Under a "Geraldo"-type mustache, Flack's mouth was a pulpy red, and he had a long blue-black bruise on his right cheek. He hadn't shaved for three or four days, and his body gave off the rank odor of nerves and cunning. Lever's a.s.sessment was correct; the man would be a tough nut to crack; he'd been around.

Rosco continued to stare; he kept his arms folded across his chest.

After several minutes Flack decided to speak; his missing teeth produced a pained and irritable lisp. "What is this? The old 'good cop, bad cop' routine? You guys watch a lot of TV in this burg, do you?" He stressed "TV" as if any yokels not residing in L.A. existed solely through stories fed them by the entertainment industry.

"I'm no cop," Rosco said. "I work for the man whose house you broke into."

"I didn't break into anyone's house, dude."

Rosco smiled evenly. "The police cuffed you in his kitchen, from what I hear."

"Pepper and some two-bit Brit thug dragged me there... 'Blimey, matey, look what we have 'ere... a bloomin' 'orse thief-'"

"That's your story, Flack; I've got two policemen upstairs who maintain they found you in Pepper's kitchen... But, hey, the facts will come out in court, right? No point in our wasting time determining whose human rights might have been violated."

Flack looked up; he seemed to take Rosco's measure. "What's this about? I don't have to talk to you."

"That's your decision-Mr. Flack. But let me present my employer's view on this matter. If he drops charges, you're out of here in an hour. If he presses them... you're going to jail. Probably only for a year, but you will do time, and it'll be hard time. This is Ma.s.sachusetts, not California. I'm sure you're smart enough to realize that Mr. Pepper is a powerful man in this 'burg'..."

Flack's head drooped again; he stared at the stained floor. After a beat he muttered, "Where's The Hollywood Globe The Hollywood Globe attorney? I don't have to speak without legal counsel present." attorney? I don't have to speak without legal counsel present."

"Good for you, Flack. So, you know your way around a station house, and Miranda Miranda v. v. Arizona Arizona? It doesn't surprise me. However, I don't operate under police guidelines. I'm just a messenger-here at Mr. Pepper's behest. The questions I'm asking are his. And he'd like them answered in a timely manner. In an hour or two he may not feel so lenient. Your bail's been set for a quarter of a million dollars-kinda high for a crime of this type, wouldn't you say?"

Flack ran his fingers through his limp and greasy hair, then wiped his palms on his trousers. "What does he want to know?"

"First off: your obsession with Jamaica Nevisson."

Flack's wiry chest produced a snort of contempt. "Those pictures have paid my rent as long as I can remember, dude. Let me tell you something, PR's a two-way street. Jamaica Nevisson needed me as much as I needed her. I wouldn't expect some bozo hick to understand the PR biz, but it was Jamaica's people-her agent, manager, press wrangler, et cetera-who put me onto her in the beginning. Her career would have gone nowhere without coverage in The Globe The Globe-or lack thereof." The statement was followed by a smug laugh.

"Since you raise the issue of privacy, do you mind describing how you got those nudies of her on Catalina Island?"

Flack chortled again, shaking his head in amazement as if he were dealing with a five-year-old. "Her 'mysterious male companion' set up the photo op. See, he's a newbie trying to jump-start his career. Just like everybody else on the Coast... So he supplies all the details of the trip, and I follow them out to the island... Buff young guy posing on muscle beach... Now he's hot, and Jamaica's not. C'est la guerre, C'est la guerre, dude, as the Frenchies say." dude, as the Frenchies say."

"And you followed them out to Catalina on a boat?"

"No, dude, I swam... I've always had this thing for sharks." Flack stared at the ceiling; sarcasm curled his thickened lips. "Welcome to Hicksville, Reggie," he muttered, then reclined on the bunk as if finished with the interview.

Rosco ignored the performance. "I a.s.sume this frenzy over Jamaica's disappearance has also benefited your career, Mr. Flack... Do you mind telling me when you arrived in Newcastle?"

The photographer lifted his head and squinted at Rosco. For the first time he seemed worried about his answer. "Last week, why?"

"I can always check with the airlines, but I was hoping you'd cooperate and supply something more specific-such as what day and hour? Was it before or after the Orion Orion blaze?" blaze?"

Again Flack turned evasive. "Come on, dude, what difference does that make?"

"As I said, it's easy enough to check with the airlines..." Rosco stood as if to leave. "Mr. Pepper doesn't like leaving loose ends-especially when it involves finding his wife-"

"Hold on." Flack swung off the cot and hurried across to the cell's bars. "I arrived last Sat.u.r.day night-nine, ten o'clock... As soon as I heard Jamaica had lit out of L.A., I booked a flight."

"Who told you she'd 'lit out'?"

"Sources, dude, sources..." Flack started to sneer, then reconsidered the remark. His tone and body language grew wary. "Okay... the same guy she sailed to Catalina with. It's worth his while to keep her name in the papers."

"So you were here Sunday... You could have followed the Orion Orion into Buzzards Bay." into Buzzards Bay."

"Hey, hey... back up there... What are you saying? That I torched the boat?"

"Who said it was torched?"

Flack forced an unsteady laugh. "Torched... accident... who cares? Listen, if I'd been there when those babes bit it, I would have gotten photographs of the whole d.a.m.n shooting match."

"Who's to say you don't have them already?" Rosco stood for a moment, regarding Flack while the photographer mimicked unconcern. "Do you know what W. R. Hearst wired to his ill.u.s.trator Frederic Remington after sending him to Cuba in 1898?"

Flack shrugged. "That's what you cowboys talk about around here? Ancient history? Sorry, dude, that was a little before my time."

"'You furnish the pictures; I'll furnish the war.' Some folks will stoop pretty low to sell a few newspapers... Or jump-start a career."

The photographer opened his mouth to speak, but Rosco cut him off. "Don't waste brain cells on a response, 'dude.' Like you said, before your time... And possibly beyond your ac.u.men."

Then he turned and walked to the corridor. In the greenish glare from a line of fluorescent overheads, he saw Abe Jones leaving the forensics lab, a dark brown file folder in his left hand. Rosco trotted to catch up. "It looks like NPD has everyone working today."

Abe let out an elongated groan. "Overworked, is more like it... What happened to your eye?"

"Cut myself shaving... Did you get the DNA tests on the blood samples I turned in?"

"They won't be ready till Tuesday." Jones tapped the file folder. "I'm finished with the rest of it though-taking the results to Al now."

"Any surprises?"

Jones thought for a minute. "The fire was started by the two oil lamps-as I'd figured during my initial examination. Fingerprints were scarce. The few I lifted belonged to the women or to Colberg, but I also found a couple that didn't match. They've been sent to the FBI for a.n.a.lysis... I'll stay with my original theory that the propane tank blew and knocked out most of the existing fire. But someone definitely appeared at the scene later and finished the job with CO2 extinguishers." extinguishers."

"Fogram, the guy who leased the Dixie-Jack, Dixie-Jack, admitted he and his buddies doused it," Rosco said, then added a slow, "So, that's it, huh?" admitted he and his buddies doused it," Rosco said, then added a slow, "So, that's it, huh?"

"Not completely, no. The most intriguing data isn't from the Orion Orion or the or the Dixie-Jack Dixie-Jack. It's from the inflatable."

"Oh?"

"First: the remaining portion of the Orion Orion's towline had been singed, but cut clean-not untied. The rope ending that was still attached to the inflatable isn't singed, although the sever marks cleanly match those on board. I'd say the women escaped in the dinghy rather than jumping overboard. The fact that it was cut points to a hasty escape, probably panic; even experienced sailors can run afoul of a well-tied knot-especially in the dark with an escalating blaze. Next: Colberg maintains the outboard was ga.s.sed up when the yacht departed. When we retrieved the inflatable, the tank was almost empty, indicating that it had been run for almost two hours."

Rosco mulled over the information. "The women could have reached any sh.o.r.eline in the bay in two hours: Woods Hole, West Falmouth, even back to West Island..."

"In all probability, yes. But here's the real kicker, Rosco... The inflatable had no salt water in it."

"What're you getting at?"

"I'm not talking about deposits in and around the seats; of course there were traces of salt there... I'm talking about the bladder itself. If the dinghy had been punctured in Buzzards Bay and rendered unseaworthy, salt water would have seeped into the air pocket-and I would have found it."

Again, Rosco paused to a.s.similate the information. "So what's your theory?"

"I've got a few, but they all point to the same conclusion."

"What's that?"

"Dollars to doughnuts... those women are still alive."

25.

The sun was beginning to slink behind the scrub and dunes backing Munnatawket Beach when Belle and Rosco arrived. Their shadows etched the sand in front of them as they walked to the spot where the Orion Orion's tender had been found. Belle pulled up her jacket collar, then jabbed her hands in her pockets. In half an hour the beach would no longer be bathed in the soft gold glow of a waning October afternoon; it would be as cold, gray, and uninviting as congealing gravy.

Belle shivered in antic.i.p.ation, then resumed her part of the conversation. "...I disagree with that concept, Rosco," she said as her Keds scuffed determined footprints in her wake. "From everything you've told me, it sounds as if Flack's guilty as sin. I'd bet everything I have that he knows where the women are-and how they vanished."

"But where's his motive?" Rosco asked her. He started circling the area where the inflatable had been beached.

"For kidnapping? Money, of course...and maybe some weird form of power, role reversal... something like that. Jamaica's been his prey for quite a while. I imagine he identifies strongly with her. Maybe he's gone off the deep end... You met him. Do you think he represents a picture of stability?"

Rosco studied the spot where the inflatable had been found. "Not really, but that's a.s.suming this is is a kidnapping, Belle." a kidnapping, Belle."

"But aren't we going under the premise that the women have been nabbed? You told me that was Abe Jones's theory... You said he's convinced they're still alive."

"I'm not certain I agree with him, Belle. There are major pieces missing from the puzzle." Rosco knelt on one knee and stared at the now undisturbed sand. A wisp of seaweed, stuck in the heavier substance, had created a semaph.o.r.e arc like something desperately signaling for release.

"Such as?" she asked.

"Such as no ransom note, for one... So far, four puzzles have arrived, right? Going under the a.s.sumption that they're connected to the women's disappearance, why hasn't there been a demand for money?"

"We haven't received it yet?" This was a question.

"And why not? It's nearly a week now."

Belle thought for a long minute. When she spoke again, the words spewed out rapid-fire: "It's a form of s.a.d.i.s.tic game-which supports my theory that Flack is involved... He won't contact Pepper with demands until he's put a worried husband through h.e.l.l. That crossword Pepper received was the work of an enraged and vindictive person-"

"Okay," Rosco said. "I'm following you, but why is Genie in the mix if Flack is obsessed with Jamaica?"

"She just happened to be on the boat with her pal. A p.a.w.n like the young hunk in L.A.... Flack admitted he was using that guy, didn't he? The 'newbie' actor... Isn't that what he said?"

Rosco didn't answer; instead, he continued staring at the windswept sand.

"Besides, this cretin of a photographer is obviously comfortable on the water," Belle insisted. "He followed Jamaica to Catalina Island. That's a long way from the mainland. Think about it; whoever picked them up had to use a boat, right?"

"Fogram knows his way around boats, don't forget... Colberg, too. And then, there's Doris..."

"Right..." Belle answered slowly, "Vic and Doris..." She bent over to follow Rosco's sight line. "What are you looking for?"

"Inspiration?"

"Very clever." Belle chuckled briefly, then grew serious again. "Doris and her peculiarly absent husband."

"And the other trucker... Mr. and Mrs. Stingo-completely unaccounted for. Don't forget them."

Belle sighed. "What a mess," she finally said.

Rosco stood and Belle straightened up, touching hands instinctively and then just as unconsciously drawing away, as if personal emotions had no part in their conversation.

"The dinghy's outboard was ga.s.sed up when the Orion Orion sailed..." Ros...o...b..gan, while Belle finished the thought. sailed..." Ros...o...b..gan, while Belle finished the thought.

"But the engine was near empty when the tender was found-"

"Meaning it had been in use for two hours or so."

Belle screwed her eyes up and stared hard at the broad stretch of sand. "If it was discovered this high above the high-water mark, then someone must have placed it here," she said. "And whoever set the stage had to realize-amend that-had to ensure ensure that the boat be found... It was part of the plan..." that the boat be found... It was part of the plan..."

She began to pace toward the ocean; Rosco followed close behind. "The fact that it was free of salt residue increases the probability that the criminal intended the discovery to indicate a kidnapping rather than an accident at sea: a gash clearly clearly created on dry land. Whoever our criminal is would have been certain forensics tests would be run." created on dry land. Whoever our criminal is would have been certain forensics tests would be run."

"Not necessarily. Amateurs don't think that far ahead. Plus-"

"Wait!" She suddenly turned in her tracks, and in doing so nearly collided with Rosco. "That's it!" she almost shouted. "Staged! The entire thing's been staged! Flack and Jamaica's boy-toy betrayer-the wannnabe actor! Those two guys have orchestrated the entire scenario! Just like they did at Catalina!"

Rosco looked at the ocean and then at Belle. "All right," he said slowly. "I'll play along... Flack gets tired of earning peanuts from celebrity shots... He decides to go for the big bucks... But that's a.s.suming he could command a sizable ransom for Jamaica."

Again, Belle pondered the situation. "Flack must have had prior knowledge that Genie would be involved. He must have counted on Tom paying whatever he asked."

"Except that no demands have been made, cash or otherwise."

Belle pursed her lips; her eyes squinted in concentration. "Okay, okay, okay! I've got a better idea. Maybe Jamaica instigated the entire deal. Maybe she's the one calling the shots. A delayed ransom note would suit her sense of the dramatic-"

Ros...o...b..gan to interrupt, but Belle overrode him. "Flack alluded to Jamaica's previous partic.i.p.ation, right? He said PR's a two-way street-or words to that effect... Well, maybe Jamaica was worried about her career and trying to revitalize it... Maybe she contacted Flack... hired him to take those lurid pictures-"

"I love the way your brain works, Belle," Rosco interjected. "But I'm afraid you're way off the mark. Flack told me-"

"No, wait...let me finish. Flack might be lying through his teeth, you know-"

"What's left of them."

"Rosco, I'm not joking! Hear me out."

Rosco put up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm silent. I'm silent."

"Okay," she grumbled. "But I'd like you to take my suggestions seriously."

"I am."