Death on the Diagonal - By Nero Blanc Page 0,56
beloved canine companion.
“You wouldn’t be influencing Skippy’s choice of cuisine, would you, Al?”
“Keep me posted,” was Lever’s sole response.
From the inn, Rosco drove directly to his office. He shook the rain from his parka, hung it on the coat rack, then sat at his desk. His answering machine blinked with one message that had been logged in only five minutes earlier. He tapped the play button.
“Yes. Rosco. Todd Collins here. I had a long talk at the club last night with my good friend Hank Farley—that’s Dartmouth Group’s CEO—but I assume you know who Hank is . . . I tried to persuade him to remove you from this damn fire investigation, because we need to straighten out this conflict of interest nonsense and get you working full time on finding Ryan’s killer. I’ll admit I’m not as confident in Newcastle’s Finest as you are.” Without the merest pause, Collins’s authoritative voice pounded ahead:
“Problem is, Hank’s hamstrung by the weenies on Dartmouth’s board of directors. He feels it’ll send up flags if he bumps you from the case. He told me the only solution is for you to remove yourself or close out the investigation. Well, there is one other option, which is for me to drop the claim, but we’re not going to go there.” Collins finally took a breath and added, “So what’s it going to be? I’ll make it worth your while. Give me a ring. I’m at the farm. You’ve got the number. I want Ryan’s murderer brought to justice, and I want it done yesterday.”
Rosco lifted the receiver to return the call, but then let it drop back into the cradle. He had nothing to say to Todd Collins. He would work the case as he saw fit.
By noon Rosco was nursing a draught beer at the long oak bar of The Horse With No Name. The spot had been a roadside tavern for over two centuries. Unlike the Dew Drop Inn, new ownership simply picked up where the former left off. The age-darkened beams of the ceiling didn’t undergo a sunny facelift; the publike atmosphere of the dining room didn’t morph into bistro French or southern Italian; no one tried a menu that was Asian-fusion or Hispano-Mayan or Tuscan-Bulgarian. The staples remained traditional American fare. At this point it had been in the same family for over thirty years, and Friday’s half-price oyster special meant that there wasn’t an empty table to be had. This fact worked in Rosco’s favor. Three people had already asked if the bar stool next to him was available, and he’d managed to send them on their way with, “Sorry. I’m saving it for a buddy of mine.” Ten minutes later Chip Collins arrived and approached him.
“Hey, how’s it goin’, Rosco? I didn’t know you liked this joint. You saving this stool for anyone?”
“Nope.” Rosco tapped the cell phone on his belt. “I was supposed to meet an old friend, but he just called and said he couldn’t make it. Have a seat.”
Chip sat next to Rosco and gave the bartender a nod. Without a word, a dark amber ale was placed in front of him.
“Only way to go,” Chip said. “The snobs think you’ve got to have champagne or some froufrou drink when you sit down with a plate of oysters. But anyone in the know will tell you a good beer keeps your taste buds sharp.” He pointed to the chalkboard behind the bar. “Try the ones from Fishers Island, New York; none better in the country. It’s a small-scale farm, and the owners know their business.”
“I’ll do that.”
“How’re you coming with that fire thing? I think the old man’s getting a tad annoyed with the insurance company.” Chip chortled as he spoke. “Pop’s not a pleasant man to be around when things don’t go his way . . . or as quickly as he’d like.”
Rosco smiled. “I imagine after all is said and done the Dartmouth Group will pay off. Clint Mize explained that to your father. Unless, of course, the situation proves to be a case of arson.”
Chip ignored the inference, turning instead to the bartender and ordering them both a dozen oysters. He was careful to specify the types he wanted served.
“Let me ask you something,” Rosco continued as if he were making casual conversation. “Orlando Polk insists he heard the phone, or maybe the intercom, just before the fire started. Did you hear it ring up at your cottage?”
“Not the phone, no. And