by Nero Blanc
“Porto Ristorante.” Lever chuckled as he lit another cigarette. “I hate to say it, but the boys in robbery are still laughing over the dopes who got ripped off at Porto. The prevalent attitude down at that end of the station house seems to be a unanimous ‘It serves them right.’”
“The insurance companies aren’t doing a lot of laughing.”
Porto Ristorante was one of Newcastle’s newer and more expensive eating establishments. It featured high-end northern Italian cuisine, a formidable wine list, a chef of celebrity status, and a voluptuous Tuscan-red and Venetian-gold interior that commanded a sweeping view of the Newcastle harbor. The problem was that restaurant didn’t have valet parking, although that hadn’t prevented some clever thieves from offering that particular service one Friday evening in March; the Ides to be precise. Clearly the criminals had had a sense of humor.
As Porto’s customers had arrived, bogus valet parking attendants outfitted in Porto-red jackets had supplied fake claim tickets to the drivers. Each ticket had a number on one side and a portrait of Julius Caesar along with the name Marcus Brutus Valet Service printed on the reverse. Any vehicle worth over fifty thousand dollars was never seen again. They’d vanished along with the keys and electronic garage door openers to twenty-two of Newcastle’s pricier residences. A number of locksmiths had done very well with emergency house calls that evening.
Lever grunted with what sounded like another chuckle. “So what was the final tally on that job?”
“Seven Mercedes, twelve BMWs, two Porsches, and a Bentley.”
“Yeah, well, you can forget about any chop-shops, bucko. The boys and girls in robbery say wheels like those go straight out of the country. The crooks probably drove them right onto a boat at pier six and were in Argentina before the owners finished their limoncellos and cappuccinos.”
Rosco shrugged. “Maybe. But I’ve checked around; there seems to be a strong market for BMW and Mercedes parts, especially down in Connecticut.”
The pair came to a stop in front of the green sedan. Rosco nodded in recognition. “My mom has a Subaru,” he said.
Lever placed his foot on the bumper and lit another cigarette. “They’re good cars…. All-wheel drive. Great in snow and ice. Good gas mileage. You can’t go wrong with a Subaru.”
“My mom has one.”
“What? Just because your mother drives a Subaru, that means you can’t?”
“What does your mother drive?”
“That’s not the point. We’re not talking about my mother, we’re trying to get you a decent set of wheels.”
“What’s she drive?”
“A Cadillac, okay?”
“And what do you drive?”
“That’s not the point. I just don’t happen to like Cadillacs. It has nothing to to with the fact that my mother drives one. I’m not that immature, Poly—Crates.”
“Uh-huh.” Rosco walked to the rear of the Subaru, and Lever followed. “Nope. Looks too much like my mom’s car.”
“Okay, fine, no Subarus for Mrs. Poly—Crates’s little boy.”
They walked by two pickup trucks, and came to a dark blue Audi coupe. The bright sky reflected brilliantly in the freshly waxed hood, fenders, and roof. It appeared to be brand new.
“This is it,” Lever said. “Look at this baby. Can’t you see yourself cruising around Newcastle in this? I mean, is this class, or what? And with an Audi you get your all-wheel drive, too. You’re set for winter.” He looked at the sticker. “Look at this—less than three thousand miles…. This is your car, Poly—Crates. This is you.”
Rosco shook his head. “My sister Zoe drives an Audi.”
“Why do I even bother talking to you?”
CHAPTER 3
Dan Tacete pulled into his driveway that evening at six forty-five. The slow-sinking sun bathed his spacious home in a rosy glow, giving its many west-facing windows such a pink and vivid hue they looked like hammered sheets of gold and copper. Dan paid no heed to this spectacular sight.
Instead, he sat staring numbly through the windshield, his hands clenching the steering wheel, and his square, all-American jaw worried and tight. His neatly trimmed mustache stood out from his upper lip like a wire brush. By rights, what was worrying him should never have been happening. After all, he told himself, he was driving his least conspicuous car, the two-year-old white Ford Explorer that he kept precisely for the kind of work he did every Tuesday afternoon: the pro bono examinations, routine fillings, and other general dental care he provided for the Bay Clinic located a few blocks from the St. Augustine Mission for Men.
Despite every attempt at being low-key, despite the nondescript wardrobe, his customary Rolex and Guccis replaced with an inexpensive black plastic sports watch and running shoes, Dan had the sensation that someone had tried to follow him home. Several times, he’d noticed a gray Toyota four-door sedan in his rear-view mirror. It was an old car with numerous dents on the side doors, and it was not the type of vehicle ordinarily spotted in a tony place like Halcyon Estates. The fact that the driver’s route coincided with his own was both odd and profoundly disquieting.
Before removing the key from the Explorer’s ignition, Dan glanced into the rear-view mirror one last time. But his search revealed only the familiar: a semicircular drive opening into a tree-lined cul-de-sac. Every car in his sight-line was one he recognized as belonging to a neighbor or a neighbor’s live-in household help; and all were parked and empty. Then he turned in the seat to survey the rest of the street, his broad, athlete’s shoulders and frame fought against the shoulder harness until he impatiently stabbed at the clasp and released it.
There was no inkling of suspicious activity on any side. In fact, the road and sidewalks were remarkably devoid of people. No kids tossing frisbees, no skateboards, none of the other dads arriving home from work. But then it was six forty-five on a weekday. Everyone would have been inside enjoying their supper. By seven thirty or eight, the kids would be back outdoors—especially on a warm evening like this.
Dan opened the Explorer’s door, stepped out, then beeped the car’s automatic lock as he began walking toward the house. He turned once to look behind him, but the scene remained almost eerily empty.
“Karen? Lily-bet?” he called the moment he stepped in. “Where’s my baby girl?” He shut and locked the door behind him and threw the dead bolt; something he only did the last thing at night.
Bear and Lily hurtled toward him, both canine and child making as much noise as possible. The foyer’s marble tiles echoed and pinged while the cathedral ceiling heightened rather than lessened the sound. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” Lily screamed. Bear barked and jumped up on Dan, and the dog’s weight and forward momentum nearly knocked him over.
“Down! Bad dog. Get down, Bear!” he said. His tone was far more forceful than was necessary; the stress of a long day coloring each of his words.
Watching the dog suddenly sink into an unhappy crouch, Lily began to cry.
“Tough day?” Karen appeared from the living room. She was wearing an apron; in her hand was a wooden stirring spoon coated with chocolate icing. She gazed lovingly at Lily. “And, did someone here forget to eat the chocolate frosting she was helping me put on the cake?” Mother bent down to daughter, who continued to weep. Lily made no further move toward her father.
“Daddy’s cross … cross words.”
“He’s not cross with you, sweetheart. He’s trying to teach Bear not to jump. Bear’s too big a fellow to be jumping on people. If that had been you … well, your daddy and I don’t want to see you get hurt, now, do we?”
But Lily would not be consoled. Instead, she eyed Dan with a child’s pout while Karen cocked her head and gave her husband a complicitous glance.
“Someone’s a little T-I-R-E-D,” she spelled out. “I’ll get her to bed and then you and I can have a leisurely, grown-up dinner. I’m experimenting with a new veal recipe.”
“Sounds wonderful …” Dan paused, then squatted do
wn to Lily’s level.
“Daddy’s sorry, baby. He’s not mad a you—”
“Bear’s a good bear,” Lily insisted.
“He’s a good bear when he doesn’t jump. Mommy and I don’t want him knocking you down … or your friends.”
Lily sniffled once, but made no further reply.
“You get ready for bed, and then Daddy will come in and read you a story, okay?”
“Okay,” Lily said, but the sound was still hesitant. Then she took her mother’s hand and began trundling up the wide circular staircase that served as the foyer’s focal point. As they reached the second step, Dan called to his wife.
“Karen …?”
His wife turned; the difference in their physical stature made her eye level only slightly higher than Dan’s. “Mm hm?”
“You haven’t … you haven’t noticed anything odd, have you? I mean, no one’s tried to follow you home or anything? Tried to approach you?”
Karen smiled. “Mothers with four-year-olds don’t usually impress the guys-trying-to-make-a-pass-at-pretty-ladies crowd.”
“I don’t mean men coming on to you …”
Karen looked at her husband. Her amused expression began to fade. “Why do you ask?”
“It felt like someone was following me when I left the clinic…. It could have been a coincidence, I know, but … well, there are some weird people out there … and we … we don’t live in a house or community that’s exactly low-profile.”
Karen didn’t respond. It wasn’t just the house, she thought, but the number and caliber of the cars Dan owned that gave away their wealth; three in the garage and three more left to rest resplendently on the drive.
“I don’t know what I’m saying, Karen…. I guess, just be careful, that’s all.”
“I always am, Dan.”
“With Lily, too …”
“She’s my daughter, Dan. Of course, I’m going to be careful with her.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He drew in a long and heavy breath. “You’re right. I am tired, and I’m probably overreacting…. Working at the clinic isn’t easy. The equipment’s less than adequate … and heck, the guys themselves are no walk in the park.”
“You don’t have to do it, Dan. Jack doesn’t bother to donate any of his time—”
“Don’t get me started. If Jack Wagner had his way, none of my indigent cases would ever walk through the doors of our practice, no matter how much they needed the services I provide at the Bay Clinic. Unless, of course, Jacko could figure out a way to bilk the system … sign ’em up for implants and make the government pay. He can’t wait for the day Medicare gets a dental clause.”
Karen kept silent.
“I’m sorry, hon, I didn’t mean to go off on a tirade. Lily’s right. ‘Cross words.’” He smiled at his wife and daughter. “Look, I’ll grab a quick shower. You get her nibs tucked in, and then—”
But Karen interrupted, her pretty face serious and searching. “Look … Dan … if you think someone was really following you … maybe you should do something about it. Tell the police.”
“The cops? I can’t call the cops. What would I tell them? ‘It felt like I was being tailed?’ I can only guess what they’d say to that. Somehow I think the words ‘too much money and Gen-X paranoia’ would be the first ones out of their mouths.”
“Okay … how about a private detective …? Someone you hire to—”
“We don’t need a bodyguard, honey. Besides, private eyes are all a bunch of sleazy characters—”
“Rosco isn’t.”
“Who on earth is that?”
But the question was overruled by Lily’s shrill “Rock and Cookie and the park.”
“Are those names of dogs or people?” Dan asked with a forced chuckle.
“You know ‘Cookie’ as Belle Graham—well, you don’t really know her since you two haven’t met yet. ‘Rock’ is her husband, Rosco Polycrates. He’s a private investigator, and from what people in the dog park say, he sounds like a pretty good one.”
Dan shook his head. “I don’t know, Karen…. I don’t want to get into a ‘fortress’ mentality. I probably just imagined that someone was following me…. ” He bent down to his daughter’s height. “Okay, Lily-white, you let Mommy help you take a bath and get in your p.j.’s and then we’ll read a story.”
“The one about the elephants with the funny ears.” Lily was finally smiling.
“Whatever you want.”
As mother and daughter proceeded up the stairs, the phone rang.
“That’s probably my altruistic partner right now, calling to see how many gold fillings I gave away today.” Dan walked into the living room.
“Hello?” Karen heard him say, “Hello? Hello? Who is this?” She then heard the angry sound of the receiver being slammed down into its base.
Buy Another Word for Murder Now!
The Answers
To download a PDF of the answers, please visit openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords/answers
GREETINGS!
IT’S JUST A STAGE
WHAT’S IN A NAME
THE REAL DEAL
FAMOUS LAST WORDS
Post script—“THE NAME GAME”
Anagram Answers
GINGER BRADMIN
=
INGRID BERGMAN
MAX CHUGORRO
=
GROUCHO MARX
CHICK DARLESSEN
=
CHARLES DICKENS
NAN DEDERO
=
DONNA REED
LANCE DIRUSA
=
CLAUDE RAINS
LOUIS GABLE
=
BELA LUGOSI
LEW GROSLIR
=
WILL ROGERS
QUINTON HANNY
=
ANTHONY QUINN
GALE HARMBLE
=
BELLE GRAHAM
SHAY HENLEE
=
HELEN HAYES
ROLLY HODDAL
=
HAROLD LLOYD
ANDY HOFREN
=
HENRY FONDA
DEAN IVALD
=
DAVID LEAN
WANDA JORCROF
=
JOAN CRAWFORD
MISO LANE
=
SALMINEO
DEBRA MARCOLLO
=
CAROLE LOMBARD
JILLIAN MAWBRY
=
WILLIAM J. BRYAN
STAN MCKENET
=
MACK SENNETT
DAN MILLRAY
=
RAY MILLAND
JES NADEMA
=
JAMES DEAN
GERRY ORSO
=
ROY ROGERS
LEE RENNEGOR
=
LORNE GREENE
MADELINE RICHTER
=
MARLENE DIETRICH
DON SCHRUKO
=
ROCK HUDSON
BUBBA SCRETER
=
BUSTER CRABBE
NILS SPEMICK
=
SLIM PICKENS
HARRIET TAMMALONG
=
MARGARET HAMILTON
GREG TRAFEO
=
GEORGE RAFT
CAROL VON DENEY
=
YVONNE DE CARLO
BARTANN WELNER
=
WALTER BRENNAN
Acknowledgments
The authors would like to acknowledge the generosity of
David O’Hara
and
The Marquis de Sod Landscaping of Los Angeles, California.
The authors also wish to thank
Grace DeVito
for her magnificent artwork that truly does
“grace” the Nero Blanc covers.
About the Author
Nero Blanc is the pseudon
ym 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 © 2004 by Cordelia F. Biddle and Steve Zettler
Cover design by Tammy Seidick
ISBN: 978-1-4976-7174-4
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
CROSSWORD MYSTERIES
