CHAPTER 28

Abe Jones once again used the flat side of the knife to slide the dried and powdery blood he’d scraped from the seven-month-old old Boston Sentinel off his examining table and into a fresh evidence bag. Belle tossed her red Bic pen back into her purse. Racing to complete the crossword, combined with a lack of sleep and too much black coffee, had weakened her knees. She dropped onto the stool next to Al Lever’s and allowed her head to sag onto her shoulders.

“Well, it sure as hell wasn’t designed as a message to me, was it?” Lever said as he studied the newspaper. “What do we have here? BELL STARR, BELLE DE JOUR at 3-Down, THE BELL JAR, 45-Across BELLISSIMA, WEDDING BELL at 28-Down, and TINKER BELL … We’d better call that editor you mentioned at the Sentinel, Belle. Whether this crossword is connected to the murders or not, I want to know who’s fixated on you.”

Belle stood and walked to Abe Jones’s desk. She reached for the telephone as she plunked herself down in his office chair. “Do I need to dial nine to get an outside line?”

“Yes.”

Belle allowed Boston Information to connect her directly to the Sentinel, feeling she no longer had enough energy to write down the number.

“Yes,” she said to the Sentinel operator, “Could you connect me to Arthur Simon? … It’s Belle Graham calling … Thank you.” While waiting for Simon’s line to ring, she looked at Lever. “Al, could you bring me that newspaper, please? Or call out the date.”

Lever ferried the paper to Belle and rejoined Jones at the examining table. “This is tough on her,” he said sotto voce.

“It’s tough on us all,” Abe responded quietly. “You try to be hardheaded in these situations, keep the macho guard up—especially for Belle’s sake—but Rosco’s close to all of us. It’s not going to be a pretty picture if we don’t locate him.… And I mean soon.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Are you planning to contact Boston PD?”

“I don’t know yet.” Lever rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll wait and see what she discovers.… But, to be honest, with all these soil samples you lifted, I don’t think our answer’s in Boston. If anything, I’ll be calling in the State Police. And, as much as I hate to say it, we’re looking at a kidnapping here, and possibly the crossing of state lines, so that means the feds.”

“Marvelous—”

“Sorry, did I interrupt something?” Belle asked as she replaced the phone in its cradle.

“Shop talk.… What did you find out?”

“Arthur Simon’s the puzzle editor at the Sentinel. That’s who I just spoke with.…” Belle took a deep breath as she placed the newspaper back on the examining table. “Your suspicions were correct, Abe, this puzzle and last Saturday’s were constructed by the same contributor; a man by the name of Zachary Taylor … just like the president. That name also appeared in one of the hand-drawn puzzles.”

“So, this guy’s up in Boston?” Lever asked.

“Not exactly. Simon’s been having trouble with this man for some time. It seems he submitted cryptics—good ones—but then became increasingly possessive, arguing over editing styles, et cetera. He’d actually started to become verbally abusive, and Simon began to fear this man’s emotions could engender physical violence.… To make a long story short, Simon severed his relationship with this Zachary Taylor a little over a week ago. Saturday’s crossword was the last Taylor constructed for the Sentinel.”

“This is our boy then!” Lever made no attempt to cover his excitement.

Belle answered him. “Maybe, Al. But we can’t be positive he’s the same person who targeted me with those two hand-drawn puzzles.”

“At this point, I don’t care, Belle. I want to talk to this guy, and I want to talk to him now. Does Simon know where to locate him?”

“All he’s got is a P.O. box in Boston … Back Bay section.… But there’s another interesting part. It seems Zachary Taylor was originally a history professor at Dartmouth … ‘released from his contract’ … no details given. At least, none to Arthur Simon, but I gather their phone conversations led Simon to believe Taylor had had some sort of mental breakdown.” Belle paused. “And we all know where Dartmouth is.”

Lever and Jones said, “New Hampshire,” in unison.

“So, do we go up there, Al?” Belle asked.

“No. Let me make some calls first. This guy has to be here in Newcastle. He knows your every move.”

“Unless Taylor’s got help,” Abe interjected. “We’ve got country mud, and we’ve got Newcastle—”

Belle interrupted. “I’ve got to get back to the Crier. I can’t miss this guy’s next contact.”

Lever held his arms up and out like a boxing referee. “Stop, stop, everyone stop. Belle, we have a serious stalker out there. Maybe two, if Abe’s suggestion is correct. You’re not going anywhere without me.”

“Al, you can’t do that! ‘No cops,’ that’s what I was told. Look, I can get to the Crier building alone.…”

Lever thought for a long minute, then said, “Okay. But you stay put until he calls. Afterward—” he wrote a phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to her—“you call me. Pronto. The dispatcher will find me, no matter where I am. Once you’re in the Crier building, I don’t want you to leave under any circumstances. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t need to make you promise, do I?”

“I’ll stay there, Al.”

“If he tells you to go somewhere, to make a move of any kind, you must check in with me first. I’m giving this guy one phone call, and that’s it. After that, I’m calling in the feds, and it’ll be a whole new ball of wax.” Lever glanced at his watch. “Okay, let’s go. You’ll take a cab. Don’t use your car. I’ll walk you to the side door.” He turned back to Jones. “Thanks, Abe, I’ll keep you posted.”

Belle stepped into her office and locked the door. She’d spent the better part of the taxi ride looking out through the rear window in an effort to determine if she was being followed. Nothing had seemed out of place. And when she’d reached the Crier building, she hadn’t noticed unusual pedestrians. The same had held true for the lobby and elevators. In fact, she’d been familiar with all the people she’d encountered.

Belle moved to the far wall and looked through the window at the bank building across the street and the For Rent sign in the upper windows, then brought her eyes down to rest on the bank itself. Since it was after three P.M., the branch was closed; the only movement came from a maintenance man pushing a vacuum cleaner over the dark blue carpet. Belle studied him but gleaned nothing from his behavior. One of the bank officers seemed to be working late at his computer terminal.

Two men, she thought; one nearby and one at a distance … Her gaze returned to the street. There was a dog-walker, a teenager with a skateboard, a pregnant mom pushing a stroller, a pizza-delivery guy. She refocused on the bank. The maintenance man was gone.

Then the phone rang. Belle nearly jumped out of her skin. “Belle Graham speaking.”

“Very nice, Bellisima. Very nice, indeed. On the first ring. Obviously you’ve been anticipating my call.”

“Where’s Rosco?”

“Let’s not rush, shall we? ‘The world is too much with us; late and soon …’ We’ll talk cryptics, first. ‘Stand by Your Man’? Nicely done. Witty. It just shows what a modicum of inspiration does for some people.”

Belle forced herself to calm down. Remain rational; find Rosco, she reminded herself. Keep Taylor talking, keep him on the line. He’ll have to reveal something eventually. “Old Rough and Ready …” she said in a slow drawl. “Is that who I’m speaking with?”

“Very good, mi bella! I’m impressed. Indeed, that was President Zachary Taylor’s nickname. Did your police friends help you identify me, or did you do it yourself?”

“I haven’t spoken to the police!”

“Oh, please. ‘Ask me no secrets, and I’ll tell you no lies.’”

“Where’s Rosco?” Belle said, trying to hide the desperation in her voice. “I’ve done everything you wanted.”

“I believe you’re right, Bella, it’s time to move ahead. But first, you must admit that my puzzles were excellent … fully worthy of publication.”

“Look, Zachary … Mr. Taylor … Professor Taylor … I’ve spoken with Arthur Simon at the Sentinel. You need help. Tell me where you are … where Rosco is.… We can help you.”

“Simon? Hah, you two are growing more and more alike. The all-powerful editors! The gadflies! The mayflies! The ephemerid! You ignore history because you have so little real knowledge, so little respect and ardor for learning. You reference actors … actors … when you stumble upon a word like Jackson, Garfield, Grant, Washington … Ford. Not to mention Taylor! How many times must we suffer through sophomoric clues like: Elizabeth Blank? Is Old Rough and Ready too difficult? Did you know that during the Mexican War, Santa Ana had twenty thousand troops as opposed to—?”

“Listen, Professor Taylor, I—”

“Don’t interrupt me! You’ll speak when I say so, and not a moment before.”

There was a long silence. Eventually, Belle said, “Are you still there?”

“Yes. Where was I?”

“Presidents.”

“Presidents! No, I was discussing idiotic crossword editors! Your father was a professor, wasn’t he, Annabella? What does he feel about your chosen career?”

Belle felt chills run up and down her spine. Who was this man, and how long had he been an unseen part of her existence?

Taylor sighed into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry it’s turning out like this, Belle. It was not my original intention. You’re a beautiful woman. We could have worked well together.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come now, what do you imagine this entire exercise has been about?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then you’re far less clever than I’d given you credit for.”

“I—”

“You can’t be so dense as to believe that I—” Taylor stopped in midsentence. The line was quiet for a split second, and then Belle could hear sounds of a frenzied scuffle. “Professor Taylor!” she shouted into the phone. “Hello? Hello?”

The receiver fell. Belle heard it bang rhythmically back and forth. The fight it echoed seemed to escalate. “Professor Taylor?” she called out. “Hello?”

“Belle? Are you there?”

She frowned in utter confusion. “Al …? Is that you …? What are you—?”

Lever’s voice panted through the telephone line. “Downstairs … outside … Look through your window.… The pay phone … He was using the pay phone on the corner. Just like he did when he left that anonymous tip. Belle, we got him! It’s over. It’s all over, come on down.”

Belle walked to her window. At street level she saw three Newcastle police cars and Lever’s unmarked sedan. Four uniformed officers were standing over a prone man whose wrists had been handcuffed behind his back.

“But where’s Rosco?” she whispered into the silent air.