Two Down (9 page)

Fear seemed to make the man incapable of speaking.

“Open your mouth, you piece of scum, I want to know who your boss is. This is private property. If you want to leave in one piece, you’d better talk.”

“
S-S-Shooting S-S-Stars
. But I’m a f-f-freelancer.”

“And what about that other snake?”

“Come on, Mr. Pepper,” Rosco urged. “These guys aren’t worth the effort. Just let it be.”

“I want some answers,” Tom roared in response. “What rag does that other creep work for?”

The reporter took a step backward. “Please don’t hit me.”

“Who does he work for!”

“I don’t know, man . . . He wouldn’t tell me . . . Honest.”

B
elle was gazing solemnly into a cookbook when the doorbell rang. “I’m coming!” she sang out, grabbing a tea towel as she ran through the stark and shadowy living room to fling open the door. The force of her gesture was so powerful the door’s edge nearly hit her in the head. “Well? What happened at the Coast Guard?”

On the porch, bathed in the navy-blue darkness of an autumn night, Rosco grinned despite his raucous encounter with Pepper. “I could tell you out here, or . . . you could ask me in.”

“Oh! In . . . Come on in.” She led the way toward the kitchen while Rosco followed close behind.

“You might consider another lamp, Belle . . . I’m like a moth, attracted to illumination.”

She turned back to survey the scene. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “This home-decorating business has me awfully confused. The choices seem so . . . so permanent.”

“I was only suggesting a lamp—”

“I know. But that’s the problem . . . In
theory
, a lamp should ‘complement’ a couch, which, in turn, ‘reflects’ a table which ‘matches’ a rug which ‘echoes’ the pictures on the wall . . . See what I mean? One wrong step, and you’ve got a design disaster on your hands; the fashion police are called in, and you’re forced to throw out everything and start from scratch with Lava lamps . . . Besides, I’ve been considering candles as a less demanding alternative . . .”

Rosco chuckled. “Candles don’t give off a heap of light.”

“But they’re very romantic . . .
A World Lit Only by Fire
 . . .” Her voice was dreamy. Then, in typical Belle fashion, the conversation spun around 180 degrees. “Well, what happened with Pepper and Green Point? I’ve been on pins and needles ever since our phone conversation. I gather there’s no news on Genie and Jamaica?”

But Rosco wasn’t ready to discuss that subject yet; instead, he said, “I take it you’re quoting a line from a poem.” He moved beside her, and slid his hands around her waist.

“It’s a book title . . . William Manchester . . . A discourse on—”

Rosco’s kiss stopped her words. When they finally backed away from each other, Belle fondly gazed into his eyes. “You’re an anti-intellect, you know that? With a one-track mind.”

“Sometimes I lose control . . . So, it was a discourse on . . . ?” A quiet weariness had crept into his voice, but Belle didn’t yet hear it.

“I’m not going to tell you,” she answered as she entered the kitchen. “There’s wine in the fridge . . . Achaia, like we had on our first date . . . And
dolmades
 . . . I drove clear across town to get them . . . The rest of the menu
isn’t quite so reliable. . .” A self-deprecating grimace accompanied this statement. Then Belle returned to her original query. “So, tell me what the Coast Guard said.”

Rosco didn’t answer; instead, he studied a glass bowl in which a pound of raw, peeled shrimp was marinating in a thin, bluish liquid. Belle joined him, presenting the bottle of Achaia and a corkscrew. “Shrimp Pernod,” she announced. “But I substituted Ouzo—in your honor.”

“Ouzo . . . there’s an idea . . .” he said, failing to conjure up a more positive response. “Ouzo, instead of Pernod . . .”

“I figure they both have a licorice flavor . . .”

“Hey, the world loves experimentation . . . Blue shrimp.”

“Why not? Anyway, there are spinach timbales if the shrimp dish fails . . . I haven’t made them before, but I figure you can’t go wrong with spinach . . . I hope . . . Anyway, it’s green—and a food group . . . No, perhaps not . . . Darn. How does that food-pyramid-chart thing work? . . . Spinach must be on there somewhere—”

“Perhaps as a vegetable?”

“Very clever, Rosco. That part I know. But I think it also supplies calcium . . .”

“Maybe we should leave this to the experts, Belle.”

“I hope you’re not insinuating that I can’t cook anything except deviled eggs.” She smiled as she spoke.

Rosco laughed. “Me? Never.”

Belle raised amused eyebrows, then resumed her no-nonsense tone while arranging the
dolmades
on a stoneware plate. “So? What did the Coast Guard say?”

Again, Rosco hedged. “I thought you wanted to discuss your mysterious crossword puzzle . . . or some discourse on fire . . .”

“A World Lit Only by Fire,”
Belle answered with a
happy grin as Rosco poured the wine and handed her a glass. “It’s about the Middle Ages—”

“Well, here’s to the modern world,” he interrupted, “and a long vacation in Greece.”

“And here’s to someone who doesn’t
willfully
change the subject—one-track mind or not.” Belle laughed. “So? Tell me what that phone call entailed.”

Rosco put his glass on the counter. “The Coast Guard had Pepper in the lockup . . . at least their version of one.”

“What? You’re kidding!”

“No . . . it wasn’t a pretty scene. And things got worse when I drove him home . . .” Rosco described the situation at Green Point, then proceeded to the violent run-in with the reporters. “He really lost it, Belle . . . I couldn’t control him; and I don’t think he could control himself . . . He’s going to wind up slapped with a lawsuit if he’s not careful . . . There’s nothing these slander sheets like better.”

Belle listened to Rosco’s words while intently studying his face. “You’ve had a tough day,” she finally said, then changed tack with a worried: “Will the Coast Guard press charges, do you think?”

“I don’t imagine so. They’ve got better things to worry about . . . Why do you ask?”

“Well, I had a lot of time to think this afternoon. And I remembered Sara and her brother, Senator Crane, and how grateful they are for your work on the Briephs case . . . I’m sure the Coast Guard is being as diligent as possible, but if it were necessary to apply a little pressure to get quicker results—or well . . . Hal Crane is a U.S. senator after all . . .”

Rosco considered the suggestion. “I don’t know, Belle . . . Sara isn’t keen on Pepper, and I’m not certain she’d want to get involved if she knew his potential for volatile behavior.”

“He’s just worried about his wife,” Belle said. “Can you blame him?”

Rosco studied her compassionate face. “No, I can’t.”

While the rice steamed, Belle produced the crossword puzzle. “Shakespeare,” she insisted, slapping it down on the countertop. “That’s one of the through lines. . . another is a nautical theme. It’s obvious the constructor is linking the actress, Jamaica, and a boat . . . Look at 14-Across. ORION. It can’t get clearer than that.”

Rosco leaned over her shoulder to study the cryptic while she continued her guided tour of clues and answers.

“Don’t try anything funny, Rosco. This is serious . . . You’ll note that many of the Bard’s quotations are from
Much Ado About Nothing
.”

Rosco stared at the graph paper. “Where does it say that?”

“It doesn’t. I just happened to recognize the lines. I’ve always liked the play. I guess I relate to Beatrice. She’s too brainy for her own good . . . an intellectual snob.”

“You’re hardly a snob, Belle.”

“You didn’t know me in my younger days.” Then she shoved aside the crossword, yelping, “Oh jeez! The rice.”

A solid mass of glutinous white stuck tenaciously to the pot. Belle looked sorrowfully at it. “I’ll begin again,” she said gamely. “What’s an extra cup of rice? Anyway, to get back to the clues . . . Jamaica Nevisson did
Much Ado
a few years ago. I went up to Boston to see it. I was surprised how good she was in the role—and blond! Almost totally unrecognizable from her offstage appearance. Whoever constructed this puzzle has done his homework . . .”

Rosco retrieved the puzzle and ran his fingers over the letters. “What makes you think it’s a man?”

“A hunch . . . A
strong
hunch. Look at the Down column . . .
Ship prefix; Naut. engine type; Mil. rank; Antiaircraft fire
 . . . Definitely guy stuff.”

Rosco looked hard at Belle. “I don’t want you trying to scare off any more prowlers,” he said. “There’s a serious sicko out there.” His expression was so grave, Belle’s grew pensive as well.

“Why do you say that?”

Rosco paused. “Your well-known involvement in the Briephs’ case, for starters.
‘Cryptics Queen Collars Killer.’
Remember that headline? One of many, I might add.”

Belle remained silent for a long minute. “Are you suggesting this crossword is merely a copycat situation? That it has nothing to do with the
Orion
?”

“Oh, it does, Belle. It definitely does. And that’s exactly what makes it frightening. Someone is playing a really perverted game. I saw those reporters gathered at Pepper’s estate . . . They’re giving constant updates, satellite feeds across the nation . . . which only increases a weirdo’s desire to be involved in the action . . . Promise me you’ll listen to that little voice that warns you
not
to
personally
chase away strangers?”

Belle frowned but didn’t speak.

“Please, Belle. I want you to take this seriously. Whoever brought this puzzle to your house could well be a borderline crazy. And crazies are fond of armaments.”

Belle walked over to the shrimp dish, absentmindedly dumping the Ouzo marinade down the sink. When she realized what she’d done, she let out a yelp of dismay. “Oh, drat! . . . Drat! I guess we’ll have to sauté the shrimp instead, what do you think?”

Rosco smiled gently. Dining on Belle’s cuisine was always unpredictable. “Sounds good to me.”

“Garlic, do you think?” she asked.

Rosco’s smile grew. “You can’t go wrong with garlic.”

While Rosco peeled and chopped garlic Belle tackled the necessary onion, celery, and parsley for the “original recipe.” As she sliced and diced, she returned to her premise with a thoughtful: “I disagree with you, Rosco. I think this crossword contains a special message for me—something that will help unravel the mystery of the
Orion
’s fire . . . This is how the Briephs case was solved.”

Rosco turned to face her. “And that’s
exactly
why I’m convinced that the puzzle is the work of a deranged mind . . . Fame can be a dangerous thing Belle. A
very
dangerous thing.”

C
onvincing Belle that there might be dangerous people traversing the globe, people who wouldn’t think twice about harming another individual, was like trying to persuade a lemming not to jump off a cliff. Her approach to
any
situation was to leap in with both feet and forge ahead until she reached her goal. Rosco had never known anyone with such a jubilant and determined spirit. There was no doubt about it, she was an exceptional catch. One he hoped to never lose.

Driving his Jeep out of TX Bio-Lab’s parking lot, Rosco smiled at the memory of his evening with Belle while the clean light of early morning washed the sea air and the ruddy bricks of the city’s older buildings. The white trim etched around windows and doors looked as dazzlingly bright as a sandy beach at full noon. Rosco pulled into traffic, reminiscing about the previous
summer: Belle in the ocean with her long tan legs splashing through the waves, then picnics on the sand, the hot and salty smell of beach blankets, the crumpled sandwich wrappers, potato-chip shards, and the drowsy sound of the breaking surf. The memories made him deeply regret that he wasn’t on his way to her house, instead of visiting his former partner, Lieutenant Al Lever of the Newcastle PD cops—even good guys like Al—just didn’t measure up.

Rosco sighed once, then made a left onto Thomas Paine Boulevard, the wide thoroughfare that bisected the city, and turned his attention to Bio-Lab’s preliminary report.

The blood samples lifted from the
Dixie-Jack
weren’t what he’d expected; on the gauges, the blood had come from a marine source—obviously the tuna—but the samples he’d taken from the throttle arm were human—type A pos. Rosco figured Al should be informed. Maybe the blood had bearing on the
Orion
situation.

The station house on Winthrop Drive was unchanged from the days Rosco had worn a badge: institutional-green paint peeling from plastered walls, hallways that smelled of prepackaged doughnuts and stale coffee, and a cinder block-lined basement that served the multiple purpose of morgue, detention area, and forensics lab.

Rosco casually greeted several officers as he strolled past the duty desk and proceeded up three steps to a door marked
HOMICIDE
. He tapped once and walked in. He and Al had been rookie cops fifteen years before; they never stood on ceremony.

“Good to see you, Polly—Crates.” A “Back Bay” twang
stretched out the syllables, a running joke Lever never seemed to tire of. When they’d started working together, Rosco had gotten the impression Al had never met anyone of Greek descent. “Still the ‘barefoot boy,’ eh, Polly—Crates? I guess it never gets cold enough for you to grab yourself a pair of socks.”

Lever, a couple of years older than his former partner, already had a couch-potato build topped off by a “follicly challenged” hairline. He also had a constant smoker’s cough, which now kicked in violently.

“Damn allergies,” he said. “Summer, winter, they never leave me alone . . . It’s murder, I’m tellin’ ya . . . Now, what can I do you for? . . . Your phone call said it was important.”

Lever broke into another small coughing fit. After it subsided, he lit a cigarette and tossed the match into an overflowing ashtray.

Rosco sat across from Lever’s desk and waved a meaty cloud of smoke from his eyes. “Tom Pepper hired me to look into this
Orion
mess.”

“Uh-oh, something tells me this is going to cost me a lot more than the ten minutes you asked for.”

“Actually, I’ve done you a big favor, Al . . . Not to mention some of your homework.” Rosco pulled a business-sized manila envelope from his jacket and tossed it onto Lever’s desk. “Blood samples. One’s fish, the other’s human, type A pos. TX Bio-Lab got that much for me. I don’t care about the fish, but I’d like to get a DNA run on the type A pos. I thought—”

“Nah, nah, nah, hold on there, Rosco. I’m not touching this with a ten-foot pole. Pepper’s a good guy and all that, and I feel sorry as hell for him . . . but I got enough around
here to keep me busy for a year.” A large, pudgy hand gestured toward a row of pending files stacked on a folding metal table.

“I’m just asking you to run it down to your lab, Al. Have Abe or someone draw me a printout. TX doesn’t do DNA work. They have to send it to Boston. Takes forever.”

“Rosco . . .” Lever shook his head as if he were speaking to a child. “You know full well I can’t run blood work through my lab without opening a file on it.”

“Right . . . Well, you’re going to have to investigate this thing sooner or later, so I figured—”

“That’s where you’re wrong, bucko. That boat burned at sea, as far as I’m concerned. And I don’t care where it was towed—or by whom. It’s federal jurisdiction. This entire matter has nothing to do with my department. You want DNA work? Go talk to the feds.”

“Come on, Al, the FBI won’t do this kind of thing for a PI, and you know it. All I want to know is: Whose blood did I lift? It may be nothing—a boating accident, no more. But where’s the harm in checking? At least get me a male/female readout.”

Lever sighed, smashed out his cigarette, leaned back in his chair, and placed his hands behind his head. “You never give up, do you, Polly—Crates? A shame you didn’t stay on the force. We need cops like you.” Then, almost to himself, he added, “Damn shame about the Peppers . . . Tom’s a solid citizen. He’s been real good for this burg.” After that, Al resumed his gruff demeanor.

“Where’d this stuff come from, anyway? Not off the
Orion,
because I looked her over . . . On my own time . . . Hell, a celebrity goes to Davy Jones’s locker . . . In Buzzards Bay . . .” He shrugged. “What can I say, it piques
your interest. I’ve even watched that ‘soap’ on occasion . . . And, yeah, before you ask me . . . I also took a gander at those photos in that tabloid . . . Some looker . . .”

Rosco chuckled. “A gander, Al?”

“Hey, come on, Polly—Crates, you know how it is . . . The wife buys one of those rags at the supermarket . . . It’s lyin’ there on the kitchen counter—”

“Uh-huh . . .”

But Al was not to be bested. “You gotta get yourself a wife, buddy, if you don’t believe me.”

Rosco’s thoughts inadvertently leaped to Belle. He couldn’t imagine her purchasing supermarket tabloids, but then there were facets to her personality he hadn’t yet discovered. “I had a wife, Al, if you remember.”

“Two years don’t count. It’s like a trial run. A ‘starter marriage’—like the comics say.” Lever lit up again and immediately started hacking. “Besides,” he wheezed, “that was a long time ago.”

When the coughing attack had subsided, Rosco said, “I took the samples from the boat that hauled in the
Orion
.”

Lever sat up straighter in his chair. “So?”

“So, I thought you might be interested.”

The answer was a grudging: “I’m all ears, Polly—Crates. But make it snappy. This isn’t a social gathering.”

Rosco chortled again. Despite the curt response, he knew he had a fish on the line. He began sharing what he knew about the
Dixie-Jack
charter, Ed Colberg, and the disappearance of Stingo and Quick. Rosco omitted Pepper’s run-in with the Coast Guard—and Belle’s bizarre crossword puzzle. He sensed quotations from
Shakespeare might stretch the limits of Al’s patience—or imagination. After Rosco had finished, Lever picked up the manila envelope and tapped it thoughtfully in the palm of his hand.

“So, what are you saying?” he asked.

“I’m saying that something’s fishy, Al. And I’d like your help. Just have your lab identify whether the blood’s male or female—how’s that?”

“I can’t buck the FBI. I have no jurisdiction here, Rosco. Besides, even if I prioritize this, it would take Abe over a week to get me any lab results. This holds no priority over his backlog. You know that as well as anyone.”

Rosco groaned and slid the envelope back into his jacket.

“You’re making too much out of this, Polly—Crates. Colberg’s not stupid enough to scuttle a boat and risk a manslaughter charge while he’s at it. Especially not with a TV star on board. You’ve investigated him before. You know that he’s slicker than that.”

“Uh-huh . . . Well, thanks, Al. I’ll see ya around. Maybe play some handball like old times . . .”

Rosco stood and walked to the door, but before he could reach for the knob, Lever’s phone rang.

“Yeah. Lever here.”

Rosco watched him listening intently for a second or two, then turned to the door.

“Hold on a minute, Polly—Crates.” Lever had the receiver cupped in his left hand. With his right hand, he indicated for Rosco to wait, then hurriedly scribbled notes on a pad of paper, said a terse “Got it,” and hung up the phone.

“What was that all about?” Rosco asked.

“Someone found the
Orion
’s tender washed up on Munnatawket Beach.”

Rosco smiled, and tossed the manila envelope back onto Lever’s desk. “Sounds like it’s your jurisdiction, Al.”