printed version and his gossip column don’t appear until yesterday—Friday . . . But in the meantime the constructor becomes frustrated at my seeming inattention and targets Pepper, knowing he’ll pass the puzzle along to me—”

“You’re making a big assumption—”

“No, I’m not, Rosco! This is common sense. I know I’m right!”

“No, Belle, you don’t
know
it. You
believe
it . . . That’s a whole different thing . . . I don’t mean to lecture you, but it’s important not to jump to conclusions here—”

“You play hunches all the time. You told me so yourself . . . Besides, Sara ‘wholeheartedly’ concurred that
the crossword Pepper received had direct bearing on the case. ‘Wholeheartedly’ was her term, not mine.”

“Tell me you didn’t show that puzzle to Sara.”

Belle remained silent, so Rosco pushed harder. “You showed that puzzle to Sara?” He could feel himself steaming up again. “When Pepper practically
ordered
me not to inform the police!”

Belle’s tone—and verbiage—turned immediately defensive and grand. “As a subcontractor of the Polycrates Agency, I felt it within my jurisdiction, yes . . . Anyway, Sara—”

“Where did you get that high-flown term ‘subcontractor’?”

“From you!”

Rosco’s frustration echoed through the telephone wire. “And so this employee of mine takes it upon herself to investigate a situation without informing her boss—”

“Well, you’re not my boss, for one thing. Let’s not get carried away—”

“Aha!” Rosco almost shouted. “Now we’re getting somewhere . . . So this
non
employee decides to investigate a case in which she has no jurisdiction . . . not to mention authority—”

But Belle was not to be bested. “Rosco! Two women’s lives are at stake!”

“We don’t actually know that, Belle—”

“Yes, we do!”

“Belle—”

“Okay, okay . . . my
assumption
is that this is a kidnapping . . . But isn’t that the only way for us to proceed? By hoping that these crosswords lead us to Genie and Jamaica?”

Rosco didn’t answer, and both, in their separate rooms, backed off. Belle glared through the windows. Evening
was now marching forward; soon the panes of glass would turn black and cold. She flicked on her desk lamp, but the circle of light did nothing to dispel the sense of hastening gloom.

“Listen,” she said, “this latest cryptic arrived first thing this morning—today, Saturday . . . After the threatening phone call last night, it made perfect sense that I—”

“What phone call?” Rosco’s tone was again on edge.

Belle groaned. She couldn’t think of an answer that would assuage his fears. “I didn’t mean to tell you,” she said quietly.

“Well, that’s just swell,” was his exasperated response. “That’s just terrific! You put yourself at severe risk, and you don’t have the courtesy to tell me?”

“It had nothing to do with courtesy, Rosco. I knew you’d try to dissuade me from going.”

“You’re right! That’s exactly what I would have done—dissuade. And with good reason.”

“But I’m trying to tell you I
had
to go out to Allyn’s Point alone!”

“Speaking of
points,
that’s mine . . . Someone wanted you there alone—and that person is most probably a character you shouldn’t meet face-to-face.”

“But he—” Belle began, but Rosco overrode her.

“Belle,” he said, “If you love someone, don’t you want to protect them? Whatever it takes?”

Belle was silent for a long time. How could you stand on principle when someone said they loved you? “Yes,” she finally answered. “Yes, you do.”

“You worry about me, right?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Well . . . ?” he asked.

In response, she frowned at her desk, and at a
well-thumbed Oxford edition of Shakespeare’s complete works lying open on its surface.

“What’s good for the goose . . .” Rosco said gently.

“Is good for the gander,” was her mumbled response. Then she added a quick: “ ‘Young blood must have its course, lad, / And every dog his day.’ It’s from
Water Babies
 . . . Charles Kingsley . . . The poem has a goose in it. That’s why it came to mind, I guess . . . although there was this dog out at Allyn’s Point . . .”

“We need to talk about that, Belle,” Rosco answered softly. “Listen, what do you say I take you out to dinner? We can hash over the entire situation then . . . parameters, safety, appropriate information-exchange policy,
subcontractors
, the works . . .”

“Promise you’ll never call me an egghead again.”

“Only if you positively swear you’ll start considering the consequences of your actions.”

“I’m not sure I know how,” was Belle’s quiet response.

“That’s why I worry about you.” Rosco chuckled a little. The stalemate was broken. “Is half an hour okay? And maybe the Athena? Besides, I’ve got my own news to share. One item being that Genie Pepper’s half brother—and no friend of Tom’s—is the beneficiary of her
generous
life-insurance policy. The second being that he up and quit his job. No one in Boston has seen hide nor hair of him since last Saturday.”

“Yikes!” was all Belle could think to say.

T
he Athena Restaurant on Front Street in the resuscitated City Pier area had been the scene of Rosco and Belle’s first dinner together. With its cozy, romantic ambience, checkered tablecloths, and evocative, wall-sized murals of Greece, the eatery had remained a favorite; Belle and Rosco felt almost as if they’d been transported to some exotic vacation spot when dining there. Tonight, however, business intruded. Or, perhaps, discussing the Pepper case was easier than addressing the push-pull of their own emotions. Both of them had been deeply affected by their argument that afternoon; love, they knew, could make people unreasonable, sometimes possessive, often anxious. It could also bring joy beyond measure.

“So . . . let’s see . . . You were telling me that Billy Vauriens can’t be found . . .” Nervous energy and a sudden shyness caused Belle’s pale blond hair to bounce as she spoke. She smiled, but the expression was almost too bright. “Doesn’t his girlfriend find that odd?”

Rosco tried to match her impersonal mood. “Not from what she said . . .I gather they have a pretty loose arrangement.”

“I’d hate that,” Belle blurted out, then stammered an embarrassed, “For me, I mean . . . Or, rather . . .”

“I wouldn’t like it either,” Rosco said. “For myself, that is. . .”

“To each his own,” Belle answered.

“Absolutely,” was Rosco’s swift reply.

In the awkward silence that ensued, he divvied up the remaining
dolmades;
and the waiter removed the plate from the red-and-white-checked tablecloth, then poured white wine into their glasses. Rosco waited until he and Belle were again alone before speaking.

“You and Vauriens’ lady friend don’t have much in common . . .” he began, then attempted a less intimate tone as he watched her attack her last stuffed grape leaf. “Unless you’ve been kiting checks, that is.” Finally, he added a quiet: “I’m glad you didn’t starve out there on Allyn’s Point . . . Or harm yourself in any other way . . .”

“I was fine, Rosco. Really I was,” Belle murmured, before returning to the safer subject of Billy Vauriens. “I still don’t understand his situation with his boss.”

Rosco toyed with his glass. Belle could see he had something on his mind that didn’t include Genie Pepper’s half brother. When he answered, however, it was Vauriens’ situation he addressed. “I gather Billy’s part of a pickup crew for construction work. Nonunion, usually working off the books . . . sometimes only marginally skilled . . . They’re not the most dependable folks to hire.”

Belle followed his lead with an equally pragmatic: “So, why didn’t this boss question Vauriens about his decision to quit?”

“The guy’s got a site under construction. Probably running
behind schedule would be my guess . . . He barely had time to talk to me. Anyway, he’s used to these part-timers coming and going. He’s got better things to do than keep track of them.”

“Hmm . . .” Belle nodded. “Hmm.”

Flat soup dishes containing
avgolemono
were placed in front of them. “Lemon soup.” She sighed. “You know how much I love this stuff.”

Rosco smiled as he watched her. “It’s not that hard to cook.”

“For someone named Polycrates, maybe!” Belle returned his warm glance, but her pronouncement suddenly brought a welter of disturbing thoughts—accompanied by the single damning and unshakable word Jamaica had leveled at her during the Patriot Yacht Club dinner dance; “transitional” clanged in Belle’s ears.

“So . . .” she continued after several moments, “after you went gallivanting all over Boston looking for Vauriens, then what?”

“Then I drove back to Newcastle, called Pepper, and told him I’d been hunting for Billy . . . It’s a good thing we were talking on the phone, because I’m not sure I would have been able to handle that much hollering in person . . . Pepper clearly despises his brother-in-law.”

“Half,” Belle corrected reflexively.

“Right . . . Genie’s
half
brother.”

“And Tom didn’t know anything about the five-million-dollar policy?”

“Not a peep.”

“And this forensics expert, Jones—what’s his first name again?”

“Abe.”

“That’s right,” Belle said. Rosco could see her searching for a mental association to remember the name.

“It’s not what you think,” he offered. “Abraham Lincoln and emancipation . . . Abe stands for Absalom or Absolon—something like that.”

Belle looked thunderstruck. “Absalom Jones? As in one of the founders of the African Methodist Episcopal Church?”

“I wouldn’t have pegged Abe as a religious guy—”

“I’m talking about his namesake, Rosco! A late-eighteenth-century former slave . . . an extraordinary leader and orator.”

Rosco stared, nonplussed. “Does your brain have room for any additional information? Or do you have to throw away outmoded data every so often?”

“Rosco, he was famous!” Then she saw how crestfallen he looked, and softened her response. “I’ve used the name in my more challenging cryptics—cross-referencing King David’s traitorous son, Absalom . . . It’s fairly arcane stuff . . . Actually, I’m not certain how I originally came across the information . . .” The rush of verbiage began to slow. “So, this
Abe
Jones of yours said he suspected that the
Orion
fire was a case of arson?”

“King David’s evil son,” Rosco mused in response. “What do you know about that.”

Belle grinned. “Polycrates was a Greek tyrant, if you don’t mind me reminding you.”

“Sixth century
B
.
C
.,” was Rosco’s rapid retort. “The family’s become much less autocratic since then.”

“That remains to be seen.” Belle chuckled.

“Anyway, the guy was big on piracy—meaning he must have liked boats.”

Belle laughed again. “So, you’re saying Abe Jones believes the
Orion
fire was arson?”

“ ‘Torched’ was the word he used, Belle. I’ve known
Abe for quite a while, and it’s uncanny how right on most of his initial insights are. If he feels it was arson—”

“And you don’t think you should share that piece of news with Pepper?”

Rosco hesitated. “Not yet . . . Ultimately there’s still nothing confirmed . . . and I don’t want Tom going ballistic over a situation that could be misinterpreted . . . Until we have concrete evidence, we have to consider the possibility that the fire may have been accidental—no matter how slim the possibility. It’s never a good idea to pass half-truths onto a client. I get paid to deliver facts.”

“But what if the
Orion were
set on fire?” Belle asked.

“Well, then I’d say the situation doesn’t look promising for Mr. William Vauriens.”

Belle’s eyes wandered to the murals in the restaurant’s candlelit alcoves. The scenes they replicated made her yearn to be in Greece. On one wall stood an island village full of ancient, whitewashed houses. On another were olive trees on a sea-breeze-swept hillside. One painting was a bird’s-eye view of a tawny valley dotted with toppled marble columns.

“Five million dollars could buy a lot, couldn’t it?” she murmured almost unconsciously.

Rosco followed her glance. His response was equally thoughtful. “It sure could.”

Instinctively, their hands met on the tabletop. “I’d like to take you there, sometime,” Rosco said quietly.

Belle didn’t speak; instead, her entire being seemed transported by the suggestion while the term “transitional” suddenly and miraculously vanished, leaving her mind as full of tranquillity and hope as the images on the restaurant walls. “I’d like that,” she said at last.

Rosco squeezed her fingers again. They were both smiling in earnest, although not yet at each other.

“So . . .” Belle finally asked, “so . . . what else did you learn about Vauriens?”

“Vauriens,” Rosco answered, and sat up straighter. “Right . . . Well, apparently, Genie kept trying to get him to clean up his act. He’s not unattractive, from what I heard—‘killer looks’ according to the girlfriend—”

“The one with the ‘loose’ relationship.”

Rosco raised his eyebrows, but sidestepped the interruption and its implication. “Anyway, Genie decided Billy should study acting . . . Something to ‘keep him off the streets.’ ”

Belle completely failed to see where this revelation was heading. “So?”

“So, she got him an apprenticeship at a theater in Connecticut . . . the Avon Shakespeare Festival . . .”

“Oh my . . .” Belle said.

“He left Connecticut at the end of the summer. It seems the part of Balthazar in
The Merchant of Venice
didn’t offer him enough of a stretch.”

“Oh my . . .”

“Now do you see why I worry about you?”

Belle’s eyes met Rosco’s. “Where do we go from here?” she finally asked. Both realized the question had nothing to do with Billy Vauriens.