The Crossword Connection (23 page)

“So, this guy's up in Boston?” Lever asked.

“Not exactly. Simon's been having trouble with this man for some time. It seems he submitted cryptics—good ones—but then became increasingly possessive, arguing over editing styles, et cetera. He'd actually started to become verbally abusive, and Simon began to fear this man's emotions could engender physical violence.… To make a long story short, Simon severed his relationship with this Zachary Taylor a little over a week ago. Saturday's crossword was the last Taylor constructed for the
Sentinel
.”

“This is our boy then!” Lever made no attempt to cover his excitement.

Belle answered him. “Maybe, Al. But we can't be positive he's the same person who targeted me with those two hand-drawn puzzles.”

“At this point, I don't care, Belle. I want to talk to this guy, and I want to talk to him now. Does Simon know where to locate him?”

“All he's got is a P.O. box in Boston … Back Bay section.… But there's another interesting part. It seems Zachary Taylor was originally a history professor at Dartmouth … ‘released from his contract' … no details given. At least, none to Arthur Simon, but I gather their phone conversations led Simon to believe Taylor had had some sort of mental breakdown.” Belle paused. “And we all know where Dartmouth is.”

Lever and Jones said, “New Hampshire,” in unison.

“So, do we go up there, Al?” Belle asked.

“No. Let me make some calls first. This guy has to be here in Newcastle. He knows your every move.”

“Unless Taylor's got help,” Abe interjected. “We've got country mud, and we've got Newcastle—”

Belle interrupted. “I've got to get back to the
Crier.
I can't miss this guy's next contact.”

Lever held his arms up and out like a boxing referee. “Stop, stop, everyone stop. Belle, we have a serious stalker out there. Maybe two, if Abe's suggestion is correct. You're not going anywhere without me.”

“Al, you can't do that! ‘No cops,' that's what I was told. Look, I can get to the
Crier
building alone.…”

Lever thought for a long minute, then said, “Okay. But you stay put until he calls. Afterward—” he wrote a phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to her—“you call me. Pronto. The dispatcher will find me, no matter where I am. Once you're in the
Crier
building, I don't want you to leave under
any
circumstances. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“I don't need to make you promise, do I?”

“I'll stay there, Al.”

“If he tells you to go somewhere, to make a move of
any
kind, you
must
check in with me first. I'm giving this guy one phone call, and that's it. After that, I'm calling in the feds, and it'll be a whole new ball of wax.” Lever glanced at his watch. “Okay, let's go. You'll take a cab. Don't use your car. I'll walk you to the side door.” He turned back to Jones. “Thanks, Abe, I'll keep you posted.”

Belle stepped into her office and locked the door. She'd spent the better part of the taxi ride looking out through the rear window in an effort to determine if she was being followed. Nothing had seemed out of place. And when she'd reached the
Crier
building, she hadn't noticed unusual pedestrians. The same had held true for the lobby and elevators. In fact, she'd been familiar with all the people she'd encountered.

Belle moved to the far wall and looked through the window at the bank building across the street and the
For Rent
sign in the upper windows, then brought her eyes down to rest on the bank itself. Since it was after three
P.M.,
the branch was closed; the only movement came from a maintenance man pushing a vacuum cleaner over the dark blue carpet. Belle studied him but gleaned nothing from his behavior. One of the bank officers seemed to be working late at his computer terminal.

Two men,
she thought;
one nearby and one at a distance …
Her gaze returned to the street. There was a dog-walker, a teenager with a skateboard, a pregnant mom pushing a stroller, a pizza-delivery guy. She refocused on the bank. The maintenance man was gone.

Then the phone rang. Belle nearly jumped out of her skin. “Belle Graham speaking.”

“Very nice,
Bellisima.
Very nice, indeed. On the first ring. Obviously you've been anticipating my call.”

“Where's Rosco?”

“Let's not rush, shall we? ‘The world is too much with us; late and soon …' We'll talk cryptics, first. ‘Stand by Your Man'? Nicely done. Witty. It just shows what a modicum of inspiration does for some people.”

Belle forced herself to calm down.
Remain rational; find Rosco,
she reminded herself.
Keep Taylor talking, keep him on the line. He'll have to reveal something eventually.
“Old Rough and Ready …” she said in a slow drawl. “Is that who I'm speaking with?”

“Very good,
mi bella!
I'm impressed. Indeed, that was President Zachary Taylor's nickname. Did your police friends help you identify me, or did you do it yourself?”

“I haven't spoken to the police!”

“Oh, please. ‘Ask me no secrets, and I'll tell you no lies.'”

“Where's Rosco?” Belle said, trying to hide the desperation in her voice. “I've done everything you wanted.”

“I believe you're right, Bella, it's time to move ahead. But first, you must admit that my puzzles were excellent … fully worthy of publication.”

“Look, Zachary … Mr. Taylor …
Professor
Taylor … I've spoken with Arthur Simon at the
Sentinel.
You need help. Tell me where you are … where Rosco is.… We can help you.”

“Simon? Hah, you two are growing more and more alike. The all-powerful editors! The gadflies! The mayflies! The ephemerid! You ignore history because you have so little real knowledge, so little respect and ardor for learning. You reference actors …
actors …
when you stumble upon a word like Jackson, Garfield, Grant, Washington … Ford. Not to mention Taylor! How many times must we suffer through sophomoric clues like:
Elizabeth Blank?
Is Old Rough and Ready too difficult? Did you know that during the Mexican War, Santa Ana had twenty thousand troops as opposed to—?”

“Listen, Professor Taylor, I—”

“Don't interrupt me! You'll speak when I say so, and not a moment before.”

There was a long silence. Eventually, Belle said, “Are you still there?”

“Yes. Where was I?”

“Presidents.”

“Presidents! No, I was discussing idiotic crossword editors! Your father was a professor, wasn't he, Annabella? What does he feel about your chosen career?”

Belle felt chills run up and down her spine. Who was this man, and how long had he been an unseen part of her existence?

Taylor sighed into the mouthpiece. “I'm sorry it's turning out like this, Belle. It was not my original intention. You're a beautiful woman. We could have worked well together.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come now, what do you imagine this entire exercise has been about?”

“I don't know.”

“Then you're far less clever than I'd given you credit for.”

“I—”

“You can't be so dense as to believe that I—” Taylor stopped in midsentence. The line was quiet for a split second, and then Belle could hear sounds of a frenzied scuffle. “Professor Taylor!” she shouted into the phone. “Hello? Hello?”

The receiver fell. Belle heard it bang rhythmically back and forth. The fight it echoed seemed to escalate. “Professor Taylor?” she called out. “Hello?”

“Belle? Are you there?”

She frowned in utter confusion. “Al …? Is that you …? What are you—?”

Lever's voice panted through the telephone line. “Downstairs … outside … Look through your window.… The pay phone … He was using the pay phone on the corner. Just like he did when he left that anonymous tip. Belle, we got him! It's over. It's all over, come on down.”

Belle walked to her window. At street level she saw three Newcastle police cars and Lever's unmarked sedan. Four uniformed officers were standing over a prone man whose wrists had been handcuffed behind his back.

“But where's Rosco?” she whispered into the silent air.

CHAPTER 29

“Gus,” Lever said for the fourth time, “Gus, Gus … talk to me.”

They were sitting in The Hole, cell number four to be precise, in the basement of the Newcastle Police Headquarters. The door to the cell was locked, and Abe Jones and Belle sat on metal folding chairs in the center corridor on the opposite side of the steel bars from Al Lever and Zachary “Gus” Taylor.

“I don't have to talk to you,” Taylor announced with a self-satisfied smile. “You haven't even read me my rights. I know full well I'm entitled to them.”

“I'm sure you do.” Lever returned the smile, although his was far more dangerous. “A professor of history, like yourself. I mean, you can probably recite that old Miranda ditty on your own with no help from me, can't you?”

“As a matter of fact, I can—”

“Bully for you,” Al spat back. “So, by
inference,
there's no point in my wasting my breath on it, is there?”

Gus didn't respond. Instead, he gazed calmly at Belle, as though her presence there were a happy and festive one. His smile grew.

“Well, you see, Mr. Taylor,” Lever continued, “Your
Miranda
rights mean very little in this present situation. The operative line in the statement is this: ‘Anything you say can and will be used against you,' blah-blah-blah. But I already have enough on you to put you away for fifty years. Is this beginning to sink in,
fella?
I have all the
evidence
I need. I'm not here to collect
evidence,
I'm here to find a missing person. And if you know what's good for you, you'll start talking, because I'm losing my patience very quickly.”

Taylor could see Lever's beefy fists tighten and his forearms bulge beneath his rolled-up shirtsleeves. A line of sweat started to form on Gus's brow as his grin gradually began to dim. “I … don't know. I don't … know what you're talking about.”

“No? We've got two homicides,
Professor,
and we've got a missing person … who happens to be this lady's fiancé and a best buddy to the two men now in front of you. I'd say you were in real trouble here.”

“I can't help you.”

Lever paused, then continued in a frighteningly quiet tone. “I'm not a violent man, Gus, I'm not. I'm not into police brutality, I'm not into slapping prisoners around, and so forth. But you know what? We're either going to find Rosco in one piece … or you're going to die … right where you sit. Miranda rights or no Miranda rights, and you have my word on that.”

Taylor squinted at Lever, noting the icy calm that had settled over his face—that and the fact that Lever outweighed his prisoner by at least seventy-five pounds. “I meant what I said, Lever,” he stammered. “I don't know anything about Rosco! I … I … was only trying to get to Belle. I wanted her to see my work … that's all. I wanted to get close to her.”

“I'm not buying that for a second, Taylor.”

“It's the truth, I swear.” Gus's twitchy body hunched forward; he began to whimper.

“Nice performance, but save it for the movies. I want answers, and I want them now; and if I have to squeeze them out of you, I will.” Lever stood and moved toward Gus.

In classic good cop, bad cop fashion, Jones stepped up to the bars. His voice was soft. “Don't do it, Al. This guy's not worth losing your shield over.” Abe looked back at Belle, who glanced away; her hands had clenched into fists as well; the knuckles were blue white. When she finally spoke, her head was bent and the words barely audible. “It's been seven months since you created that puzzle.…” She looked up abruptly but avoided Gus's eyes. “Ask him why he chose to make himself known to me now, Al.”

“You heard the lady.”

Taylor gazed longingly at Belle. “You were getting married, and I thought … I thought …” He leaned forward and rolled his shoulders as if trying to raise his manacled hands.

Belle flinched reflexively, then hardened herself. “Did you hurt Rosco?”

Taylor appealed to Lever. “I didn't hurt anyone. I swear I didn't. And I don't know where her fiancé is.”

Lever's jaw tightened in frustration. “Let's go back to Thursday night,
Professor.
How'd your ‘Tinker Bell' crossword get under Freddie Carson's head in Adams Alley?”

“I don't know.”

Lever leaned into the man, and Taylor's thin, alcoholic body suddenly began to quiver.

“Okay … I … Yes, I put it there.”

“And that was after you killed Carson?”

“No! I didn't do it. I swear! Freddie was dead when I found him.”

“Don't play me for a patsy, Gus.”

“I'm telling you, I didn't kill him! I only put the puzzle there to get her attention.” Gus again nodded in Belle's direction as tears began trickling down his stubbled cheeks. “I mean, she never thanked me … even after I mailed her a copy with a letter of dedication.… I thought she'd be so pleased.… With all that media attention about how that other guy had died in Newcastle, and how Belle Graham had helped find the killer … ‘Cryptics Queen Clues Coppers' … and
Personality
magazine …”

Lever looked at Belle, who shook her head in denial, confirming she'd never seen Taylor's letter.

“She never wrote back,” Gus continued dismally. “I waited.… I even tried to call her a couple of times.… I'm a scholar, you know, like her father.… She should have responded. She should at least have had the courtesy to respond.”