Wrapped Up in Crosswords (2 page)

Al tapped the newspaper. “This is all the fault of that wife of yours. If she hadn't gotten me hooked on crosswords, a hell of lot more work would get done around here.”

Rosco laughed. “Hey Al, what are friends for? You want me to take a peek at the answers for you, you have only to say the word—as it were. I know where Belle stashes her unpublished work, and I'm certainly not above bribes. My hockey skates are looking a little ratty.”

Lever cocked his head to one side. “Hmm … There's an excellent idea. And I pay my snitches well.” He lit another cigarette, tossed the match into an overflowing ashtray, then pushed the crossword aside and sighed heavily. “I was hoping Belle's puzzle here would give me some inspiration—all that clever info she tosses in: vintage movies and rare birds and quotations and things …'cause I've been wracking my brains for a Christmas gift for my wife—”

“Surprise, surprise, what else is new?”

Lever scowled. “I take it you've got your honey's present already covered in shiny paper and hidden away, is that it?”

“Well, no …”

“So, let's not throw stones in glass houses, shall we?”

Rosco laughed. “No pretty package for Helen to open, huh?”

“No, but I think you just supplied the solution … You sneak me the answers to Belle's holiday puzzle contest for the
Crier,
I score the newspaper's prize of ‘a deluxe dinner for two,' and
bingo,
I've got a nice I.O.U. to lay on my wife on Christmas morning … Then I take the little lady out to dine the minute the winner's announced on New Year's Eve. Problem solved … I like it, buddy. I say, let's go for it.”

“Except that it's kinda illegal to rig a competition.”

“Yeah, I know …” Lever made a sound that was less a chortle than a groan. “So, what are you getting Belle?”

This time it was Rosco's turn to sigh. “Not a clue.”

Al returned to the puzzle and filled in a word. “A partridge in a pear tree … How's about that?”

“This is no joking matter. I'm running out of time here.”

“It wasn't a joke. I like pears. Give her an I.O.U. for that fancy nursery up the coast aways, cut out a photo of a cute, little bird. In fact, maybe that's not a bad notion for me to consider”…

At this point, Gabby interrupted the conversation by jumping up, placing her front paws on Lever's desk, and attempting to grab what was left of a jelly doughnut.

“Hey, hey,” Al barked. “This is a police station, in case you two haven't noticed.” He glowered at Gabby as though spying her for the first time. “How'd you get that mutt past O'Hara at the duty desk?”

“You know O'Hara; she's never been very observant.”

“Didn't anyone tell you there's a leash law in this city?”

Rosco gently lifted Gabby's paws from the desk and placed them back on the floor. “Bad girl.”

“That didn't have a very authoritative ring to it, Poly—crates. That's the most spoiled dog in Newcastle. If I pull your name at our Secret Santa party, I'm getting you, both of you, a leash.”

Gabby dropped her head and walked behind Rosco as Al continued, “And then I'm assigning a patrolman to follow you around town, just to be sure you use the dang thing.”

Lever's office door opened once more and Abe Jones walked in.

“What is this?” Al grumbled. “No one knocks around here?”

“Hey, Al, you're talking to Rosco; how important could it be? And besides, we're meeting at ten, right?” Jones shook Rosco's hand and looked down at his feet, spotting Gabby. He dropped into a crouch and held his arms open. “Well if it ain't the Gabsters. How's my second-favorite canine?”

Gabby placed her paws on Abe's thighs and began licking his face.

“Arrgh,” Lever growled. “You two and your dogs; you're making me sick. I'm gonna puke, really.”

“Kiss the girls and make them cry,” Jones said as he straightened. He was younger and slightly taller than Rosco, African-American, and in perfect physical shape. He looked like a movie star masquerading as a forensics expert. “So, are we ready to do this thing?”

Lever stood. “Yep.”

“I take it the costumes are still up in the evidence room?” Rosco asked. “Or is that the one thing that's changed since the last time I was here?”

Jones laughed. “Nothing changes, Rosco. Nothing ever changes.”

“Ho, ho.” Lever pointed at Gabby. “What are you going to do with the dog while we're up there?”

“The dog?” Rosco asked incredulously.

“The dog.”

Rosco shrugged. “She can't come with us? She's very well behaved.”

Jones suppressed a laugh, and Gabby gave him a dirty look.

“No dogs in the evidence room,” Lever announced.

“Come on, Al …”

“No dogs in the evidence room.”

“Who's gonna know besides us?”

“No dogs in the evidence room.”

“Come on, lighten up, Al, it's Christmas,” Abe said.

“Not for five more days it isn't. No dogs in the evidence room. How many times do I have to say it?”

Rosco shook his head. “Man, talk about a Scrooge. If we leave her in your office, Al, I guarantee you won't have any doughnuts left when we get back. Even if you stick them all the way on top of the filing cabinets in the corner.” He patted Gabby's head. “Besides, look at that face. How can you say ‘no' to that?”

“You two make me sick.”

“Me and Abe?”

“All
three
of you …” Lever let out a lengthy and very stagy sigh, sat on the edge of his desk, and folded his arms over his chest. “Okay, just this once. But keep an eye on her. You know the penalty for destroying evidence?”

“Ten years in the pound?”

Two

R
OSCO
, Abe Jones, and Al Lever meandered up the flight of stairs leading to the second floor of the Newcastle Police Department. Gabby ran ahead, which was a major part of her personality. She saw no point in walking if she could do the one-hundred-yard dash instead.

The top floor of the building consisted of two large rooms set on either end of a long, cheerless hallway. Both sides of the corridor held four sets of doors. The smaller spaces behind the doors were soundproof and flexible in nature, being either connected by two-way mirrors and used for questioning detainees, or available for confidential meetings or temporary office space. The same dingy, green paint that made the first floor so eye-catching and delightful covered the upstairs walls, but here the linoleum covering the floor was a dark and grubby gray that hadn't seen industrial-strength cleaner or a buffing machine in ages. In the dim fluorescent lighting, the corridor looked like a mine shaft. The evidence room sat at the far end, and as soon as the three men caught up to Gabby at the top of the stairs, she ran down the hall and waited in front of the door.

“See, Al?” Rosco said with a laugh, and a touch of pride. “See how smart she is? She knew exactly where we were going.”

“Yeah, right. There's probably an old leg of lamb in there. One that someone once used as a murder weapon, no doubt. I know how dogs think. Chow. And that's about it.”

Rosco pointed to Al's sizable belly. “You know of which you speak.”

“
Harumph
… You'll never catch me with a dog again, I'll tell you that much.”

“What dog would want you?” Abe chortled. “I'm surprised your wife sticks around with the amount of cigarette smoke you generate.”

“Me?” All grumbled. “You're one to talk. You can't even
find
a wife. Every time I see you, you're with a different woman.”

Abe laughed again and placed his arm over Lever's shoulder. “I've
found
plenty of wives, Al, just none I care to marry.”

“Ho, ho.”

“This ‘ho ho' appears to be Al's new laugh, cooked up especially for the holiday season,” Rosco said to Jones with a raised eyebrow. “Who said he was a Scrooge …? Not very original, but better than Bah, Humbug.”

“Keep it up, you two. Keep it up.”

They reached the door to the evidence room where Gabby was waiting, her short tail wagging in anticipation of what treats might lie on the other side. Al pulled a bundle of keys from his pocket, unlocked and opened the broad steel door, then flipped on the light switch. The same fluorescent lighting that illuminated the remainder of the building flickered a few times before settling into a garish, pale green glow. An alarm panel on the wall next to the door emitted a steady tone until Al punched a five-number entry code on a keypad. Unlike the building's central code, this was a closely guarded NPD secret, the numbers changed regularly and released to only a select few. No police officer liked to have evidence tampered with.

The room was simple in design: a thirty-by-forty-foot storage area with twelve metal shelving units that stretched from floor to ceiling and ran the length of the room. Each of them was chockablock with crime scene evidence, the items stored in clear plastic bags that had been heat-sealed and affixed with tags listing contents, case number, and officers assigned. Gabby ran down one of the aisles as soon as the alarm tone ended.

“Keep an eye on that mutt, Rosco,” Lever groused.

“Everything's sealed, Al. There's nothing she can get into.”

Jones resisted saying
Famous last words,
as the three men walked over to the fifth aisle and strolled halfway down. Atop the highest shelf sat a number of large cardboard boxes, each of which had originally held a case of paper towels. The current contents were the only items in the room not sealed in plastic, and they'd been labeled with a black marking pen: Santas, Wise Men, Musketeers, and Mice.

“What'd we dress up as last year?” Lever said, almost to himself.

Abe and Rosco grumbled “Three Blind Mice” in unison. They made no attempt to mask their lack of enthusiasm for the outfits.

“Right. Personally, I think we looked kind of foolish in those getups.”

“Foolish?” Rosco said facetiously. “Nahhh …”

“They were your idea, Al,” Abe pointed out. “If I never dress up as a mouse again, I'll be a happy man. I vote for the Santas. Everyone likes them.”

“Santas, it is.” Lever retrieved two boxes and he and Rosco carried them to the end of the aisle. Inside were three complete costumes: red plush suits, white beards, curly wigs, black boots, and two down pillows. The activity of the men had attracted Gabby's attention, and she came barreling up the next aisle with a plastic bag between her teeth. It contained a pair of loafers caked in dry mud.

Lever sighed deeply. “Put them back, Rosco.”

“Bad girl, Gab,” Rosco said as he removed the bag from her mouth. “Where'd you get this from?”

“Just put them back. There's a file number on the tag. You don't need to have a conversation about it. The dog can't understand you.”

“That's what you think.”

“I swear, Poly-crates, sometimes I really wonder about you.” Lever sighed again; then he and Jones slipped out of their street clothes and began putting on the Santa costumes.

“
Arrgh,
these must be Rosco's trousers,” Al said as he attempted to fasten the waist hook of his outfit.

“What's the tag say?”

“Well, the tag says, ‘Al,' but they must have gotten mixed up somehow.”

Abe laughed, held up the remaining pair of red pants, and read the tag. “Nope. These say, ‘Rosco.' And even taking into consideration that Polycrates and I need to use ‘fat' pillows, there's no way you're getting into these pants. Methinks you've gained a few pounds, my friend.”

“Let me see those.” Lever grabbed the trousers from Jones as Rosco and Gabby returned from replacing the evidence bag.

“No, those are mine, Al,” Rosco said. “See, there's a P on the waistband right next to the hook. Yours has an L.”

“Yep,” Abe said, “mine has a J. Sorry, Al, better suck it in.”

Lever tried once more to button the trousers. “Maybe we should go as the Wise Men instead?”

“Forget it.” Jones stepped in front of the lieutenant. “We did Wise Men two years ago. Remember, we kept tripping all over those long robes? And Rosco insisted on firing up the frankincense? It smelled worse than your cigarettes. We're sticking with Santas.” He grabbed Lever's waistband on either side. “Okay, Al, on three. One … two … three … Suck it in.”

Lever pulled in his stomach, and Jones fastened the hook.

“There you go, nothing to it.”

Lever groaned. “I feel like a stuffed sausage.”

“No comment,” Rosco said.

“Besides, Santa's supposed to be overweight,” Abe offered.

“Don't get on me with the ‘overweight' business, Abe.”

“I said ‘Santa,' not you, Al. Although, maybe a few sessions at the gym—”

“Forget it, Jones. You know what you can do with that exercise advice of yours. Besides, if the Good Lord wanted me to look like you, he wouldn't have invented jelly doughnuts. Now let's get going before I split these duds apart. We've got some toys to collect.”

T
HE
first stop on their route was Hatch's Hardware Store. It was owned and operated by Stanley Hatch, who at fifty-four still found himself occasionally referred to as “Old Mr. Hatch's grandson.” The shop had been a Newcastle institution for well over a hundred years, and like many of the city's landmarks, it looked nearly the same as it had the day it opened its doors for business: a pair of cluttered display windows bracketing a covered entry that was paved with beige tiles into which the name ‘S. Hatch & Sons' was imprinted in scrolling black.

On the sidewalk fronting the entrance were wooden barrels crammed with snow shovels and thick-bristled brooms, while both sides of the doorway were piled with sacks of rock-salt and a pyramid of blue plastic bottles containing windshield deicer. Inside, the store was deep and wide, its age-darkened walls covered with oak shelving that reached the full fifteen feet to the ceiling. Antiquated rolling ladders allowed Stanley and his minions to access merchandise that lay out of reach, while the remainder was stacked on dusty shelves that ran lengthwise down the center aisles. To say the place appeared crowded and old-fashioned would have been an understatement. Hatch's gave the impression that you could find horse-pulled plows or barrels of whale oil if you only knew where to look—and maybe you could have.