22.

The Athena Restaurant on Front Street in the resuscitated City Pier area had been the scene of Rosco and Belle's first dinner together. With its cozy, romantic ambience, checkered tablecloths, and evocative, wall-sized murals of Greece, the eatery had remained a favorite; Belle and Rosco felt almost as if they'd been transported to some exotic vacation spot when dining there. Tonight, however, business intruded. Or, perhaps, discussing the Pepper case was easier than addressing the push-pull of their own emotions. Both of them had been deeply affected by their argument that afternoon; love, they knew, could make people unreasonable, sometimes possessive, often anxious. It could also bring joy beyond measure.

"So... let's see... You were telling me that Billy Vauriens can't be found..." Nervous energy and a sudden shyness caused Belle's pale blond hair to bounce as she spoke. She smiled, but the expression was almost too bright. "Doesn't his girlfriend find that odd?"

Rosco tried to match her impersonal mood. "Not from what she said...I gather they have a pretty loose arrangement."

"I'd hate that," Belle blurted out, then stammered an embarra.s.sed, "For me, I mean... Or, rather..."

"I wouldn't like it either," Rosco said. "For myself, that is..."

"To each his own," Belle answered.

"Absolutely," was Rosco's swift reply.

In the awkward silence that ensued, he divvied up the remaining dolmades; dolmades; and the waiter removed the plate from the red-and-white-checked tablecloth, then poured white wine into their gla.s.ses. Rosco waited until he and Belle were again alone before speaking. and the waiter removed the plate from the red-and-white-checked tablecloth, then poured white wine into their gla.s.ses. Rosco waited until he and Belle were again alone before speaking.

"You and Vauriens' lady friend don't have much in common..." he began, then attempted a less intimate tone as he watched her attack her last stuffed grape leaf. "Unless you've been kiting checks, that is." Finally, he added a quiet: "I'm glad you didn't starve out there on Allyn's Point... Or harm yourself in any other way..."

"I was fine, Rosco. Really I was," Belle murmured, before returning to the safer subject of Billy Vauriens. "I still don't understand his situation with his boss."

Rosco toyed with his gla.s.s. Belle could see he had something on his mind that didn't include Genie Pepper's half brother. When he answered, however, it was Vauriens' situation he addressed. "I gather Billy's part of a pickup crew for construction work. Nonunion, usually working off the books... sometimes only marginally skilled... They're not the most dependable folks to hire."

Belle followed his lead with an equally pragmatic: "So, why didn't this boss question Vauriens about his decision to quit?"

"The guy's got a site under construction. Probably running behind schedule would be my guess... He barely had time to talk to me. Anyway, he's used to these part-timers coming and going. He's got better things to do than keep track of them."

"Hmm..." Belle nodded. "Hmm."

Flat soup dishes containing avgolemono avgolemono were placed in front of them. "Lemon soup." She sighed. "You know how much I love this stuff." were placed in front of them. "Lemon soup." She sighed. "You know how much I love this stuff."

Rosco smiled as he watched her. "It's not that hard to cook."

"For someone named Polycrates, maybe!" Belle returned his warm glance, but her p.r.o.nouncement suddenly brought a welter of disturbing thoughts-accompanied by the single d.a.m.ning and unshakable word Jamaica had leveled at her during the Patriot Yacht Club dinner dance; "transitional" clanged in Belle's ears.

"So..." she continued after several moments, "after you went gallivanting all over Boston looking for Vauriens, then what?"

"Then I drove back to Newcastle, called Pepper, and told him I'd been hunting for Billy... It's a good thing we were talking on the phone, because I'm not sure I would have been able to handle that much hollering in person... Pepper clearly despises his brother-in-law."

"Half," Belle corrected reflexively.

"Right... Genie's half half brother." brother."

"And Tom didn't know anything about the five-million-dollar policy?"

"Not a peep."

"And this forensics expert, Jones-what's his first name again?"

"Abe."

"That's right," Belle said. Rosco could see her searching for a mental a.s.sociation to remember the name.

"It's not what you think," he offered. "Abraham Lincoln and emanc.i.p.ation... Abe stands for Absalom or Absolon-something like that."

Belle looked thunderstruck. "Absalom Jones? As in one of the founders of the African Methodist Episcopal Church?"

"I wouldn't have pegged Abe as a religious guy-"

"I'm talking about his namesake, Rosco! A late-eighteenth-century former slave... an extraordinary leader and orator."

Rosco stared, nonplussed. "Does your brain have room for any additional information? Or do you have to throw away outmoded data every so often?"

"Rosco, he was famous!" Then she saw how crestfallen he looked, and softened her response. "I've used the name in my more challenging cryptics-cross-referencing King David's traitorous son, Absalom... It's fairly arcane stuff... Actually, I'm not certain how I originally came across the information..." The rush of verbiage began to slow. "So, this Abe Abe Jones of yours said he suspected that the Jones of yours said he suspected that the Orion Orion fire was a case of arson?" fire was a case of arson?"

"King David's evil son," Rosco mused in response. "What do you know about that."

Belle grinned. "Polycrates was a Greek tyrant, if you don't mind me reminding you."

"Sixth century B B.C.," was Rosco's rapid retort. "The family's become much less autocratic since then."

"That remains to be seen." Belle chuckled.

"Anyway, the guy was big on piracy-meaning he must have liked boats."

Belle laughed again. "So, you're saying Abe Jones believes the Orion Orion fire was arson?" fire was arson?"

"'Torched' was the word he used, Belle. I've known Abe for quite a while, and it's uncanny how right on most of his initial insights are. If he feels it was arson-"

"And you don't think you should share that piece of news with Pepper?"

Rosco hesitated. "Not yet... Ultimately there's still nothing confirmed... and I don't want Tom going ballistic over a situation that could be misinterpreted... Until we have concrete evidence, we have to consider the possibility that the fire may have been accidental-no matter how slim the possibility. It's never a good idea to pa.s.s half-truths onto a client. I get paid to deliver facts."

"But what if the Orion were Orion were set on fire?" Belle asked. set on fire?" Belle asked.

"Well, then I'd say the situation doesn't look promising for Mr. William Vauriens."

Belle's eyes wandered to the murals in the restaurant's candlelit alcoves. The scenes they replicated made her yearn to be in Greece. On one wall stood an island village full of ancient, whitewashed houses. On another were olive trees on a sea-breeze-swept hillside. One painting was a bird's-eye view of a tawny valley dotted with toppled marble columns.

"Five million dollars could buy a lot, couldn't it?" she murmured almost unconsciously.

Rosco followed her glance. His response was equally thoughtful. "It sure could."

Instinctively, their hands met on the tabletop. "I'd like to take you there, sometime," Rosco said quietly.

Belle didn't speak; instead, her entire being seemed transported by the suggestion while the term "transitional" suddenly and miraculously vanished, leaving her mind as full of tranquillity and hope as the images on the restaurant walls. "I'd like that," she said at last.

Rosco squeezed her fingers again. They were both smiling in earnest, although not yet at each other.

"So..." Belle finally asked, "so... what else did you learn about Vauriens?"

"Vauriens," Rosco answered, and sat up straighter. "Right... Well, apparently, Genie kept trying to get him to clean up his act. He's not unattractive, from what I heard-'killer looks' according to the girlfriend-"

"The one with the 'loose' relationship."

Rosco raised his eyebrows, but sidestepped the interruption and its implication. "Anyway, Genie decided Billy should study acting... Something to 'keep him off the streets.'"

Belle completely failed to see where this revelation was heading. "So?"

"So, she got him an apprenticeship at a theater in Connecticut... the Avon Shakespeare Festival..."

"Oh my..." Belle said.

"He left Connecticut at the end of the summer. It seems the part of Balthazar in The Merchant of Venice The Merchant of Venice didn't offer him enough of a stretch." didn't offer him enough of a stretch."

"Oh my..."

"Now do you see why I worry about you?"

Belle's eyes met Rosco's. "Where do we go from here?" she finally asked. Both realized the question had nothing to do with Billy Vauriens.

23.

Sunday morning in Newcastle's dockside was no different than any other honky-tonk neighborhood nursing a hangover. The peal of eleven A A.M. church bells could be heard in the distance, but no one on the waterfront strip was making a mad dash to slide into a favorite pew for a much-needed lesson in Judeo-Christian ethics. The final remnant of Sat.u.r.day night's revelers had stumbled from the grimy pavement toward darker hiding places when the sun made its dawn appearance; in their wake lay the detritus of determined partying: discarded liquor bottles, empty cigarette packages, gnawed-on pizza crusts, and mangled fish-and-chips wrappers. Sticky ketchup smeared the wrappers; the substance had begun to resemble drying blood.

Rosco studied the scene as he drove toward the Red Admiral. The asphalt pavement fronting the tavern was nearly vacant; one lonely and rusting VW bus and two Harley-Davidson motorcycles were its only inhabitants. Judging by the amount of trash acc.u.mulated nearby, the owners had been absent for some time. As he eased his Jeep to a stop, he heard the distinct sound of an aluminum beer can crunch beneath his tires.

"Better than gla.s.s." Rosco sighed, stepping from the Jeep to survey the waterfront and commercial docks facing Water Street's east side. Dark clouds ranged slowly across the bright October sky while a thin morning sun appeared above the harbor at irregular intervals, creating blinding reflections from any metal object it touched.

The west side of the street, however, emitted the dingy aura of a ghost town. Crushed plastic cups, pint-sized paper bags, and balled-up candy wrappers blew by like tumbleweed. Iron gates, heavy with layers of peeling paint, covered every window and door. The same held true for the Red Admiral. The shutters on its two ground-floor windows had been closed and padlocked; crisscrossed steel bars blocked the front entrance.

Rosco glanced up toward a second-floor window. It had been left open, and a faded green-and-white-striped curtain flapped in the breeze. From his previous visit, he knew that Vic Fogram lived above the bar. He wasn't the type to leave a window unlocked accidentally. Rosco decided the Admiral's owner was home.

He walked to the side alley, where he found a flight of rickety wooden steps leading to a second-story doorway. He realized there was no point in surprising Fogram-it was the type of thing that got people shot in this neighborhood; instead, Rosco trod heavily up the stairs, hoping the noise would announce his arrival.

As if on cue, Vic was waiting at the landing. Clad in a grungy brown, hooded terry-cloth robe, he looked like a deranged Franciscan monk. "Well, if it isn't our friend from Baltimore," he said with an ill-disguised sneer. "Back from Maine so soon? Let me guess; you couldn't find a motel and you need a place to crash."

Rosco reached for a business card. "I wasn't completely up front with you the other night. My name's Rosco Polycrates. I'm a private investigator."

Vic glanced at the card. "And a local PI, at that." He scratched the back of his head through the brown fabric. "I gotta hand it to you, pal, you're good. Everyone in the joint bought the Baltimore line." Vic pulled a pack of Marlboros from his robe, lit one, and tossed the match into the alley. His wary demeanor returned. "What do you want?"

"I'm looking into the Orion Orion fire." fire."

Vic gave a hint of a smile and shook his head. "I would have bet a hundred bucks you were gonna tell me Charlie Yarnell's wife hired you to find out who he's shackin' up with. Guess it's Charlie's lucky day and not mine."

"Can I come in?" Rosco asked. "Fifteen minutes is all I need."

Vic considered the request. He didn't speak, just inhaled long and deep. "I don't have anything to say about the Orion- Orion-other than to tell you to hit the road." Then he lazily flicked his half-smoked cigarette toward the ground and began to step inside.

"That's advice you might want to reconsider, Fogram," Rosco said.

"I didn't kill those babes."

"Who said they were dead?"

"You ever try swimming for ninety-some hours in Buzzards Bay in October?" The retort didn't mask Vic's sudden nervousness.

Rosco recognized how easily the tavern's owner had been rattled and decided to press his advantage. "There's another possibility, Fogram... Police scenario number two: the cops start looking for someone who might have staged the fire and kidnapped the women. In that case, your door is the first the feds knock on. I'm sure you can follow the logic there... Trust me, you're up to your keister in this..."

"I don't like being pushed"-Fogram glanced anxiously at Rosco's card-"Polycrates."

"Then I suggest you figure a way to keep yourself out of a federal lockup. Because those boys are notorious for their pushiness."

Vic reached for another cigarette, but found the package empty. He crushed the wrapper and flung it down into the alley, then gritted his teeth and appeared to make a decision. "I've got a lady visitor. I'll tell her I got company." He slammed into his apartment, banging the door shut behind him.

Rosco waited on the wooden landing with his arms folded across his chest, then watched in envy as a pair of seagulls glided by, riding the light wind. It seemed a preferable way to spend the morning. Three minutes into Rosco's bird-watching reverie, Vic yanked open the door. "Okay," he growled. "I'll give you fifteen-but that's all."

Rosco found the apartment's interior a surprisingly pleasant, open s.p.a.ce. Kitchen appliances lined one wall; everything seemed fairly new and orderly. There was an oak dining-room table in the center of the room. A couch flanked by two armchairs faced a wall containing a TV, VCR, and CD player, with a wooden lobster pot serving as a somewhat arty coffee table. At the rear portion of the room, a beaded curtain separated the sleeping area. Rosco had little trouble discerning a large bra.s.s bed and the outline of a figure covered from head to toe with a patchwork quilt. Obviously Fogram's "lady visitor."

"Sit." Vic pointed to the couch. "I'm gonna have a beer... Hair of the dog."

Rosco chose the couch and waited for Vic to return with his Budweiser. As he flipped the top, he sank into one of the chairs. "What do you want to know, Polycrates?"

Rosco c.o.c.ked his head toward the sleeping area. "You don't mind being overheard, I take it?"

"Listen, pal, I've got nothing to hide. From you or anybody else. I haven't done a d.a.m.n thing... Who're you working for, anyway?"

"That's confidential."

"Right... So, you want me to talk to you, but you won't tell me jack about yourself. Well, not everyone's an idiot in this town. I got a C-note says you're working for Tom Pepper. Who else cares about those broads? No one I know. I'll tell you this: If you're looking for crooks, you'd better start sniffin' around your own backyard."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning Pepper."

"You mentioned something about that the other night... Something like: if you'd known the Orion Orion had been leased by Pepper's wife, you would have just let it burn... What did you mean by that?" had been leased by Pepper's wife, you would have just let it burn... What did you mean by that?"

"Exactly what I said. I got no use for these creepola money traders and numbers swappers. Let me tell you something: no one makes money without someone else losing it. A guy walks into my place downstairs and orders a Bud? What happens? I'm two dollars richer and he's two dollars poorer. That's how the world goes 'round."