Two down - By Nero Blanc Page 0,30

Jamaica Nevisson did Much Ado a few years ago. I went up to Boston to see it. I was surprised how good she was in the role—and blond! Almost totally unrecognizable from her offstage appearance. Whoever constructed this puzzle has done his homework . . .”

Rosco retrieved the puzzle and ran his fingers over the letters. “What makes you think it’s a man?”

“A hunch . . . A strong hunch. Look at the Down column . . . Ship prefix; Naut. engine type; Mil. rank; Antiaircraft fire . . . Definitely guy stuff.”

Rosco looked hard at Belle. “I don’t want you trying to scare off any more prowlers,” he said. “There’s a serious sicko out there.” His expression was so grave, Belle’s grew pensive as well.

“Why do you say that?”

Rosco paused. “Your well-known involvement in the Briephs’ case, for starters. ‘Cryptics Queen Collars Killer.’ Remember that headline? One of many, I might add.”

Belle remained silent for a long minute. “Are you suggesting this crossword is merely a copycat situation? That it has nothing to do with the Orion?”

“Oh, it does, Belle. It definitely does. And that’s exactly what makes it frightening. Someone is playing a really perverted game. I saw those reporters gathered at Pepper’s estate . . . They’re giving constant updates, satellite feeds across the nation . . . which only increases a weirdo’s desire to be involved in the action . . . Promise me you’ll listen to that little voice that warns you not to personally chase away strangers?”

Belle frowned but didn’t speak.

“Please, Belle. I want you to take this seriously. Whoever brought this puzzle to your house could well be a borderline crazy. And crazies are fond of armaments.”

Belle walked over to the shrimp dish, absentmindedly dumping the Ouzo marinade down the sink. When she realized what she’d done, she let out a yelp of dismay. “Oh, drat! . . . Drat! I guess we’ll have to sauté the shrimp instead, what do you think?”

Rosco smiled gently. Dining on Belle’s cuisine was always unpredictable. “Sounds good to me.”

“Garlic, do you think?” she asked.

Rosco’s smile grew. “You can’t go wrong with garlic.”

While Rosco peeled and chopped garlic Belle tackled the necessary onion, celery, and parsley for the “original recipe.” As she sliced and diced, she returned to her premise with a thoughtful: “I disagree with you, Rosco. I think this crossword contains a special message for me—something that will help unravel the mystery of the Orion’s fire . . . This is how the Briephs case was solved.”

Rosco turned to face her. “And that’s exactly why I’m convinced that the puzzle is the work of a deranged mind . . . Fame can be a dangerous thing Belle. A very dangerous thing.”

11

Convincing Belle that there might be dangerous people traversing the globe, people who wouldn’t think twice about harming another individual, was like trying to persuade a lemming not to jump off a cliff. Her approach to any situation was to leap in with both feet and forge ahead until she reached her goal. Rosco had never known anyone with such a jubilant and determined spirit. There was no doubt about it, she was an exceptional catch. One he hoped to never lose.

Driving his Jeep out of TX Bio-Lab’s parking lot, Rosco smiled at the memory of his evening with Belle while the clean light of early morning washed the sea air and the ruddy bricks of the city’s older buildings. The white trim etched around windows and doors looked as dazzlingly bright as a sandy beach at full noon. Rosco pulled into traffic, reminiscing about the previous summer: Belle in the ocean with her long tan legs splashing through the waves, then picnics on the sand, the hot and salty smell of beach blankets, the crumpled sandwich wrappers, potato-chip shards, and the drowsy sound of the breaking surf. The memories made him deeply regret that he wasn’t on his way to her house, instead of visiting his former partner, Lieutenant Al Lever of the Newcastle PD cops—even good guys like Al—just didn’t measure up.

Rosco sighed once, then made a left onto Thomas Paine Boulevard, the wide thoroughfare that bisected the city, and turned his attention to Bio-Lab’s preliminary report.

The blood samples lifted from the Dixie-Jack weren’t what he’d expected; on the gauges, the blood had come from a marine source—obviously the tuna—but the samples he’d taken from the throttle arm were human—type A pos. Rosco figured Al should be informed. Maybe the blood had bearing