all right to talk?” she asked. Her voice was low, a monotone created by purposely compressing the larynx. The accent was equally difficult to ascertain; there was an undertone of a Tennessee drawl overlaid with the crisply bitten consonants of Maine.
The male speaker at the other end produced a disturbed, nervous laugh. “Hey! How are ya?” Then the register dropped to a whisper, and the collegial tone became bitten and hard. “You’re not supposed to call me here . . . It could be traced in a second. That was the deal—”
“That was the deal.” Her voice caught with a sound like unexpressed tears. “But what am I supposed to do? You left me high and dry here—”
“Look,”—the voice was barely audible—“I don’t know who’s nearby . . . I can’t talk.”
“Then find a time when we can—”
“That’s impossible! You know the rules. No contact until this is over.”
“They found the dinghy.”
“They were supposed to find it, remember?”
In the small bedroom, the woman’s free hand clenched spasmodically against her thigh. She started to speak, but only produced a strangled groan that finally gave way to a gasp of desperation. “Something’s gone wrong,” she said in an accent clearly approaching her own. “Hasn’t it?”
“I can’t tell yet . . .” Then the man’s voice changed timbre again, becoming loud, robust, and businesslike; he was obviously talking to someone else. “Okay,” he called out. “I’ll be there in a minute . . . Tell them to hold their horses . . . Okay . . . Okay . . . I get the picture!”
Another moan broke from the woman’s throat; this one was more like a snarl. “I can’t stand this!”
“Well, try!” was the biting response.
“We should have had a contingency plan . . . I shouldn’t have listened to you!” she spat back.
“Hey, babe, whose idea was this?” was his equally vicious reply.
Her voice descended to a weeping whimper. “I’m going crazy here.”
“I’ve got to go,” he said.
“When will you—”
“I don’t know. Don’t call me again. I’ll find a way to contact you . . . And listen, next time work on your voice—”
“I’m going crazy here,” she sobbed again in response. But he’d hung up before she’d completed the sentence.
15
Even though the autumn days were growing shorter, Rosco believed dawn was now purposely arriving earlier each morning. Sunlight radiated through his bedroom blinds long before the clock radio produced its annoying and persistent buzz. Friday was no different; at six forty-five A.M., when the alarm finally sounded, Rosco was already awake, sitting up, staring at the blinds and wondering what kind of sick mind would create the puzzles Belle had received.
He reached over and tapped the clock’s Off button, causing the radio to switch to the Imus in the Morning program. The I-Man and his merry band of jesters were laughing so raucously at some lascivious witticism that Rosco could barely make out a word of conversation. On this particular day, Rosco found the gang a little too happy for his liking. He dispensed with Don, Charles, Fred, Bernard, and Company and walked grimly into the bathroom to shave and shower. He wasn’t looking forward to his meeting with Tom Pepper. After perusing the inflatable tender the previous day, Rosco felt that he, and the world, had let Tom Pepper down.
At seven-thirty A.M., Anson opened the front door of the Pepper estate. “Ahh . . . Mr. Polycrates . . . It’s good to see you again. I trust you had no trouble forcing your way through our media encampment?”
“I think they recognize me as a nonplayer.”
Anson smiled in a formal fashion that made him look both uncomfortable and deceitful. Again, Rosco was struck by the way the man’s appearance belied his position. Whatever Anson had been before his arrival in the Pepper household, it hadn’t been a butler. “A nonplayer,” he echoed. “Yes, sir . . .” Then he added a hasty: “Please come in. Mr. Pepper is expecting you.”
“Okay, okay,” Tom barked from somewhere in the invisible interior. “Take the man’s jacket, Anson . . . Rosco, I want to see you in my office . . .” His voice disappeared, leaving Anson holding the offending jacket while Rosco found his way to the command center on his own.
The moment the detective entered the room, Tom’s forceful speech resumed: “I appreciate the hell out of you coming so early, Rosco. I’ve got a heavy workload today. Sit down.”
Rosco remained standing. “I’m all right.”
“Suit yourself. So . . .