by Nero Blanc
“Right.”
“I will tell Mr. Gordon you are here. Please to have a seat.”
Rosco turned, but before he could move anywhere near the chairs, Gordon stepped through the steel door and into the waiting area.
“Mr. Polycrates, I’m Alex Gordon.” He extended his hand.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”
“Not at all. I’m as anxious to get this mess in Taneysville cleared up as anyone. I was hoping to spend the holidays out there … Ah well, you know what they say about construction work … it takes twice as long as estimated and costs twice as much …”
Gordon was a good deal shorter than Rosco had expected—about five feet eight inches tall, round but solidly built, with a heavy dark brow, dark hair, an equally dark, neatly trimmed beard. The man Belle had recalled from memory hadn’t had a beard, nor had he been so broad and bearlike. Rosco wondered whether Alex Gordon had once toyed with bodybuilding and then given up the practice—which could account for his muscled yet boxy appearance.
Rosco judged the CEO of Far Yukon to be in his early forties. His accent was middle American. If he’d been born in Russia, as Big Otto Gunston had implied, there was no hint of a previous speech pattern.
“Let’s step into my office, shall we?”
He held the steel door for Rosco and they walked down a twenty-five-foot corridor lit solely by fluorescent ceiling lamps. They cast a sickly hue onto the brown walls; coupled with the gray/black commercial carpeting, the sensation was airless and close.
At the end of the corridor there were three doors. The sound of industrial machinery could be heard behind the center door. On the door to Rosco’s right there was a sign reading MRS. TOLAND. Gordon turned the knob to his left and motioned for Rosco to enter. On this door there were two signs, one reading MR. ALEX GORDON—CEO, and another reading “ON A VACANT FACE A BRUISE BECOMES AN ADORNMENT.” The quote was attributed to Maxim Gorki.
After reading the sign, Rosco smiled and said, “Gorki, huh?”
“Yes. My mother claimed we were related to him, but could never produce the documents to prove it … But then, things got a little out of hand during the Stalin era—to say the least. A good many official papers disappeared. So who knows for sure? Maybe it’s only romantic family lore … but I like the idea … Have you read Gorki?” Gordon motioned for Rosco to take a seat as he spoke.
Rosco shook his head.
“No? You should. From the early stories like ‘Twenty-six Men and a Girl’ to the later novel Decadence … His was a real rags-to-riches story. Started out earning his own living at age nine … ended up living in Capri and Sorrento. Not bad for a poor kid from Nizhni-Novgorod …”
Rosco looked around the office as Gordon spoke, noting how spare it was: one large desk with a utilitarian office chair behind it and the chair Rosco was now sitting in. On the desk was the same type of video monitor that sat on the receptionist’s desk. Again, there were no windows, and the only item on the walls was an eight-by-ten-inch black-and-white photograph of former President Bill Clinton.
“I thought Gorki’s real name was … Peshkov or something?” Rosco said, trying to sound as if he were searching his mind for the assigned reading list of some lit class he’d taken in college.
Gordon smiled. “Very good. Not many people know that. Peshkov is my true name. I changed it to something less … well, less foreign sounding … This is America, right?”
“You have no real discernible accent.”
“And I would guess that Polycrates is of Greek origin. Where’s your accent?”
“Good point. Though I’m a couple of generations removed from the homeland.”
Gordon only shrugged and spread his hands on the desk. The fingernails had been professionally manicured. They also had a decided sheen, as if clear polish had been applied.
“You’re probably very busy, Mr. Gordon,” Rosco continued, “so I’ll get right to the point. As I told your secretary—”
“Before you get too far, let me tell you that I’m not a Hoffmeyer supporter. I’m backing the incumbent … as I have in the past, and intend to continue.”
“Fair enough. But Milt Hoffmeyer asked … I should say, hired me to look into this Taneysville situation. Since you own the property I thought I’d start with you.”
Gordon shifted in his seat. “I purchased that farm eight months ago … No, a little more than that now. Closer to a year … I probably know less about this mess than you do.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard that the police have cold-cased the investigation until the experts can determine when the victim died … or, to be accurate, was murdered … and who she is.”
No response came from Gordon, but the hands remained splayed on the desktop. At length he said, “I haven’t been out to the site in well over a month. I’m not sure what you’re getting at …?”
“Do you have enemies, Mr. Gordon? … Assuming that the body was dumped on what is now your property, it’s conceivable that you’re the target of a hate crime … someone who wants to see your reputation damaged—”
Gordon interrupted. “I don’t have any enemies. I make it a point to keep my employees happy …”
Rosco was about to bring up the subject of Gordon’s former business partner, but something told him to hold back for a minute.
“… In fact,” the CEO continued, “one of the reasons Far Yukon’s plant is built on this model is to enable management and labor to work in close proximity. I’m not viewed as a guy with a fancy car who drifts in once a week to peer down his nose at the peons. I can run every machine in this facility. And I put in time on alternate Saturdays—just like my crew.”
Rosco wrote in his notebook, then asked another question. “Do you mind if we discuss your wife?”
“My wife?” Gordon leaned back in his chair, and tapped his fingers together in front of his burly chest. “Let me give you a tip, my friend … Never, and I mean never, let a woman get near a contractor. Remember what I said about a job taking twice as long and costing twice as much? Once the ladies are involved that estimate doubles. Even triples. ‘I want the spa facing the window’; ‘We need a Subzero in the master suite’; ‘The ceiling in the foyer should have aged oak beams’ …” Gordon laughed. “You get my drift? Women can’t conceptualize … their brains are only programmed to rearrange …”
Rosco raised his eyebrows. “I was thinking of your former wife.”
Gordon’s eyes narrowed. His dark face turned darker, his brow almost menacing. “She’s in California with my daughter. I haven’t seen or spoken to either of them for eight years … Eight years. A long time to be legally separated from a child. A situation like mine could never exist in Russia. I would have my child.” Beneath the black beard, the mouth was tight and unforgiving.
Rosco glanced at his notes. He made no attempt to hide his confusion. “Eight years …? I must have been mistaken … I have information that predates that … when your wife was alleged to have disappeared—”
Gordon rose abruptly. “What is this? You come into my office and point fingers at me?”
Rosco also stood. He raised his hands in an effort to calm the situation. “I apologize, Mr. Gordon … I’m just trying to figure this out. I’m sorry if I’m opening a painful chapter—”
“Look, Polycrates, I don’t care what’s going on out in that hick burb. Or how any of this affects Milt Hoffmeyer. In fact, I hope he loses—big time. All I want is to get the contractor and his crew the hell out of my home so I can walk through the door and slam it behind me—”
“I apologize, Mr. Gordon, but is it possible that your former business partner—?”
“I don’t want to discuss him! Not now. Not ever.”
Rosco decided to press the issue. “But couldn’t he be considered an enemy? A very serious one?”
Gordon’s face grew nearly black with rage. “An enemy to me? I’d say you’ve got it the wrong way around, pal! I’d say the guy who’s the mark should be
the one bearing the grudge … the guy who was the complete chump … the boob … the simp … You know the term cuckold, Polycrates? Well, that’s me. One of the suckers born each and every minute …”
With some effort, the CEO of Far Yukon began to control himself. “Look, Polycrates, ancient history is ancient history. Water under the bridge. Spilled milk, et cetera … You want to ask me questions about my property in Taneysville, fire away; but my personal life’s off limits. Got it?”
Rosco nodded and made a mental note that Gordon, a.k.a. Peshkov, wasn’t as sympathetic a character as he tried to appear. “I’m curious as to why you chose the area for a second home. I would have thought a man of your means would have purchased property in, say, one of the more established resort communities. Perhaps, in the Berkshires.”
Gordon resumed his seat and his affable air. “The Berkshires are Boston with more snow. Who needs it? Chichi restaurants, overpriced art galleries … overpriced Italian markets. I don’t go to the mountains to buy a Rolex. I can buy one here. Besides, I like forging my own way. Always have.” He laughed. “You been up there? To Taneysville, I mean?”
“Briefly.”
Alex Gordon leaned forward across his desk. “That’s where you should be doing your snooping, Polycrates. Me? I’m just a weekend visitor with a home under construction … You want answers to why a body was dumped on the old Quigley site, I’d suggest you ask some of the locals … You met Frank Bazinne yet?”
Rosco shook his head no.
Gordon chuckled again. “Well, you’ve got a real treat in store for you. Bazinne and his buddies … they’re, what do you call them …? throwbacks … Neanderthals … misfits. And they’re none too happy losing out on their slice of the pie … My advice to you, Polycrates, is to start with Bazinne … I say that body was dumped there ages ago. By some local Tontos.” The CEO pressed a button on his intercom. “I apologize, but I’ve got a meeting with the foreman at noon-thirty. My secretary will show you out.”
Rosco placed a business card on the desk. “I can find my own way, Mr. Gordon—”
“You talk to Bazinne and his crowd if you want a true picture of Taneysville. And forget the enemy bit, Polycrates. I’m a good guy. A guy with friends. A lot of friends. Powerful friends.”
As Rosco started his Jeep, Boston’s all-news radio station chimed in with the weather report and traffic update. Interstate 93 was a logjam, so he decided to head south on Blue Hill Avenue. After a dozen blocks the radio announcer came on with the hour’s top story:
“… Boston police detectives have identified the body of this morning’s presumed suicide. The man was apparently a local private detective by the name of Mike Petri. When asked if the police were still ruling it a suicide, Lieutenant Sid Tanner commented, ‘We’re still looking into it.’ But speculation is, this latest development has given the police reason to re-examine their original assumption that Petri had jumped from the fifteen-story building …”
CHAPTER 19
Rosco was glad Belle hadn’t been riding with him when he made the abrupt U-turn on Blue Hill Avenue and headed north, back toward Boston. He was certain he would never have heard the end of it—but he could easily imagine her response. “I can’t believe you just pulled a stunt like that!” she would have gasped. “And you never get caught! That’s what drives me nuts! If I did something like that, I’d be in jail right now.”
He smiled at the picture but winced slightly, remembering her warning to drive carefully. He shrugged it off and returned to the business at hand: picking up the car phone in his right hand, dialing it with his left, and steering the Jeep with his thigh. His first call went out to Al Lever at NPD. As expected, Al had the number for Sid Tanner’s direct line at the Boston Police Department. However, in typical Lever fashion, the number was only dispensed after two minutes of need-to-know, and what’s-this-all-about questioning. Finally, Lever rang off with, “Keep me posted … and, dammit, I mean that, Poly—crates.” The name was given Al’s habitual three-syllable, mangled makeover—an old joke he never tired of.
“You’ll be the first to know, Al.”
A sigh, followed by a click ended the conversation.
Rosco then punched in the number to Tanner’s private line. It was answered with a clipped, “Tanner.”
“Lieutenant, my name is Rosco Polycrates, and—”
“Right, Polycrates,” Tanner interrupted, “thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”
“Huh?” was all Rosco could seem to come up with.
“You feel like taking a ride up to Boston? I work better face-to-face.”
“Wait. You want to see me? You called me?”
“Yeah. Check your answering machine … Look, we had a suicide up here last night. A jumper. Did a swan dive off the fifteenth floor. Found by a jogger this morning. No note. All I got is a Newcastle Yellow Pages with the PI section dogeared. Your name’s underlined in red. Ever hear of a guy named Mike Petri?”
“Yeah … Yeah, I have,” was Rosco’s startled answer. He didn’t elaborate. “Where are you, Lieutenant?”
“Sixth District. South Boston. You know it?”
Rosco glanced at his watch. “Yes. I’m in town. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Rosco hadn’t been in Boston’s Sixth District Headquarters in nearly eight years, but it hadn’t changed much. The same chaotic whirlwind of activity was omnipresent—so much so, that he almost suspected these were the exact same perpetrators, going through the exact same arguments with identical pushing and shoving matches, duplicate cries of “False arrest!” and “Police brutality!”: all directed at the same roster of officers they’d wrangled with eight years before. Rosco was tempted to say, “Are you guys making a movie here, or what?” but he didn’t. Instead, he strolled up to the duty sergeant, presented his I.D., and said, “I’ve got an appointment with Lieutenant Tanner.”
“PI, huh?” the sergeant said as he looked Rosco over with a fair amount of disdain. “How’d you get through the metal detector, wise guy?”
Rosco lifted his sports jacket above his waist, revealing his belt and shirt. “No piece,” was all he said.
“Huh.” The cop pointed. “Tanner’s down the hallway. Third door on the right.”
“Thanks.” Rosco retrieved his I.D. and followed the hall until he reached Tanner’s glass-paneled door. He could see the detective on the other side, sitting on his desk with his back to Rosco, telephone in hand, apparently leveling an angry tirade at the person on the other end. Rosco tapped lightly three times on the glass. Tanner turned, motioned for him to enter, and slammed the receiver back into its cradle.
“Problems?” Rosco said as he closed the door.
Tanner rolled his eyes, walked toward Rosco, and offered his hand. He was a big man; probably six feet eight inches tall, and built like a weight lifter who spent a good deal of time at the gym. His head was shaved, which made it impossible to determine his age. He could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty.
“Problems?” Tanner repeated, moving his head from side to side slowly. “You don’t know from problems … Listen to this: The captain gives me two tickets to tomorrow’s Pats game, right? I put them in my jacket for safekeeping. And then last night? After work? I take the jacket to the cleaners. Now, I know those tickets were in that jacket. I’d bet a month’s salary on it. But do you think these clowns down at C.J.’s Laundry know anything about those tickets? … Hell, no.” Tanner groaned and then put on a voice that was intended to sound like an insincere dry-cleaning employee as he moved back behind his desk and sat. “‘Oh, no, Mr. Tanner, we didn’t find any tickets … For this Sunday’s football game, you say? Maybe you left them in your car?’ … In my car? My car? Why the hell would anyone in their right mind leave football tickets in their car?”
“Rhetorical question?”
Tanner smiled at Rosco. “Right. You must be Polycrates. Lever told me you were a smart-ass. Have a seat.”
Rosco sat. “A
l called you?”
“Don’t worry, he put in a good word for you … said you and he were once partners … Actually, I was the first cop on the scene when your father-in-law croaked … ah, passed away, remember? That’s when I got to know Lever. Anyway, he said you were on the level. Not like the rest of the sleazy PIs we have roaming around this town.”
Rosco recalled the situation Tanner was referring to, but he also remembered that Boston had made an inaccurate assumption when Belle’s father had died—misinformation that had cost time and energy and maybe another life, so Rosco balked when it came to bending over backward to thank him for his previous assistance. Instead Rosco returned to the case at hand. “Are we putting Mike Petri in the sleazy PI category?”
Tanner laughed. “The sleaziest. Never pegged him for suicide, though. Anyway, like I said, no note … unless we consider your phone number scratched on a pad by the phone a note. It was also underlined in the Yellow Pages. I checked with the phone company. He talked with you for less than a minute. But hey, you know that. More importantly, I’d like to know what he had to say to you.”
Rosco shrugged. “He got my answering machine. Didn’t even bother to leave his number. So I couldn’t call him back.”
“Do you still have the tape?”
“Nope. Someone recorded over it this morning.”
“What did he say exactly?”
“It was short. Something like, ‘My name’s Mike Petri. I need to talk to you. It’s important. I’ll call back tomorrow.’ And that was it.”
“‘Important,’ huh?”
“That’s what he said.” Tanner was quiet, so Rosco pushed on. “Although I have to tell you, it doesn’t sound to me like a guy planning to kill himself would leave that kind of message … unless saying that he’d call back was some kind of a joke—or a decoy. But what’s the point in that if no one knows what the game is?”
At the word “game,” Tanner’s face tightened. “Right,” he said. “Game … Look, Polycrates, Mike Petri was a drunk, a flat-out, on-your-face-in-the-street boozer. We had more complaints on him than Tetley has tea leaves. As of yesterday he had three clients suing him for theft of services. He was this close”—Tanner raised his hand and held his thumb and index finger a quarter inch apart—“this close to having his license yanked, along with his pistol permit. The guy was a class-A loser. It was all over for him and he knew it.” Tanner shrugged. “What more can I say? His blood-alcohol level was close to two-point-oh when we scraped him off the sidewalk.”