CHAPTER 14

AT SEVEN A.M. Rosco’s clock radio woke him with twenty seconds of blaring electronic buzz and then switched over to Imus in the Morning. The I-Man was just a little too cheery for Rosco, so he flipped it off and headed for the bathroom and a hasty shower and shave. After downing a quick cup of coffee, he found himself in the front seat of his Jeep and on his way over to Captain’s Walk to meet Belle.

Last night’s dinner had left him with a good deal of energy, but the journey to the red-light district had proved exhausting and he’d managed only four hours sleep because of it. Trips to Congress Street and the Newcastle Strip had always been unpleasant for Rosco, and the previous evening’s excursion had been no exception. The thought that women, and men, found it necessary to sell their bodies to sustain themselves never failed to leave him in a funk. A funk that would ultimately wear at him for a day or two.

In most of his other cases—cases involving Congress Street or the Strip—it had been simply a matter of checking on some husband who’d been unfaithful, or a child suspected of drug abuse by a concerned parent, or a disappearance. In these situations he’d merely observe. It was rare that he’d have to talk to the women and men who earned a living there. But last night had been different. For over three hours he’d talked to every girl who worked the street. Some had been more helpful than others. Some he remembered from his days with the Newcastle police. Everyone had been aware of Thompson Briephs, his lifestyle and his death.

Briephs had apparently become quite a regular in the district within the past few years. At least eight women had been guests at his island home. The talkative ones told Rosco it wasn’t unusual for them to go out to Windword in groups of two or more; typically there would be “party boys” from the Strip there as well. Often Briephs would structure weekend long orgies where his visitors would romp through his mazelike house, indulging in the kinkiest sexual practices with whomever they happened to meet. Rosco also learned that not all Briephs’ guests were professionals. Some of Newcastle’s more prominent citizens, men and women, would show up at these gatherings, but the streetwalkers refused to name names. As expected, all the ladies of the night had strong alibis for the evening in question.

Rosco had opted not to check with the party boys on the Strip. By the time he’d finished with the girls it was close to three A.M. He was tired, and he’d doubted many men would be left on the street. Most would have headed off to the Lily Club—a place Rosco didn’t relish exploring. He’d do it another time.

As he waited for a traffic signal to turn green he found his mind returning to his dinner with Belle, and a warm, somewhat crooked smile formed on his lips. His time on Congress Street had only served to make him feel empty and lonely, and he was looking forward to seeing her again. Her energy and spirit were contagious.

Dammit, he thought, why are all the good ones married?

He shook his head, watched the light turn green and said aloud, “Such is life, Bucko.”

When he reached Captain’s Walk he was ten minutes early. He double-parked in front of Belle’s house, put on his emergency flashers and pulled yesterday’s edition of the Herald out from under the Jeep’s small rear seat. He went directly to the blank crossword puzzle and filled in two of the answers Belle had given him the day before: THOMPSON BRIEPHS, number 35 across the middle, and AFTERNOON DEATHS, 52 across the bottom. It was only then that he realized that all the daily puzzles must be fifteen letters square. Rosco stared at the puzzle for nearly five minutes but only managed to fill in one other answer: AGAL, for 1-Across, I want ______. He shook his head, tossed the paper onto the backseat, strolled up the walk and knocked on Belle’s door.

“You’re early,” she said in an overly businesslike tone.

“And a good morning to you, too.”

“You said you’d be here at eight. It’s seven fifty-five … Did you pick up this morning’s Herald on your way?”

“Was I supposed to? I mean, we’re going to their offices, aren’t we? They have them free in the lobby.”

Belle let out a sigh.

“I somehow feel I’ve missed something here. Can I come in? Or should I wait in the Jeep?”

“Perhaps that’s best.”

“Okey-dokey.” Rosco walked back to the Jeep, and Belle joined him ten minutes later.

“How was last night?” she asked after fastening her seat belt.

“I had a great time, Belle. I was glad to get to know you a little better. However, I’m still not convinced the answer to this case will be found in a dead man’s puzzles … Sorry.”

“I’m not talking about that, and you know it.” Her words sounded oddly strangled. She hated to admit how uncomfortable she felt knowing that Rosco had spent the better part of the night with the women of Congress Street.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about after dinner. How did you fare with the ladies of the evening?” Belle most definitely stressed fare and then silently cursed herself for doing so.

But Rosco was unaware of her self-criticism. “I fared extremely well, thanks. Saw a lot of old friends. Kind of like a party down there the more I think on it.”

Belle crossed her arms over her chest and looked straight ahead.

Rosco U-turned into traffic and continued, “Anyway—and I don’t know why I’m telling you this—I guess it’s because I like you, because by rights none of it is any of your business, but it seems that Briephs spent a lot of time cruising Congress Street … Also the Strip.”

“You went to the Strip last night, too?”

“No, the girls wore me out. I’ll check on the boys tonight.”

“Well, have fun. That’s all I can say.”

Rosco was silent for a minute, then finally said, “Actually it’s depressing, Belle.” He cleared his throat. “It’s depressing and exhausting, and the worst part of this job. Believe it or not, it’s worse than going to the morgue—at least it’s over for them … You never want to have to visit Congress, believe me. The people down there are in trouble, and there’s not a soul in the world who’s going to help them out.”

He was quiet again, and Belle was tempted to put her hand on his as it rested on the Jeep’s gearshift. But she didn’t.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat once more, “the point is, I didn’t find out much of anything … Some of the girls have been on the street since I was with the department. And I think they’d confide in me if they knew something … So, I’m no longer buying Lever’s hooker scenario. These girls wouldn’t have the first idea how to get off that island on their own. That became obvious last night. Whoever killed Briephs has a boat. It’s the only answer.”

“Or Peter Kingsworth ferried them.”

Rosco gave her a sideways glance that caused the Jeep to veer toward oncoming traffic.

“All right,” Belle said, “Scratch Peter. Charon, the boatman bearing souls across the River Styx.”

“Greek mythology … I know. I’m not as dumb as I look.”

“The expression is ‘I’m not as dumb as you look.’”

“If you’re ten years old, it is.”

“I didn’t learn it until I was fifteen!”

“Too much ivory tower.”

They both laughed, the ice broken. Belle was the first to resume the discussion. “But your assumption eliminates no one. Everyone in Newcastle has a boat. I have a boat. The mayor has a boat. Even the Senator has a boat.”

“I don’t.”

“Yes, but you’re odd.”

Rosco looked at Belle. The full force of the rising sun flooded her face, and she was forced to squint to return his glance. Her smile seemed warmer than the sunlight; it made her appear angelic.

“You’re odd,” she repeated.

He smiled back and said, “Thank you.”

After five or six minutes Rosco eased the Jeep into a parking spot around the corner from the Herald’s front entrance. As Belle searched through her purse for meter change Rosco reached under the front seat and removed a small red canvas bag.

“I’ll get this,” he said, hopping out and placing the canvas bag over the meter. On it was printed: Meter out of order. Your parking courtesy of the Newcastle P.D. Have a nice day.

“Where did you get that?” Belle asked with obvious envy in her voice. “I want one.”

“Actually the city hasn’t used them in years, but I don’t think the meter readers have caught on yet.”

As they began walking toward the corner an ambulance raced through the traffic signal, lights flashing, and siren shrieking at a level intended to wake people in Boston or even Albany.

“Jeez,” Belle said as she moved her hands to her ears. “You wouldn’t think that much noise was necessary, would you?”

From reflex, Rosco stopped and watched the ambulance pass. About three-quarters of the way down the block it slowed and ducked into the Herald’s underground parking structure. Rosco stood silently for a moment.

“What?” Belle asked.

“I’m debating whether to go see what’s up. Old police habits don’t die easy.”

The sound of another siren pulled their attention back to the intersection. It came from a tan four-door sedan, obviously an unmarked police car, with a red flasher slapped onto its roof. As it sped by, Rosco recognized a familiar face behind the wheel.

“Al,” he muttered.

“Lever?”

“That’s right … Look, Belle, I’ll meet you in the Herald lobby. I’m going to check this out.” Rosco sprinted off toward the garage entrance, leaving Belle alone on the sidewalk.