Anatomy of a Crossword (39 page)

“What do you mean, it's been hit?” Rosco demanded. Unlike Al, he was trim and fit, and a devoted jogger, while Al's idea of exercise was walking up a flight of stairs—or maybe
half
a flight of stairs. “This is a great car. Look at it. I rented one just like it in Los Angeles when Belle and I went out there last winter.”

“You rented a three-year-old Mustang?”

“Well … no … I guess not. It only had 700 miles on it; maybe it was new…. I mean, I don't know…. It looked just like this one. It was red.”

“No one rents out three-year-old cars, Poly—Crates,” Lever said as the cigarette smoke left his lungs, “especially in LA.” His butchering of Rosco's last name had been a running gag between them for almost fifteen years and was predictably countered by Rosco's admonishing him over his sizable girth and ever-present smoker's cough.

Al pointed at the side of the car. “Look at that fender and door panel. See the ripples in the paint? She's been hit. And you have no idea how bad the damage might have been. Maybe the frame's been bent. And there's no way I'm crawling underneath to see if it's been straightened out properly, so let's move on.”

Rosco laughed. “You wouldn't fit underneath, Al.”

“Yeah, these Mustangs ride pretty low.”

“Right.”

Lever coughed again. “What? You think I've got the time to be trotting off to the gym three of four times a week like Abe does? Or playing handball with those kids on Congress Street? Or running around the park all day long like you, Mr. Slim-and-Trim? Wait'll you hit forty, my friend; watch how you fill out.”

“Well, since I have less than two years to go, I guess I'd better start hitting those doughnuts and Camel Filters in earnest. That is, if I want to catch up to you.”

“Ho ho …,” was Lever's sole response. Then he walked over to a Lexus SUV. “Here. This is what you need. This has some style.”

“I'm not buying a white car, Al. Besides, I had a Jeep. I don't think I want another one. Actually, I don't think Belle could stand another Jeep. She'd chop my noggin off.”

Lever shook his head slowly from side to side, thinking,
How could this guy be so dense?
“It's a Lexus, Poly—Crates, not a Jeep.”

“It's a four-by-four; it has fat tires and it sits two feet off the ground. As far as I'm concerned, it's a Jeep.”

Lever ignored the comment. Instead, he circled the Lexus twice, then stopped to study the large yellow sticker affixed to the driver's-side window. “The price is right. Only a year old, low mileage. Body's clean, no sign of any road-salt body-rot; the interior's sharp. Leather seats.”

“I'm not buying a white Jeep, so forget it.”

“I'm tellin' ya, Poly—Crates. This ain't no Jeep.”

“Look, Al, I know it's not a genuine Jeep, but in my book, it's a wannabe; it's a clone. And it's white. I don't want a white car.”

Lever sighed. “Okay, but you'd better be sticking with four-wheel drive if you want to make it through next winter without a serious fender-bender.”

Rosco glanced up at the sparse and feathery clouds floating against the warm and bright blue sky. It was almost impossible to imagine icy roads and hazardous driving conditions. “Speaking of traffic accidents, what's the story on that hit-and-run on the west side nine months ago?”

“You mean when the Snyder boy was killed?”

Rosco nodded.

“No go.” Lever released a frustrated and unhappy breath. “We're guessing the creep who did it was from out of town. None of the local body shops worked on anything matching that kind of probable front-end damage. At least, if they did, they're not talking about it.”

Rosco nodded again. “The Snyders have hired a lawyer.”

Lever dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed it out with his shoe. “And let me guess; the lawyer has hired one Rosco Polycrates, owner and sole employee of the infamous Polycrates Detective Agency?”

“Elaine Vogel's the attorney. She called me this morning. I've worked with her before. This is pro bono on her part. The family just wants some answers so they can achieve a measure of closure. You can't blame them. A kid dies, I'd want answers, too. I haven't said yea or nay at this point. I thought I'd talk to you first.”

“No white Jeep, huh?”

Rosco shook his head, and Lever slid his hands into his pockets and ambled toward a green Subaru sedan. Rosco walked by his side. The lieutenant took a deep breath and said, “No one wants to nab the crumb-bum who killed the Snyder kid more than I do, Poly—Crates. So, sure, look into it. I'll give you all I've got. But to be honest, there's nothing there. Unless a mystery witness miraculously drops from the sky, the case is as cold as Lake Nippenicket in January.”

Rosco didn't respond for a moment. “I hear what you're saying, Al … and I don't want to give the family false hope, but maybe they just need a little something more…. Anyway, who knows? It could be that this Porto Ristorante thing I've been working on for Northeast Mutual might supply some overlap info. There has to be an auto-body shop out there somewhere that doubles as a chop-shop. Maybe they fix fenders on the hush-hush. I find it, and who knows? You hit a kid with a car, well, there's got to be evidence that something happened to the vehicle…. ” Rosco left the rest of the sentence unfinished.

“Porto Ristorante.” Lever chuckled as he lit another cigarette. “I hate to say it, but the boys in robbery are still laughing over the dopes who got ripped off at Porto. The prevalent attitude down at that end of the station house seems to be a unanimous ‘It serves them right.'”

“The insurance companies aren't doing a lot of laughing.”

Porto Ristorante was one of Newcastle's newer and more expensive eating establishments. It featured high-end northern Italian cuisine, a formidable wine list, a chef of celebrity status, and a voluptuous Tuscan-red and Venetian-gold interior that commanded a sweeping view of the Newcastle harbor. The problem was that restaurant didn't have valet parking, although that hadn't prevented some clever thieves from offering that particular service one Friday evening in March; the Ides to be precise. Clearly the criminals had had a sense of humor.

As Porto's customers had arrived, bogus valet parking attendants outfitted in Porto-red jackets had supplied fake claim tickets to the drivers. Each ticket had a number on one side and a portrait of Julius Caesar along with the name
Marcus Brutus Valet Service
printed on the reverse. Any vehicle worth over fifty thousand dollars was never seen again. They'd vanished along with the keys and electronic garage door openers to twenty-two of Newcastle's pricier residences. A number of locksmiths had done very well with emergency house calls that evening.

Lever grunted with what sounded like another chuckle. “So what was the final tally on that job?”

“Seven Mercedes, twelve BMWs, two Porsches, and a Bentley.”

“Yeah, well, you can forget about any chop-shops, bucko. The boys and girls in robbery say wheels like those go straight out of the country. The crooks probably drove them right onto a boat at pier six and were in Argentina before the owners finished their
limoncellos
and cappuccinos.”

Rosco shrugged. “Maybe. But I've checked around; there seems to be a strong market for BMW and Mercedes parts, especially down in Connecticut.”

The pair came to a stop in front of the green sedan. Rosco nodded in recognition. “My mom has a Subaru,” he said.

Lever placed his foot on the bumper and lit another cigarette. “They're good cars…. All-wheel drive. Great in snow and ice. Good gas mileage. You can't go wrong with a Subaru.”

“My mom has one.”

“What? Just because your mother drives a Subaru, that means you can't?”

“What does your mother drive?”

“That's not the point. We're not talking about my mother, we're trying to get you a decent set of wheels.”

“What's she drive?”

“A Cadillac, okay?”

“And what do you drive?”

“That's not the point. I just don't happen to like Cadillacs. It has nothing to to with the fact that my mother drives one. I'm not that immature, Poly—Crates.”

“Uh-huh.” Rosco walked to the rear of the Subaru, and Lever followed. “Nope. Looks too much like my mom's car.”

“Okay, fine, no Subarus for Mrs. Poly—Crates's little boy.”

They walked by two pickup trucks, and came to a dark blue Audi coupe. The bright sky reflected brilliantly in the freshly waxed hood, fenders, and roof. It appeared to be brand new.

“This is it,” Lever said. “Look at this baby. Can't you see yourself cruising around Newcastle in this? I mean, is this class, or what? And with an Audi you get your all-wheel drive, too. You're set for winter.” He looked at the sticker. “Look at this—less than three thousand miles…. This is your car, Poly—Crates. This is you.”

Rosco shook his head. “My sister Zoe drives an Audi.”

“Why do I even bother talking to you?”

CHAPTER 3

Dan Tacete pulled into his driveway that evening at six forty-five. The slow-sinking sun bathed his spacious home in a rosy glow, giving its many west-facing windows such a pink and vivid hue they looked like hammered sheets of gold and copper. Dan paid no heed to this spectacular sight.

Instead, he sat staring numbly through the windshield, his hands clenching the steering wheel, and his square, all-American jaw worried and tight. His neatly trimmed mustache stood out from his upper lip like a wire brush. By rights, what was worrying him should never have been happening. After all, he told himself, he was driving his least conspicuous car, the two-year-old white Ford Explorer that he kept precisely for the kind of work he did every Tuesday afternoon: the pro bono examinations, routine fillings, and other general dental care he provided for the Bay Clinic located a few blocks from the St. Augustine Mission for Men.

Despite every attempt at being low-key, despite the nondescript wardrobe, his customary Rolex and Guccis replaced with an inexpensive black plastic sports watch and running shoes, Dan had the sensation that someone had tried to follow him home. Several times, he'd noticed a gray Toyota four-door sedan in his rear-view mirror. It was an old car with numerous dents on the side doors, and it was not the type of vehicle ordinarily spotted in a tony place like Halcyon Estates. The fact that the driver's route coincided with his own was both odd and profoundly disquieting.

Before removing the key from the Explorer's ignition, Dan glanced into the rear-view mirror one last time. But his search revealed only the familiar: a semicircular drive opening into a tree-lined cul-de-sac. Every car in his sight-line was one he recognized as belonging to a neighbor or a neighbor's live-in household help; and all were parked and empty. Then he turned in the seat to survey the rest of the street, his broad, athlete's shoulders and frame fought against the shoulder harness until he impatiently stabbed at the clasp and released it.

There was no inkling of suspicious activity on any side. In fact, the road and sidewalks were remarkably devoid of people. No kids tossing frisbees, no skateboards, none of the other dads arriving home from work. But then it was six forty-five on a weekday. Everyone would have been inside enjoying their supper. By seven thirty or eight, the kids would be back outdoors—especially on a warm evening like this.

Dan opened the Explorer's door, stepped out, then beeped the car's automatic lock as he began walking toward the house. He turned once to look behind him, but the scene remained almost eerily empty.

“Karen? Lily-bet?” he called the moment he stepped in. “Where's my baby girl?” He shut and locked the door behind him and threw the dead bolt; something he only did the last thing at night.

Bear and Lily hurtled toward him, both canine and child making as much noise as possible. The foyer's marble tiles echoed and pinged while the cathedral ceiling heightened rather than lessened the sound. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” Lily screamed. Bear barked and jumped up on Dan, and the dog's weight and forward momentum nearly knocked him over.

“Down! Bad dog. Get down, Bear!” he said. His tone was far more forceful than was necessary; the stress of a long day coloring each of his words.

Watching the dog suddenly sink into an unhappy crouch, Lily began to cry.

“Tough day?” Karen appeared from the living room. She was wearing an apron; in her hand was a wooden stirring spoon coated with chocolate icing. She gazed lovingly at Lily. “And, did someone here forget to eat the chocolate frosting she was helping me put on the cake?” Mother bent down to daughter, who continued to weep. Lily made no further move toward her father.

“Daddy's cross … cross words.”

“He's not cross with you, sweetheart. He's trying to teach Bear not to jump. Bear's too big a fellow to be jumping on people. If that had been you … well, your daddy and I don't want to see you get hurt, now, do we?”

But Lily would not be consoled. Instead, she eyed Dan with a child's pout while Karen cocked her head and gave her husband a complicitous glance.

“Someone's a little T-I-R-E-D,” she spelled out. “I'll get her to bed and then you and I can have a leisurely,
grown-up
dinner. I'm experimenting with a new veal recipe.”

“Sounds wonderful …” Dan paused, then squatted down to Lily's level.

“Daddy's sorry, baby. He's not mad a you—”

“Bear's a good bear,” Lily insisted.

“He's a good bear when he doesn't jump. Mommy and I don't want him knocking you down … or your friends.”

Lily sniffled once, but made no further reply.

“You get ready for bed, and then Daddy will come in and read you a story, okay?”

“Okay,” Lily said, but the sound was still hesitant. Then she took her mother's hand and began trundling up the wide circular staircase that served as the foyer's focal point. As they reached the second step, Dan called to his wife.