anomaly in a city whose residents shared an abiding love of all things nautical. Rosco’s older sister often referred to him as “The Dramamine Kid.”
But his lack of enthusiasm for cold salt spray, choppy waves, and bobbing vessels battling the briny wasn’t his only unusual characteristic. A former cop who’d spent eight years working Homicide with the Newcastle Police Department before opening his own detective agency, his other peculiarity was that he didn’t like carrying a gun, and never had—a decision that had annoyed NPD’s captain for some reason. The captain had also frowned upon Rosco’s unorthodox approach to his investigations, although that might have been because his sometimes quirky methods brought unexpected results.
Now in its sixth year, the Polycrates Detective Agency was doing well. It had new office space in a respected part of town, an impressive roster of former clients, and a reputation for thorough and honest work; ironically, a large percentage of which was marine-related insurance fraud. And all this with just a single employee, one Rosco Polycrates. Although he’d once made the fateful mistake of referring to Belle as a subcontractor of the agency, a term she relished—and used—with typical abandon.
As Rosco settled into the chair behind his desk, he reached for the telephone and punched *1 into the auto-dialer and listened while the familiar tones skipped over the digits that would connect him to Belle’s cell phone. They’d only finished breakfast and kissed good-bye an hour before, but he saw no harm in telling her once again how much he adored her. Of course, the odds of Belle actually having the mobile phone on her person, or turned on, for that matter, were slim. Rosco was accustomed to leaving messages she forgot to retrieve—or when she did retrieve them, overlooked the day and month of the voice mail. But before the call could go through, there was a knock on his door. His nine-thirty appointment was early. He disconnected the phone without reaching his real or electronic wife and said, “Yes? Come in.” Although Rosco was fluent in Greek, his accent was pure Back-Bay-Boston drawl.
Walter Gudgeon appeared to be in his early to midseventies, five-feet-nine, a bit heavier that he should have been, or probably wanted to be, with expensively cut, dark brown hair—the kind of chestnut shade that shouted professional dye job. He wore tailored slacks and a sports jacket, the clothes of a man who lived a comfortable, if understated, life. Rosco stood and said, “Mr. Gudgeon, I take it?”
“Yes.” Gudgeon crossed to Rosco and extended his hand. He had a strong grip, which he seemed proud of, and spoke with a very slight accent, which Rosco decided was Scottish. “It’s nice to meet you. You’ve come highly recommended, Mr. Polycrates.”
“Thanks. And please call me Rosco. Have a seat, will you?”
Gudgeon sat in the leather chair opposite Rosco’s desk.
“Out of curiosity, I don’t believe you mentioned how you found my agency when you made your appointment. Who was it who recommended me?”
“Actually, I don’t remember who it was, now that you ask.”
Gudgeon gave an uneasy smile. Rosco guessed it was nervousness at hiring a PI, though he found it a bit strange that the man couldn’t remember where the highly recommended had come from. A good way to determine what someone really wanted was to learn who had led them up to your front door.
“Wasn’t there a Gudgeon who ran for mayor about fifteen years ago?” Rosco asked as he opened a small notebook.
“That was my brother, Charlie. He lost in the primary. Got beat up, down, and sideways by the boys with the Big Money.”
Rosco nodded in sympathy. “Well, no doubt, he would have been better than the clown sitting in the mayor’s chair now.”
“I think that could also be said of my grandson’s hamster.”
Rosco laughed. “Well, Mr. Gudgeon—”
“Call me Walt. I’m not a formal guy and never have been.”
“All right.” Rosco snapped his fingers. “Walt Gudgeon . . . Of course! Those are your trucks I see all over town; Gudgeon Electrical Contracting. Walt’s Wire Wagons.”
Walter Gudgeon looked immensely pleased. “That’s right. Although I retired five years ago. My son, Young Walt, runs the show now. It’s really only seven trucks, but the red and gold lettering shows off well against those bright white panels. I designed the look myself. Young Walt wanted to go with green; dumbest idea I ever heard of. Those trucks are our only advertising. They have to turns heads when you see them, or what’s the