Wrapped Up in Crosswords (8 page)

“Hey, you want hangdog, I can do that. Should I march about with a sign reading ‘The End Is Near?'”

“I'm serious, Marth.”

“So am I. Life's too short to go around acting glum and gloomy.”

“I'm not talking about behaving in a dejected manner, I'm talking about sincerity.”

Martha put down the coffee carafe. Her customary flippant retort died on her lips; even her blonde, beehive hairdo seemed to crumple while something that could only be described as two tears filled her eyes.

“Because you
are
a sincere person, Marth,” Kenny continued in a softer tone. “And a caring one.”

Martha screwed up her eyes, shook her head, sniffed, and gave a dismissive shrug. “Caring, shmaring—”

“If you don't open your heart, how can you let people grow close to you?”

“Who says I want anyone to?”

“Everyone needs lovin', Marth,” he added.

“Which is why I got Princess,” Martha rejoined.

“Human beings require more than just a dog's affection.”

“Says you.”

“Says my wife.” Kenny smiled but didn't speak for a moment. Finally, he said, “I worry about you, Madam M … All your friends do; that's all I'm saying.”

“Well, you needn't bother. And you don't want to go spouting that nonsense around Princess, either. Talk about hurting someone's feelings. Good thing she didn't hear you.”

Nine

“T
HE
Staties must think we're those three idiots who broke out of the Suffolk County Jail.” Al Lever slowly rolled his head from side to side as he spoke. “That's the only explanation.”

All vehicles were still being diverted from route I-195 at the exits closest to the unmarked police van driven by the three hapless Santas. The seven Massachusetts State Police cruisers—along with the troopers who were maintaining a weapons-drawn stance—continued to hold their position. Traffic was now backed up for six miles in both north- and south-bound lanes, putting those drivers en route to some festive holiday shopping in less than joyous moods.

“One of those jokers was African-American?” Abe asked, removing his dark glasses. The gesture hinted at the fact that he thought this might reveal his true identity despite the snow-white beard, mustache, and wig he continued to wear.

“Yep.”

“This is what I get for hanging out with white guys. If I miss the Pats game because I'm sitting in the state police barracks lockup, I'm never speaking to either of you again.”

“Hey, come on, Abe,” Rosco said with a laugh, “remember, it's all for a good cause.”

“And rooting for the Pats isn't?”

“Not if you're from Tampa,” was Rosco's response.

“Ho, ho,” Lever tossed in, but his tone was mirthless.

“And another one was fat?” Abe continued. “This is too much.”

“Just knock it off with the ‘fat' stuff, okay?” Al grumbled.

“Sorry, Al, I meant to say heavyset.”

“Are the escapees known to be violent?” Rosco shifted Gabby in his lap as he turned to face Al. “What were they in for?”

“I'm trying to remember … I think they were awaiting trial.”

“Which means they couldn't make bail.” Abe observed in a serious tone. “Which means they were dead broke, or more than likely, bail was set too high. Which means they were a flight risk.”

“Not necessarily,” Rosco objected. A small smile began to play on his lips. “It's possible that they're so horribly violent, such despicable cutthroats, buccaneers, if you will, and are suspected of such heinously sadistic crimes that the state—”

“Thank you, Mr. Helpful,” Lever interrupted. “The point is, the Staties have the wrong people. How do we communicate that to them? Now that they've so brilliantly switched off our frequency.”

“Okay,” Rosco said, “It's simple: We just take off our wigs and beards and exit the vehicle with our hands up. What's the problem? I mean, maybe the fat guy they're looking for isn't bald. Then we're in the clear.”

Despite Lever's objection to yet another ‘fat' comment, the three men decided to follow this plan of action, pulling off their wigs and detaching the adhesive that held their beards in place. “Okay, Al,” Rosco said after they'd removed as much of their holiday disguises as they could. “You'd better step out first.”

“Are you nuts? Look at those guys; they're just waiting to make a kill. Two of them are drooling! What's wrong with you, Poly—crates? You go first.”

“I've got a dog on my lap. I can't raise my hands. Besides, they can see you better. And to be honest, you look less shifty than Abe and me.”

“That is so lame. In fact, it's the lamest excuse I've ever heard—even from you. Hiding behind a dog, and a small one at that … Sheesh.”

“Rosco's right, Al,” Jones protested. “We need to make sure the Staties understand our intentions.” He jabbed his elbow into the lieutenant. “Off you go. Be sure to write.”

“Ho, ho.”

In the end, Lever realized it was the only solution to the standoff. He cautiously opened the door, stepped from the van, hands held high in the air, and shouted, “We're police officers. This is a Newcastle Police Department vehicle.”

“Up against the van, fat man,” echoed from a bullhorn across the roadway.

Lever looked at Jones, who had replaced him in the driver's seat. “This reference to my size is getting very old,” Al mumbled.

The bullhorn continued, “Palms up against the side of the van, wide apart; spread your feet and make no quick moves … Okay, number two, out of the van. Keep those hands where we can see them.”

Jones glanced at Rosco. “Number two? Personally, I don't care for the metaphor.”

Rosco shrugged. “Hey, what'd you expect? Imagination?”

Abe stepped out of the van and positioned himself next to Al: hands spread, feet wide apart, as Rosco slid across the seat. He placed Gabby next to him and said, “Stay here, Gabs, I'll be right back.”

But as Rosco left the van, Gabby also hopped out, then ran to a grassy patch to relieve herself. Rosco made a move to retrieve her, but the bullhorn blared with another warning.

“Don't move. Stay where you are. Do not follow the dog. Up against the van.”

Rosco did as he was told, and after a minute Gabby trotted over and sat between his legs.

“Ya gotta go, ya gotta go,” Abe said, and Gabby responded with three shorts yips.

The Massachusetts State Police officers descended upon them like a swarm of wasps and had the threesome patted down, handcuffed, and with their backs against the van before anyone could say a word. Gabby growled and yapped during the entire operation until an unusually tall trooper wearing captain's bars on his jacket turned to a shorter officer and barked out an order. “Call Animal Control. Who knows where they stole this mutt from.”

Mutt?
Gabby thought.
Where's this guy get off? A couple of canine teeth to the back of the leg would teach him a good lesson.
But she opted to let the critique pass; the humans were in enough trouble without complicating the situation.

Lever scanned the dozen or so officers looking for a familiar face, but their crisp uniforms, chiseled faces and muscle-men physiques made them appear disconcertingly similar. It was as if they'd just lockedstepped their way out of one of the boxes of Combat Action Soldiers lying in the back of the van. So Al started from square one.

“Fellas, you've got the wrong men. My name is Lieutenant Al Lever. I'm a homicide detective with the Newcastle Police Department.” He cocked his head to his right. “This is Abe Jones, our forensics man, and Rosco Polycrates, a private detective, formerly NPD. It's his dog, and he's got the appropriate medical records and license to prove it. This is a police van. Phone the plates into NPD. Ask for Dolores; she'll confirm everything I'm telling you.”

The officers had holstered their weapons by then, and the tall trooper with the captain's bars stood at their center, his hands resting aggressively on his hips. He was the one who spoke, and his tone was flat and unforgiving. “We checked the plates, bozo. They don't come up NPD. Do you have I.D. to substantiate this claim, or are you just wasting taxpayer dollars?”

“I had a feeling you might ask that.” Lever sighed. “We're collecting Christmas gifts for kids. We left our I.D. in our street clothes.”

“Captain, take a look in the van,” Rosco chimed in. “There's a police radio, shotgun bracket; the rear's sealed off for detainees—”

The trooper held up his hand. “I'm not concerned about the van at the moment; right now I want to know who you three yokels are.”

“Well, we sure as heck didn't just break out of the Suffolk County Jail,” Jones replied, annoyed at being handcuffed for the first time in his life.

“I know that,” the trooper stated. “But I didn't until you pulled off the wigs. The skinny guy from Suffolk's bald, and the fat guy's a tattooed biker with a pony tail.”

Both Rosco and Al decided it wasn't a good time to protest the “skinny” and “fat” descriptions.

“Unless you fellas can prove who you are,” the captain continued, “I'm going to have to take you back to the barracks. Animal Control will be here in a minute for the dog.”

At this suggestion, Gabby once again began barking and growling at the trooper. “Aw, come on, captain,” Rosco protested over the noise, “this makes no sense. You're serving yourself up a mountain of paperwork, and we won't get these gifts to the kids on time. Why don't you just get an NPD beat-cop to drive out here and ‘make' us. It'll take ten minutes.”

Rosco's idea made a certain amount of sense to the captain, but he wasn't about to make life that easy for the Santas.

“I've got three potentially violent criminals on the loose. There's no telling where they are. They've stolen a car; they've cleaned out a costume shop, so I don't know what the hell they're dressed up as; and you think I'm worried about paperwork?”

“What makes you think they moved this far south, Captain?” Lever asked, now sounding businesslike, and very much the detective.

“One of them apparently has a sister in Newcastle.” The captain then looked at the trooper standing beside him. “Roberts, contact NPD. See if they can send someone out here to vouch for these clowns.” He glanced at Al. “Where did you leave your I.D.?”

Lever sighed again. “In the evidence room.”

The captain nodded; it was clear he considered Al's response less than professional. Then he addressed a second trooper. “Shaw, cite the bald one for driving without a license, and the skinny one with a leash violation.”

“Come on, Captain,” Lever groaned, “that's petty garbage and you know it.”

The captain smiled at Shaw. “Write the big guy up for doing seventy in a fifty-five while you're at it.”

Ten

W
HEN
the three Santas entered Don Oliver's Gun Shoppe at eleven-thirty on Thursday morning, Don, the thirty-two-year-old owner was waiting for them. The Santas appeared a good deal less cheery than they had an hour earlier. Their costumes were rumpled, and their wigs and beards appeared bedraggled and askew. Gabby was nowhere to be seen.

“Hey. I was expecting you guys to stop by yesterday,” Don said with a smile. Because he was finishing up with a customer, he only gave the men in red a cursory glance. “Much better getups this year. I'm glad you opted to return to Mr. Claus. Those mice outfits from a year back were for the birds. Whose idea were they anyway?” It was a rhetorical question. Don expected no answer, and he received none. “Let me get Charlie here on his way, and I'll be right with you.”

It took Oliver another three or four minutes to ring up the sale, complete the necessary paperwork, and package the new bolt-action 30.06 hunting rifle for his customer. Charlie exited the store, and Don turned his back on his visitors and filed the credit card slip in his cash drawer. He then pointed to a small stack of toys that sat on the rear shelf next to a display of shotgun shells.

“Sorry, guys, but it's not a very good haul this year. I tried to get the customers to stay away from toy guns, like you suggested, but I think a few people took offense. We don't get the teddy-bear crowd in here. It's too bad; I probably could have sold a dozen BB guns if you had a different viewpoint on weapons and who should own them.”

“We ain't into no viewpoints, pal,” the skinny Santa growled. His name wasn't Rosco; it was Cooper, and he'd been awaiting trial on assault charges in the Suffolk County Jail before he and his two compatriots made their break.

Before Oliver had time to respond or even move, Cooper lunged across the glass countertop, cupped his hand over Don's mouth, vaulted a freestanding handgun-and-hunting-knife display case, and wrestled the shop owner to the floor. Don made an attempt to press his silent police alarm, but Cooper twisted his arm behind his back, making the effort impossible.

The black Santa, who went by the name of Lee and was in for armed robbery, trotted to the front door and locked it, while the fat Santa—Scraggs—who'd been awaiting trial on a murder charge, produced a roll of duct tape and dropped it over the counter to Cooper who was still on the floor restraining Don Oliver. The entire operation took the men fifty seconds.

“Tape his mouth, hands, and feet, and make sure he doesn't get near that alarm button again,” Scraggs ordered. He peered down at Don. “Don't worry fella; we ain't gonna hurt you … as long as you don't make no trouble. All we need is a little hardware, and we'll be outta your hair before you know it.”

“He's got himself a second panic button,” Cooper said. “It's right here under the cash register.” He tugged at Don's twisted arm. “That ain't nice, mister.”