by Nero Blanc
Without a word, Rosco and Belle jumped from the Jeep. Lever glanced up. “Bad news sure has a way of trailing me today, Polly—Crates. Tell me you two are out on a date, and this isn’t business.”
“Anything I can do, Al?”
“Yeah, tell me to go home.” He turned back to the VW’s driver, then suddenly jerked his head in Rosco’s direction. “Lady witnessed a hit-and-run . . . says she saw the whole thing . . . ‘Some kind of truck’ was ‘driving recklessly, almost out of control.’ The guy you see over there must have been walking along the opposite shoulder. Dead on contact, according to the EMS . . .”
Lever straightened and approached Rosco and Belle; his lips were tight. “ID states he was William Vauriens—Genie Pepper’s half brother.”
26
“Who is this?” Rosco grumbled into the receiver of his bedside telephone. “What time is it?” He said this half to himself and half as an annoyed accusation to the early-morning caller whose raspy voice he hadn’t recognized. Rosco fumbled with his clock radio, turning the dial toward the window in an attempt to attract predawn illumination.
“I couldn’t sleep,” the person said as if the answer would suffice as apology for calling at such a heinous hour.
“What time is it?” Rosco repeated.
“I don’t know . . . five . . . five-thirty . . . Maybe earlier.” The words slurred over themselves, fading in and out. “Hell, you used to be a cop. You must have worked night shift. Able-bodied seamen can tell the time by the stars.”
“Who is this?” Rosco demanded again, then suddenly remembered Belle’s menacing phone call. “Unless you identify yourself, I’m hanging up.”
“Fogram . . .” Rosco finally heard. “Vic Fogram . . . the Red Admiral . . .”
Rosco fumbled with the alarm clock. “You don’t sound like the Vic I met,” he said.
“Fogram . . . Vic Fogram.” Again, the words had a muzzy sound. “You came up to my place yesterday . . .”
Rosco finally succeeded in illuminating the clock’s face. It was five-ten A.M. “The Red Admiral. . .” he heard repeated. “I had me too many shots and beers last night. Too many smokes. I can’t sleep . . .” The conversation had spun full circle; Rosco decided to shake it loose. He pulled himself upright in the bed. “How’s Doris?” he asked.
The response was a ferocious expletive.
Rosco smiled to himself, then remembered the welt above his eye. “Okay. I guess you’re who you say you are.”
“You leave Doris out of this, Polycrates. She’s got nothing to do with you. Nothing to say, neither. I thought she made that clear already.”
Rosco finally found the switch on the table lamp and glanced at his caller-ID box. He didn’t recognize the number, and the prefix wasn’t the downtown exchange of Fogram’s tavern. Again, he was second-guessing himself as to who the caller truly was. “Hold on a sec, there, Vic . . . This phone’s a piece of junk. I’m having trouble hearing you . . . Let me call you back on a different line.”
“You can’t do that . . . I’m not home.”
Rosco jotted the number on a pad of paper. “Well, why don’t we let this conversation ride till you get there,” he said.
“This can’t wait till later. We gotta talk now. I’m in danger here, Polycrates. One man’s dead already.”
Rosco felt the skin at the back of his neck prickle. What did this man know? “Who would that be?”
“Vauriens. Pepper’s brother-in-law. Last night.” The voice contained scarcely concealed panic.
“So I heard. Traffic accident . . .”
“Don’t count on that ‘accident’ stuff, pal. Vauriens had the inside dope. I got money says he was set up. I say the body was dumped there.”
“There’s a witness.”
“An old lady. She doesn’t know what she saw.”
Again, Rosco found himself questioning the caller’s identity. The tone and phrasing had elements of Vic’s clipped Massachusetts accent—but not enough. “Okay, Vic, what’s your theory?”
“Why do you think Pepper kept sending Vauriens checks?”
“Maybe you’d better tell me.”
“To keep him quiet, that’s why.”
“Quiet about what?”
“That’s what we need to talk about.”
Rosco faked a lazy, disinterested yawn. “Okay by me. I can be at the Admiral in half an hour.”
“No way, Polycrates. I’m not showing my face until this mess is cleared up. The Admiral’s closed. You don’t believe me? Drive by tonight. I’m telling you Vauriens was killed, and I don’t want to be the next in line. I know as much as he did, more maybe. You want to meet me or not?”
Rosco considered his options. If the caller wasn’t Fogram, then whoever it was had zeroed in on the tavern; Vic’s life might be in genuine danger. Moe Quick, Rosco thought again; maybe it was Quick. Maybe that was the cause of the explosive reaction over Doris. “I’ve got to get this straight, Vic. You’re saying Pepper was responsible for the hit-and-run?”
A nervous groan ricocheted through the phone line. “Come on, Polycrates; use your head. Who do you think Genie’s life-insurance policy reverts to if Billy shows up dead? Next of kin. That’s the way those things are written. Tom Pepper’s the big winner here. Just like always.”
“I don’t buy it, Vic. Pepper needs five million dollars like he needs a new pair of shoes.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, pal. Pepper’s into me for seventy-five grand—plus some. And I’m not the only one. He’s in hock up to his ears.”
Rosco’s back jerked straight; he swung his feet onto the floor. “Hold on there . . . You’re saying Pepper owes you seventy-five thousand dollars? You and some others?”
The response was an edgy laugh. “You got wax in your ears, buddy?”
Rosco didn’t answer; instead, he stared hard at the phone number scribbled on the pad of paper. Who was this man if it wasn’t Fogram?
“I’m talking about the G.O.L.D. Fund, Polycrates . . . I put seventy-five Gs into it. I bought Pepper’s pitch: ‘double your money in six months!’ Except when I tried to collect—nada. Not a nickel. Something’s fishy about the whole damn thing. Now I can’t even get my phone calls returned. A month, I’ve been trying. And I’m not the only one who’s getting burned.”
The word “burned” set off alarms in Rosco’s head. “You’re sure about this? There are some heavy-duty organizations invested with Pepper. They would have screamed their heads off if they’d been had.”
“CFOs don’t like to admit they’ve been conned by some shark . . . But there’s gonna be plenty of wailing soon.”
“Why you? Why did you invest with Pepper?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? That blue-collar guys like Vic Fogram can’t play with the big boys?”
“Seventy-five thousand’s a good chunk of change.”
The caller took a long exasperated breath. “My old man left me a piece of property . . . Now, you know what’s happening to Newcastle—developers crawling all over it . . . Pop bought the land for five thou. I sold it for three-fifty. That’s how come I own the Admiral—with seventy-five Gs to spare.”
Rosco grabbed the pad of paper. “You said you have names?”
“I gotta go.”
“I need tangibles, Vic. Without tangibles, I’ve got nothing but the allegations of some guy claiming to be Vic Fogram.”
The caller hesitated. “The abandoned piers up on Water Street. I’ll meet you in an hour in the one furthest north on the river . . .” There was another pause. “My old man had a favorite expression when I was a kid. He used to say: ‘I wouldn’t trust that Tom Pepper further than I could throw him.’ A Tom Pepper’s a liar in bygone fisherman lingo . . . This is before your boss man was even born.”
Rosco started to speak, but the caller cut him off with a sharp: “No beer bottles this time.” Then the line went dead.
At six-twenty, Rosco entered the long empty shed of the derelict commerci
al pier fronting Water Street. A screech of pigeons rose in perturbed flight, raining debris and grubby feathers from overflowing nesting places; the sound the birds made echoed throughout the expanse of steel support columns and cold cinder block walls. Rosco instinctively reached for his .32. If there was one thing he was fairly certain of, it was that meeting a man who claimed to be Vic Fogram, and claimed to have incriminating information about one of Newcastle’s leading citizens, probably wasn’t all that safe. Not a “power position,” as Pepper would probably have put it.
Rosco waited for several long and silent minutes, listening for the sound of human feet, but all he heard were the sounds of rats scrabbling over the concrete floor and the pigeons returning to the eaves under the corrugated tin roof. Cautiously, he began tracing the perimeter of the vacant space. Five years prior, a developer had purchased the site with the intention of creating a renovation similar to the restaurants and shops in the Front Street area, but the project had stalled and then halted. The result of this aborted refurbishment was that most of the building’s flooring had been resecured and the larger gaps in the walls boarded up. When the moneymen decamped, they’d left behind several self-contained officelike structures that now stood scattered about the otherwise empty space like miniature houses in a game of Monopoly.
As soundlessly as he could, Rosco approached each one. Daylight was scarce, and the pier’s interior a permanent gray gloom. He peered through grimy windows, but the mini-buildings were also deserted. He waited; something warned him not to say Vic Fogram’s name aloud.
Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. Rosco glanced at his watch more often than necessary. He listened for the sound of a car door but heard only the Newcastle River slopping against the pier’s pilings. Twice there was the throaty gurgle of a lobster boat heading out to check pots. He waited another five minutes, then recircled the space; this time he looked for traces of recent human presence. Maybe Fogram—if the caller had been Fogram—had left some type of message.
Nothing.
It was now seven A.M.; Rosco very much regretted a missed second cup of coffee. Insufficient morning caffeine was beginning to make his head ache. He considered heading back down to the deli on the lower end of Water Street, but knew he couldn’t risk leaving his post. Damn Fogram, he thought. This information had better be worth it.
Seven-fifteen. Nearly one hour cooling his heels in a building as dank as a walk-in freezer; Rosco was growing truly irritated. He walked the length of the pier again, making as much noise as he wanted. Fogram had better have one terrific excuse, he thought. The man’s been nothing but a royal pain.
A third rumble of inboard motor chugged past outside. The noise sounded like a terminally ill patient gasping for breath. One man’s already dead, Rosco suddenly remembered, then reminded himself that two women were also still missing and presumed dead—and that the entire group had direct links to Edison “Tom” Pepper. He tried to recall Belle’s discussion of crossword clues relating to money and investing, but all he could conjure up was that she’d once played the part of Shylock in The Merchant of Venice—information that didn’t seem particularly apt.
He patrolled the building again, this time examining several barn door–size openings that had originally served as ports of entry for freight-bearing ships. Outside, the narrow wood deck was spongy and rotten. Rosco peered through a number of gaping holes; he half expected to see Vic Fogram semisubmerged within the complex of broken pilings.
No one.
It was now ten minutes before eight. On the off chance that Fogram had changed venues, Rosco decided to quit the building and check messages from his car phone. He trotted down the street to the Jeep and punched in numbers. No messages. He sat in the driver’s seat thinking. Pepper, Vauriens, Flack, Fogram, Quick, Colberg: was the connection between the men more convoluted than it appeared? And had one or some or all been involved in setting fire to the Orion? If the motive had been kidnapping, where were the abducted women—and why hadn’t there been a ransom note? And if, as Belle had suggested, this was an inside job intended to garner publicity, why hadn’t the kidnapping template been followed?
As Rosco drove to his office he chewed over the publicity-stunt angle, but eventually discounted it. Fogram was obviously frightened to show his face in public; he honestly believed Vauriens’ death was no accident, and if that was true, the likelihood of a publicity stunt incorporating a murder was remote.
While he was unlocking his office door, Rosco heard his fax emit an elongated beep indicating it had just finished receiving a transmission. He grabbed the paper still rolling out of the machine. Imprinted on the flimsy document were two names complete with addresses and phone numbers. Both men were identified as commercial fishermen, and beside each name was the exact dollar figure they had invested with the G.O.L.D. Fund. There was a side note reading, Monies Unrecovered.
What Rosco didn’t realize was that seven minutes earlier Belle’s fax machine had also received a message—a fifth crossword puzzle.
PUZZLE 5
27
Belle snapped the plastic cap onto her red Bic pen and dropped it into the ceramic crossword mug she reserved for writing instruments. Then she pushed her office chair back from her desk, placed her feet squarely on the floor, and stared at the puzzle she’d been faxed scarcely ten minutes earlier. She’d completed it so quickly that she’d hardly had time to analyze the clues or answers. Now the red ink seemed to jump from the paper like spurting blood. Studying 19- and 30-Across, she murmured, “AN EYE FOR AN EYE, A TOOTH FOR A TOOTH,” then followed the adage with its companion quip: “SOON IT’S MY CHANCE TO OFFER A TRUTH . . . Soon,” she repeated. “Yes, but how soon?”
She folded her arms across her chest and stared through the window, half seeing her friend the sparrow preen itself in the morning sun. “Soon,” she muttered. “When is ‘soon’?”
The sparrow ruffled its feathers and cocked its head undisturbed. Belle dragged her eyes back to the puzzle. “5-Down: TOMORROW MAY RAIN . . . That means there’s more to come . . . ‘Tomorrow’—or ‘soon.’ ”
She stood, walked to the wall of bookcases, and removed a licorice stick from a clear glass jar, then bit the chewy end while deftly severing a four-inch strip like a cowhand with a length of beef jerky. Her mouth full of sticky black candy, she returned to her desk and began drumming her fingers on the puzzle, gradually focusing on the fax markings on the edge of the paper. The time and date of the transmission were neatly indicated, along with the return fax number—which Belle suddenly recognized as being Papyrus, the monster office-supply store from which the second puzzle had also been faxed.
She grabbed the phone to call the shop, then suddenly reconsidered. No, she decided, this time I’ll go out there and talk to a clerk in person, something I should have done in the beginning—despite Rosco’s warnings about “weirdos” and “validating aberrant behavior.”
It never occurred to her that the action could put her in peril or that a call to Rosco might be wise. In Belle’s mind, she was merely embarking on a “fact-finding mission.” “Tomorrow” or “soon” were the operative words in the time frame. If she could discover who had sent this latest crossword, then maybe she could anticipate that person’s next move. Besides, as she promised herself, there was no need for fear in a public place as huge as Papyrus. Patience, as Rosco had observed, was not one of Belle’s virtues.
She grabbed her purse, locked the house, jumped in her car, and pulled into Papyrus’s parking lot fifteen minutes later. Business was already booming; a surprising number of cars lined the expansive facade. Belle parked next to a powder-blue Range Rover, then walked to the entrance, where double electronic doors swept open and a gust of refrigerated air pulsed out, revealing the mammoth interior. Every imaginable stationery and office product was on display: neon-colored erasers, sparkly notebook covers, pens and pencils of every hue and type, clipboards, letter paper of every weight, size, and color, reading chairs, lamps, desks t
hat unfolded hidden shelves. If such emporia had existed when Belle was a child, she knew she would have found heaven.
She spotted a young man in a dark green polo shirt embroidered with the store’s logo and marched toward him. He was arranging fountain pens in a display case, and quickly locked away the items as Belle approached. She wondered whether his mistrust was store policy or whether she had the words “ulterior motive” stamped across her forehead.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yes, could you direct me to the fax machine?”
“I don’t see it.”
“Pardon me?”
“Your fax. It has to be the correct size. Some weights of paper we can’t handle.”
“Oh . . .” Belle looked down at her empty palms, half expecting a sheet of paper to appear. “I didn’t bring it with me . . . I just wanted to check on your prices first.”
“It depends on the location you’re transmitting to.”
Belle didn’t respond, and after a beat he pointed toward the rear of the store. “In back—at the copy center. Tina handles the faxes.”
“Thank you.”
Belle turned and walked down a seemingly endless aisle lined with a vast array of envelopes. At the end of the aisle four self-service copy machines faced a long counter behind which stood a tall woman in her late forties with jet-black hair cut in a trendy retro bob. She also wore a green polo shirt.
Belle smiled. “Are you Tina?” she asked.
