Two Down

by Nero Blanc

  Rosco mulled over the information. “The women could have reached any shoreline in the bay in two hours: Woods Hole, West Falmouth, even back to West Island . . .”

  “In all probability, yes. But here’s the real kicker, Rosco . . . The inflatable had no salt water in it.”

  “What’re you getting at?”

  “I’m not talking about deposits in and around the seats; of course there were traces of salt there . . . I’m talking about the bladder itself. If the dinghy had been punctured in Buzzards Bay and rendered unseaworthy, salt water would have seeped into the air pocket—and I would have found it.”

  Again, Rosco paused to assimilate the information. “So what’s your theory?”

  “I’ve got a few, but they all point to the same conclusion.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Dollars to doughnuts . . . those women are still alive.”

  25

  The sun was beginning to slink behind the scrub and dunes backing Munnatawket Beach when Belle and Rosco arrived. Their shadows etched the sand in front of them as they walked to the spot where the Orion’s tender had been found. Belle pulled up her jacket collar, then jabbed her hands in her pockets. In half an hour the beach would no longer be bathed in the soft gold glow of a waning October afternoon; it would be as cold, gray, and uninviting as congealing gravy.

  Belle shivered in anticipation, then resumed her part of the conversation. “. . . I disagree with that concept, Rosco,” she said as her Keds scuffed determined footprints in her wake. “From everything you’ve told me, it sounds as if Flack’s guilty as sin. I’d bet everything I have that he knows where the women are—and how they vanished.”

  “But where’s his motive?” Rosco asked her. He started circling the area where the inflatable had been beached.

  “For kidnapping? Money, of course. . .and maybe some weird form of power, role reversal . . . something like that. Jamaica’s been his prey for quite a while. I imagine he identifies strongly with her. Maybe he’s gone off the deep end . . . You met him. Do you think he represents a picture of stability?”

  Rosco studied the spot where the inflatable had been found. “Not really, but that’s assuming this is a kidnapping, Belle.”

  “But aren’t we going under the premise that the women have been nabbed? You told me that was Abe Jones’s theory . . . You said he’s convinced they’re still alive.”

  “I’m not certain I agree with him, Belle. There are major pieces missing from the puzzle.” Rosco knelt on one knee and stared at the now undisturbed sand. A wisp of seaweed, stuck in the heavier substance, had created a semaphore arc like something desperately signaling for release.

  “Such as?” she asked.

  “Such as no ransom note, for one . . . So far, four puzzles have arrived, right? Going under the assumption that they’re connected to the women’s disappearance, why hasn’t there been a demand for money?”

  “We haven’t received it yet?” This was a question.

  “And why not? It’s nearly a week now.”

  Belle thought for a long minute. When she spoke again, the words spewed out rapid-fire: “It’s a form of sadistic game—which supports my theory that Flack is involved . . . He won’t contact Pepper with demands until he’s put a worried husband through hell. That crossword Pepper received was the work of an enraged and vindictive person—”

  “Okay,” Rosco said. “I’m following you, but why is Genie in the mix if Flack is obsessed with Jamaica?”

  “She just happened to be on the boat with her pal. A pawn like the young hunk in L.A. . . . Flack admitted he was using that guy, didn’t he? The ‘newbie’ actor . . . Isn’t that what he said?”

  Rosco didn’t answer; instead, he continued staring at the windswept sand.

  “Besides, this cretin of a photographer is obviously comfortable on the water,” Belle insisted. “He followed Jamaica to Catalina Island. That’s a long way from the mainland. Think about it; whoever picked them up had to use a boat, right?”

  “Fogram knows his way around boats, don’t forget . . . Colberg, too. And then, there’s Doris . . .”

  “Right . . .” Belle answered slowly, “Vic and Doris . . .” She bent over to follow Rosco’s sight line. “What are you looking for?”

  “Inspiration?”

  “Very clever.” Belle chuckled briefly, then grew serious again. “Doris and her peculiarly absent husband.”

  “And the other trucker . . . Mr. and Mrs. Stingo—completely unaccounted for. Don’t forget them.”

  Belle sighed. “What a mess,” she finally said.

  Rosco stood and Belle straightened up, touching hands instinctively and then just as unconsciously drawing away, as if personal emotions had no part in their conversation.

  “The dinghy’s outboard was gassed up when the Orion sailed . . .” Rosco began, while Belle finished the thought.

  “But the engine was near empty when the tender was found—”

  “Meaning it had been in use for two hours or so.”

  Belle screwed her eyes up and stared hard at the broad stretch of sand. “If it was discovered this high above the high-water mark, then someone must have placed it here,” she said. “And whoever set the stage had to realize—amend that—had to ensure that the boat be found . . . It was part of the plan . . .”

  She began to pace toward the ocean; Rosco followed close behind. “The fact that it was free of salt residue increases the probability that the criminal intended the discovery to indicate a kidnapping rather than an accident at sea: a gash clearly created on dry land. Whoever our criminal is would have been certain forensics tests would be run.”

  “Not necessarily. Amateurs don’t think that far ahead. Plus—”

  “Wait!” She suddenly turned in her tracks, and in doing so nearly collided with Rosco. “That’s it!” she almost shouted. “Staged! The entire thing’s been staged! Flack and Jamaica’s boy-toy betrayer—the wannnabe actor! Those two guys have orchestrated the entire scenario! Just like they did at Catalina!”

  Rosco looked at the ocean and then at Belle. “All right,” he said slowly. “I’ll play along . . . Flack gets tired of earning peanuts from celebrity shots . . . He decides to go for the big bucks . . . But that’s assuming he could command a sizable ransom for Jamaica.”

  Again, Belle pondered the situation. “Flack must have had prior knowledge that Genie would be involved. He must have counted on Tom paying whatever he asked.”

  “Except that no demands have been made, cash or otherwise.”

  Belle pursed her lips; her eyes squinted in concentration. “Okay, okay, okay! I’ve got a better idea. Maybe Jamaica instigated the entire deal. Maybe she’s the one calling the shots. A delayed ransom note would suit her sense of the dramatic—”

  Rosco began to interrupt, but Belle overrode him. “Flack alluded to Jamaica’s previous participation, right? He said PR’s a two-way street—or words to that effect . . . Well, maybe Jamaica was worried about her career and trying to revitalize it . . . Maybe she contacted Flack . . . hired him to take those lurid pictures—”

  “I love the way your brain works, Belle,” Rosco interjected. “But I’m afraid you’re way off the mark. Flack told me—”

  “No, wait . . .let me finish. Flack might be lying through his teeth, you know—”

  “What’s left of them.”

  “Rosco, I’m not joking! Hear me out.”

  Rosco put up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m silent. I’m silent.”

  “Okay,” she grumbled. “But I’d like you to take my suggestions seriously.”

  “I am.”

  Belle shot him a glance, then continued. Her words and tone were thoughtful. “So, here’s my notion: Jamaica masterminds The Globe photo spread. Her ‘mysterious male companion’ is part of the deal—or not. That’s an unimportant detail because who knows where, or who he is . . . When said cruel pix are published, the actress appears outraged. Whines to her best buddy, Genie
, and furiously decamps the L.A. scene—only to tragically disappear at sea during a yachting ‘accident’ aboard said best friend’s chartered boat.”

  “You’ve lost me again, Belle . . . What’s the purpose of this hoax?”

  In the waning light, Belle’s gray eyes burned like smoldering coal. “How much publicity has Jamaica gotten out of this situation already?” The speech flew ahead without waiting for a response. “A lot! And what happens when the media learns the dinghy didn’t sustain damage in the ocean? Where will speculation lead, then?” Again, Belle didn’t pause for an answer. “Everyone will assume it’s a kidnapping, Rosco! Beloved actress hideously abducted . . . Fans of Crescent Heights and Jamaica’s character will start tearing the tabloids off the shelves. When she reappears, shaken but unscathed, she’ll be reinstalled as a star in the Hollywood pantheon.”

  “Okay . . .” Rosco said. “Supposing you’re right . . . Just supposing . . . What’s Genie’s role?”

  “She’s giving her friend every bit of help she can. Think about it—a solid citizen is abducted as well. It’s perfect. Who would suspect a hoax?”

  Rosco was silent, mulling over the suggestions. “I don’t know, Belle. This is pretty outlandish—”

  “No, it’s not. It’s dramatic. It’s Hollywood! And that’s what we’re looking at. A drama created by an actress. Two, if you want to be specific about it—”

  “Where does Tom fit in? According to this . . . this theory of yours?”

  Belle gestured toward the darkening waves as if their depths held answers. “Well . . .” she began, “obviously, Tom has to be aware of each detail in the plot . . . More than ‘aware’ he’s got to be a player, too . . . After all, he ‘found’ Flack in his home, had him thrown in the can—and insisted bail be posted at a quarter of a million dollars . . . Besides, Pepper has all sorts of alibis that point to noninvolvement. First, he’s away hunting in Maine, then he hauls you in on the ‘case’ next, he pretends to go ballistic with the Coast Guard, then feigns an attack on an unfortunate photographer—who turns out to be none other than Mr. Reggie Flack . . .”

  Rosco didn’t speak.

  “Tell me you don’t agree.”

  “I don’t. For one thing, I don’t believe Tom could possibly have faked the rage I witnessed. He was truly irrational; I told you I was genuinely concerned about his mental health—”

  “But the setup is perfect, Rosco!” Belle insisted. “It’s flawless!”

  In the dimming light, Rosco took a long breath and shook his head. “Was,” he finally said.

  “What do you mean ‘was’?”

  “It can’t be flawless if someone uncovers the supposed crime. And that’s what it is; a crime. No one could pull a stunt like this without getting prosecuted.”

  “That’s assuming they get caught.” Belle sighed impatiently. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  Rosco paused, then gently took her hand. This time the gesture was in earnest. “I think your idea’s too complex, Belle. It involves too many players to be successfully staged.”

  “What about the CIA’s tactics? What about the FBI stings?”

  “Where did that come from?” he said with a smile, finding her looking overly alluring in the setting sun.

  “Anything’s possible. We haven’t even considered the guys from D.C.”

  Rosco drew her close. “It’s getting cold. What do you say we go home—”

  “The crossword puzzles,” she interrupted with a quick shake of her head. “I just remembered clues and answers that seemed insignificant earlier . . .” Her brow creased in concentration.

  “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “Never!” she answered. “So you’d better get used to it.” Then her words raced ahead. “FLACK appeared in the first puzzle I received. MOE was in the second puzzle—the answer to One of the Stooges—”

  “Belle . . .” Rosco began.

  “I know what you’re going to say.” She waved a hand in excited impatience. “But maybe Stooges doesn’t refer to television clowns; perhaps it indicates another group—one more closely allied to finding the Orion. A ‘stooge’ can be a puppet, a straight man—or a stool pigeon. Think about the implications, Rosco. Vic Fogram admitted dousing the Orion fire, right? And he said his buddies were acting crazy. The puzzles must have been created by someone who witnessed their behavior.”

  Rosco tried to interrupt, but Belle would not allow it. “Then there’s The Globe, Reggie Flack’s newspaper—that was Shakespeare’s theater.”

  “Flack doesn’t publish the paper, Belle; he’s not responsible for—”

  “But everything fits, Rosco! It’s all part of a bigger puzzle! Remember the quotations from The Merchant of Venice, the references to Hamlet, Much Ado About Nothing—those clues had to be Flack’s creation, Rosco. Apt quotes from the Bard are his stock in trade, remember? Flack’s the one who’s been sending the crosswords. He’s the one who staged Jamaica’s kidnapping.”

  Rosco shook his head. “With her permission, I think you mentioned—”

  “With her collusion!” Belle corrected vehemently. “And Genie’s and Tom’s! They’re up to their eyeballs in this!”

  Rosco leaned close, gently brushing a strand of blond hair away from her face. “I love your enthusiasm, Belle . . . along with everything else. Really, I do. But as a former cop, I’ve got to tell you—”

  Belle studied him, her expression dangerously solemn. “You know, your eye looks worse than it did an hour ago.”

  “Listen . . . It was a good theory.”

  “It is a good theory,” she insisted. “And don’t try to change the subject. Your eye really looks awful. We should put more ice on it.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned Doris’s name, but I was trying to get a rise out of Fogram,” Rosco said with a rueful shrug.

  “You certainly succeeded in getting a rise out of your eyebrow.”

  “You’d be surprised how much information can flow with a good burst of anger . . .”

  She turned away from him and the water’s edge and began to survey the now dusky beach.

  “Belle, I’m serious; it’s a good theory. We just need to bounce it around a little more.”

  After several thoughtful minutes she spoke. “You said it took two of you to stash the inflatable tender in the patrol car, right?”

  “Correct.”

  Belle continued to stare toward the dunes. “If the dinghy had been driven to Munnatawket Beach and immobilized here, a good-sized vehicle would have had to transport it; and one person couldn’t have wrestled the tender to the spot where you found it without creating a visible trail . . . And if it had been cut elsewhere and then driven here, two people would still have been involved.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Flack must have an assistant who’s still at large.”

  “Belle . . .” Rosco began. He walked to her and put his arm around her shoulder.

  “Admit defeat, Rosco. I’m right and you’re wrong.”

  “No surrender.” He laughed briefly. “How about you’re wrong and I’m right?”

  Belle ignored the comment. “And I know just who the guilty party is, too.”

  “I’ll just bet you do.”

  “Don’t be so high-and-mighty, Mr. Ex-Cop.”

  Rosco sighed. “Okay, I’ll bite. Who is our mysterious missing link?”

  “Billy Vauriens!”

  Rosco closed his eyes. “Don’t make me laugh, Belle, please; it makes my eye sorer than it already is.”

  “Why not Vauriens?” she demanded.

  “Well, for starters, why don’t you tell me why his name sprang into your head?”

  “Genie wanted her brother to go into acting, right?”

  “Mmm-hmm . . .”

  “But he couldn’t tolerate bit parts in classical theater. It was below his talent. Isn’t that the gist of what you relayed to me?”

  “Something like that . . .”


  “Then he disappears . . . his girlfriend’s disgruntled; his work history is spotty—to say the least . . . Why couldn’t he have been Jamaica’s ‘mysterious male companion,’ the guy Flack claims set up the Catalina visit. Vauriens jets out to L.A. from Boston—maybe more than a few times. Maybe he’s even serious about breaking into the movie biz—”

  “Belle, give it up.”

  “Think about it, Rosco! You don’t know what Vauriens looks like. Who’s to say he wasn’t that blurry male on the beach in Catalina?”

  “Don’t you think Tom would have told me that Vauriens—”

  “Why would he, Rosco?” Belle interrupted. “If he’s in on the whole thing? I know what you’re going to say, but you’ve got to admit there’s a good possibility of Vauriens and the ‘mysterious escort’ being one and the same man.”

  Rosco was silent for several seconds. “I don’t know, Belle. This is a huge leap—”

  “Not if you subscribe to my previous theory.”

  “Which I don’t.”

  Belle threw up her hands. “You are really stubborn, Rosco. I hope you know that . . . Besides, you told me you always played hunches. Well, this is my hunch. And it’s a strong one. I believe Flack is the point man for an operation that Jamaica’s clandestinely controlling—and that he has a very willing young assistant.”

  Again, Rosco didn’t speak. “Let’s hope a few of these ideas are correct,” he said at last. “And if Tom isn’t in on it, let’s also hope he gets a ransom note soon. Because if you’re wrong, the fact is that those women are still missing . . . And if they’ve been kidnapped by someone whose motive is money and revenge, they’re still in a great deal of danger.”

  “I know,” Belle said quietly. “I know.”

  In the early-evening gloom, the two walked to the Jeep. The sun had set, and the last residue of pink and orange long since gone from the sky. Rosco put the car in gear, and they began retracing their route to Newcastle.

  Near the hairpin curve leading to the secluded point of land upon which the Pepper house stood, the rapid blue, red, and white flash of emergency strobe lights slashed across the darkened pavement. As the Jeep rounded the bend, Rosco and Belle spotted an ambulance and two police cars—one of which was Lever’s unmarked Ford. An ancient orange VW Bug clung to the road’s shoulder, its driver an equally antique lady who looked white and glassy with horror. Al Lever leaned down talking to her while two medics and another police officer attended to a body lying prone and lifeless in the road.