The Crossword Murder by Nero Blanc

Author:Nero Blanc
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781497671683
Publisher: Open Road Media

CHAPTER 22

ROSCO’S ALARM SOUNDED at seven A.M. with its habitual twenty seconds of blaring electronic buzz before dutifully switching over to Imus in the Morning. He flipped off the chatter, brushed his teeth, threw on his running shorts, T-shirt and sneakers and headed out for a three-mile run along Newcastle’s waterfront. The half-hour jog gave him the opportunity to relive his previous night’s dinner with Belle. They’d had a good time discussing books and movies and where they’d most like to travel—if they had the money. Throughout, their mutual attraction had remained on the back burner, the only spicy element of the evening being Belle’s fiery-hot meat loaf. After helping her clean up, Rosco had returned home at eleven-thirty and gone directly to bed; on the one hand, he was pleased their relationship was stabilizing into friendship; on the other, he felt disappointed they hadn’t met ten years earlier.

Following his jog, he showered and headed to the Parthenon, his neighborhood coffee shop, for breakfast. From there he went to his office and arranged an afternoon meeting with Betsey Housemann at her home. She seemed anxious to talk to him, which he found strange but refreshing; it was pleasant to imagine he’d be meeting with someone at least superficially cooperative. Rosco had next planned to call Belle and thank her for dinner, but before he could lift the receiver, the phone rang. He answered with his standard greeting: “Polycrates Agency.”

“I’m trying to reach Mr. Polycrates.” The voice was that of an older man, decidedly nervous, and colored with a marked British accent.

“This is Rosco Polycrates, how can I help you?”

“Thank goodness you’re in. My name is Bartholomew Kerr. I write a column for the Herald.”

Rosco remembered JaneAlice’s mentioning Kerr’s name. However, Steven Housemann had interrupted before she could explain his relationship with Thompson Briephs. “Yes, Mr. Kerr, I recognize your name. I’ve read your column.”

Kerr’s voice continued to crackle uneasily. “I need to see you. It’s urgent.”

“Of course. May I ask how you got my name?”

“Not over the phone. How soon can we meet?”

“Well, if you’re at the Herald”—Rosco glanced at his watch—“I can be there in ten minutes.”

“No. Not here. May I come to your office?”

“If you’d like.”

Rosco gave Bartholomew Kerr the necessary directions. He promised he’d be there within the half hour and hung up.

Rosco considered making a few calls to gather background information on the journalist, but opted to sit tight for the moment. The man was obviously shaken; keeping their meeting confidential seemed a top priority. Rosco would respect his wishes until he discovered what he wanted.

Twenty minutes later, Kerr arrived. He was a tiny man, small-boned and frail and almost totally bald. What little hair he had was an ashy, ancient blond. Owlish gray eyebrows poked out from behind oversized, black-rimmed glasses. The lenses magnified his eyes to an absurd degree, making them appear like those of an insect photographed for National Geographic. Besides the too-large glasses, Kerr sported a gold Rolex watch that looked too

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