by Nero Blanc
“I’ll run tests, Al. But at this point, I’d stake my rep on it.”
Lever walked to Abe’s car and radioed the station house. “Al Lever,” he said the moment the line was answered. “I’ve got an abandoned vehicle I want impounded. I want it done now.”
CHAPTER 21
Al Lever wiped his feet on the doormat lying on Belle’s sunny front porch. Not once or twice, but three times. As he scraped his shoes, his hand reached first for the brass knocker, then the doorbell, and finally withdrew. After a minute, he stood still and composed himself. He knew he had to inform Belle; there was no escaping that fact. Better to be businesslike about the situation. Better to take the bull by the horns.
He raised his hand again, opting for the bell as being less harsh. He heard the sound echo through the house, then Belle’s voice calling a relieved: “Rosco? Where have you been!? I’ll be there in a sec!”
Lever’s facial muscles tightened. Being a cop could be hard as hell at times like this.
Belle opened the door. “Al!” Her smiling face registered swift disappointment that it was not her fiancé on the porch, then transformed itself into a facsimile of polite welcome, and finally metamorphosed into outright dread. “Is Rosco …?” was all she said.
“Do you mind if I come in?”
Belle stood aside and held the door.
“We found his Jeep.…”
Belle studied Lever’s expression. Visions of Western Union telegrams—the kind that informed a distraught wife she’d lost her husband in some far-off, war-torn land—flew through her head. She didn’t speak for a long minute. When she did, her voice was hushed. “Are you telling me that Rosco’s been hurt?”
Al put his hand on her shoulder. “No.… No. I’m telling you we found his car; that’s all. No sign of blood, no sign of struggle. The vehicle has mud embedded in the tires … a lot of it.”
Belle wrapped her arms around herself but otherwise remained still and silent. Al had been through this gruesome routine many times before. Family, friends: everyone leapt to the worst-case scenario. Either that, or they went into full denial mode. Belle was obviously of the face-up-to-a-terrible-reality school.
“Meaning?” she finally asked.
“Meaning that he was on the trail of something that took him out of the city—”
Belle shook her head as she interrupted. “He didn’t check in last night.”
“Does he usually?”
“Yes.… Actually, I’d assumed we’d have supper together, celebrate getting our marriage license …”
Lever accepted the information but didn’t offer an explanation. “Why don’t we sit down for a minute.”
She led the way into her office. “Can I get you something? Some tea or coffee?”
“Thanks, no.” Almost unconsciously, he patted his breast pocket and cigarette pack, then was glad Belle hadn’t noticed the gesture.
“This is an official visit, isn’t it, Al? Meeting with the fiancée to share distressing news …” Belle perched nervously on the edge of her desk while Al sank heavily into one of the black and white deck chairs.
“We don’t have any corroborative evidence, Belle, just a car with mud-caked tires. I was hoping you could supply some missing pieces to the story.”
She thought. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned mud, Al. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Lever hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Abe Jones feels the soil samples might connect the Carson death to the woman behind the bus depot. It’s his feeling that the traces he lifted from the dead woman’s shoes and the tire tracks left at the Carson site are from the same locale. ‘Organically rich with a high clay content’ is the term he used; in other words, country dirt.”
Belle walked across her office. Outside, the sun was shining and the air warming in anticipation of summer. The world was green and gold, the sky a limitless blue. How could there be problems on such a fine May day? How could she contemplate Rosco being in danger, perhaps even—? She cut off the thought and turned back to face Al.
“I received a very disturbing crossword puzzle this morning … plus a couple of perplexing telephone calls. No, they were more than perplexing; they were downright unsettling.…”
Lever made a few notes on a small pad of paper, then interjected, “Someone phoned here. Would you categorize it as a threat?”
“That’s just it. The call came to Cleo’s house. I received the cryptic there, too. She’d gotten a message stating Rosco was ‘missing in action.’ She contacted me immediately; I drove to her home.…” Belle described the full circle of events, including the cell phone call from Geoffrey Wright’s truck.
Lever frowned. “If the contractor hadn’t beamed in, you would have been able to trace the previous message. Damn!”
“That’s what I thought, too.” Belle’s expression remained grave.
“I don’t like the fact that you were contacted at Cleo’s home.”
“I didn’t, either. Actually, it gave me the creeps … as if someone had followed me. I tried to reassure Cleo, but …”
Lever made another note. “Can you describe the caller?”
“Well … my first inclination was that I was speaking to a recording. There was something almost robotic in the delivery and pitch … but a machine can’t carry on a conversation—”
“That’s not entirely correct, Belle. There are recordings designed to simulate dialogue. Nine times out of ten there’s extortion involved.”
Belle considered this. “When the person phoned again, we had a definite conversation. But, no, I couldn’t tell you whether the speaker was male or female. The accent was equally impossible to trace. Extortion? I don’t know.… Rosco and I are hardly zillionaires—”
“Rosco assumed that the crossword you received on Sunday in the empty rose box was a stalker/obsessive fan situation, didn’t he?”
Belle nodded. “But the one placed in my car this morning was definitely targeting Rosco.”
Again, Al instinctively reached for his cigarettes, then pulled his hand away from his shirt pocket.
“You can smoke if you want, Al.”
“No way, José. I don’t want to catch any grief from Polly—crates when he conies waltzing home.”
Both were silent. Finally, Belle resumed the discussion. “You asked Rosco to look into the vandalism at the homeless shelter.…”
Lever nodded.
“And you did so because our local real estate mavens have friends in very high places, City Council, as I recall. What I’m getting at is this: Do you think the Peterman brothers are behind the deaths of Carson and the woman at the bus depot? And if they are, is Rosco’s disappearance part of the same situation?”
“Abe’s condo complex is owned by the Petermans,” Al answered. “He insists they run a legitimate business … tough, but legitimate.”
“That’s what they said about J. J. Hill, Al. And J. P. Morgan, and Frick. Upstanding citizens, all of them. But there were a lot of people who suffered when they got in the way of those gentlemen’s business practices.”
“That doesn’t mean murder, Belle. A lot of people believe the Petermans’ interests have been very good for Newcastle.”
“If you settle a strike by equipping Pinkerton guards with rifles, what do you call the death of an unarmed man? All I’m saying is that the world hasn’t changed with the advent of a new century. If anything, we’re even less ethical than we were before.”
Lever stood and walked to her side. “I think you should stay with someone else for a couple of days, Belle. I’m not crazy about the idea of you here by yourself.”
“Rosco said the same thing.” Belle’s tone had become dangerously wistful.
Al attempted a note of levity. “And you immediately agreed, right?”
“That’s me. Little Miss Do-As-You’re-Told.”
“Seriously … Would you consider staying with Cleo? Or maybe Mrs. B.?”
Belle’s gray eyes gre
w wide. “You mean bunk in with Queen Sara?” She laughed briefly, but the sound had a hollow ring. “I’ll consider it.” Then she turned serious again. “Rosco and I are getting married Saturday, Al.…”
Lever searched for words of comfort. “Your wedding will come off without a hitch, Belle. You have my word on it.” But he knew she was too smart to fool. Rosco was missing, and the evidence wasn’t pointing to an easy or pleasant solution.
CHAPTER 22
“Madam is in the garden.”
As she ushered Belle into the foyer of White Caps, Sara Crane Briephs’ ancestral home, Emma’s smile was ebullient.
“Mrs. Briephs will be delighted to see you, Miss Belle. Your visits always do her a world of good.”
It was useless asking Emma to drop the title miss; requesting less formal treatment would be tantamount to suggesting Sara’s long-time maid don a sweat suit in place of her black taffeta uniform with its starched white apron and lacy collar. She and her mistress were too old school, and probably too hidebound, to change.
“Thanks, Emma. Don’t trouble yourself. I can find the way myself.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all, miss.”
Emma led Belle through a house remarkable in its loving devotion to the past. Damask draperies, Persian carpets, silver and crystal vases, richly waxed wood floors, polished mahogany occasional tables, and the hush that pervades a building with sturdy walls and a sturdier pedigree: Belle might have been treading through a Victorian-era home updated to the 1920s. The fact that Sara Briephs deemed the place cozy revealed a great deal about how she and her brother had been raised.
“Madam has been fretting about the weather for your wedding festivities, Miss Belle, but I believe the last day and a half have taken a considerable turn for the better. May can be an uncertain month.”
Belle bit her lip. She began to appreciate how difficult it had been for Al to break the news about finding Rosco’s abandoned Jeep. “Yes, it can,” she said at last.
“I hope you and Mr. Rosco will be very happy,” Emma added. “I know you will be.”
Belle pasted on what she hoped was a joyous smile. “Thank you, Emma.”
The maid opened the door leading to the veranda, stepped aside to withdraw, and Belle spotted Sara’s erect form stationed in front of an ancient rose bush as if she were in the process of issuing a stern denunciation to an invading force of aphids, which she probably was. As disquieting as the conversation with Emma had been, Belle realized it had been nothing compared to discussing Rosco’s disappearance with White Caps’ redoubtable owner.
“Belle, dear! I didn’t hear your car in the drive!” Sara marched toward her, a “stick” in hand (she refused to call it a cane) to aid in negotiating the lumpy, springtime ground. Half of the time, the “stick” was wielded as if an extension of its owner’s indomitable arm.
Belle tried for another smile, then realized she could no longer fake it. “Rosco’s missing,” she blurted out instead.
“What do you mean, ‘missing’? It’s not like the boy to get cold feet, Belle. You know he’s as anxious to marry you as you are to wed him.”
“I mean that Al Lever and Abe Jones found Rosco’s Jeep, mud-spattered and ticketed … but no Rosco. In fact, from the illegal parking fine, the car had been sitting there for some time.”
Sara looked aghast. “What is Albert’s assessment of the situation?” She wavered once, her body swaying slightly, then forced herself to stand even straighter. At length she said, “I’ll sit, if you don’t mind.” She turned toward a carved stone bench. “Be a good girl, and come and sit down beside me.”
Belle did as requested, then began describing Abe Jones’s suspicion that the soil samples taken from the two crime sites might well match the mud in Rosco’s tires. She also included the attack on the homeless shelter, Rosco’s outrage at the vandalism, and his decision to help find the miscreants.
Sara’s face grew more and more pensive. “Unsavory characters,” she said after a moment. “The Petermans and all the johnny-come-latelies who are trying to buy up this town.”
“Abe Jones stated his belief that the Petermans’ business dealings are on the up and up.”
“Similar remarks were made about J. J. Hill and Mr. Morgan!”
Belle smiled, and Sara regarded her with a proud and critical eye. “I realize your generation may view my references as antediluvian, young lady, but history should teach us not to repeat past mistakes.”
“I’m smiling because I used the exact same example when I spoke with Al.”
The older lady’s fine silvery eyebrows arched in bemused pleasure. “Good girl! We’ll turn you into an autocratic grande dame yet.… Of course, you have several decades in which to practice.”
Belle took Sara’s hand, and for several moments the two sat silently side by side: Belle, blond-haired, lithe; Sara, once taller, now whittled by age, white-coiffed and still determinedly slim. Belle represented Sara in youth; Sara was an image of Belle grown old.
“I’m not happy about this situation,” White Caps’ owner finally said.
“I’m not either,” was Belle’s quiet answer.
“What can I do to help, dear?”
Belle hesitated before responding. “Sara, you have entrée to the high and mighty of this city—”
“I should say so! The Crane family helped build Newcastle several hundred years ago.”
“And so you’d be able to surreptitiously delve into the Peterman brothers’ connections: political, business, et cetera—”
“Are we discussing influence peddling or something more serious, Belle dear?”
“I don’t know, Sara—”
“I should apprise my brother, the senator.… His hometown, his state … Imagine the negative press if it were discovered that—”
“Not yet, Sara. Although you can certainly make use of Senator Crane’s privileged information, if it’s available.”
“I’ll make sure that it is.” Sara paused, her quick brain missing nothing. “However, I sense you’re not being entirely candid with me. I detect a truant element in your tale. The Petermans may be shady characters, they may even have criminal ties, but are you suggesting … I amend my query. Are you intimating that they could be responsible for Rosco’s disappearance?”
Belle’s face wrinkled into a frown. “I don’t know, Sara.… But I do know that Rosco’s gone, without a word; that two people died, most probably victims of foul play; and that the Petermans have a great deal to gain if the homeless missions are forced to relocate. And that Rosco took off after two goons he believed were hired by the Petermans.”
Sara was silent a long time, although the garden fauna continued to burble in unconcerned ecstasy. “I don’t like this situation, Belle,” she finally said. “I don’t like it one little bit.”
“A seven-letter word for illness?” The voice demanding the answer was rough and angry; cruelty lurked beneath its surface.
“Disease,” Belle replied, trying to gauge whether her mysterious phone mate were a man or a woman.
“Disease. Specific.”
“Malaria, typhoid, rubeola, leprosy, anthrax, cholera—”
“Eight letters! And be quick about it.”
“Beriberi, smallpox.” She paused, counting in her head. “Jaundice, pellagra—”
“Good girl! You done yourself proud.”
The voice belongs to a man, Belle decided. An educated male with an affinity for street jargon. She looked through her home office windows; the day was now waning, and although, as Emma had observed, the weather had turned mild, a spring night in Massachusetts was apt to be chilly. And Rosco was out in it. Somewhere. Somewhere where mud was found. Belle’s brain started whirring. “Mud season.” That was what native Vermonters called springtime. “Where’s Rosco?” she suddenly demanded.
In answer, the man sneered derisively. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Let’s try some more linguistic calisthenics first. And then maybe I’ll supply a little
much-needed information … maybe. Criminal, Bellisima. Eight letters.”
“Gangster,” she recited evenly. “Scofflaw, garroter, fugitive, murder—”
“Evil … Annabella!”
“First tell me where Rosco is.” Her voice held firm, but the hand clutching the receiver trembled with tension and fear.
“‘Christ walks on the black water. In black Mud
“‘Darts the Kingfisher. On Corpus Christi heart,
“‘Over the drum-beat of St. Stephen’s choir…’
“Visceral images, no? Now, I know you’re a poetry buff, Belle bambina. Can you name the author?” The man made a ticking sound like a clock counting seconds on a TV game show.
“Robert Traill Spence Lowell,” Belle murmured half under her breath.
“I didn’t hear you, sweet pea!”
“Robert Traill Spence Lowell … born in 1917—”
“Good girl. I’m impressed. Now, let’s do evil, ma petite belle, as an adjective. Eight letters. And remember, speed is essential.”
“Diabolic …” Belle began. She ran a hand across her brow; her head hurt. “Infernal, fiendish, heinous—”
“Heinous is seven letters! No dice! I thought you were a smart cookie. Too bad. I’ll be saying bye-bye, now.” A singsong sound like an alarm on a cheap wristwatch crackled through the wire.
“Please,” Belle interrupted. “You know where Rosco is. Please.… Whatever’s going on with the homeless mission … and … Freddie Carson … and the woman behind the bus depot … Rosco doesn’t have any additional information—”
The man laughed viciously again. “That’s what you think, honey bun!”
Tears of anger sprang up in Belle’s eyes. “Where is he?”
“Heinous, there’s an interesting word. Let’s try its derivation before we proceed. Ready, Belle?”
Her mouth went dry. She stumbled over the words. “French. Haîr, to hate. Haine, hatred.”
“Nice.” The man’s voice warbled another botched song, ending with an off-key rendition of “The Wedding March.” “What do you say we switch topics, Bella? The subject is Daniel Webster for one hundred all-important points.”
