by Nero Blanc
“Well, phone solicitations to office numbers aren’t—”
“Phone sales?” The tone was shocked, almost outraged. “I’m not engaged in phones sales.”
Rosco sighed; he leaned back in his swiveling chair, letting his eyes sweep across his office: two unmatched chairs facing the desk, a small round table between them, a coat rack, three filing cabinets, and the necessary electronic equipment his private investigative agency required. Bare bones stuff, and unchanged despite his modified marital status. Belle’s home office’s unusual appearance notwithstanding, she had little interest in interior design. The decor of the Polycrates Agency was the same as it had been when he and Belle had first met. Although there had been a few additions to the office closet that contained an assortment of apparel, i.e., disguises which could help Rosco pass himself off as anything from banker to busboy—items Belle had “discovered” at various thrift stores.
“Look, miss … ma’am—”
“It’s Ms. actually.”
“Right … Ms.…?”
No name was forthcoming. Rosco suppressed another sigh, and pushed ahead. “I know Milt Hoffmeyer’s a good guy … an excellent candidate, in fact, and I understand that political campaigns need money—”
“I’m not calling in reference to contributions,” the voice snapped back, then added an equally peppery: “I’m not a fund-raiser. Please hold for Mr. Hoffmeyer.”
Rosco had only a second to gaze ceilingward in surprise before another voice appeared on the line.
“Mr. Polycrates? Milt Hoffmeyer here. Thanks for taking my call.”
Rosco sat up straighter in his chair. Although his career had at times brought him into contact with the rich and famous, his encounters with men like Milton Hoffmeyer III were rare. Perhaps that was because the Hoffmeyers of the world were honorable folk who didn’t have nasty secrets they wanted to suppress—or enemies who wanted to expose them. “What can I do for you, Mr. Hoffmeyer?”
Hoffmeyer hesitated for the briefest moment before proceeding. The tone was expansive and open—the genuine article. At least that was Rosco’s read, and he was usually correct when it came to intuition. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Mr. Polycrates, but skeletal remains were found on a construction site in Taneysville.”
“I did see something about that in the paper, yes.”
“Taneysville is where I grew up, Mr. Polycrates. It’s where my grandparents still live.”
Rosco recalled the story the media spouted about Hoffmeyer, although he hadn’t remembered the locale. Small-town boy, raised by hard-working grandparents after both his parents had been killed. DUI, the cause of death had been ruled, if Rosco remembered rightly. DUI—as well as a series of prior arrests and numerous other scrapes with the law. Milt III had worked hard to overcome his father’s unhappy history and follow his paternal grandfather’s virtuous example. In fact, his campaign literature stated that he “owed his life and his love of his nation to his granddad and grandma.” The statement could have seemed insincere and cloying, but listening to the candidate’s voice, Rosco suspected that it wasn’t.
“I remember reading about your grandparents, Mr. Hoffmeyer.”
Hoffmeyer allowed himself a brief laugh. It was a warm sound, intimate and inviting, the kind engendered by a joke shared with a friend. “And do they ever hate reading about themselves …! Those two are New Englanders through and through. ‘Don’t you go calling attention to us, now, Milt. We’re simple people, in a simple community; you go off and do what you need to do; we’re happy being quiet.’ … And that’s precisely why I’m calling you, Mr. Polycrates. This … unfortunate discovery happened near the old Quigley house—on the hill just above Taneysville’s church—and I was hoping that you—”
Rosco interrupted. “You’re not suggesting you want to retain my services are you, Mr. Hoffmeyer?”
“I am.”
“I assume the police are already on the case.”
A pause. “They are, yes. In a way.”
Rosco sat straighter; a brief frown crossed his face. “Taneysville is part of Newcastle County, if I’m not mistaken; and Newcastle has a homicide detective. An excellent one.”
Another pause, though briefer this time. “I realize that Al Lever was your partner when you were with the NPD.”
“You’ve done some homework.”
“I believe in dotting the i’s and crossing all the t’s, Mr. Polycrates. It’s what’s gotten me where I am. I don’t like conflicts of interest, and I don’t like secrets … You were NPD, considered a good cop, maybe too good a cop, because you inspired a certain level of mistrust—I’ll call it envy—with one or two of your fellow officers … You’re of Greek descent; your father was a commercial fisherman, now deceased. You’ve got a mother, two sisters, and a brother living in the Newcastle environs. You’ve been a PI for eight years; you’re thirty-eight years old, married to Annabella Graham, who’s employed by one of Newcastle’s newspapers—the Evening Crier to be exact. Together you’ve cracked a number of local crimes, which has gained you both some national notoriety. Lieutenant Lever served as your best man at your wedding—”
“That’s more than homework. That’s a thesis. Maybe you should have my job.”
“As I said, Mr. Polycrates, I like everything open and aboveboard.”
“Then it’s no secret what I think—that I know Al’s a good cop, Mr. Hoffmeyer. One of the best there is.”
“I’m not suggesting otherwise.”
“Then what do you need me for?”
“Lieutenant Lever has classified this as a ‘cold case.’”
“I hadn’t heard that.”
Milt III paused again. “I’m sure you’re aware that I’m facing a tough fight against the incumbent, Mr. Spader … Even with the campaign coming down to the wire, Spader’s still got a significant war chest; I’ll be lucky if I can throw a beer and pizza party if I win. And that, in itself, is a big if—”
“You’ve got youth on your side,” Rosco threw in. “You’re up in the polls.”
“Which doesn’t go a long way against a well-oiled political machine.”
“I’m trying to read between the lines here, Mr. Hoffmeyer … I hope you’re not inferring that the police are part of that machine.”
“No, I’m not. Definitely not. At this point, I think Lever has no choice but to label this situation a cold case. No one knows where this body came from … There isn’t even a remote lead as to the victim or perpetrator’s identity … But we all know that Taneysville’s a small place—an insignificant place except to those who live in it … And that’s why I’d like to have you working on this. I want to see attention paid to the little people. That’s what my campaign’s been about.”
Rosco ran a hand through his dark hair. It was a reflexive gesture, and probably added to his slightly rumpled appearance. That and his choice of attire: scuffed boating shoes worn without socks, chinos that had been pulled directly from the dryer, a gray canvas work shirt that had never known an iron. “Going undercover” for Rosco was a stretch only when it required a suit and tie. “I appreciate your thinking of me, Mr. Hoffmeyer. But I’ve got to be honest: barging in on Al’s turf is the last thing I want to do.”
“I’m not asking you to ‘barge in.’ I’m just asking for an additional point of view … You’re being honest with me; I’ll share something else with you. My guess is that my opponent will attempt to use this situation for political gain. Now, I know he can’t stonewall on an investigation; and that the police would never permit such a directive—whether articulated or implied. But rumors can be created … a body dumped following a mob hit in Boston … maybe collusion with the constable or a former constable—”
“But there’s been no such incident …” Rosco’s response was more query than statement.
“Not on your life! Oh, sure, Taneysville’s got its share of malcontents; and it’s got a few neighbors who enjoy nursing grudges against each other. But it�
��s also got some of the most decent and kindly people you’ll ever hope to meet. And that’s what bothers me, Mr. Polycrates. If my opponent decides to attack me by attacking my hometown …” The words trailed off, then the positive and optimistic tone that was Milt Hoffmeyer’s signature style returned. “Look … the way I see it, if this is all still up in the air on Election Day, people may get the idea that Taneysville and/or I have something to hide. I’d like to see it settled more quickly than that so we can all concentrate on the business at hand—which man would be best suited to represent this district and go to Washington in January.”
Rosco drummed his fingers on his desk and stared at his calendar. The election was three weeks away. “There’s another way of looking at this problem, Mr. Hoffmeyer, and it bothers me. You’re running against an incumbent—wouldn’t it behoove your cause to insinuate that our present congressman was putting pressure on Newcastle’s homicide division to slow the investigation down? And if that’s your strategy, I have no interest in dragging a very good friend, Al Lever, through the mud in the process.”
“I’m not asking you to work against Lever. If anything, I’m asking you to work with him. I completely understand his rationale for placing a low priority on this situation. There’s no next of kin; basically, nobody cares about this dead woman. But as a citizen, I’m asking you to work with me, and place a higher priority on it. I’m asking you to go out there. Take a look around, ask some questions. If you’re uncomfortable and want to call it quits, I’ll understand … But if not … well, I sure would appreciate your help … A good place to start would be with my grandmother …”
Rosco thought it over for a long moment. “All right, I’ll see what I can find out. If you have a fax number I can send you a breakdown of my fees.”
“Sounds good. And thank you … I don’t suppose you’d like to make a contribution to the Milt Hoffmeyer Congressional Campaign Fund? It could easily be arranged as an in-kind contribution.”
“That depends on what I find out.”
CHAPTER 12
“So … when do we go?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa … Hold up, my lovely. What do you mean by ‘we’?” Rosco said as he and Belle passed through their sparsely furnished living room and into a kitchen that retained a staunchly retro feel: glass-fronted wood cabinets, an antiquated apple-green Formica countertop, a deep porcelain sink. None of these details were calculated or contrived, however; they were simply left over from the kitchen’s prior owners and last refurbishment—circa 1957. Belle loved the room. She insisted it made her feel nurtured and secure, as if she were visiting a mythical relative who was fond of concocting angel food cakes.
Dangling from one of Rosco’s hands was a grocery bag containing the makings of supper. Both of Belle’s hands were free, and they flew around in the air as she tried to illustrate her point.
“Well, aren’t I going with you? To Taneysville, I mean? Didn’t Hoffmeyer mention my name?” She perched on a chrome and vinyl bar stool while Rosco went into serious cooking mode. It was fortunate for her—fortunate for them both—that he had been working toward amateur chef status. If the newlyweds’ diet had been Belle’s responsibility, a lot of cans of soup would have been needlessly sacrificed. One cannot survive on deviled eggs alone.
“Yes, he mentioned your name. He also referred to my mother, sisters, and brother … and we’re not renting a van and all heading out there.” Rosco pushed sliced onions into a frying pan, turned on the gas, and reached for a spatula. “Wait a minute. Did I give you a kiss when I came home? I don’t think so.”
Belle slid off her perch, crossed to Rosco’s work area, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Let it not be said that you have a one-track mind.”
“I’ll have you know that I can handle two tracks simultaneously.”
“Sometimes …”
“Definitely one and a half.”
“One and a quarter. And that’s as high as I’ll go.”
She smiled. He smiled back. Then their lips touched and their noses touched; and for a moment the couple were lost to the world of criminal investigations—and even of onions browning. That is, until the onions began to send up a small smoke signal.
Rosco yanked the pan away from the flame. “Arrgh. Great! There goes my white marsala sauce.”
Belle peered at the blackened contents of the pan. “We’ll just separate those out … the black ones. The others are okay. Leave it to me. I’m a pro at rescuing ruined dinners.”
Rosco chuckled. “Like the meat loaf you made on our first date?”
“How was I to know that red pepper flakes aren’t the same as diced bell peppers?”
“It was definitely a new experience—and rescue came nowhere near it.”
“They eat food as hot as that in other parts of the world.”
“I’m not so sure about that …”
Belle counted places off on her fingers: “Mexico, Africa, India, Asia—”
“Hah! Stop right there. India is in Asia. It only counts as one. You can’t cite both areas.”
“Jeez …”
“Go ahead, name some other location where people eat food hot enough to remove automobile paint.”
Belle raised an eyebrow but didn’t immediately answer. Then she returned to her previous train of thought. “But if Hoffmeyer suggested you start by meeting his grandmother, wouldn’t you want to take me with you?”
“I’m not certain I’m following the logic of that notion … Oh, wait, I get it … You’re discreetly hinting that I can’t hold my own with elderly ladies—”
“That’s not exactly what I meant …”
“Uh-huh …” Rosco grinned; it was the expression of a man devoted to his bride. “Just remember who Haughty Mrs. Sara calls a ‘prince.’”
Belle cocked her head. “And Al Lever goes all squishy when she refers to him as ‘darling Albert’—and that’s despite his efforts at creating that hard-nosed, cantankerous-cop image.” She put down her spoon, her face pensive as she abruptly switched topics. “Do you think there’s something else going on here?”
“I take it you’re not referring to my burnt onions.”
She gave him a look. “Hoffmeyer suggested a mob murder … Was he serious with that notion? A body dumped in a secluded place, albeit years ago, and then inadvertently discovered—”
“A fairly logical assumption—”
“Well, what I’m getting at is this: What if someone intended that the skeleton be found? What if it’s part of a larger plan—?”
“Like what?”
Belle thought. “I know this is going to sound like a conspiracy theory … but what if it’s the work of Hoffmeyer’s opponent?”
“Spader? He’s a U.S. Congressman, Belle.”
“What? These guys don’t play dirty pool? Grow up, Rosco.”
“I don’t buy that. I admit I’m leaning toward voting for Hoffmeyer, but I have no real problems with Spader either. We’ve certainly had worse.”
“And better … Okay. Maybe some underling’s trying to make certain their man remains in office? After all, he is a thuggish kind of guy. Who knows who he’s hired—”
“That’s a word? Thuggish?”
“No, I just made it up. Thugs, Thuggees: An ancient confederacy of professional assassins preying on wayfarers in India. They were worshipers of Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction—”
Rosco slipped his arm around her waist. “I love you, but you’re still not coming out to Taneysville with me.”
“Maybe the mob has nothing to do with this—”
“Belle, are you listening to me?” Rosco chuckled as he spoke.
“You mean the part about me being excluded from this investigation?”
“Yup.”
“Absolutely.” She handed Rosco the pan of resuscitated onions. “… On the other hand, if the skeleton turns out to be the remains of a long-lost heiress—”
“Belle!”
She looked up at hi
m, her eyes wide. “Okay, okay, I won’t say another word.”
“Is that a promise or a threat? Actually it doesn’t make any difference, because I don’t believe you for a second.”
“Har, har …” She returned to her place on the bar stool and remained quiet for the merest of seconds. “What’s certain is this: If the village of Taneysville gets a black eye because mysterious remains were discovered, then the town’s favorite son will get one, too. Spader won’t leave this alone. Mark my words.”
“I’d like to think the voters are smarter than that. I honestly believe Hoffmeyer may be overreacting to this situation.”
“Well, you just wait and see what the press does with this story. Don’t forget I work for a newspaper. The concept of ‘innocent until proven guilty’ doesn’t hold much water at an editorial meeting.”
“I guess that’s where I come in.”
CHAPTER 13
A slippery darkness stared back from the window, once again reflecting the room’s sparse furnishings: the hospital bed, the dresser, the rolling table upon which sat the requisite plastic water pitcher, the contents of which were intended to keep the room’s occupant “hydrated.” Hydrated! Like a vegetable sprouting up in a garden.
There were so many modern words and phrases the room’s resident decried: disabuse—as in righting an erroneous judgment; present—as in displaying medical symptoms; lifestyle; stress management; significant other—as if everyone else a person held dear were reduced to insignificance. There were other terms equally discomfiting. All seemed designed by a battery of attorneys; they were guaranteed not to disturb or provoke. Or, perhaps, they were simply designed to be emotion-free. Compatible replacing the mortal conditions of love, ardor, yearning, and even lust.
A sharp sigh curtailed these rueful meditations while the eyes drew away from the mirrored blackness of the window, coming to rest on the newspapers scattered around the slippered feet.
A cane jabbed them; another angry sigh erupted; the thin lips tightened in frustrated disbelief.
The body had been found—“unearthed” as the reporter noted—but that had been on Monday and no further mention had been made in two solid days! Wednesday’s paper and Thursday’s contained not so much as a boo. Nothing! No speculation about what had occurred in Taneysville. No concern as to where the skeleton had come from. Or why it had been interred near a now-abandoned farmhouse.
