by Nero Blanc
“But what if they’ve been in the water all this time?”
“I couldn’t speculate on that, Mr. Pepper.”
“It’s not knowing that’s driving me crazy. I love my wife . . . I guess that goes without saying, doesn’t it?”
Rosco didn’t answer; instead, he exited the main road and entered the tree-shaded lane that led to Pepper’s drive. Five hundred yards from the wrought-iron gates, he stopped. Still seated in the Jeep, the two men stared at the circus unfolding before them. Rosco spoke first.
“It’s like the president’s press corps up there, Mr. Pepper . . . Do you have a service entry?”
Pepper didn’t take his eyes off the scene. “At the rear . . . But we’ll have to drive through those bozos to get there.”
“Slide down in the seat. They won’t bother this car.”
Rosco tapped the accelerator and headed straight for the mass of reporters and TV crews encamped at the entrance to Pepper’s property. There were three satellite vans and at least ten press cars; an enterprising Newcastle vendor had even set up a sandwich wagon in their midst.
As Rosco drove toward them, the bodies gradually parted and allowed him to pass. He recognized four or five reporters as local; the rest were strangers—down from Boston or up from New York. A few wore bright satin jackets embroidered with call letters starting with a K; Rosco assumed they’d traveled all the way from Los Angeles to get the latest scoop on Jamaica.
After he passed the gauntlet, he said, “We’re through. What now?”
Tom remained crouched in the seat. “Another hundred yards or so, the drive veers off to the right. You’ll see a dirt lane on your left. It looks like it belongs to the next property, but it’s ours. There’s a locked gate, but the key is with my car keys . . . I’ll have to buzz the maid on the intercom.”
Rosco followed Pepper’s directions, but as he approached the gate, he noticed two cars parked beside it—and two men smoking cigarettes leaning against the driver-side doors. Nikon cameras dangled from straps around their necks.
“Well,” Rosco said, “at least, we’ve improved the odds . . . Although, maybe I should be the one to call your maid.”
Tom sat up in his seat and looked at the men. “Nah. She won’t release the lock if she doesn’t recognize the voice. Just pull up. We can handle these clowns.”
Before Rosco could set the Jeep’s parking brake, Pepper jumped from the car and began advancing on the reporters. The two men didn’t miss a second of photographic opportunity. Equipped with motor drives, each camera squeezed off ten or fifteen shots of Tom’s fury before he grabbed one Nikon, yanking it so ferociously from its owner’s neck, the leather strap snapped like an ancient rubber band. Tom smashed the camera into the owner’s windshield and turned on the second man.
“This is private property, you bloodsucker.”
The reporter scuttled into the underbrush while Pepper returned his attention to the first man, who was now cowering against his damaged car. “I want to know who you work for!” Pepper grabbed him by his jacket lapels and hurled him into the side of Rosco’s Jeep. “Who sent you here, you bloodsucker?”
Rosco stepped between the two. “Take it easy, Mr. Pepper,” was all he could think to say.
But Pepper’s wrath was up. He pushed the detective aside as if he hadn’t heard him. “I asked you a question, creep! Who’s your boss? Because, I’m going to sue him for every penny he’s worth.”
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.”
10
Belle 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 shou
ld 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.”
11
Convincing 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 h
uman—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—”