by Nero Blanc
He put his arms around her. “My suggestion is that you take the evening off, leave this newest envelope unopened, and I take you to dinner.”
Belle looked up at him. “The Athena?”
“Why not? It’s cheaper than going to Greece.”
“Which you promise we’re going to do someday—?”
Rosco put his hand on his heart. “Which I swear, on all my ancestors’ heads, we will do someday … Even if it means I have to get on a boat again.”
Nestled close, Belle sighed happily again. “I kind of hate to admit this, but I’m glad my father didn’t show up tonight—”
“You’re only putting off the inevitable, you know.”
Her mouth puckered into a playful smile. “I know. Call me rash. Call me heedless. It’s been done before.”
CHAPTER 3
Al Lever, Newcastle’s chief homicide detective, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and placed his feet on his desktop. His open jacket slid to the sides of his broad chest, revealing a .38 caliber revolver attached to his belt on the right side and his gold shield equally secured to the left. A paunch that had formed long before the onset of middle age sent rolls of flesh cascading over both official objects while Al leaned back in his chair and then smiled. It was the expression of a man who has at last found peace.
Lever positively lived for moments like this: the long, lazy afternoons of mid-August, the sky still light at six-thirty—despite the few lingering clouds produced by the recent summer storm. He lived for the quiet of a station house that had no pressing police business other than a minor fender bender involving some tourists from Idaho. He reveled in a world in which the usual cacophony of noises—the “Lieutenant! Call on line three!” or “Jones has those prints you ordered,” or “They just brought that Harper character in for questioning, Al,” or “Meeting in the ward room in ten”—were gloriously absent.
And this blissful experience of summer calm was why he hadn’t left the station at the end of his shift. In his book, this kind of solitude was as good as it gets, and he’d been savoring it for a full half hour. That and his precious cigarettes—items his wife had banned from their house two months ago. For Al Lever, times like these were like being alone on a mountain-top in Montana (except that he’d never again be physically fit enough to hike a Montana mountain), and he was enjoying it for what it was: the ultimate P and Q.
He took another pull from his cigarette and watched the smoke turn green as it drifted toward the fluorescent light fixture on the ceiling. Then the smoke became a bluish-brown as it floated out the open window while a horn up on Sixth Street honked. The noise was subdued, almost apologetic.
The lieutenant let out a second happy sigh, but before he could raise his cigarette to his lips, his serenity was shattered by two loud taps on the glass-paneled door that separated his office from the world beyond. The taps were followed by Hal Davis, a soon-to-be-retired detective assigned to Newcastle’s robbery division. Davis eased the door open.
“Sorry to bother you, Al, but I figured you’d still be here … There’s a call on line three. A Boston detective by the name of Tanner. I think you ought to take it.”
“Homicide?”
“Nah … At least, I don’t think so. Tanner doesn’t think so.”
Lever tried to smile again. This time the expression looked like a grimace. “Why me, then? I don’t know any Tanner. Besides, I was on my way out of here.” Al stubbed his smoke out in an ashtray overflowing with butts. He made no motion to reach for the phone.
After a small silence, Davis said, “I think you should take this one, Al.”
“Argh, something tells me this is going to ruin a perfectly good evening.” Lever picked up the receiver, punched line three, and grumbled, “Homicide, Lever here.”
“This is Sid Tanner, Lieutenant. I’m up in Boston … Back Bay. We had an Amtrak train pull in a little while ago with a stiff on board.”
“So …?” Al said this in a tone that made it clear he had no desire to get involved. As far as he was concerned, Boston’s business was Boston’s business, and they could keep it right there. Tanner didn’t respond, so Al followed it with, “Was it a homicide?” and immediately wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
“I don’t think so. Our ME’s on-site prelim. seems to indicate heart attack. At this time, we have no autopsy scheduled … I don’t like cutting stiffs apart unless I smell a rat. And nothing looks out of place. Next of kin would have to order an autopsy at this point.”
“So why call me? I’m homicide, in case no one informed you. And what’s this got to do with Newcastle PD in the first place?”
“Look, Lieutenant, I don’t know why your buddy put you on the phone, but I don’t need a runaround here. I’m just trying to find out where this stiff belongs, okay? Because he sure as hell doesn’t belong in Boston.”
“What makes you think I want him?”
“You gonna help me with this or not, Lieutenant?”
Lever coughed a typical smoker’s cough and muttered his all-purpose excuse, which was: “Allergies … allergies … When do you get a break from this damn pollen count?” Then he straightened up and returned to the phone conversation. “What have you got?”
“We didn’t find any ticket on this guy, so we don’t know for sure where he was supposed to get off, or where he got on, for that matter. But the conductor, a John Markoe, is almost positive the guy was on board when he started his shift in New York City, and held a ticket for Newcastle. So, I’m starting with what I got from the conductor. Markoe seems like the kind of guy who remembers a lot more than he needs to. He sure as hell talks more than he needs to.”
“No ticket stubs on the body?”
“No. But Markoe says he probably collected it just before they arrived in Newcastle, or possibly some other passenger took it by mistake when they went off to the café car or something.”
“You didn’t find any receipt either?”
“Nah, but people don’t always hold on to them. If it’s not a business trip, they usually toss ’em.”
“Why Newcastle? Why not Providence? New London? New Haven?”
“A possibility, but I’m working my way down the coast, Lieutenant, and you’re the first stop south—”
“Right. You got a name for this clown?”
“Yeah, Theodore A. Graham.”
“Huh …? What …?” Lever stuttered. He dropped his feet off the desk, sat straight in his chair, and wrote the name down on a slip of paper. “Graham? You’re certain about that?”
“Credit cards in the wallet. And the photo on the driver’s license matches up.”
“An old guy?”
“Sixty-eight, according to the license.”
“Don’t tell me … It’s a Florida license.”
“Yeah …? Where’d you get that?”
“Unlucky guess.” Lever said this almost to himself.
“You know the guy?”
Again, Al stuttered. “Well, yeah … Or no, not know him. I mean I’ve never met him, but I was Best Man at his daughter’s wedding. He never made it up from Florida for the event … That was in May of this year. I’m sure his name was Theodore, though. He’s the father of Annabella Graham—Belle Graham, the crossword puzzle editor at one of our local newspapers, The Evening Crier. She never mentioned to me he was on his way north.”
“And she’s a friend of yours?”
“You could say that. She married a guy who used to be with the department here. My partner, in fact. He’s a PI now. Rosco Polycrates.”
“Hey, look, Lieutenant, I’m sorry about this.” A tone of “fellow-cop” compassion had filtered into Tanner’s voice. All of a sudden the stiff was family. “I mean, I didn’t figure the deceased to be a family friend. I guess that’s why Detective Davis wanted you to get on the line … Look, how do you want to handle this … I mean Graham’s body … You tell me. I have no problem holding it for a day or two.”
Lever sighed again. Any hint
of contentment was long gone. “I appreciate the offer. I’m gonna have to drive out to his daughter’s house and break this news personally. I can’t do it over the phone … It could take me a few hours to get back to you. What’s your number up there?”
Lever scratched Tanner’s name and number down on the slip of paper next to Theodore A. Graham, signed off, and dropped the receiver back into its cradle. Hearing the clank, Detective Davis stepped back into the office.
“So, it was Belle’s father, I take it?” he asked as he pulled a chair up to Lever’s desk.
Lever only nodded.
“Yeah, I figured,” Davis continued. “That’s why I thought you ought to get it from the horse’s mouth rather than from me.” Davis reached across the desk, removed a cigarette from Lever’s pack, and lit it. “Look, Al, why don’t you call Polycrates. Get him down here, brief him, and let him tell Belle. Hell, he never met the old man either, right? How broken up is he gonna be?”
“Mr. Sensitive.”
“Who? Polycrates?”
“No, you, Davis. And I was being facetious, in case it went over that thick head of yours. I’m not going to pull a stunt like that on Rosco. He’s my best friend, for pete’s sake.”
“Hey, suit yourself, Al. I’m just trying to make it easier on you. I could care less about Polycrates. As far as I’m concerned, it was a banner day when ‘Dud-Lee-Do-Right’ left the department.”
“Any other comments you’d like to share?”
“No.”
“Good. Then get out of here.”
“Jeez … Talk about sensitive.”
Buy A Crossword to Die For Now!
The Answers
To download a PDF of the answers, please visit openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords/answers
KING’S RANSOM
JUST THE BEGINNING
NOT DREAMING
STAND BY YOUR MAN
BELLA, BELLA, BELLA
IN FOR A PENNY, IN FOR A POUND
About the Author
Nero Blanc is the pseudonym of Steve Zettler and Cordelia Frances Biddle, who are husband and wife and serious crossword buffs. Biddle is also the author of the Martha Beale historical mystery series, which is set in Philadelphia, Zettler and Biddle’s hometown. Their website is www.crosswordmysteries.com.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1999 by Cordelia F. Biddle and Steve Zettler
Cover design by Tammy Seidick
ISBN: 978-1-4976-7170-6
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
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