by Nero Blanc
Rosco was silent for a long minute. “I have to admit your notion is plausible—albeit far-fetched.”
Belle folded her arms across her chest. “You’re just jealous.”
“What?”
“You’re jealous you didn’t dream up this scenario first.”
“Well, for one thing, investigative work doesn’t entail dreaming up scenarios—”
“You always tell me you play your hunches, don’t you?”
“Right …”
“Well, this is my hunch. And failing uncovering a better one at the moment, I vote we try it. I say we smoke Gordon out.”
“What’s this we bit?”
“Subcontractor to the Polycrates Agency.”
“Right … I keep forgetting … my stalwart employee …” Rosco picked up the phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“I thought that was your suggestion—that I have another conversation with Alexei Peshkov.”
Belle drew in a quick, nervous breath while Rosco chatted with Far Yukon’s executive secretary, then hung up the phone. “It seems the new homeowner has a meeting at the work site … Apparently, he’s on his way there now.” Rosco headed toward the closet and pulled out his jacket while Belle reached for her purse.
“Ah-ah, where are you going?” Rosco said as he held up his hands. “I’m drawing the line on the we part. This guy has the potential for being very dangerous.”
She stood silently for a few moments, then said, “So, you’ll need to take my car.” She brandished her keys, then lowered them as her shoulders simultaneously sank into a worried slouch. “Be careful, Rosco. If I’m right, this guy’s more than dangerous … He’s a killer.”
“Killer? You think I don’t know that? If you’re right, he’s the guy who killed my Jeep.”
“I’m talking about people, Rosco.”
“So am I … sort of.” Then he stopped and looked at her. “Promise me you’ll keep the doors locked. Because if it’s not Gordon … or if the goons who—”
“I promise I’ll be careful.”
They exchanged a lengthy kiss.
“Take your gun,” Belle said after they pulled apart.
CHAPTER 34
“I only want to talk to him,” Rosco kept mumbling as he made the trip to Taneysville and the Gordon property. “Be cool, be relaxed … just chat with the guy … nice and easy … A little information gathering … A little talk …”
The muttered phrases were intended to have a calming effect, but the fact that Belle had been threatened, that Rosco had lost his trusted Jeep, and that he was now driving his wife’s sedan only served as a reminder that this particular conversation was bound to be anything but easy—or normal, or relaxed. Keep your eye on the prize, he kept reminding himself, there’s no actual evidence that Gordon had anything to do with what happened Monday night—or with a body, or even multiple bodies, unearthed on his premises. Belle’s theory is only conjecture.
But the longer Rosco drove, the more plausible his wife’s idea seemed. He reached for his phone, called home, and breathed a huge sigh of relief when her cheerful voice answered. “Keep the doors locked till I get home, okay? Kit’ll be fine without her midday stroll … And if there’s anything even remotely suspicious—” Then the connection broke off, and he found himself on the outskirts of Taneysville.
He eased Belle’s sedan up the old Quigley lane. There was no sign of Gordon, only Sean Reilly’s pickup truck with the contractor sitting peacefully on the opened tailgate. Rosco parked a few feet away and stepped from the car. Slowly. He took in a long and steadying breath, but his shoulders were tight with anger. Was Sean in on all this? he wondered. How much does he know?
“Heya, Parker,” Sean said with a smile, “What happened to that classy ride you used to have?”
Rosco took a long time to answer. He studied Sean’s face the entire time, looking for a crack, a little twitch or tick that might indicate how much he knew about the Jeep’s destruction. “It met with an accident.”
“Not too serious, I hope,” Sean continued in an affable tone. “Those older models are starting to become real collector’s items.”
“Yeah, that’s what they tell me.”
“So, what brings you back here?”
“I might ask you that same thing.”
Sean let out a short groan. “Man, Parker, I hate to tell you this, of all people, but Mr. G’s supposed to meet me here. He wants to change the plans for this addition—again.” Sean pointed to the area where the body had been found. “No more building on this side of the house. That’s change number one. The idea’s been totally scrapped—by the little missus, natch. I told ya these ladies love to bust a builder’s chops … Apparently, now we’re gonna have to backfill all the foundation area my guys already dug, and relocate to the north side. It seems it’s ‘better light’ for the little lady’s paintings. Go figure, huh? Man, I sure wish I had that kind of dough to throw around. Though I wouldn’t be wasting it in this hicksville, I’ll tell you that right now … Anyway, Mr. G’s gonna lay it all out for me when he gets here.” Sean looked at his watch. “He shoulda been here twenty minutes ago.”
“Don’t count on any backfilling just yet. I have a feeling before anything gets filled, there’s going to be a lot more digging done right here.”
“Not according to—”
Sean was interrupted by the sound of Alex Gordon’s Mercedes working its way up the lane. It pulled up to the far side of Sean’s pickup and stopped with a jolt. Gordon switched off the motor and stepped rapidly from the car. He wore a dark gray overcoat with the collar turned up against the cold air, and his expression looked equally steely and grim. Watching him approach, Rosco knew for certain Belle had been right. If Gordon hadn’t actually killed his wife, he knew who the murderer was.
“What the hell are you doing here, Polycrates?” The question was a snarl. “This is private property.”
“Polycrates …?” Sean asked. He looked from his boss to the man he knew as Parker. He made no attempt to hide his confusion.
Gordon’s glance took in Belle’s sedan. “What happened to your Jeep? Meet with a mishap?”
Rosco smiled coolly. “Interesting question. How did you know I owned a Jeep?”
“I guess a little birdie told me.” Gordon turned to Sean. “Get this lowlife out of here, Reilly. This is private property and we’ve got work to do.”
“Polycrates?” Sean said once again. “I thought your name was Parker.”
“Parker?” Gordon growled. “You mean the stooge who’s the Newcastle buildings inspector? Is that who this bum told you he was?”
“Ahhh …”
“I don’t know what bill of goods you’ve been sold, Sean, but he’s a private investigator by the name of Rosco Polycrates, and he’s been hired by those rubes down the hill to shut this work site down—and I mean permanently. So get him out of here … Now!”
Sean took a step toward Rosco, who held up a placating hand. “Hold on there, Sean,” he said. “What your boss is telling you, that’s basically true—except for the ‘closing down the site’ part—”
Gordon moved closer. “Then what the hell are you doing here?”
“There were a couple of issues we left unresolved.” Rosco looked from Gordon to Sean, the smile on his face determined and aggressive. “Sean tells me you’ve decided to move the addition to the north side—”
“You want to keep your job, Reilly? Get this bozo out of here.”
But Sean’s large body didn’t move. Rosco could see he was trying to play catch-up with the situation, although the outcome was anyone’s guess at this point. Two to one, Rosco told himself, assessing the odds, and one of the two a probable killer. “You know, Alexei, when we first met, I didn’t compliment you sufficiently on losing your Russian accent; it must have taken a lot of work … I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that you’d have no trouble sounding like a Texan on the telephone—”
“What th
e hell are you talking about?”
“You don’t think I recognized your voice? What do you take me for?”
“You’re living in a dream world.”
Rosco tried a bluff. “Maybe, but the prints the police lifted off a certain phone booth matched the ones left in Petri’s apartment.” He studied the reaction on Gordon’s face as the Russian absorbed Petri’s name. “It’s only a matter of time before those prints are I.D.’d, but it’s beginning to seem fairly obvious who they belong to.”
“Mr. Gordon …” Sean said, looking for a few explanations … or instructions … or anything.
“Get this creep off my property, dammit!” Gordon shouted.
In a Pavlovian reaction, Sean moved toward Rosco.
“Just a minute. Just a minute …” Rosco interjected.
Gordon glared at him. “I don’t have anything to say to you, Polycrates.”
“Well, I think you’re wrong about that. Because it’s my opinion—as well as that of the homicide detectives who happen to be working this case—that you may know very well whose body turned up here two weeks ago.”
Gordon made another angry step toward Rosco, and Rosco turned his attention to Sean.
“Man, it’s got to really gall you to have to dig a new foundation and backfill this one … and all because some dumb bimbo, some rich—”
“Leave my wife out of this, Polycrates …”
“Let’s see, would that be Wife Number Three, Alexei? Or Wife Number One? The hot little lady who dumped you and then disappeared with her new stud …?”
Sean’s big face swung slowly toward Gordon.
“… ’Cause this is how Homicide in both Boston and Newcastle are piecing this thing together, Alexei … and all because of a down-and-out PI named Mike Petri who happened to wind up dead; a PI who you just happened to have hired fifteen years ago—”
“Are you charging me with murder? I’m a little confused here, Polycrates. Because if you are, I think you just overlooked my rights—”
“I’m not charging you with anything. I’m just discussing a guy named Petri—who happens to have contacted me the day before his death. But then, you must know all about that from one of your little birdies … But Petri’s not the real issue. I’m more concerned about one of your exes and a certain one-time business partner; both of whom happen to be on the missing persons list.” Rosco looked at Sean. “As the man in charge of this work site, Sean, let me ask you a question: Did ‘Mr. G’ here give you specific instructions to follow if you happened to come across any ‘Indian’ graves?”
“Don’t answer that, Sean. I’ve got lawyers who’ll handle this guy—”
“Mike Petri was murdered on Saturday morning. Murdered, Sean.” Rosco paused to let this soak in. “Do you hear what I’m saying? Someone threw him off the balcony of his high-rise. You can check that with Boston PD if you want. They have fingerprints of—”
“You’ve got nothing on me, Polycrates.”
“No? Well, let me mention another fact to Sean here … We’ve got positive proof that fifteen years ago the same Mike Petri murdered the first ‘Mrs. G’ and her friend, then drove the bodies out here—”
Sean’s perplexed stare swept from Rosco to Gordon. “But the property belonged to—”
“Come on, Sean, use your head; why do you think Gordon bought into this hick burg?” Rosco was almost shouting now. “Because Petri dumped the remains here, that’s why. But, instead of revealing the exact locale of the bodies, he blackmailed his old boss until your backhoe operator …” He stopped and took in a deep breath in an attempt to slow down. “That’s who Nikos dug up, Sean. Gordon’s first wife! And that’s why ‘Mr. G’ doesn’t want you digging here anymore. His old business partner’s probably right under our feet—”
Rosco’s speech was stopped short as Gordon’s shoulder slammed into his chest, propelling him backwards into the door of Sean’s pickup. The force of the blow was so severe that it caused the window to pop out and fall across the driver’s seat. Rosco was left hunched over and gasping hard for breath. Then Gordon turned sideways, chopping his elbow into Rosco’s side. The sound of ribs cracking reverberated across the landscape as Rosco slumped over the front fender of the truck.
While he struggled to right himself, Gordon began walking toward his Mercedes. Rosco reached for his pistol, but before he could locate it, Sean moved forward, his posture perplexed and troubled as he grasped Rosco’s arms from behind. “Okay, fella, let’s calm down here … I’m sure Mr. G’s got an explanation for this whole mis—”
Before Sean could finish, Gordon spun back on the two men, stepping toward them and swiftly bringing his knee into Rosco’s groin. At the same time Gordon’s right fist drove into Rosco’s jaw, snapping his head backwards and sending a spray of blood splattering across Sean’s work shirt. The contractor jumped and released his grip as Rosco collapsed on the ground.
“Good work, Reilly.”
Sean looked down at the unconscious body. “… I wasn’t trying … All I wanted to do was—”
“Get that backhoe rolling. We’re filling up this hole right here and now … You’ve got an opportunity to make a lot of money, Sean. Big money. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut.”
Gordon spun on his heel and walked toward his Mercedes. When he returned a moment later, Sean was nowhere in sight. Gordon looked toward the backhoe, smiled once, then raised his right hand. In it was a 9mm semiautomatic pistol; attached to the gun was a silencer. He brought the barrel down to meet the back of Rosco’s head, then reached across with his left hand and chambered a round. “Tsk, tsk, tsk … Creatures That Once Were Men—”
“I wouldn’t get too carried away if I were you, Mr. G.”
Gordon jerked up his head to see Sean staring down at him. A 30.06 hunting rifle pressed into his shoulder, the scope pointing directly at his boss’s face.
“Sean, what the hell are you doing? I’m offering you big money. More than you’ve ever seen. Don’t be stupid.”
Sean shook his head. “What I’m thinking is this: you’re just lookin’ for another patsy … another fall guy. And I’m afraid that ain’t gonna be me.”
Gordon slowly began to raise his pistol.
“Don’t even consider it, fella … Unless you’d like to see your head hanging in my den next to an eight-point elk.”
CHAPTER 35
The phone call had been a wife’s direst fear. “… hospital …” Belle had heard, “… fractures of the … a contusion where the … will need to continue to assess …” Clenching the receiver, her fingers had turned cold, as had her face and finally her body. The man’s voice on the other end of the line had wavered in and out of her conscious hearing, but finally Belle had understood the salient fact: Rosco was going to be okay. He’d been hurt, but he would mend. And Belle could bring him home—as long as the patient had a local physician to follow through on treatment. “Naturally, he’s experiencing some discomfort,” the voice had concluded. Belle translated from doctor speak into ordinary English: Rosco was in terrible pain.
As she’d returned the receiver to its cradle, she’d pulled her shoulders back and taken several deep breaths. Then she’d lifted her chin and reached for the phone again. Her eyes had glittered with a combination of relief and rage. Alex Gordon was going to pay big time for hurting her husband. Kill your own spouse if you want, bucko, she’d silently ranted, but leave mine alone. It hadn’t been one of Belle’s most rational moments.
Then she’d picked up the receiver and called Sara, whose antique Cadillac would make ideal transport for a “patient” experiencing “discomfort.”
Insisting that Belle was too shaken to concentrate on the road, Sara drove them both toward St. Mary’s Hospital near Taneysville. Her back was ramrod straight; her silk-lined kid gloves clutched the wheel. She was outfitted in a fur-collared coat with a matching hat and color-coordinated shoes and handbag, as if she’d anticipated the necessity of impressing her status and migh
t on the emergency room personnel.
Beside her, Belle felt like a complete loser and fashion fiasco. Her hair was unbrushed, her cable-knit sweater tatty, her cotton turtleneck losing its elasticity such that the neck sagged like a wet scarf. She was carrying a brown purse; her feet were shod in black boots (scuffed); her blue jeans were faded. Sara didn’t even wear such outfits to garden in. Belle slouched in the seat; concern over Rosco heightened her criticism of herself.
After another few minutes of self-reproach, she reached into her jeans pocket and fished out the crossword she’d received on Monday—the one she’d been doodling with just before Rosco had left to confront Alex Gordon. “‘Change’ of Heart,” she announced bitterly. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice how obvious the connection was before!”
“What’s that, dear?” Sara’s driving technique was as old-fashioned as her automobile. She believed in total focus at all times: no distractions from cell phones, car phones, radios, CDs, or books on tape. No eating with one hand, opening or slurping beverages, reaching into a purse for sunglasses, or squinting sideways at a map. “What did you say?”
“That I should have recognized how this money and metal theme related to Gordon … I mean, it’s evident what we’re looking at: NICKEL, DIME, PENNY … The words are right in front of me—”
“I see, dear.” It was clear, though, that Sara didn’t see at all.
Belle grumbled at her own stupidity. “After all, what does Far Yukon Industries produce? Magnets! Which are obviously made from metal. Clearly, he must use copper and nickel in his business. And what did Bartholomew insinuate that Gordon was clandestinely involved in? Money laundering, illicit diamonds, the Russian mob—people who don’t fool around when it comes to vendettas or revenge or silencing informers …! If I’d only made these basic deductions earlier, then maybe Al or Tanner could have arrested Gordon, and Rosco wouldn’t have—”
“I’m afraid I’m not following your rationale, dear.”
Belle’s shoulders slumped. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing? But my dear, you were making a point. About the latest crossword you received …” Sara flicked on her turn signal—she liked supplying other drivers with plenty of advance warning—then cautiously eased into the fast lane, pulled around the car in front, and carefully returned to the slow lane. “Another anonymous word game? That brings the total to four, doesn’t it?”
