by Nero Blanc
The top floor of the building consisted of two large rooms set on either end of a long, cheerless hallway. Both sides of the corridor held four sets of doors. The smaller spaces behind the doors were soundproof and flexible in nature, being either connected by two-way mirrors and used for questioning detainees, or available for confidential meetings or temporary office space. The same dingy, green paint that made the first floor so eye-catching and delightful covered the upstairs walls, but here the linoleum covering the floor was a dark and grubby gray that hadn’t seen industrial-strength cleaner or a buffing machine in ages. In the dim fluorescent lighting, the corridor looked like a mine shaft. The evidence room sat at the far end, and as soon as the three men caught up to Gabby at the top of the stairs, she ran down the hall and waited in front of the door.
“See, Al?” Rosco said with a laugh, and a touch of pride. “See how smart she is? She knew exactly where we were going.”
“Yeah, right. There’s probably an old leg of lamb in there. One that someone once used as a murder weapon, no doubt. I know how dogs think. Chow. And that’s about it.”
Rosco pointed to Al’s sizable belly. “You know of which you speak.”
“Harumph … You’ll never catch me with a dog again, I’ll tell you that much.”
“What dog would want you?” Abe chortled. “I’m surprised your wife sticks around with the amount of cigarette smoke you generate.”
“Me?” All grumbled. “You’re one to talk. You can’t even find a wife. Every time I see you, you’re with a different woman.”
Abe laughed again and placed his arm over Lever’s shoulder. “I’ve found plenty of wives, Al, just none I care to marry.”
“Ho, ho.”
“This ‘ho ho’ appears to be Al’s new laugh, cooked up especially for the holiday season,” Rosco said to Jones with a raised eyebrow. “Who said he was a Scrooge …? Not very original, but better than Bah, Humbug.”
“Keep it up, you two. Keep it up.”
They reached the door to the evidence room where Gabby was waiting, her short tail wagging in anticipation of what treats might lie on the other side. Al pulled a bundle of keys from his pocket, unlocked and opened the broad steel door, then flipped on the light switch. The same fluorescent lighting that illuminated the remainder of the building flickered a few times before settling into a garish, pale green glow. An alarm panel on the wall next to the door emitted a steady tone until Al punched a five-number entry code on a keypad. Unlike the building’s central code, this was a closely guarded NPD secret, the numbers changed regularly and released to only a select few. No police officer liked to have evidence tampered with.
The room was simple in design: a thirty-by-forty-foot storage area with twelve metal shelving units that stretched from floor to ceiling and ran the length of the room. Each of them was chockablock with crime scene evidence, the items stored in clear plastic bags that had been heat-sealed and affixed with tags listing contents, case number, and officers assigned. Gabby ran down one of the aisles as soon as the alarm tone ended.
“Keep an eye on that mutt, Rosco,” Lever groused.
“Everything’s sealed, Al. There’s nothing she can get into.”
Jones resisted saying Famous last words, as the three men walked over to the fifth aisle and strolled halfway down. Atop the highest shelf sat a number of large cardboard boxes, each of which had originally held a case of paper towels. The current contents were the only items in the room not sealed in plastic, and they’d been labeled with a black marking pen: Santas, Wise Men, Musketeers, and Mice.
“What’d we dress up as last year?” Lever said, almost to himself.
Abe and Rosco grumbled “Three Blind Mice” in unison. They made no attempt to mask their lack of enthusiasm for the outfits.
“Right. Personally, I think we looked kind of foolish in those getups.”
“Foolish?” Rosco said facetiously. “Nahhh …”
“They were your idea, Al,” Abe pointed out. “If I never dress up as a mouse again, I’ll be a happy man. I vote for the Santas. Everyone likes them.”
“Santas, it is.” Lever retrieved two boxes and he and Rosco carried them to the end of the aisle. Inside were three complete costumes: red plush suits, white beards, curly wigs, black boots, and two down pillows. The activity of the men had attracted Gabby’s attention, and she came barreling up the next aisle with a plastic bag between her teeth. It contained a pair of loafers caked in dry mud.
Lever sighed deeply. “Put them back, Rosco.”
“Bad girl, Gab,” Rosco said as he removed the bag from her mouth. “Where’d you get this from?”
“Just put them back. There’s a file number on the tag. You don’t need to have a conversation about it. The dog can’t understand you.”
“That’s what you think.”
“I swear, Poly-crates, sometimes I really wonder about you.” Lever sighed again; then he and Jones slipped out of their street clothes and began putting on the Santa costumes.
“Arrgh, these must be Rosco’s trousers,” Al said as he attempted to fasten the waist hook of his outfit.
“What’s the tag say?”
“Well, the tag says, ‘Al,’ but they must have gotten mixed up somehow.”
Abe laughed, held up the remaining pair of red pants, and read the tag. “Nope. These say, ‘Rosco.’ And even taking into consideration that Polycrates and I need to use ‘fat’ pillows, there’s no way you’re getting into these pants. Methinks you’ve gained a few pounds, my friend.”
“Let me see those.” Lever grabbed the trousers from Jones as Rosco and Gabby returned from replacing the evidence bag.
“No, those are mine, Al,” Rosco said. “See, there’s a P on the waistband right next to the hook. Yours has an L.”
“Yep,” Abe said, “mine has a J. Sorry, Al, better suck it in.”
Lever tried once more to button the trousers. “Maybe we should go as the Wise Men instead?”
“Forget it.” Jones stepped in front of the lieutenant. “We did Wise Men two years ago. Remember, we kept tripping all over those long robes? And Rosco insisted on firing up the frankincense? It smelled worse than your cigarettes. We’re sticking with Santas.” He grabbed Lever’s waistband on either side. “Okay, Al, on three. One … two … three … Suck it in.”
Lever pulled in his stomach, and Jones fastened the hook.
“There you go, nothing to it.”
Lever groaned. “I feel like a stuffed sausage.”
“No comment,” Rosco said.
“Besides, Santa’s supposed to be overweight,” Abe offered.
“Don’t get on me with the ‘overweight’ business, Abe.”
“I said ‘Santa,’ not you, Al. Although, maybe a few sessions at the gym—”
“Forget it, Jones. You know what you can do with that exercise advice of yours. Besides, if the Good Lord wanted me to look like you, he wouldn’t have invented jelly doughnuts. Now let’s get going before I split these duds apart. We’ve got some toys to collect.”
THE first stop on their route was Hatch’s Hardware Store. It was owned and operated by Stanley Hatch, who at fifty-four still found himself occasionally referred to as “Old Mr. Hatch’s grandson.” The shop had been a Newcastle institution for well over a hundred years, and like many of the city’s landmarks, it looked nearly the same as it had the day it opened its doors for business: a pair of cluttered display windows bracketing a covered entry that was paved with beige tiles into which the name ‘S. Hatch & Sons’ was imprinted in scrolling black.
On the sidewalk fronting the entrance were wooden barrels crammed with snow shovels and thick-bristled brooms, while both sides of the doorway were piled with sacks of rock-salt and a pyramid of blue plastic bottles containing windshield deicer. Inside, the store was deep and wide, its age-darkened walls covered with oak shelving that reached the full fifteen feet to the ceiling. Antiquated rolling ladders allowed Stanley and his minions to access mercha
ndise that lay out of reach, while the remainder was stacked on dusty shelves that ran lengthwise down the center aisles. To say the place appeared crowded and old-fashioned would have been an understatement. Hatch’s gave the impression that you could find horse-pulled plows or barrels of whale oil if you only knew where to look—and maybe you could have.
The flooring was also oak, wide-planked and redolent with decades of floor oil and shoe leather. Gabby loved the smell; she also enjoyed pestering Ace, Stanley’s aging collie who was such a fixture in the shop that clerks and customers alike instinctively stepped around his snoozing form. When the three Santas entered Hatch’s, Gabby trotted off in search of the collie while Abe Jones turned to regard Lever and the cigarette that dangled between his frizzy, synthetic beard and mustache. “Are you sure you can smoke in here, Al?”
“The day you can’t smoke in a hardware store will be the day—”
“You quit?”
“Ho, ho.”
“Just be careful you don’t set yourself on fire, okay?”
Rosco pointed to a bright red fire extinguisher. “If he’s going to torch himself, this is the place to do it.” He picked up the device and mimed hooking it onto Al’s wide black belt. “There you go. It even matches your trousseau; Albert, you look de-vine.”
“Let me guess who we have here,” Stanley Hatch said as he approached the visitors. He was tall and angular with an engaging smile and kind eyes set in a long and thoughtful face. Although there was nothing broad-shouldered or he-man-outdoorsy about him, he was the kind a guy who could repair just about anything and do it well. He also had a self-effacing air and a quiet humor that sat well with both new customers and longtime friends. “Oddly enough, you resemble a certain trio of blind rodents that appeared last year around this time.” Stan’s tone was jocular, and it nearly disguised the touch of sadness that colored his words; his wife had died eighteen months before, and his grief at losing her hadn’t wholly diminished. “I think I prefer the smoking Santa to the smoking rat,” he added in an attempt to brighten the mood.
“It was a mouse, Stan,” rejoined Lever with an unusually gentle smile.
“Al, I supply all sorts of traps around here: large, small, have-a-hearts, raccoon cages … and I’m telling you, if you were supposed to be dressed up as a mouse, I wouldn’t have wanted to see the rat.” Then he pointed to a large wooden barrel near one the store’s twin display windows. It was overfilled with toys: footballs, dolls, and stuffed animals of all shapes and sizes. “Pretty good haul this year,” he said with pride. “Folks have been really generous …” He walked over to the center aisle, removed three boxed coffee makers from a shelf and handed them to Rosco. “Something for the parents.”
“Thanks, Stan. Well, we’d better load up and be on our way. Remember, our annual wrapping and supper party is on the twenty-third. Try to make it if you can. Sara Briephs is hosting this year, and you know the kind of spread she puts out.”
“I’ll see.” The smile was pensive.
“It’ll do you good.”
Stan nodded and brightened his smile. “I’m sure it would.”
“Besides, we need all the help we can get,” Rosco continued. “Last year’s haul hit five hundred items.”
Stan nodded again. He seemed about to speak, then opted for silence.
“Sara would love to have you.”
“She’s a grand old lady,” Stanley said in answer. “The city wouldn’t be the same without her.” He paused, then concluded with a simple “Thanks.” And that single word conveyed every emotion the group needed.
“Hey, what’s a Santa for?” was Al response.
It took the threesome several trips to get the gifts packed into their unmarked police van. When they’d finished, Rosco whistled for Gabby, and the quartet marched down the street toward their next stop, Robertson’s Stationery Supply. But as they passed the pet shop window, Al stopped and pointed. “There you go, Rosco. There’s your gift for Belle—a live partridge for that pear tree I suggested.”
Rosco, Abe, and Gabby had already reached the jewelry store on the corner. They turned and rejoined Lever.
“Those are lovebirds, Al. Not partridges,” Jones pointed out.
“Birds schmirds. It’s the thought that counts. You guys have no Christmas spirit. And women love birds. Lovebirds; get it? Come on, Rosco, look at how cute that one on the left is—”
“You don’t just buy one of them, Al. They’re a pair. They come in a pair.”
“A pair in a pear tree,” was the laconic reply. “I like it.”
“Actually …” Rosco said. They could see the wheels beginning to turn in his head as he fiddled with the tips of his snow-white mustache. “Actually, you’ve given me an idea. There’s a slight logistical problem, though …”
“So? What’s your plan?” Jones asked.
“Are you nuts? Like I’m going to tell you guys! I might as well put it on the eleven o’clock news.”
“Come on, Rosco, how are you going to sneak a pair of—” Lever was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. He removed his bulky Santa gloves, lifted the phone from his belt, and glanced at the caller I.D. readout. “Duty calls.” He brought it to his ear and said, “Lieutenant Lever.”
After about thirty seconds Al tapped a button on the phone and clipped it back on his belt. “We’re going to have to pack it in, boys. The captain’s called an emergency briefing, and I need to head back with the van. All personnel—so I guess that means you, too, Abe. Rosco, you’d better beam in with the rest of the merchants and tell them we’ll be around tomorrow. Unless you want to continue solo.”
“What’s up?”
“Three inmates just broke out of the Suffolk County Jail in Boston. State police believe they may be heading south.”
Three
GABBY barreled up the narrow staircase of the quaint late-eighteenth-century house in Newcastle’s historic Captain’s Walk. As was the puppy s wont, she flew up over the steps two at a time, then roared around the landing’s uncarpeted corner, bolted down the hall, slid through Belle and Rosco’s bedroom door, and made a spectacular leap to land squarely in the center of the quilt upon which Kit, the senior canine resident of the Graham-Polycrates household, had been peacefully snoozing. Gabby’s short barks, yips, and yowls could only be translated as “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”
The noise was anxious and overwrought, but then Gabby enjoyed creating caverns out of tooth-sized cavities. When the mailman came to the door—which as everyone knew was a daily occurrence—she behaved as though the house were being stormed by brigands. Kit, on the other hand, was beyond such shenanigans; running around inside was the type of childish activity she’d outgrown the moment this little gray monster moved in. She was now far too refined to leave rumpled carpets in her wake or fly off the handle at every noise. After all, her mother was a pure-bred German shepherd with papers to prove it, and her father was … was … Okay, so nobody’s perfect. He might have been part beagle.
“Wake up!” Gabby yipped again. She bounced up and down, another habit Kit found profoundly annoying.
Kit sighed, opened one eye, and twitched a sleepy white paw. Gabby’s exuberance was putting a damper on a perfectly good and well-deserved nap.
“Wake up, you lazy … dog!” The dog was added as a slur that almost sounded like a yelp of pain.
Kit merely stretched her brown, white, and black sixty-pound body across the toasty quilt, exposing the pale speckled fur of her belly. She didn’t bother to point out the obvious: that Gabby was also a dog, and could well be accused of laxity when it came to issues involving toil—such as the all-important task of taking the two human members of the clan for their daily perambulation. Kit was too much of a lady to stoop to such discourtesy.
“Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”
This is getting old. Kit sighed again. Terriers, she thought, even part terriers, were bossy creatures. Kit half-raised her head, staring at her nervous companion with dark
and placid eyes. “Mmmm?” escaped from her throat. The sound was open to interpretation, but Kit was attempting patience.
“Okay, okay, okay. Here’s the deal. Rosco’s making a crossword puzzle!” Gabby spouted in a succession of staccato yaps. “And he’s doing it on the Q.T.! I caught him sneaking a peek at Belle’s reference books while she was down in the cellar pulling stuff out of the clothes drier. He’s mumbling to himself, like he does when he’s working on something real confusing; like that case out on Cape Cod when we all went to the beach and he muttered stupid stuff all the time—”
Kit thought it better not to correct Gabby’s egregious grammar at this moment; instead, she interrupted with another low-keyed “Mmmm?”
“So, that’s real bad, right? I mean, like, really, really bad, and suspicious, too. ’Cause everyone knows Rosco doesn’t make crosswords. Belle does.”
Kit produced a third “Mmmm …”
“Do you want to hear this story or not?” Gabby didn’t wait for a reply; instead, she raced ahead with her tale, rapidly kneading her two front paws on the downy coverlet as she chattered away. In Kit’s estimation, the long curly hair spreading out around the claws made Gabby’s feet resemble dirty dust mops. Kit’s own, of course, were a snowy white, and she kept them meticulously clean.
“And what do you think I heard him writing?”
Again, Kit deemed it advisable not to correct this error. Writing was intended to be “seen” rather than “heard,” but Gabby had not had Kit’s youthful advantages: a former university professor as a companion to her earliest puppyhood, then a transfer to this home which was inhabited by a master wordsmith, a female human who loved to read dictionary and encyclopedia entries aloud. Gabby would learn syntax and a more exacting vocabulary eventually—that is, if she ever remained quiet enough to listen to her elders and betters.
“‘I owe you one pair of love.’ That’s what I heard Rosco say. ‘I owe you one pair of love.’ And you know what that means, don’t you? Don’t you?”
Kit didn’t answer. Gabby was still a youngster. Why spoil her little game?
