"Vauriens. Pepper's brother-in-law. Last night." The voice contained scarcely concealed panic.

"So I heard. Traffic accident..."

"Don't count on that 'accident' stuff, pal. Vauriens had the inside dope. I got money says he was set up. I say the body was dumped there."

"There's a witness."

"An old lady. She doesn't know what she saw."

Again, Rosco found himself questioning the caller's ident.i.ty. The tone and phrasing had elements of Vic's clipped Ma.s.sachusetts accent-but not enough. "Okay, Vic, what's your theory?"

"Why do you think Pepper kept sending Vauriens checks?"

"Maybe you'd better tell me."

"To keep him quiet, that's why."

"Quiet about what?"

"That's what we need to talk about."

Rosco faked a lazy, disinterested yawn. "Okay by me. I can be at the Admiral in half an hour."

"No way, Polycrates. I'm not showing my face until this mess is cleared up. The Admiral's closed. You don't believe me? Drive by tonight. I'm telling you Vauriens was killed, and I don't want to be the next in line. I know as much as he did, more maybe. You want to meet me or not?"

Rosco considered his options. If the caller wasn't wasn't Fogram, then whoever it was had zeroed in on the tavern; Vic's life might be in genuine danger. Moe Quick, Rosco thought again; maybe it was Quick. Maybe that was the cause of the explosive reaction over Doris. "I've got to get this straight, Vic. You're saying Pepper was responsible for the hit-and-run?" Fogram, then whoever it was had zeroed in on the tavern; Vic's life might be in genuine danger. Moe Quick, Rosco thought again; maybe it was Quick. Maybe that was the cause of the explosive reaction over Doris. "I've got to get this straight, Vic. You're saying Pepper was responsible for the hit-and-run?"

A nervous groan ricocheted through the phone line. "Come on, Polycrates; use your head. Who do you think Genie's life-insurance policy reverts to if Billy shows up dead? Next of kin. That's the way those things are written. Tom Pepper's the big winner here. Just like always."

"I don't buy it, Vic. Pepper needs five million dollars like he needs a new pair of shoes."

"That's where you're wrong, pal. Pepper's into me for seventy-five grand-plus some. And I'm not the only one. He's in hock up to his ears."

Rosco's back jerked straight; he swung his feet onto the floor. "Hold on there... You're saying Pepper owes you seventy-five thousand dollars? You and some others?"

The response was an edgy laugh. "You got wax in your ears, buddy?"

Rosco didn't answer; instead, he stared hard at the phone number scribbled on the pad of paper. Who was this man if it wasn't Fogram?

"I'm talking about the G.O.L.D. Fund, Polycrates... I put seventy-five Gs into it. I bought Pepper's pitch: 'double your money in six months!' Except when I tried to collect-nada. Not a nickel. Something's fishy about the whole d.a.m.n thing. Now I can't even get my phone calls returned. A month, I've been trying. And I'm not the only one who's getting burned."

The word "burned" set off alarms in Rosco's head. "You're sure about this? There are some heavy-duty organizations invested with Pepper. They would have screamed their heads off if they'd been had."

"CFOs don't like to admit they've been conned by some shark... But there's gonna be plenty of wailing soon."

"Why you? Why did you invest with Pepper?"

"What's that supposed to mean? That blue-collar guys like Vic Fogram can't play with the big boys?"

"Seventy-five thousand's a good chunk of change."

The caller took a long exasperated breath. "My old man left me a piece of property... Now, you know what's happening to Newcastle-developers crawling all over it... Pop bought the land for five thou. I sold it for three-fifty. That's how come I own the Admiral-with seventy-five Gs to spare."

Rosco grabbed the pad of paper. "You said you have names?"

"I gotta go."

"I need tangibles, Vic. Without tangibles, I've got nothing but the allegations of some guy claiming claiming to be Vic Fogram." to be Vic Fogram."

The caller hesitated. "The abandoned piers up on Water Street. I'll meet you in an hour in the one furthest north on the river..." There was another pause. "My old man had a favorite expression when I was a kid. He used to say: 'I wouldn't trust that Tom Pepper Tom Pepper further than I could throw him.' A Tom Pepper's a liar in bygone fisherman lingo... This is before your boss man was even born." further than I could throw him.' A Tom Pepper's a liar in bygone fisherman lingo... This is before your boss man was even born."

Rosco started to speak, but the caller cut him off with a sharp: "No beer bottles this time." Then the line went dead.

At six-twenty, Rosco entered the long empty shed of the derelict commercial pier fronting Water Street. A screech of pigeons rose in perturbed flight, raining debris and grubby feathers from overflowing nesting places; the sound the birds made echoed throughout the expanse of steel support columns and cold cinder block walls. Rosco instinctively reached for his.32. If there was one thing he was fairly certain of, it was that meeting a man who claimed claimed to be Vic Fogram, and to be Vic Fogram, and claimed claimed to have incriminating information about one of Newcastle's leading citizens, probably wasn't all that safe. Not a "power position," as Pepper would probably have put it. to have incriminating information about one of Newcastle's leading citizens, probably wasn't all that safe. Not a "power position," as Pepper would probably have put it.

Rosco waited for several long and silent minutes, listening for the sound of human feet, but all he heard were the sounds of rats scrabbling over the concrete floor and the pigeons returning to the eaves under the corrugated tin roof. Cautiously, he began tracing the perimeter of the vacant s.p.a.ce. Five years prior, a developer had purchased the site with the intention of creating a renovation similar to the restaurants and shops in the Front Street area, but the project had stalled and then halted. The result of this aborted refurbishment was that most of the building's flooring had been resecured and the larger gaps in the walls boarded up. When the moneymen decamped, they'd left behind several self-contained officelike structures that now stood scattered about the otherwise empty s.p.a.ce like miniature houses in a game of Monopoly.

As soundlessly as he could, Rosco approached each one. Daylight was scarce, and the pier's interior a permanent gray gloom. He peered through grimy windows, but the mini-buildings were also deserted. He waited; something warned him not to say Vic Fogram's name aloud.

Fifteen minutes pa.s.sed, then twenty. Rosco glanced at his watch more often than necessary. He listened for the sound of a car door but heard only the Newcastle River slopping against the pier's pilings. Twice there was the throaty gurgle of a lobster boat heading out to check pots. He waited another five minutes, then recircled the s.p.a.ce; this time he looked for traces of recent human presence. Maybe Fogram-if the caller had been Fogram-had left some type of message.

Nothing.

It was now seven A A.M.; Rosco very much regretted a missed second cup of coffee. Insufficient morning caffeine was beginning to make his head ache. He considered heading back down to the deli on the lower end of Water Street, but knew he couldn't risk leaving his post. d.a.m.n Fogram, he thought. This information had better be worth it.

Seven-fifteen. Nearly one hour cooling his heels in a building as dank as a walk-in freezer; Rosco was growing truly irritated. He walked the length of the pier again, making as much noise as he wanted. Fogram had better have one terrific excuse, he thought. The man's been nothing but a royal pain.

A third rumble of inboard motor chugged past outside. The noise sounded like a terminally ill patient gasping for breath. One man's already dead, One man's already dead, Rosco suddenly remembered, then reminded himself that two women were also still missing and presumed dead-and that the entire group had direct links to Edison "Tom" Pepper. He tried to recall Belle's discussion of crossword clues relating to money and investing, but all he could conjure up was that she'd once played the part of Shylock in Rosco suddenly remembered, then reminded himself that two women were also still missing and presumed dead-and that the entire group had direct links to Edison "Tom" Pepper. He tried to recall Belle's discussion of crossword clues relating to money and investing, but all he could conjure up was that she'd once played the part of Shylock in The Merchant of Venice The Merchant of Venice-information that didn't seem particularly apt.

He patrolled the building again, this time examining several barn doorsize openings that had originally served as ports of entry for freight-bearing ships. Outside, the narrow wood deck was spongy and rotten. Rosco peered through a number of gaping holes; he half expected to see Vic Fogram semisubmerged within the complex of broken pilings.

No one.

It was now ten minutes before eight. On the off chance that Fogram had changed venues, Rosco decided to quit the building and check messages from his car phone. He trotted down the street to the Jeep and punched in numbers. No messages. He sat in the driver's seat thinking. Pepper, Vauriens, Flack, Fogram, Quick, Colberg: was the connection between the men more convoluted than it appeared? And had one or some or all been involved in setting fire to the Orion Orion? If the motive had been kidnapping, where were the abducted women-and why hadn't there been a ransom note? And if, as Belle had suggested, this was an inside job intended to garner publicity, why hadn't the kidnapping template been followed?

As Rosco drove to his office he chewed over the publicity-stunt angle, but eventually discounted it. Fogram was obviously frightened to show his face in public; he honestly believed Vauriens' death was no accident, and if that was true, the likelihood of a publicity stunt incorporating a murder was remote.

While he was unlocking his office door, Rosco heard his fax emit an elongated beep indicating it had just finished receiving a transmission. He grabbed the paper still rolling out of the machine. Imprinted on the flimsy doc.u.ment were two names complete with addresses and phone numbers. Both men were identified as commercial fishermen, and beside each name was the exact dollar figure they had invested with the G.O.L.D. Fund. There was a side note reading, Monies Unrecovered Monies Unrecovered.

What Rosco didn't realize was that seven minutes earlier Belle's fax machine had also received a message-a fifth crossword puzzle.

PUZZLE 5.

27.

Belle snapped the plastic cap onto her red Bic pen and dropped it into the ceramic crossword mug she reserved for writing instruments. Then she pushed her office chair back from her desk, placed her feet squarely on the floor, and stared at the puzzle she'd been faxed scarcely ten minutes earlier. She'd completed it so quickly that she'd hardly had time to a.n.a.lyze the clues or answers. Now the red ink seemed to jump from the paper like spurting blood. Studying 19- and 30-Across, she murmured, "AN EYE FOR AN EYE, A TOOTH FOR A TOOTH," then followed the adage with its companion quip: "SOON IT'S MY CHANCE TO OFFER A TRUTH... Soon," she repeated. "Yes, but how soon?"

She folded her arms across her chest and stared through the window, half seeing her friend the sparrow preen itself in the morning sun. "Soon," she muttered. "When is 'soon'?"

The sparrow ruffled its feathers and c.o.c.ked its head undisturbed. Belle dragged her eyes back to the puzzle. "5-Down: TOMORROW MAY RAIN... That means there's more to come... 'Tomorrow'-or 'soon.'"

She stood, walked to the wall of bookcases, and removed a licorice stick from a clear gla.s.s jar, then bit the chewy end while deftly severing a four-inch strip like a cowhand with a length of beef jerky. Her mouth full of sticky black candy, she returned to her desk and began drumming her fingers on the puzzle, gradually focusing on the fax markings on the edge of the paper. The time and date of the transmission were neatly indicated, along with the return fax number-which Belle suddenly recognized as being Papyrus, the monster office-supply store from which the second puzzle had also been faxed.

She grabbed the phone to call the shop, then suddenly reconsidered. No, she decided, this time I'll go out there and talk to a clerk in person, something I should have done in the beginning-despite Rosco's warnings about "weirdos" and "validating aberrant behavior."

It never occurred to her that the action could put her in peril or that a call to Rosco might be wise. In Belle's mind, she was merely embarking on a "fact-finding mission." "Tomorrow" or "soon" were the operative words in the time frame. If she could discover who had sent this latest crossword, then maybe she could antic.i.p.ate that person's next move. Besides, as she promised herself, there was no need for fear in a public place as huge as Papyrus. Patience, as Rosco had observed, was not one of Belle's virtues.

She grabbed her purse, locked the house, jumped in her car, and pulled into Papyrus's parking lot fifteen minutes later. Business was already booming; a surprising number of cars lined the expansive facade. Belle parked next to a powder-blue Range Rover, then walked to the entrance, where double electronic doors swept open and a gust of refrigerated air pulsed out, revealing the mammoth interior. Every imaginable stationery and office product was on display: neon-colored erasers, sparkly notebook covers, pens and pencils of every hue and type, clipboards, letter paper of every weight, size, and color, reading chairs, lamps, desks that unfolded hidden shelves. If such emporia had existed when Belle was a child, she knew she would have found heaven.

She spotted a young man in a dark green polo shirt embroidered with the store's logo and marched toward him. He was arranging fountain pens in a display case, and quickly locked away the items as Belle approached. She wondered whether his mistrust was store policy or whether she had the words "ulterior motive" stamped across her forehead.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Yes, could you direct me to the fax machine?"

"I don't see it."

"Pardon me?"

"Your fax. It has to be the correct size. Some weights of paper we can't handle."

"Oh..." Belle looked down at her empty palms, half expecting a sheet of paper to appear. "I didn't bring it with me... I just wanted to check on your prices first."

"It depends on the location you're transmitting to."

Belle didn't respond, and after a beat he pointed toward the rear of the store. "In back-at the copy center. Tina handles the faxes."

"Thank you."

Belle turned and walked down a seemingly endless aisle lined with a vast array of envelopes. At the end of the aisle four self-service copy machines faced a long counter behind which stood a tall woman in her late forties with jet-black hair cut in a trendy retro bob. She also wore a green polo shirt.

Belle smiled. "Are you Tina?" she asked.

The succinct reply was a less than promising, "Yes."

"Perhaps you can help me, then," Belle began, although Tina's wooden expression didn't suggest she was in a benevolent mood. "I received a fax from this store at around eight o'clock this morning. Were you working then?"

"I start at seven when the store opens."

"Oh, good. So you were here..." Belle smiled again. "You don't happen to remember who sent it, do you?"

Tina's long frame stretched taller and more austere, reminding Belle of time-lapse photography of some exotic botanical specimen-a Venus flytrap or other carnivorous plant. "It is not Papyrus's policy to peruse private faxes or cover sheets for the purpose of obtaining telephone numbers. Our customers rely upon confidentiality and discretion when they bring a doc.u.ment into our emporium... Sorry."

Belle doubted the sincerity of the apology; she smiled for a third time. More flies are trapped with honey, More flies are trapped with honey, she thought, expanding her metaphor. "This wasn't actually a letter, Tina; it was a crossword puzzle." she thought, expanding her metaphor. "This wasn't actually a letter, Tina; it was a crossword puzzle."

"Oh!" Tina said in new state of awareness and excitement. "You're Annabella Graham. You're the crossword lady at the Evening Crier Evening Crier. I do the puzzle every day."

"I'm very glad to hear it," Belle said, attempting to cover her impatience. "So, you do remember who sent the puzzle? The reason I ask is that the crossword was good enough to publish. The Crier Crier always pays constructors for their work-but I need a name to accompany the check." always pays constructors for their work-but I need a name to accompany the check."

Tina thought for a moment while Belle grinned for a fourth time.

"Well," Tina began, "this is against Papyrus policy, but seeing as how you're trying to do a favor... It was Ricky. He also sent one last week, didn't he?"

"Well, someone did. And darn it if that name wasn't omitted, too."

"It was Ricky, all right. A nice kid but kind of dopey, if you get my meaning. I didn't think he had the smarts to make up a crossword puzzle. So he's trying to get them published, huh?"

"That's what I a.s.sume, but unfortunately, I haven't been able to contact him. You wouldn't happen to know his last name, would you?"

" 'Fraid not."

"But you know his first name? Even though he's only sent two faxes?"

Tina let out a long laugh. "It's not what you think. He's a kid, like I said... comes in the store a lot... You know, to get things photocopied for the motel."

"The motel?"

"Sure. Blue Hill Cabins." Tina pointed vaguely toward her right. "It's about a quarter of a mile from the interstate on the old Boston Post Road. There used to be a gas station near the cabins, and some kind of mom-and-pop restaurant that finally went belly-up... you know, when the highway built all those fancy rest areas and commercial traffic moved east..."

Belle looked blank, and Tina sighed again. "I've lived in this area all my life," Tina continued. "There used to be other places like the Blue Hill-tourist cabins, they called them way back when. They were nice... secluded, low-key, kind of quaint... vacationers could spend a week there without breaking the bank... Newcastle was a different town in those days..." Tina's glance finally refocused on the bright lights and aggressive merchandising of the super-store around her. "Anyway, Blue Hill gets their rate sheets printed here-not that much changes in that respect. Ricky's sort of their delivery kid and all-around helper."

"Well, perhaps I'll visit the cabins and see if I can find him."

"Oh, you'll find him all right. Look for a Red Sox hat and he'll be the kid under it. And he is a kid, too... kind of small for a guy... His puzzles are really good, huh?"

"Remarkable." Belle smiled for a fifth time. "Thanks, Tina, you've been a big help."

She left Tina to her memories, quit the store, climbed into her car, and entered the westbound traffic lane without noticing the blue Range Rover pull out directly behind her.

Exiting the interstate onto an unkempt and sadly empty side road-the remainder of the once-great Boston Post Road-the Blue Hill Cabins' entrance lay several hundred yards on her right. Belle angled into a parking s.p.a.ce in front of the office, a small freestanding two-story building that looked as if it had three rooms, a bedroom upstairs, and an eat-in kitchen and office on the first floor. Two neon signs hung in the front window; one said OFFICE OFFICE, the other VACANCY VACANCY; both were still lighted. Tina was right; the world had lost all interest in places like the Blue Hill.

Before entering the office, Belle studied the cabins dotted among the trees as if they'd been perched at the edge of a dense, impenetrable forest. Against the invading greenery, the units looked tiny, but she could imagine how spruce and tidy they must once have seemed: a bed-sitting room, a kitchenette, the sound of the wind in the pines at night, the ocean only a few miles away. Affordable family fun, Affordable family fun, the brochures must have advertised. Only two cars were parked in front of the cabins, and they looked as weary as the buildings. the brochures must have advertised. Only two cars were parked in front of the cabins, and they looked as weary as the buildings.