CHAPTER 11

Convincing Belle that there might be dangerous people traversing the globe, people who wouldn’t think twice about harming another individual, was like trying to persuade a lemming not to jump off a cliff. Her approach to any situation was to leap in with both feet and forge ahead until she reached her goal. Rosco had never known anyone with such a jubilant and determined spirit. There was no doubt about it, she was an exceptional catch. One he hoped to never lose.

Driving his Jeep out of TX Bio-Lab’s parking lot, Rosco smiled at the memory of his evening with Belle while the clean light of early morning washed the sea air and the ruddy bricks of the city’s older buildings. The white trim etched around windows and doors looked as dazzlingly bright as a sandy beach at full noon. Rosco pulled into traffic, reminiscing about the previous summer: Belle in the ocean with her long tan legs splashing through the waves, then picnics on the sand, the hot and salty smell of beach blankets, the crumpled sandwich wrappers, potato-chip shards, and the drowsy sound of the breaking surf. The memories made him deeply regret that he wasn’t on his way to her house, instead of visiting his former partner, Lieutenant Al Lever of the Newcastle PD cops—even good guys like Al—just didn’t measure up.

Rosco sighed once, then made a left onto Thomas Paine Boulevard, the wide thoroughfare that bisected the city, and turned his attention to Bio-Lab’s preliminary report.

The blood samples lifted from the Dixie-Jack weren’t what he’d expected; on the gauges, the blood had come from a marine source—obviously the tuna—but the samples he’d taken from the throttle arm were human—type A pos. Rosco figured Al should be informed. Maybe the blood had bearing on the Orion situation.

The station house on Winthrop Drive was unchanged from the days Rosco had worn a badge: institutional-green paint peeling from plastered walls, hallways that smelled of prepackaged doughnuts and stale coffee, and a cinder block-lined basement that served the multiple purpose of morgue, detention area, and forensics lab.

Rosco casually greeted several officers as he strolled past the duty desk and proceeded up three steps to a door marked HOMICIDE. He tapped once and walked in. He and Al had been rookie cops fifteen years before; they never stood on ceremony.

“Good to see you, Polly—Crates.” A “Back Bay” twang stretched out the syllables, a running joke Lever never seemed to tire of. When they’d started working together, Rosco had gotten the impression Al had never met anyone of Greek descent. “Still the ‘barefoot boy,’ eh, Polly—Crates? I guess it never gets cold enough for you to grab yourself a pair of socks.”

Lever, a couple of years older than his former partner, already had a couch-potato build topped off by a “follicly challenged” hairline. He also had a constant smoker’s cough, which now kicked in violently.

“Damn allergies,” he said. “Summer, winter, they never leave me alone … It’s murder, I’m tellin’ ya … Now, what can I do you for? … Your phone call said it was important.”

Lever broke into another small coughing fit. After it subsided, he lit a cigarette and tossed the match into an overflowing ashtray.

Rosco sat across from Lever’s desk and waved a meaty cloud of smoke from his eyes. “Tom Pepper hired me to look into this Orion mess.”

“Uh-oh, something tells me this is going to cost me a lot more than the ten minutes you asked for.”

“Actually, I’ve done you a big favor, Al … Not to mention some of your homework.” Rosco pulled a business-sized manila envelope from his jacket and tossed it onto Lever’s desk. “Blood samples. One’s fish, the other’s human, type A pos. TX Bio-Lab got that much for me. I don’t care about the fish, but I’d like to get a DNA run on the type A pos. I thought—”

“Nah, nah, nah, hold on there, Rosco. I’m not touching this with a ten-foot pole. Pepper’s a good guy and all that, and I feel sorry as hell for him … but I got enough around here to keep me busy for a year.” A large, pudgy hand gestured toward a row of pending files stacked on a folding metal table.

“I’m just asking you to run it down to your lab, Al. Have Abe or someone draw me a printout. TX doesn’t do DNA work. They have to send it to Boston. Takes forever.”

“Rosco …” Lever shook his head as if he were speaking to a child. “You know full well I can’t run blood work through my lab without opening a file on it.”

“Right … Well, you’re going to have to investigate this thing sooner or later, so I figured—”

“That’s where you’re wrong, bucko. That boat burned at sea, as far as I’m concerned. And I don’t care where it was towed—or by whom. It’s federal jurisdiction. This entire matter has nothing to do with my department. You want DNA work? Go talk to the feds.”

“Come on, Al, the FBI won’t do this kind of thing for a PI, and you know it. All I want to know is: Whose blood did I lift? It may be nothing—a boating accident, no more. But where’s the harm in checking? At least get me a male/female readout.”

Lever sighed, smashed out his cigarette, leaned back in his chair, and placed his hands behind his head. “You never give up, do you, Polly—Crates? A shame you didn’t stay on the force. We need cops like you.” Then, almost to himself, he added, “Damn shame about the Peppers … Tom’s a solid citizen. He’s been real good for this burg.” After that, Al resumed his gruff demeanor.

“Where’d this stuff come from, anyway? Not off the Orion, because I looked her over … On my own time … Hell, a celebrity goes to Davy Jones’s locker … In Buzzards Bay …” He shrugged. “What can I say, it piques your interest. I’ve even watched that ‘soap’ on occasion … And, yeah, before you ask me … I also took a gander at those photos in that tabloid … Some looker …”

Rosco chuckled. “A gander, Al?”

“Hey, come on, Polly—Crates, you know how it is … The wife buys one of those rags at the supermarket … It’s lyin’ there on the kitchen counter—”

“Uh-huh …”

But Al was not to be bested. “You gotta get yourself a wife, buddy, if you don’t believe me.”

Rosco’s thoughts inadvertently leaped to Belle. He couldn’t imagine her purchasing supermarket tabloids, but then there were facets to her personality he hadn’t yet discovered. “I had a wife, Al, if you remember.”

“Two years don’t count. It’s like a trial run. A ‘starter marriage’—like the comics say.” Lever lit up again and immediately started hacking. “Besides,” he wheezed, “that was a long time ago.”

When the coughing attack had subsided, Rosco said, “I took the samples from the boat that hauled in the Orion.”

Lever sat up straighter in his chair. “So?”

“So, I thought you might be interested.”

The answer was a grudging: “I’m all ears, Polly—Crates. But make it snappy. This isn’t a social gathering.”

Rosco chortled again. Despite the curt response, he knew he had a fish on the line. He began sharing what he knew about the Dixie-Jack charter, Ed Colberg, and the disappearance of Stingo and Quick. Rosco omitted Pepper’s run-in with the Coast Guard—and Belle’s bizarre crossword puzzle. He sensed quotations from Shakespeare might stretch the limits of Al’s patience—or imagination. After Rosco had finished, Lever picked up the manila envelope and tapped it thoughtfully in the palm of his hand.

“So, what are you saying?” he asked.

“I’m saying that something’s fishy, Al. And I’d like your help. Just have your lab identify whether the blood’s male or female—how’s that?”

“I can’t buck the FBI. I have no jurisdiction here, Rosco. Besides, even if I prioritize this, it would take Abe over a week to get me any lab results. This holds no priority over his backlog. You know that as well as anyone.”

Rosco groaned and slid the envelope back into his jacket.

“You’re making too much out of this, Polly—Crates. Colberg’s not stupid enough to scuttle a boat and risk a manslaughter charge while he’s at it. Especially not with a TV star on board. You’ve investigated him before. You know that he’s slicker than that.”

“Uh-huh … Well, thanks, Al. I’ll see ya around. Maybe play some handball like old times …”

Rosco stood and walked to the door, but before he could reach for the knob, Lever’s phone rang.

“Yeah. Lever here.”

Rosco watched him listening intently for a second or two, then turned to the door.

“Hold on a minute, Polly—Crates.” Lever had the receiver cupped in his left hand. With his right hand, he indicated for Rosco to wait, then hurriedly scribbled notes on a pad of paper, said a terse “Got it,” and hung up the phone.

“What was that all about?” Rosco asked.

“Someone found the Orion’s tender washed up on Munnatawket Beach.”

Rosco smiled, and tossed the manila envelope back onto Lever’s desk. “Sounds like it’s your jurisdiction, Al.”