The Crossword Connection

by Nero Blanc

  Janice smiled. “Well, I know that can be tough. I’ve been there myself. And I probably shouldn’t stick my nose in where it’s not wanted, but my advice is, move on as soon as you can. There are more men out there than you can shake a stick at.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Throughout the ride from the Peterman office building to the renovated loft spaces on Fifth Street, Belle leafed through the real estate sales package, all the while growing more and more uncomfortable. Janice was turning out to be a kind and helpful person, and Belle found herself wishing she could be as generous and truthful in return. Keep your eye on the prize, she reminded herself over and over. You’ve got to find Rosco. But the falsehood became increasingly unpleasant.

  Matters worsened as Janice eased her Volvo sedan to a stop directly in front of Margaret House. A number of the women were standing on the sidewalk smoking cigarettes. Rayanne was among them. She ignored the Volvo’s arrival, keeping her back solidly to the new and expensive auto, but Belle knew her defiant attitude wouldn’t last forever. At heart, Rayanne was a candid and guileless person; honest curiosity was as natural to her as breathing.

  “I … I think this is a … no parking zone,” Belle stammered, in an attempt to get Janice to pull her car up the street and away from Rayanne.

  “Not to worry,” Janice said, reaching into her attaché case and removing a five-by-seven-inch card that read Argus Enterprises. She placed the card on the Volvo’s dashboard and added, “I know, it’s not kosher, but the Petermans have good friends on the City Council. What can I say? It’s one of the little perks I get for being an Argus sales rep.”

  Janice stepped from the car and walked around to the passenger’s side. Uneasily, Belle watched Rayanne out of the corner of her eye. When she thought it was safe, she also exited the car.

  “Let’s take a second and look at the building’s exterior details,” Janice said pointing across the street. Belle followed Janice’s lead while determinedly ignoring the Margaret House residents. She felt like a heel: one of the numerous snooty, well-clad folk who’d consigned the homeless women to nonentity status.

  “… one of the best representations of this particular style of commercial architecture in the city …” Janice was saying. “… built in 1888 for a sail manufacturer. Look at the way the copper trim has turned green up there near the cornice. And of course the marble frontis is from Vermont. When Argus Enterprises remodeled the interior we found seascapes and sail designs drawn on many of the walls on what is now a floor-through sixth-floor loft. Some of the artwork dates back to the 1890s. The architect in charge decided against covering the designs, so they remain as visible reminders of Newcastle’s history. It’s my favorite space in the building. I’d buy it myself if I had the money.”

  “I can’t wait to see it,” Belle said, stepping forward to cross the street and distance herself further from Rayanne. “How much are you asking for it again?”

  Janice followed. “It’s very well priced at three hundred and fifty thousand.”

  Belle resisted the temptation to sputter a loud “Yikes!” instead saying, “And what was the square footage?”

  “You have thirty-five feet of south-facing windows, and a sixty-foot depth, so that gives you twenty-one hundred square. It’s one of the best bargains in town. The entire building is, actually. This neighborhood is going to be the next trendy spot. Anyone who gets in on the initial offering will have a very solid investment on their hands.”

  “I read somewhere that this is part of an empowerment zone. Can you tell me about that?”

  Janice appeared not to have heard the question; instead, she unlocked the front door, walking briskly to the rear of the building and a large freight elevator. “Of course the carriage is original, but the mechanism has been upgraded to meet modern safety codes.” She swung the gate closed. “Let’s start with that sixth-floor space I was describing.”

  When Janice opened the door to 6A, the two women were drenched with a splash of brilliant sunlight. The entire space was open; no partitioning walls, no plumbing, or kitchen fixtures had been installed. The hardwood floors had been sanded and glowed with a new polyurethane radiance. The tinned ceiling had been refinished and freshly painted. Belle blinked in the brightness, then walked to the far wall and studied the ancient sail designs that had been sketched in chalk and graphite.

  “These are amazing,” she said.

  “They really are special, aren’t they? We’ve kept this space completely raw. The architect is hoping it will go to someone with an unbounded imagination.”

  Belle walked to the expanse of windows. The view spread down to the refurbished waterfront and out toward Buzzards Bay. Then she looked down at Margaret House and the Saint Augustine Mission and back to Janice.

  “Not to be insensitive,” Belle began, watching Janice’s reaction, “but do you think this neighborhood will turn around as long as there are homeless shelters across the street?”

  The question clearly put Janice on the spot. Obviously, she was a woman concerned about the issue of housing parity in Newcastle, but she was also a real estate agent trying to earn a living. Furthermore, she was well aware that her bosses were tough businessmen who wanted the missions closed or moved. She walked over and stood beside Belle.

  “It’s a good question, and one I’m sure everyone considers when they look at this area. You just happen to be the first person to actually ask me. I’d be less than honest if I told you that I haven’t thought long and hard about an appropriate answer.”

  Belle opted to back off a little. “It actually doesn’t bother me in the least. I was more interested in what the real estate industry feels about the situation. To be candid, it can’t be good for business.”

  Janice folded her arms across her chest and looked down at the women in front of Margaret House. “No … the people who can spring for three hundred and fifty thousand want things to be a touch less gritty. Would you like me to show you something in a different area of town?”

  “No, no, no, I like this very much. I’m going to give it serious consideration. The only thing that would make me a little uneasy would be living in a building such as this and being the only resident. Have other lofts sold?”

  Janice seemed to consider both question and reply, then obviously decided not to lie to Belle. “No, Carol, they haven’t. We’ve had very serious lookers, but nothing’s gone into contract yet. I wouldn’t want to mislead you on that point.”

  “That must be tough on Argus … the Petermans, that is.”

  “Well, certainly the sooner they sell these spaces, the better off they’ll be, but Argus is a well-structured company. They can wait out market lulls.”

  “Would they try to persuade the missions to move, do you think? Perhaps attempt rezoning?”

  Again, Janice was very careful with her words. “Let me put it this way; I think these lofts are fairly priced in today’s market. If Margaret House or the Saint Augustine mission opted to relocate, then the residents here would see a quick upturn in the market.”

  “But then wouldn’t it behoove the Petermans to wait, themselves? If the lofts will become that much more valuable …?”

  “I really can’t answer for them, Carol. I’m only a sales consultant.”

  Belle pretended to glance at her watch in surprise. “Oh, look at the time! I really should be heading to the train station if I want to get back to Boston before dinner. What you’re saying makes sense, Janice, but I wouldn’t want to be the first to buy. Perhaps I can come down to Newcastle again in a week or two … see how things have progressed, okay?”

  “Sure.” Janice handed Belle her business card. “Give me a call; we’ll set something up. I think you can expect the situation to be quite different in two weeks.”

  In response to Belle’s curious expression, Janice added. “Spring is traditionally a good time for the market. I’m sure the Petermans feel things will begin moving quickly.”

  As Janice and Belle left the
building, Janice said, “I have plenty of time. Why don’t I drop you off at the train station?”

  “I don’t want you to go out of your way.”

  “It’s not a problem at all.”

  Belle decided it would be easy enough to walk into the station, wait a few minutes, and then take a cab back to where she’d parked her car, so she said, “Thanks, that would be great.”

  They crossed the street to the Volvo, but before they could open the car’s doors, Rayanne shouted, “Belle! I didn’t know it was you in that fancy car! What are you doing down here today?”

  Belle stiffened and turned to face her. “Oh, hi, Rayanne, how are you?”

  “I finished a new poem. Let me get my book. I’ll show it to you.”

  “Ahhh, you know what, Ray, I’m running a little late. Maybe we can do it some other time, how’s that?”

  An expression like anger flickered across Rayanne’s face. “What brings you down here on a Wednesday, anyway?”

  All Belle could think to answer was the truth, “I was looking at the lofts across the street.”

  Rayanne laughed but the sound was hollow. “Sure you were! Those people are going to drive us back out onto the street, just you wait.” Again, a probing distrustful look darkened Ray’s face. “You’re not selling your house on Captains Walk, are you?”

  “You have a house on Captain’s Walk?” Janice asked; she didn’t attempt to hide her confusion.

  “I … I … really should be getting to the train station, Janice. I can explain it to you on the way.” Belle turned back to Rayanne. “I’m sorry to run off like this, Ray, but I’ll catch up with you another time, okay?”

  Belle jumped into the Volvo and slammed the door before Rayanne had time to respond. Janice slid into the car a moment later.

  “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “Oh, Ray? I knew her years ago,” Belle lied as she latched her seat belt. “When I was married, my husband and I had a house on Captain’s Walk. I assume he still owns it. I moved to Boston when we separated. Rayanne worked for the house painter who was rehabbing the home next door. A long time ago …”

  Janice’s tone was sympathetic. “With a trade like that, she shouldn’t have ended up in a shelter.”

  “She fell on hard times,” Belle answered quietly, then added, “She’s a good person.…”

  “Did I hear her call you Belle?”

  “Old nickname. They’re tough to shake sometimes.”

  Janice laughed. “Tell me about it! My mother called me Queenie until I was seventeen and threatened to wear a crown if she didn’t stop.”

  The ride to the train station was filled with other inconsequential chat. Belle had a strong desire to confide in Janice; her instincts told her it might be the quicker way to determine the truth about the Petermans. But then she recalled Janice avoiding the topic of the empowerment zone. Argus Enterprises—if not Janice—was hiding something. And Rosco was in the mix.

  “Thanks for the lift, Janice. I’ll be in touch,” Belle said as she left the Volvo.

  Janice waved and pulled back into traffic as Belle hurried into the station. She found a bank of telephones. Al Lever was on the other end within twenty seconds.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “I have half the department looking for you.”

  She reached into her pocket and removed the tissue containing the mud she’d taken from Argus Enterprises’ roof deck. She smiled, unable to resist the pun, “I have some dirt on the Petermans. I’ll be at your office ASAP.”

  CHAPTER 27

  The basement of Newcastle’s police headquarters was divided into three sections: “The Hole,” as Al Lever liked to call it, consisting of six cells for detainees; the morgue and medical examination facility, which was strictly the domain of Carlyle; and Abe Jones’s forensics lab. Like most of the building, the lab featured only three colors: gray linoleum flooring, institutional-green walls, and stainless steel fixtures. As Abe peered into his microscope, Lever and Belle hung over his shoulders like two hungry vultures. Finally, after placing his four dirt samples under the lens for what seemed like the hundredth time, Jones raised his eyes and swung around on the stool.

  “Close, but no cigar,” he sighed.

  Belle felt her eyes begin to water. “What do you mean, Abe? That has to be the same dirt. It has to be.”

  “Sorry, Belle, it isn’t. Your soil sample’s very close to the other three specimens, but it’s not an exact match.”

  “You’re sure?” Lever asked, knowing full well it was a futile question. Jones’s analyses were never off the mark.

  “There’s no mistaking, Al. The matching samples from Adams Alley, the woman at the bus station, and Rosco’s Jeep are all strongly organic … no sign of pesticides, herbicides, or commercial fertilizers. On the other hand, in the sample Belle brought us, I’m finding significant deposits of soluble potash, molybdenum, and chelated manganese, along with traces of tetramethrin, a chemical often used for garden infestation control.”

  Belle let out a long sigh.

  “But …” Jones continued, holding up an index finger, “Don’t get too depressed. This sample does help us narrow down the origin of the others, thanks to their similarity. You say the Petermans brought this dirt down from New Hampshire?”

  “Right.”

  “Then I’d have to say the others came from up that way, too, rather than from the Berkshires as I’d first suspected. The specimens are that close in composition.”

  “But if the Petermans are planting a city rooftop garden,” Lever wondered aloud, “wouldn’t they be adding all those chemicals? Fertilizer, pesticides, et cetera? We don’t exactly have nature working her miracles in the downtown area.”

  “Absolutely, Al, but the deposits I’m finding in the Peterman sample have been with this soil for some time. They’re well integrated. They weren’t added after the earth arrived in Newcastle, they’ve had time to osmose.”

  “Meaning they would have also shown up in Rosco’s tires, if he’d been to the Peterman’s New Hampshire farm?” Belle asked, although she knew the answer.

  “I’m afraid so.” Jones took her hand. “It was a good try, Belle.”

  “Thanks.” Belle looked at her watch and sat on the stool beside Jones. Exhaustion played heavily on her face. “The Crier will be out in twenty minutes. I suppose I should get back to my office so this kook can find me.”

  “He seems to be able to find you wherever you are,” Lever said, adding grimly, “I’ll go with you.”

  “He keeps saying no cops, Al.…”

  “And this guy still maintains he’s holding Rosco somewhere?” Jones asked.

  “Right.”

  “There’s got to be a way to end-run him,” Jones continued. “We’re not taking charge of the situation. We’re letting him direct the entire show.”

  “I thought I was the detective here,” Lever interjected, “but, okay, Abe, what do you have in mind? Let’s have it.”

  “I don’t know, but rather than searching for Rosco, we should be trying to identify this kook. If we find him, we find Rosco.” Jones turned to Belle. “This crossword in the box of roses? I mean, how good was it? Are we talking professional quality, or was it strictly amateur time?”

  “It was clever … well conceived. The use of language was clear and intelligent … symmetrical fifteen-by-fifteen grid. Yes, I would have published it.”

  “So, there’s a possibility this guy’s a professional crossword constructor, then?”

  “I guess … no, it’s not possible,” Belle said, then questioned how she’d jumped to that conclusion so quickly.

  “Why not?”

  She was about to respond that crossword creators weren’t generally considered psychopaths, but Jones spoke before she had a chance to reply.

  “Okay, here’s what I’m thinking,” he said as he stood and crossed to a doorway at the far side on the lab. “Hold on a second.” He walked through the door and r
eturned ninety seconds later carrying a large plastic evidence bag. “Rosco told me you inked in a copy of the puzzle we found under the dead woman? It had an Elvis Presley theme, right?”

  “Right,” Belle said as her brow wrinkled in confusion. “But it seemed to have no bearing on the situation.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But I’m wondering … Is there any way you could connect it to the one you received in the rose box? Or the one on your dashboard? Style, language, pet words?”

  Belle thought as both Jones and Lever watched her. Finally, she shook her head. “No. I don’t remember anything that seemed to connect the one in the Sentinel to the two hand-drawn ones. No. If anything, they were devoid of personality. Clever, yes, but not quirky.”

  “This may be a long shot, Belle.” Jones set the evidence bag on his worktable. “This isn’t a very pretty sight … so tell me when to stop. Sometimes, I get inured to the sight of dried blood and forget that others aren’t comfortable with it.” He opened the plastic bag as he spoke. “Normally, I wouldn’t have saved all of this. I would have taken samples, kept a fragment or two, and tossed the rest. Actually, it was something you mentioned, Al, that originally piqued my curiosity: the Snoopy cartoon. The Sentinel hasn’t carried the comic for six months. I checked on that.”

  “So?” Lever interjected.

  “Stay with me here. I scrounged through the Dumpster in Adams Alley that morning, pulled out all the newspapers, and checked the date on each one. First off: there were no papers older than March twenty-seventh of this year, and second—” Jones pulled a bloodied section of newsprint from the evidence bag—“this entertainment section of the Sentinel is seven months old … and the only portion of that paper to appear in the alley.”

  Lever let out a nervous laugh. “What are you saying? Snoopy did the deed?”

  “Well, my original assessment was that the cartoon page might play a part … a Comics Killer kind of scenario. Serial murderers are often attracted to titles of that ilk. But our second death didn’t follow the theme, so I was left with two newspapers printed seven months apart … and a seemingly dead end to possibly random crimes. Unless the date itself is at issue, a reference mark, as it were, to other unsolved crimes … However, something else just struck me.” Jones unfolded the newspaper as he spoke. “What else is printed on that page of the Sentinel?”