A Crossword to Die For (26 page)

“The four women in question, were they your patients?” Rosco asked.

“I'm a general practitioner here in Kings Creek, but yes, they were my patients. Initially. Once I determined the seriousness of their conditions, I referred them to an oncology team in Trenton.”

“But what kind of ‘hard evidence' did my father hope to find?”

Edwards took a breath. “He'd become convinced that the tanks at a USA
V
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gas station in the proximity of Oak Lane were leaching gasoline into the ground … He'd collected tap water from the Volsay house as well as random samples from the stream. Those findings were kept in sterilized bottles—”

Rosco interrupted. “That he carried in a blue case?”

Edwards nodded agreement. “I believe that would describe the equipment he brought with him.”

“We stopped at the service station in question,” Rosco interjected. “It's fairly new, from the looks of it … Did Belle's dad think those tanks were already having problems?”

“I've lived in this area for fifteen years now, and I think that's the fifth time that particular station has changed hands. Prior to Savante, the present owner, the operators were smaller independents. As soon as one company failed, a new one moved in. They'd spiff up the building's exterior, put in new pumps, glossy signage, et cetera, but who knows whether appropriate maintenance checks were made on the underground tanks.”

“So my father was hoping to find the presence of gasoline in—?”

“Not gasoline itself, but an element known as MTBE.”

“MTBE?”

“Methyl tertiary butyl ether. The oil companies have been using it as an additive since the 1970s. Theoretically, it makes unleaded gasoline burn cleaner—as well as increasing the octane rating. However, some states are beginning to outlaw the use of MTBE. It's a known animal carcinogen, although tests on humans have been inconclusive.”

Belle considered the statement. “The assumption would be that humans and animals don't share similar physical traits? Or that humans don't matter? Aren't we all animals?”

Edwards raised an eyebrow. “Your father had the same reaction, Belle … At any rate, MTBE is water soluble and moves very quickly underground.”

“Meaning it can enter the water table and contaminate private wells?” Belle asked.

“Exactly … After my conversation with your dad, I did some sleuthing on my own and discovered a similar situation—also in New Jersey, also involving a service station, and a report that was ‘misplaced' for well over a year. In that instance the tested wells showed levels of MTBE that were between 180 and 545 parts per billion. In one case the level was 940 PPB … According to the state's Department of Environmental Protection, the safe drinking level is 20 PPB. New York State has also has problems, one in particular involves an elementary and middle school—”

“Wow,” Belle murmured while Rosco posed another question:

“And what did Professor Graham's samples show?”

“That's what I meant when I said I wasn't much help. I told him our lab wasn't equipped for that type of testing, and that he needed to seek the services of a specialized facility.”

“And?” Belle asked.

Edwards looked at Rosco. “He'd told me he planned to take them to you.”

“Me?”

“He said, ‘My new son-in-law is a private detective. He'll know exactly how to handle this.' He seemed very impressed with you.”

“But … He never met me,” Rosco stammered while Belle's face crinkled in sorrow. After a long moment, she said:

“Those water samples have disappeared.”

“Collect some more,” was Edwards's decisive reply. “It's easy enough to do … I'll help in any way I can, because I think your dad was on to something. And if your suspicion of homicide proves correct, it may be something very big.”

CHAPTER 34

“Five hundred and forty-five parts per billion of water … nine hundred and forty … I can't believe those numbers, Rosco …”

They'd left Mercy Hospital, and were returning to the Volsay home. Beyond them the countryside looked radiant and green—and exuberantly healthy.

“And private wells again, how many did Dr. Edwards say were involved?” Rosco asked.

“Two hundred and seventy-seven in one New Jersey county alone—with another fifty-five cases of leaked diesel fuel.” Belle shook her head from side to side as she perused the notes Edwards had lent her. “What's scary is the level of secrecy … leaks from old tanks that could have been prevented with appropriate monitoring … filtration systems that were never installed … bureaucratic delays in obtaining scientific testing—”

“Especially when you consider this one report Edwards quotes—the one where New York State residents were warned not to drink from their wells—or even cook or shower at home. That tells me the DEP's really concerned.”

She remained quiet for several moments. “I think we've opened a very unwholesome can of worms, Rosco.”

“It was your dad who wielded the opener, Belle.”

“Yes,” she finally added. “Yes. He did.” Her voice contained more than a little pride. And a good measure of awe.

Rosco squeezed her hand. “I'm sorry I never met him,” he finally said.

“So am I.”

After another few minutes of silence, Rosco spoke again. “Okay … Given the seriousness of what we've picked up—as well as a
strong
probability of major criminal activity in repressing your father's concerns, I think we need to again address this issue of exhuming his body.”

Belle reached over and touched Rosco's arm. “I know what you're going to say … If we can make a link between Father's death and the deaths on Oak Lane—” She stopped speaking and shut her eyes. “Murder,” she eventually murmured. “I know we've been using that word … but I wasn't fully aware of the implications until this minute … It's a bizarre notion, Rosco … to think of someone plotting to kill my father …”

They drove on without talking. At length Belle resumed the discussion. “So … So, I guess I should call Al and give my approval for an autopsy …” Again, she paused. “But what about looking into Debbie's death, too?”

“Let's start with your dad. If Carlyle discovers traces of any toxic substances, it won't be difficult to get the Kings Creek Police to cooperate.” He paused. “But let's not mention our concerns to Mike or Rachel yet. They've got enough on their plates at the moment.”

Rosco and Belle made a brief detour, stopping at a convenience store to purchase two liter-sized bottles of drinking water. They dumped the contents onto a nearby pot of geraniums, and continued to the Volsay home. Rosco angled the Jeep into the same spot he'd previously used. Rachel's car was parked in front. “That's a lucky break,” he said, “They're back from the funeral home.”

In the distance they could see Mike Hurley seated on the bench at the end of the street. His slumped position indicated a state of intense depression.

“I feel so sorry for him,” Belle said as they stepped from the Jeep. “Perhaps I should go talk with him.”

“I'll do it. I think Mike needs a pal more than anything right now. I don't know if I'm the right person, but I'll give it a shot … Why don't you try to get a tap water sample from Rachel's house; I'll work on the creek.”

“Without Mike noticing?”

“I'll think of something.”

Belle tried for a lighthearted smile. “Should we coordinate our watches?”

In answer, Rosco gave her a kiss. Then he stuffed an empty water bottle into a canvas satchel while Belle hid hers in her purse.

She walked to the house. Rachel Volsay opened the door before she had time to knock.

“I heard you pull up …” Rachel's eyes pooled with tears as she spoke. “Deb looked wonderful … They did a good job. She looked, well, almost …”

Belle stepped into the entryway and attempted to place an arm around Mrs. Volsay, but the gesture only served to increase the older woman's bitter unhappiness.

“I'm so sorry,” was all Belle could say.

Rachel pressed a tissue against her eyes. “What brings you back here?”

“We weren't sure where the cemetery was,” Belle lied. “We didn't want to be late tomorrow and I thought a phone call seemed too impersonal.”

“Won't you come in for a moment? I'll make us some tea.”

As Belle entered the living room, the front door swung shut, then Rachel Volsay disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. “I'll only be a minute,” she called out. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“I wonder if I might use your powder room first?”

A disembodied voice provided directions. “Down the hall … first door on the right …”

Belle found it, and closed and locked the door. She was surprised at her own nervousness.
There's nothing illegal in asking to use the rest room
, she told herself.
Why should Rachel Volsay suspect me of doing anything underhanded?

Belle examined the room: a petite avocado-colored sink, a narrow shower stall hidden by a striped green and white curtain, a plush “commode cover” on the toilet seat. Pulling the empty bottle from her purse, she tried to place it under the sink tap but found the container too large. She moved to the shower stall, attempting to fill it there, but only about seventy percent of the water entered the bottle's neck while the rest ran down her arms or misted against her dress. “Darn it!” she groused under her breath as she reached for a paper hand towel, found it inadequate, then turned the hem of her skirt inside out, sopping up additional beads of water—all the while growing more and more apprehensive and agitated. Beads of sweat started up on her forehead; the minutes seemed to stretch into a good half hour. Finally, she jammed the bottle back into her purse, flushed the toilet for effect, and reentered the living room. Rachel was waiting there with a plate of cookies and a tray containing sugar and milk. She pointed to an object on the floor near her feet. It was a small squarish valise covered in blue Naugahyde. “I assume this is what you've been hunting for.”

“Why did you come back?” Mike almost glared at Rosco as he spoke. “We didn't expect to see you again until tomorrow.” Then his shoulders sagged deeper, and his spine curved forward. “Sorry … That's rude of me. But I just … I just …”

Rosco touched his shoulder. “Belle forgot something in Rachel's house. And I spotted you sitting down here … and, well, you looked like you could use a friend.”

Mike didn't answer. Instead he stared at the creek's far bank.

After an uncomfortable silence, Rosco tried again. “So … I guess you'll be heading back to Florida when … this is all over?”

“My emergency leave's up on Thursday …” The words were a monotone mumble.

“Right …” Rosco struggled for words. “I, uh, really admire you guys … You give up a lot. I hope you're aware of how much your work is appreciated by people.”

Mike drew in a tortured breath. “To be honest, it'll be good to get out of New Jersey—and back on the water. I need to air out my brain … Decide where I go from here …”

“You're lucky you like being on the water,” Rosco said after another weighty pause. “But I guess that's what attracted you to the Guard in the first place, huh?”

Mike nodded once, but didn't offer a more detailed response.

“Florida,” Rosco mused. “Most of your operations must be INS related? Illegal aliens, that sort of thing?”

Mike shook his head. “Not me … I'm drug interdiction. We try to get the stuff before it hits the States. Fishing boats, small pleasure craft: They're the usual means of transport … Texas used to be the main place of entry, but Florida's catching up.”

A ping went off in Rosco's brain:
Drug interdiction, fishing boats, pleasure craft
, but he ignored the warning, instead, continuing with an affable: “That's a lot of coastline to cover.”

“More than any state in the Union.”

“But you're only down there temporarily, right?”

“Yup … My home base is in Bayonne. We run the same type of ops in New York Harbor. And on the Hudson River …” He sighed again.

“Dangerous job,” Rosco finally said.

“If there are drugs aboard … sure, it can be …” Then Mike changed the subject, gazing wistfully down into the creek. “Deb used to catch sunnies here when she was a kid …”

“Is that so?”

“No fish in it now, though.”

“I wonder why?” Rosco said. “The water's clear as glass.” He climbed down the slope to the water's edge, crouched and placed his hand into the flowing stream. “You're right,” he called back, “there doesn't seem to be much in the way of marine life.” He glanced over his shoulder; the bench and Mike were completely hidden from view.

Rosco pulled the empty bottle from his sack, twisted off the cap, and plunged the bottle under the surface. The gurgling sound disappeared beneath the noise of shallow water rushing over the rocks. Nonetheless the bottle seemed to take forever to fill. He tilted it from side to side in an effort to expedite the process.

“Picking up where Ted left off?”

Rosco jerked upward to find Mike staring down at him. “Ahh … As a matter of fact, yes … Yes, I am … So … You were aware of what Ted was doing?”

In answer, Mike turned and stalked back to the bench. Rosco capped off the bottle and climbed back up the creek bank, repeating his question. “Did Ted tell you why he was taking water samples? Because I was under the impression that he wasn't discussing—”

“Yes. Yes. He told me.” The words were bitten and hard.

“Ah …” Rosco again fumbled for words.
If Mike was aware of Ted Graham's efforts, then Debbie should have known also, meaning the possibility that the hit-and-run was more than accidental was now even stronger
.