The Crossword Murder (6 page)

At precisely three, the lieutenant stepped off the elevator and smiled. “Why doesn't it surprise me to find you here early?”

Rosco shrugged.

“I'll get Carlyle. He's got to open up for us.”

The three men walked the length of a musty corridor, then passed through a set of double doors that swung heavily on their hinges.

Rosco had been in the morgue a hundred times before, but he never got used to it. The drop in temperature alone was enough to make his blood freeze. Everything was stainless steel: the four examination tables, cabinets, sinks, everything. The room had the threatening glint of a cutlery store. As they walked in, Carlyle's assistant, Estelle, was in the process of running a scalpel down the center of a dead woman's chest—throat to navel. The ash-blue skin peeled back like a sausage casing. The cadaver had been drained; there was no blood. Rosco thought Estelle looked disappointed.

Along the far wall were body bins. Four rows of twenty-five. A hundred drawers in all. Each was stainless steel, with a handle and a slot for the name of the current occupant. Rosco was amazed at how many bins were full. Over twenty of them had nametags.

“Why so busy?” Rosco asked Carlyle.

“We've got four unclaimed; other than that, no more than normal for a heat wave. Read the obits, Polly—Crates. People die all the time.”

Rosco was surprised at Carlyle's surliness, but he guessed the M.E. didn't like people double-checking his work.

“Briephs is over here. Number eighteen.” Carlyle slid the large drawer out and pulled back a pale blue sheet, revealing the deceased's head and chest. “You want to see the whole thing?”

Lever looked at Rosco. “Well?”

“You tell me, Al. I can see the marks on his neck.” Rosco glanced at the M.E.

“I've got work to do. Let me know when you're finished here.” Carlyle turned and headed back to his office, having no desire to discuss his sketchy report.

“Well, Al, anything below the waist?”

“These are the only marks.”

“How'd you find him? Faceup? Or down?”

“Up.”

“And tied?” Rosco lifted Thompson's arm. “Nothing on the wrists?”

“Carlyle says that type of abrasion wouldn't necessarily show … Especially if he was tied up voluntarily. Heart attack, like he says. This sort of thing happens quick. They don't struggle. It's his contention Briephs' heart stopped beating before the oxygen supply was cut off.”

“What's with Carlyle, anyway? He's not usually so disagreeable.”

“Maybe he doesn't like people second-guessing him.”

Rosco lifted Briephs' head and took a closer look at his neck. “‘Respiratory and heart failure due to exertion and extenuating circumstances' leaves a lot of room for second-guessing … Estelle, could you come here for a minute?”

She left her cadaver and ambled toward the two men. In the cold glare her face looked ghoulish and gray. “Yes?”

“What's your read on this one?” Rosco asked.

“We try not to contradict one another here, Mr. Polycrates. You'll have to check the official report … You're no longer with the department.” She strolled back to her work.

Rosco shook his head. “She's a big help … Al, look at his neck closely. Ten'll get you twenty this guy was nailed from behind.”

“So.”

“So … If he was strangled from behind, why'd you find him faceup?”

“The girl turns him over,” Lever said as though he were talking to a five-year-old. “It doesn't take a genius to figure that out. She doesn't believe she actually killed the poor schmo and she turns him over for a look-see. Then she panics and reties him … Maybe it's not even a girl. Maybe it's a guy. Who knows what Briephs was into …? Drop it, Rosco. Why drag the family through the gutter? You're making this out to be something it isn't.”

“I don't like it. How much pull does this Bulldog Roth character have down here?”

This struck a nerve with the lieutenant. “Don't push your luck with me, fella. If I thought there was something to investigate, I'd be on it. Nobody tells my department what to do.”

“I'm still going to check it out.”

“Well, start down in the district, start with Congress Street. My money says you find your answers there … Unless it was a boy-boy thing. But, check on them, too. Have a ball.”

“No,” Rosco said as he slid Briephs' body back into the wall, “I'm going to look around his house first.”

Lever began coughing. It seemed to go on for nearly a full minute. “I'll have one of my men take you on the police launch,” he eventually squeezed out. “I don't like my crime scenes agitated.”

Rosco smiled. “Don't bother, Al … I can get there on my own hook. Besides, you know what they say: If there ain't no crime … there ain't no crime scene.”

CHAPTER 8

R
OSCO
REFUSED TO
admit he was a landlubber—not after thirty-eight years as a native in a water-mad city like Newcastle. But the fact was he couldn't set foot on a boat without turning green and panting like a dying fish. Peter Kingsworth, Patriot Yacht Club's harbormaster, who was now ferrying Rosco to Windword Islands in the club launch, noticed his passenger's discomfort immediately. “Not feeling too slick, are you, Rosco?” he shouted above the staccato rap of salt waves attacking the Fiberglas hull. Peter was the square-shouldered, sun-bronzed descendant of a long line of Massachusetts fishermen. He had no use for men who couldn't tie a sheepshank or half hitch. He revved the launch's engine; the boat lunged forward while Rosco lurched against the gunwale. “I'll have you there in no time.” Peter beamed. To Rosco the smile looked less than consoling.

As the launch cut a wide rooster-plume of spray and circled toward Windword's pier, he had the sensation of being watched by a second pair of very amused eyes. He glanced at the pier as Belle Graham called down, “I hope you don't mind my joining you. I couldn't help myself.” Her long tan legs dangled over the dock's side, and her hair blew white-gold in the sunlight.

“Tell me you didn't bring deviled eggs.” Rosco wasn't certain if he was happy to see her or not.

“Not a one.” Belle reached out and offered Rosco a surprisingly strong grasp that helped pull him to safety. “I see you're not accustomed to water travel.”

“It shows?” The question contained more than a little wounded pride.

“I'm Peter,” Kingsworth called out.

Rosco's nemesis leapt agilely onto the pier, securing the launch's twin lines with a quick, professional ease.

“Belle.”

“Glad to meet you, Belle.” The amperage in Peter's grin could have been used to signal battleships. “How come I've never seen you at the yacht club?”

“Because my little boat and I are much more comfortable at the public marina. Nothing personal, Peter, it's just closer to home.”

Rosco decided that if the ocean's swells hadn't made him puke, the continued presence of the harbormaster might. “Since I'm here with professional jurisdiction,” he announced more stiffly than he'd intended, “Peter, you'll have to wait with the official vehicle … launch … vessel … whatever … Belle … well …” Rosco watched humor playing in the shadows of her face, and was suddenly conscious of a genetic need to impress her. “You can accompany me. You may be able to supply answers about Briephs' business practices.”

“Aye aye, sir.” She smiled.

Rosco imagined the expression gracing Peter's sunny countenance as well. He studiously avoided glancing in the harbormaster's direction.

The inside of Windword came as a shock to both visitors.

“I had no idea …” Belle whispered. “I'd heard it was an almost exact replication, but not like this … Not—”

As their eyes grew accustomed to the dim and umbrous light, Rosco and Belle moved slowly forward into the foyer. High, curved walls stained a mottled bloodred gave the impression of entering a man-made cave, while variously shaped doorways lured the eye toward a murky, invisible interior. At the same time, the baked-in heat of the rocky exterior vanished completely, leaving the stone and stuccoed walls cool to the point of chilliness.

“Not like what?” Instinctively, Rosco moved close to Belle's side as if she needed protection.

“Well, look at these rounded surfaces … look at the variations of shading … as if ancient pigments were used, cinnabar, perhaps and annatto … and the bronze torchères … the chiseled stone floor … the ceiling.” Belle gaped at the tall space above her head. “This must be an exact replica.”

“A replica of what?”

“A royal residence built during the period of the Minoan civilization.” Rosco's blank gaze made her hurry to explain. “A Bronze Age culture centered on the island of Crete … It began in 3,000 B.C. or thereabouts, reaching its pinnacle about the time of the Middle Kingdom in Egypt—that's pre-ancient Greece … A favorite form of entertainment focused on bulls frolicking with half-clothed athletes.” When Rosco continued to stare, she added. “Crete is in the Aegean … near Greece.”

“Thank you. My name's Polycrates, in case you'd forgotten.”

“So, I'm to assume you have the rest of this information at your fingertips? King Minos … the Minotaur … Daedalus and the Labyrinth at Knossos … Theseus …?”

Rosco's silence prompted a half-joking “Please spare me any displays of the male ego.”

“You're telling me this place is a scaled-down version of one of those ancient castles?”

“That's what my husband told me … I found it hard to believe anyone would—or could—replicate a Minoan royal residence in Newcastle. But from what I've seen so far, Garet was correct in his assessment.”

They moved up a half flight of rough-hewn granite steps and began traversing a dark, windowless passage. Open doorways led into shadowed rooms. The pervasive crimson and ebony color scheme reminded Rosco of an artist's conception of hell. “But you've never been here before, correct? Your husband was invited, and you weren't … Why is that?”

“Thompson's entertainments were strictly stag events.”

“Lever told me he picked up prostitutes when he needed a special treat.”

“Did he now?” was all Belle replied.

“I'm not insinuating your … I mean … Never mind.”

Belle's lack of response further flustered Rosco. “I'm only repeating what Lever said. I didn't know Briephs, of course.”

“Nor did I,” Belle answered after a moment. “Not enough to count.”

They pressed forward, following a corridor that twisted one way, then another, seemingly wrapping back on itself while floor tiles of the same
ombréd
, carnelian red echoed and enhanced the spiral. Rosco felt he was walking in circles and said so.

“That's the brilliance of the architect's vision,” Belle told him. “It must be the Labyrinth—or a modern-day version.”

“The Labyrinth's the place this Minotaur guy ruled?”

“No, Minos was the king. The Minotaur was a creature who was supposedly half-human and half-bull; he was reputed to be an offspring of King Minos' wife, Pasiphaë.”

“That stuff's a little racy for me. I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy.”

“And Greek, as I recall.” Belle grinned in the pale light. “The tale gets worse … The Minotaur was confined in a mazelike, underground arena called the Labyrinth; the place was designed by an imprisoned Greek architect named Daedalus—the father of Icarus, the boy who flew too close to the sun. But that's another story … Anyway, this man-beast combination was periodically supplied with a selection of handsome Athenian youths and lovely maidens: tribute due the island kingdom following a war between Greece and Crete. Presumably, the young people who found an exit from the Labyrinth did so; the rest were never seen again.”

“I'm not crazy about stories involving sexual abuse of minors, I never was.”

“You must have made a squeamish cop.”

Rosco looked at Belle. She wasn't smiling in the slightest.

“Some of us get out of the force with our morals intact.”

Belle's expression remained pensive. After a moment, she continued: “Well, I don't believe the Minotaur myth revolves around sex. The monster was supposed to eat the youths.”

“Ah, well.” Rosco shrugged. “That's okay, then.”

Belle touched his arm. “It's a myth, a fairy tale … But the legend does inform many of the ways archaeologists study the ancient culture. The Minoan civilization was fixated on bulls, as well as on beautiful young men sporting long ringlets—and their counterparts: voluptuous, bare-breasted girls in gauzy skirts … I'm sure we can find an example of the type of artwork I'm referring to in Thompson's collection. I've heard he has several pieces that are downright lubricious … smutty.”

“I know what ‘lubricious' means.”

Belle smiled but didn't speak.

They climbed the stone stairs to the master suite, where the sight of Briephs' recreational-sized bed, to which four nylon stockings were still tied, made Belle grimace in disgust. The indentation made by the body was still in evidence. Rosco moved cautiously around the scene, studying everything without disturbing a speck of dust. Belle kept her distance as though her feet had sprouted roots.

“I see why someone like Lever would arrive at his assessment,” Rosco muttered.

His words jolted Belle into reacting. “Those are awfully thick stockings,” she mumbled.

Rosco scrutinized one, without touching it. “What are you saying?”

“They're thick and they're ugly … Bargain-basement support hose … the kind old ladies buy.”

“Well, maybe Briephs liked to be tied up extra tight.”

Belle considered this; Rosco could see how repellent she found the suggestion—and the place. He began wondering if he'd been wise to allow her to join him. Death had a tendency to color the air long after the body had been removed. The scene wasn't for the uninitiated.