A Crossword to Die For (27 page)

But before Rosco could pose another question, Mike added a subdued: “Deb … She didn't know anything about what Ted was doing …”

Rosco continued to stare. “Meaning that you … that you and Professor Graham kept his research on MTBE contamination a secret? Meaning that Rachel's also in the dark.”

“Right … He didn't want to scare them before he had better data.”

Rosco could only shake his head. “How could you not talk to your wife?”

“I don't want to discuss this, okay?” Mike almost yelled. “I mean, maybe I did the wrong thing. Maybe Ted did the wrong thing. But it's too late now, isn't it? Nothing's going to bring my Debbie back. It's over.”

The fierceness in the tone told Rosco to back off. He took a deep breath. “You're right. Nothing will change what happened. But Ted was trying to help Debbie … help her family—”

“I don't want to talk about her,
okay
?”

Rosco moved to sit next to him, but stopped. Instead he placed the water bottle on the bench and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Mike, I know how broken up you're feeling. I do … But don't you see, the companies that cause this type of pollution—in this case, Savante—have an enormous amount to lose. If they need to keep a secret, keep people quiet, what does it matter if innocent people—”

Mike jumped up. “I told you, I don't want to listen to this! And I wish Ted had never stuck his nose in here where it didn't belong. All this hero stuff. Change the world? That's not me. That's never going to be me. Besides, what difference does it make anymore?”

“I understand your feelings, Mike. Believe me … But it
does
make a difference … You can't bring Debbie back. But you can help other people. You especially … Coast Guard personnel. A good-looking guy facing a terrible loss … You have a level of credibility, of trust and honesty, that isn't afforded to most people … If you don't want to talk about it now, fine. But don't turn your back on this one, Mike. There's too much at stake … Besides, you know how much the media loves those DEA ops you guys do … criminals brought to justice? This is just another battle front—”

“DEA? DEA? Where do you get that? I'm not some … some agent. I run drug
tests
. I test bags of white powder to determine if they're cocaine, heroin … whatever. That's what I do. I told you I'm not a hero, and I'm not some secret agent waving a gun. I'm a chemical engineer.”

CHAPTER 35

“You're a chemical engineer?” Rosco made no attempt to hide his surprise. His brain jumped to his discussion with Belle:
The obscure crossword puzzle answers, the HCN/prussic acid/hydrocyanic acid debate
—
and her insistence that only a chemical engineer would be familiar with those terms
.

“Then it was
you
who constructed the puzzles.” Rosco stared dumbfounded at Mike. “And sent them to Belle …”

Mike remained silent, so Rosco continued, “But how were you able to transmit them from Belize?”

“I don't know what you're talking about—”

“THREE MAY KEEP A SECRET IF TWO OF THEM—” Rosco was interrupted by the ringing of the cell phone clipped to his waist. “Arrrgh,” he groaned. “I have to take this …” He paced rapidly along the creek bank until he was out of earshot, then flipped open his phone. “Rosco Polycrates.”

“This is John Markoe, Mr. Polycrates. I apologize for not getting back to you sooner, but my Amtrak schedule can be erratic—”

“Yes …John … Thanks for returning my call.” Rosco spoke slowly and carefully, using the time to refocus. “There are a couple of points I hope you can clear up.”

“Shoot.”

“This is back on August thirteenth, the day you discovered Dr. Graham's body—?”

“Yes, sir. I'm not likely to forget that one. No, siree-bob—”

“My wife and I believe he was in possession of a blue box—or an unusual type of suitcase. Does that ring a bell?”

There was a pause, then Markoe said, “That's a tough one; I'm not sure I can recall exactly …”

“We're fairly certain he had it when he boarded the train, but it didn't appear among the effects forwarded from Boston.”

“No … Sorry … I can't say I remember seeing anything like that. That doesn't mean he
didn't
have luggage matching that description, but you'd think I would have seen it if he had it—”

“I see. Well, thank you—”

“Now, that other message you left: wanting to know what the gentleman was drinking? That I can tell you.”

“And …?”

“It was peach nectar.”

Rosco glanced back at the bench and Mike Hurley. “You're sure of that?”

“Absolutely. See, I thought it was a little odd, because we don't sell that type of fruit juice on board. I mean, well, maybe it's not so odd … Now, obviously the professor could have brought it with him … Myself, I'm a peach nectar junkie. That's why I remember it.”

“Is there a possibility the empty container might still be around?”

“I'd sincerely doubt it. The police left it on the train when they removed the body, so I tossed it.”

Rosco thought for a second. “You don't recall anyone sitting with my wife's father, do you?”

“The train was fairly crowded that day. I'm sure someone occupied the seat—at least for part of the ride … But to be honest, I couldn't provide any type of description—”

“Could it have been a man wearing a Yankees hat?”

Another hearty chuckle. “Those hats are all over the train this time of year! Everyone in the world's a Yankees fan by the time Labor Day rolls around.”

Rosco resisted the temptation to say,
Don't count on it
, instead closing with, “I appreciate your help, John.”

He snapped the phone shut and clipped it back onto his belt on the right side.
Prussic acid smells like peach nectar
, he thought as his brain leapt to the crosswords and Mike.
A chemical engineer
… Instinctively Rosco tapped the left side of his belt, expecting to find a .32 caliber pistol, but he found nothing. He wasn't licensed to carry a gun in New Jersey; he'd left it in Massachusetts. He squared his shoulders and walked back along the creek.

“That was an interesting call,” he said as he approached. “John Markoe, an Amtrak conductor … his memory's sharp as a tack. He was aboard when Professor Graham died … It seems he recalls a strong odor of something that smells like peach nectar.”

Mike brought his eyes up to meet Rosco's. “Look, I already told you: I don't want to discuss this subject anymore. What happened to Ted Graham has nothing to do with me.”

Rosco nodded. “Well, all I'm asking for is a little help here … You just told me that you're a chemical engineer. Now, in a discussion with the Medical Examiner up in Newcastle, he ran through a number of poisons that could have been used to … Well, substances that might produce an
appearance
of heart failure. One of them was hydrocyanic acid, also known as prussic acid or hydrogen cyanide … Seems like it smells a lot like peach nectar.”

“What are you getting at?”

“In your estimation, is that a substance that can kill people?”

“I suppose.”

“A good chance, would you say? I mean, given a large dosage, easy to camouflage, and all that?”

“I'd have to look it up.”

Rosco nodded thoughtfully. “All right … Well, let me ask you something else. When Ted died, you and Deb … you were in Florida, right? Eh, it's a matter of record.”

Mike remained icily still for a moment, then finally said, “No. I was up here. I told you, my work brings me up North a lot.” His voice grew softer. “Debbie was in Sanibel.”

“But she flew up to see her aunt right after Belle left Florida?”

“That's right.”

“Because she wanted to find Ted's missing notebook.”

Mike started visibly. “What do you mean?”

“Rachel told Belle that Deb looked high and low for it … turned the house upside down—”

“But that doesn't make any sense … I mean, she told me … she said it was his bird-watching book. Why would she need to get it back?”

“Maybe because she knew all about Ted's research into MTBE contamination. Maybe because she knew how crucial his discoveries were. Maybe she believed there was a case against Savante.”

Mike didn't reply. He shut his eyes. A long sigh seemed to shake his frame.

“So, here we have a peculiar situation,” Rosco continued. “A husband whose wife's boss shared potentially dangerous data with him—with the stipulation that the data be kept secret. And a wife who was keeping the
same
information hidden from her husband. Doesn't that seem foolish to you? Two people who ‘told each other everything,' according to you?”

Again, Mike made no reply.

“Now, my guess is that Debbie was
deeply
involved with Ted's efforts regarding her family and the Tollivers—”

“But she never … She never—”

“She never confided those concerns to you?”

Mike's head sank lower. “No.”

Rosco remained silent a moment. “You may be interested to know that John Markoe just told me he remembered a guy sitting next to Ted—a guy wearing a Yankees cap … He said he can provide a description. I told him to contact the Boston Police.” Rosco paused, waiting for a reaction that didn't come. “He also said that the police in Boston are holding several items in sealed evidence bags. One of which is an empty individual-sized can of peach nectar—which is a fruit juice Amtrak doesn't sell in its café car.”

“Why didn't she tell me?” was all Mike said in response.

“You mean about the data Ted was collecting on the MTBE situation?”

Mike nodded. Once.

“The data you discovered when you took that same notebook from Ted on August thirteenth?” Rosco continued to gaze down at Mike's bent form. “How much did Carl Oclen pay you to kill Ted Graham?”

Mike didn't make a move.

“Dr. Graham was trying to help you, Mike. You and Debbie and Rachel—”

“Help us?” Mike's neck snapped upward. “Help us? Since when does stealing a man's wife away from him constitute help?
Oh, Ted's so smart, Mike … He's so clever … He's like a genius … blah, blah, blah
… She never stopped talking about him. Not once.”

Rosco could do nothing but stare in disbelief. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You mean Oclen—?”

“I don't know any damn Oclen.”

“So, Oclen had nothing to do with—?”

Mike's face had turned an ugly red. He glared up at Rosco, who was left stammering a dumbfounded:

“You mean
you
murdered Theodore Graham because you thought that he and Debbie …? But he was close to forty years older than she was—”

“Since when doesn't that happen? Old guys preying on younger—”

“No. Not in this case. I'd put money on it.”

“I know … I know that now …”

Rosco shook his head while Mike's voice exploded:

“The damn notebook! I thought it contained … I don't know … something incriminating … love notes or something … but all I found were references to contaminated wells, diesel leaks, people getting sick, people dying—” Mike's voice broke; his chest shook with a soundless sob. “I thought he was taking my wife away from me … But Debbie … Why didn't she tell me what they were up to?”

Rosco waited a long moment before speaking again. “What about the train tickets? The rental car agreement?”

“I didn't want anyone snooping around New Jersey—”

“So you stole the blue box, too?”

“It's in the house.”

“And the peach nectar?”

“Deb told me about that … when she first started working there …
Ted's favorite beverage. Oh, he can't get enough
, she used to say … It wasn't hard to add the HCN.” Mike put his fists against his head. His grief was so absolute, he seemed incapable of thought or action.

Finally, Rosco said, “I've got to take you in, Mike. You know that, don't you?”

Mike stood, his body hunched and hopeless. “I know.”

Rosco stepped up behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Without warning, Mike whipped his left elbow skyward, slamming it into Rosco's ribcage, then plowed into him shoulder to shoulder. Rosco pitched backward toward the creek, regained his balance at the edge of the embankment, but Mike was already on him. He landed a hard right to Rosco's jaw, and sent him sprawling down the bank into the shallow water.

It took Rosco a good thirty seconds to lift his head from the rocky stream bed, then he half crawled, half stumbled up to dry land. When he got there, Mike was already opening the driver's side door to Rachel's car. By the time Rosco pulled his cell phone from his belt, Mike was gone.

Rosco punched in 9-1-1 and provided a description of the car and driver to the dispatcher—along with Mike's name. His friends on the police force would have to confront their own sense of duty—and allegiance. Rosco trusted they were professionals. He then knelt to wipe the mud from his soaking trousers and walked toward the Volsay house … And Belle.

CHAPTER 36

Rosco's cell phone beeped with a tone that sent shivers down the spines of every customer seated in the subterranean cocktail lounge of Princeton's Nassau Inn. Those perched at the horseshoe-shaped bar turned and shot contemptuous stares toward the corner table where he sat with Belle and Marie-Claude, while the muted conversations of other patrons ceased altogether as they swung in their padded leather chairs to ascertain the identity of the low-class individual who'd broken one of the cardinal—but unspoken—rules of their private domain. Cell phones, beepers, and other outward manifestations of the “information age” were not welcome in this firmly antediluvian haunt.