The Crossword Murder (4 page)

“Yes, ma'am.”

“The Greeks and Portuguese have added immeasurably to our community in recent years, Mr. Polycrates. And I speak from a vast reservoir of experience. My great-great-great-great grandfather built this house.”

“My family was still back in the homeland then. I'm only third generation.”

“So I would have surmised, Mr. Polycrates. That doesn't prevent you—or your grandparents—from contributing to Newcastle society.”

“I suppose not, ma'am—if that's how you put it.” Rosco's brain was spinning, yearning to ask the standard questions but guessing Sara would sidestep them with the same deftness she'd applied to the rest of the interview. She was a woman accustomed to running her own show. “Can you tell me anything you might consider helpful, Mrs. Briephs?”

“Such as?”

“Your son's habits, his associates, history …”

“My son attended Andover preparatory school, then continued on to Yale—as did all his forebears. He was a fine athlete, dressed impeccably and was an extraordinarily facile wordsmith. He accepted a position at the Newcastle
Herald
the same year he graduated from college. I had assumed he would turn his talents to more serious literature, but he was a lover of innuendo and wordplay. Cryptics suited his quixotic tastes.

“As he matured, he became interested in collecting antiquities—from the Greek Minoan period, specifically. The ancient Cretans worship of sport and of youth may have influenced his choice … He also served on the boards of several local arts institutions, and was vitally connected with the theatre here in town. At the time of his death, he was involved in financing a musical drama scheduled to move to Broadway … All this in addition to a wildly successful career … Thompson received accolades from every part of the country.”

Rosco cleared his throat. This was the most difficult part of any investigation: questioning a blood relation. “Did your son have any enemies you might know of? … Or a lover he'd recently quarreled with?”

But Sara dodged the query with a quick: “Steven Housemann is the
Herald'
s editor in chief. He held that position when Thompson began working there.”

“So he hired your son?”

Again the response was evasive: “Mr. Housemann has been editor in chief for a good many years … He recently remarried …”

“I see,” Rosco said, although he didn't understand the connection between Housemann's personal life and Briephs' career. “So there's nothing more you can tell me about his place of work?”

“I've been told his present bride is half her husband's age—the latest in a long line of inappropriate mates, I might add.”

“Are you insinuating that Mr. Housemann is unstable?”

“Oh, my dear Mr. Polycrates!” Sara laughed in her girlish voice. “If I were to insinuate something you'd know it. Thompson always said I had a wit as sharp as a surgical scalpel.” Then the violet eyes misted over. “You'll have to ask JaneAlice for information on the
Herald'
s inner workings.”

“Was she your son's wife?”

“Oh, my dear!” Sara giggled again. “What an outlandish thought! … JaneAlice! … Wouldn't Thompson have found that a delicious suggestion.” Sara slipped into sorrow again, and, as rapidly, pulled herself out. “You'll have to excuse me, Mr. Polycrates. I have a tennis lesson at ten sharp. We're working on my volley today. In all these years, I've never been comfortable with the position … I feel so … so vulnerable standing close to the net. An odd sensation since I fear nothing else—”

“May I visit your son's house?” Rosco interrupted. “See it for myself?”

“Oh, that awful place!” Sara burst out. “Thompson was determined to flout tradition; and there was nothing I could do to dissuade him. Collecting the art and artifacts of a dead civilization is one thing; re-creating it is quite another. But my son was a stubborn man … Of course, you may see Windword Islands. Emma will provide you with a key before you leave.” Sara stood regally. “Three hundred dollars a day … plus expenses …?”

“That's correct.”

“I assume you're worth it, Mr. Polycrates.”

“I do my best, ma'am … But please, call me Rosco …”

“I'll do nothing of the kind. I had a Boston terrier of that name when I was a child. He was ugly and you are not.”

As Rosco crossed the circular gravel drive that spread before Sara's stately home he heard someone calling his name. He turned to watch John “Bulldog” Roth approach. The expensive suit didn't disguise a barrel-chested build a stevedore would have been proud of.

When Roth was within five feet of his prey, he smiled—an expression that didn't reassure Rosco in the slightest. “I'd like to have a word with you before you leave, Mr. Polycrates.” Roth kept his back to the house as if fearing that his lips might be read.

“Shoot.”

“Sara's not quite herself. I'm sure you can understand … Tommy was her only child … At any rate, the Senator feels that it would be best for all concerned if this entire matter was closed as quietly as possible.”

“This comes from the Senator himself?”

Roth seemed to ponder his choices. “With Senator Crane abroad, I have a certain responsibility to see that no undue disturbances arise. And, as the Senator is running for reelection this year, I'm sure you can appreciate that any news items, no matter how trivial, are bound to attract unnecessary attention—especially from the Senator's opponent.”

“In my neighborhood we don't consider death a trivial news item … What are you suggesting, Mr. Roth?”

Roth stiffened. “I believe the simplest solution is for you to take a few days' time, following which you report to Sara that you've found nothing unusual … I'll make certain you're reimbursed for a full week's employment … Then we simply let the issue pass without undue publicity or histrionics.”

“I've always had a tremendous amount of respect for the Senator,” Rosco responded. “In my opinion, he's one of the few honest men remaining in Washington.” He pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to Roth. “If the Senator wants to speak to me in person about this situation, ask him to give me a call—and tell him not to worry about the time difference. He can reach me at home if he'd like. The number's on the card.”

Then, without giving Roth time to reply, Rosco turned on his heel, crossed to his Jeep and eased out of Sara's driveway and into traffic. He smiled and thought, I like her … She's one tough cookie. But the bulldog is another story altogether.

After that, Rosco began considering Thompson Briephs, the medical examiner's report, and Sara's insistence that there was more to the tale. Rosco's last job had been far less complex; it had involved an enterprising fisherman who'd decided to send his boats into the Atlantic with a one-way ticket to Davy Jones' locker—thereby swindling Shore Line Mutual out of a hefty sum, as well as causing a few unfortunate sailors some very hairy hours. But Briephs' story wasn't as simple as insurance fraud, and Roth's attempted interference only served to complicate it further. Rosco pulled his Jeep over and let the facts bounce around in his brain. Finally, he decided to make a few preliminary phone calls, then visit his former partner, Lieutenant Al Lever, down at the Newcastle P.D. If the official story held water, Rosco would report back to Sara without charging a fee. If he didn't like what he learned, he'd dig out the truth.

CHAPTER 5

T
HE STATION HOUSE
hadn't changed one iota since Rosco had left the police force. Institutional green paint still clung to the plaster walls; air conditioners wheezed and grumbled; the hallways smelled of stale coffee and stale, prepackaged doughnuts, and the basement continued to serve as Newcastle's morgue. Rosco acknowledged greetings from several officers as he strolled past the duty desk and up to a door marked
HOMICIDE.
He tapped twice and walked in without waiting for a reply.

“Good to see you, Polly—Crates. Hot enough for ya?”

Originally from Boston, Lieutenant Lever affected a strong Southern twang with the words
Polly
and
Crates
. It was a feeble attempt at humor, but Rosco smiled for old times' sake; the mispronunciation of his name had always been a running joke.

Al Lever was only a year or two older than Rosco, but those years had left their mark on his appearance. He was overweight, bald, pasty white, and had a constant smoker's cough.

“Still the ‘barefoot boy with cheek of tan,' eh, Polly—Crates?” he chortled. “What did Mrs. Briephs say about your choice in footwear?”

“Mind if I sit, Al?”

“Go for it. We don't stand on ceremony here.” Lever motioned to an ancient office chair on castors. “Did the old lady serve you tea and crumpets?”

Rosco wheeled the chair toward Lever's desk.

“Mrs. Briephs was very polite. She has a way about her. I can't say as much for the goon who was keeping her company. He looks like a former hit man.”

Lever coughed. “Drop the case, Rosco.” His voice was deadly serious.

“You know me better than that, Al. If someone tells me to drop a case, it's the last thing I'm going to do … What went down with her son?”

“The official line is heart attack. Do yourself a favor, tell the lady you can't help her, and go play some handball.”

“That's from the M.E.? Heart attack?”

Lever pulled the coroner's report from a pending file on his desk and slid it toward Rosco.

Rosco looked the report over and dropped it on Al's blotter. “That's pretty ambiguous wording Carlyle's chosen. It sounds like he's covering something. I'd like to have a look at the body … if that's okay with you?”

“You'll have to go through channels.”

“Oh, come on, Al,” Rosco moaned. “You know I can pull the paperwork. That's not going to stop me. I'm working for a relative. I have a need-to-know. You slow me up by a day, maybe two. That's it. Just walk down there with me. We save a little time. If everything's kosher, I go home … play handball with the gang like you said.”

Lever stood, walked over to the office door and locked it. He lit a cigarette, then moved to the window, stared out at the harbor and inhaled deeply.

“You mind if I smoke?” he asked.

Rosco only smiled.

“Okay, I'll fill you in. But, dammit, Rosco, I want you to keep it between you and me. It doesn't leave this office. I'm on thin ice here.”

“I'm going to find out anyway.”

Lever recognized the truth in this. He took another drag. “Briephs was strangled.”

“What …?” Rosco sat up straight. “Al, come on, you guys can't cover something like that. That's not you. Thin ice is an understatement. You're a good cop. You're not going to—”

“Easy. Easy,” Lever interrupted. “It's not what you think … We found Briephs' naked body spread-eagled and tied to his bed with nylon stockings. A fifth stocking around his neck. It was a sex game. You follow me? That's all it was. Accidental death … With a prossy, most likely … You know Briephs' uncle, the Senator, right?”

“Not personally, but I've met his right-hand man—as of today.”

“Not ten minutes after we informed Mrs. Briephs of her son's death, the Senator's pit bull, John Roth himself, is walking through that door. How he got here that fast, I'll never know. The man's a piece of work.”

“Mrs. Briephs didn't mention anything about this stocking business—”

“You're getting ahead of me. I never gave her a cause of death. We didn't have the M.E.'s report compiled yet. I just told her his body had been found … things were being ‘handled' … the usual … Anyway, ol' Bulldog tells me the Senator doesn't want news of his nephew ‘consorting' with ‘unsavory characters' to hit the papers. It being an election year and all.”

“But the Senator's not here; he's in Southeast Asia,” Rosco began, then added, “Why are you so sure he was with a hooker?”

“You never worked Vice, my friend. We used to pick Tommy-Boy up on a regular basis when we'd do a sweep for girls and johns down on Congress Street. He liked the rough ones, I can tell you that. And it was getting kinkier all the time, from what we heard. We kept it quiet. He contributed big time to the Police Athletic League … And don't eye me like that. The League needs the money. You spent more time with the kids than anyone … Look, I know most of the girls on Congress. You want to poke around down there, go ahead. They can give you some freaky stories about Thompson C. Briephs and their ‘confidential expeditions' to that little island of his. He was definitely getting into tough love.”

“So Roth insists the Senator wants it hushed up and you agree?”

“Come on, Rosco, where's the harm? Briephs' mother is an old lady. Ol' Bulldog's right when he says the shock would probably kill her … And who gets hurt in the end? Some fifty-dollar-a-night hooker. She gets two to five on accidental manslaughter and walks in six months. What's the point?”

“I don't like it.”

“Leave it alone, Rosco.”

“I want to see his body.”

“Drop it.”

“Not a chance.”

Lever sighed in frustration. “I don't have time now and I mean that. Come back at three. I'll walk you into the morgue then.”

“No funny business?”

“No funny business.”

Rosco stood, crossed to the office door and unlocked it. “What do you know about a woman named Annabella Graham?”

“The crossword lady at the
Evening Crier
?”

“Yeah.”

“You've never seen her around town …?”

“Not that I know of.”

Lever laughed, coughed violently, then lit another cigarette. “Of all the guys in Newcastle, I can't believe you've never set eyes on Annabella Graham.” Another laugh erupted from Lever's chest—followed by another coughing fit.