Death on the Diagonal - By Nero Blanc Page 0,68
with a kitchen knife . . .” Lever moved the ashtray an inch, then slid it back to its original spot as though he were pondering a chess move. Behind the closed door to his office, the station house was humming with the noise of early morning and the start of a new day trying to safeguard the citizens of Newcastle—which made the almost chilly stillness of Al Lever’s office that much more noticeable.
“Of course, from my point of view,” he continued, “the guy was supremely lucky he couldn’t hear the hysterics going on around him after his untimely demise: Fiona screeching that Heather had murdered the love of her life out of jealousy; then Heather belting her big sis; hubby Michael getting in a huge ‘I sincerely hope you weren’t cheating on me’ lather; Dad trying to intervene and getting cocked in the head by both his loving daughters—accidentally it would have seemed, although Dr. Freud might have decided otherwise. And last but not least, Chip’s girlfriend, Angel, fainting dead away the second she arrived on the scene.” Al fiddled with his ashtray once again and shook his head.
“If that’s what having tons of moolah does for ’ya, I sure don’t want it. Give me the grief-stricken next of kin any time—unless, of course, that sad sack is the murderer. Anyway, besides the crossword that turned up, the reason I wanted our little pow-wow is this: I’ve got our Miss Heather locked up down in the hole, while the DA works up a murder-one charge, but the situation just seems too pat for me. Something else is in the air, and I can’t put my finger on it.” Lever paused briefly to gaze longingly at the mangled butts lying heaped in front of him, and Belle took advantage of the intervening silence.
“And where did you find the crossword, Al?” She was seated at the far end of the room, bent over a copy of the puzzle that had been retrieved from the crime scene.
It was Jones who answered. “Curry had it on him. It was folded in eighths in the rear left-hand pocket of his jeans—hanky-size. The place was torn apart, so consensus is that Heather was searching the house when she was interrupted by her husband. Was she looking for the puzzle? Who knows. But she was ticked off big-time; and that’s how we pieced together the scenario for the DA. However, I’m with Al; something’s fishy out there.”
“Has Heather admitted to the charge?” Rosco asked.
“She ain’t admittin’ to nothin’,” Lever said. “As soon as all fingers were pointed in her direction, the call went out to the family lawyer. She hasn’t made a peep since. The attorney’s on his way down from Boston now. Like we don’t have enough of them in Newcastle?”
Abe stood, positioned himself behind Belle and looked over her shoulder. “So, what’s the puzzle telling us? Anything?”
“I’m getting there,” Belle told him as she went back to work. “One thing I can surmise is that the constructor is a brainy individual. The step-quote’s from Shakespeare, and it’s cleverly worked into the scheme.”
“Or was ‘brainy,’ ” Rosco added, “if Curry created it.”
“Which we can’t automatically assume, Poly-crates,” Lever interjected. “Even if his fingerprints are the only ones we I.D. on the paper, the thing could still be a plant, or it could have been handed to him earlier in the day. Heather could have even transferred his prints, then hidden the crossword on him after she knifed him—”
“If she’s the guilty party,” Abe interrupted. “We’d love to believe that; it sure would make life simple, but the woman swore up and down that she found Curry already dead, the knife on the floor, and the house half ransacked—”
“While Palamountain insisted he discovered his wife alone with the body.” Al laughed. The sound was more like a bark. “Real loving duo, those two. Michael phones us, fingers his missus, summons the rest of the charming clan, then watches the fireworks explode while she gets the tender-loving-handcuff treatment and is stuffed into the back of a patrol car and genteelly ‘escorted’ off to my jail.” Lever shook his head. The chair creaked under his weight, while Rosco, in his own equally nicked and timeworn metal chair, hunched forward.
“Okay,” he said at length. “Give me the scene again: Fiona’s railing at her sister and accusing her of having an affair with Curry—which causes Heather to take a whack at her?”
“The only word Fiona used was jealousy, Poly-crates. I