Читать книгу The Black Squares Club - Joseph Cairo - Страница 3

Chief Homicide Detective Patrick Morgan was feeling the heat. He had come up through the ranks, decorated on three occasions for acts of heroism. He earned his stripes the hard way. A straight-up cop. But he knew his limitations; when something complicated came along he wasn’t ashamed to call in the experts. The press ate it up, and so did the brass. It gave the inveterate detective the breathing room he needed until there was a break in the case. The so-called experts rarely contributed much. But perception counted far more than reality. He would just sit back and wait for some hard evidence to come down the pike.

The crossword puzzle murders were no different. A sicko with a message was how the police psychologists had it figured. Problem was, no one could decipher the message. Seven murders committed in the last three years. The victims all high-profile types. Each murder preceded by a crossword puzzle mailed to the New York Herald Gazette, making veiled biographical references to the victims and focusing on a controversial theme. But no definite pattern that the authorities could discern. The crosswords were difficult but not unsolvable. Yet not once were the police, the FBI, or anyone else able to link the murder victim to the clues embedded in the puzzles. Only after the fact did the hidden messages become clear. In retrospect, it was possible to deduce the name of the victim as well as the time and place of the murder. Morgan’s problem was making the association in time to stop the murder and catch the killer.

After the second murder, Morgan had made a public statement promising to get to the bottom of these crimes. But five murders later and he was still nowhere. He was forced to eat crow. Besides working side by side with the FBI, he brought in Lew Lentz as a paid consultant. Lentz was the editor of the New York Herald Gazette crossword puzzles. The crossword puzzle murderer was challenging him directly. No paper in the country had more difficult puzzles than the Gazette, especially the 21 by 21 Sunday grid. If Lentz couldn’t solve these puzzles no one could—at least that was Morgan’s take. The crossword puzzle murderer was betting that Lentz, the police and whoever else took a crack at it, would not be able to solve the puzzle and make the association with the intended victim in time to stop the murder. He was playing a game of catch me if you can. So far they couldn’t.

Lentz surely looked the part of a crossword puzzle editor. He was an elegant man who always wore a silk scarf and bow tie, regardless of the weather. He also carried an ivory handled cane. These three accoutrements were prominently portrayed in a caricature of him above his puzzles. They were as unique to him as was his signature.

Reluctantly, Morgan also agreed to collaborate with the renowned P.I., Samuel Sonn. Sonn had been retained by the family of the latest victim, Eleanor Moreau, ex-wife of the Canadian Prime Minister. She was killed just last month by a letter bomb that exploded in her swank Park Avenue apartment. Morgan knew that Sonn was, in fact, very clever. Sonn studied computer encryption algorithms as a Master’s fellow at Columbia University and when he took over the private investigation agency his father founded, he brought a high-tech image to the firm. He had recently gained public attention by solving the widely publicized Code of Samuel murder case. The media had a field day—sex, espionage and murder. By cracking the Code of Samuel, Sonn unraveled a web of intrigue of international proportions. In the public’s eye, Sonn had become Sherlock Holmes and Mike Hammer rolled into one. Morgan knew that by putting Sonn back in the limelight, the press hounds would be temporarily diverted. But the truth was that Morgan never really expected any tangible results from either the crossword puzzle editor or the Super Sleuth.

“Come in,” Morgan barked stridently to two gentle raps on his office door. It was detective Timothy Ward, Morgan’s young sidekick. After five years on the beat, Ward had just made detective grade. He was, in the parlance of the department, a golden boy in the making. Brighter than most, ambitious, and an accomplished sycophant. The tall dirty-blond haired cop with a boyish face had what Morgan liked to refer to as a thick layer of Irish polish.

“I have the one and only Samuel Sonn with me,” Ward said as he opened the door.

“Come in, the both of you,” Morgan replied in a mild brogue which he could turn on or off at a moments notice. “Sam, it’s good to see you again. How’s that beautiful girlfriend of yours?”

“Esther is well,” Sam replied.

“To be your age again . . .” Morgan pined as if singing an Irish lullaby.

“I’m sure you still have plenty of gas left in the tank, Captain,” Sam answered good-naturedly.

“I don’t have to tell you, we’re at a dead end with these crossword puzzle murders. And the press is snipping at our heels. I’m hoping that you and Mr. Lentz will be able to help.”

“I’m always only too happy to collaborate with the NYPD, Captain.”

“Yes, of course.” Morgan paused, glancing at Lentz who was seated opposite from him. “How rude of me, Sam. Allow me to introduce you to Lewis Lentz, crossword editor of the Herald Gazette.” Lentz stood extending his hand to greet Sam. It hung limply in front of him until Sam grasped it.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Lentz. I’ve been a long-time devotee of the Sunday Puzzle.”

“Well, you know, Mr. Sonn, I don’t compose them, I only edit them.”

“You’re too modest.”

Detective Ward opened two bridge chairs and placed them next to Lentz. Sam sat down alongside Lentz, but shifted his seat as if to give him some breathing room. A stack of folders, piled as high as the ceiling, obscured Sam’s view of the Chief Homicide Detective. The Captain’s desk was cluttered not only with folders, but also with thickly bound casebooks and computer printouts. Sam barely managed to find an unobstructed view between the photographs of Captain Morgan’s wife and his two daughters. Detective Ward seated himself on the other side of Sam.

“I’ve got to clean off this damn desk,” Morgan said as he picked up two large casebooks and deposited them on the floor with a thud. “There, that’s better,” he said. “Gentlemen, as you are all aware, the crossword killer mails the puzzles well in advance of the crime. He is challenging us to beat him at his own game, but he’s diabolically clever.”

“Yes, I agree,” Sam replied. “He’s no ordinary criminal.”

“Perhaps he’s trying to embarrass the police?” Detective Ward suggested.

“It’s a distinct possibility,” Sam said. “Often serial killers enjoy a game of cat and mouse with the police. Perhaps Mr. Lentz has an hypothesis as to motive?” Sam said looking over in Lentz’s direction.

“Well, I do have a theory,” Lentz replied. As you may or may not know, crossword puzzles represent an indistinct boundary between the eclectic and the arcane. The ability to complete a puzzle successfully depends not only on the puzzle solver’s knowledge, but also on his ability to utilize deductive reasoning. The latter requires mathematical precision, an awareness of finite possibilities, not to mention a heightened sense of the lyricism that is characteristic of syntactical dialect. Of course, as an editor, I endeavor never to weigh the two elements too harshly against one another. Though I have been accused of tipping the scales on the side of the esoteric, I try to shade each puzzle ever so slightly to one side or the other. Some weeks, the puzzle-solver that knows esoteric facts relevant to the theme will have the edge; other weeks the logician will have the advantage. However, in the case of all of the puzzles constructed by the murderer, the clues are weighted heavily on the side of the esoteric. Therefore, I favor the theory that the killer’s purpose is to deliver a message of some kind.”

“I take it you have been able to solve the puzzles?” Sam asked Lentz.

“Most of them, Mr. Sonn. But there were one or two that we could only partially solve.”

“Forgive me, Captain, but I was unaware that you had experienced difficulty in solving the puzzles,” Sam said turning his attention to Morgan. “I was under the impression that the problem lie in making the association with the intended victim.”

“You’re mostly correct. As Mr. Lentz said, we did manage to solve most of the puzzles but still could not figure out the link to the intended victim until it was too late. But two of them we couldn’t completely solve even with Mr. Lentz’s assistance. In those cases, the solutions that appeared in the paper were sent in by the murderer after the crime had been committed,” Morgan said.

“Do you have the latest puzzle, Captain Morgan?”

“Yes, Sam, I have it right here.”

“Have you had a go at it yet, Mr. Lentz?” Sam asked.

“Yes, I toiled over it for hours last night and still couldn’t make heads or tails out of it.”

“Sometimes two heads are better than one,” Sam stated. “Also, I’m going to use the full power of my computer lexicon.”

“How about a crossword dictionary, Sam?” Morgan asked.

“Yes,” Sam replied affirmatively, “anything that might help.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Sonn, but accomplished crossword puzzle solvers never use references,” Lentz interjected. “It actually deters progress, slowing down the experienced solver. References are for dilettantes.”

“Let’s see what you have so far,” Sam said not bothering to take issue with Lentz’s pejorative remark.

Morgan handed the sparsely filled in grid over to Sam. “Principia Mathematica, eh?” Sam muttered loud enough for all to hear. “Perhaps our killer is a mathematician or philosopher. You don’t seem to have filled in any of the theme clues, Mr. Lentz”

“As I said, Mr. Sonn, they are far too esoteric. For example, 22 across is Montreal Function. We have the last three letters of the word, ion.”

“Wasn’t the Montreal World’s Fair called Expo? Perhaps it has something to do with exponents? How about exponentiation? Does it fit?”

“It fits, Sam,” Ward exclaimed.

“I see you have several letters filled in for 42 across,” Sam observed. “What’s the clue?”

“Steve and Edie, Ozzie and Harriet,” Ward answered.

Sam rubbed his chin and took a deep breath. “How about Ordered Pairs?” he asked.

“Sam you’re on a roll,” Ward said.

“Those were excellent guesses,” Lentz admitted. “I figured the first one had something to do with exponents. I thought of exponentiation but couldn’t verify any of the letters, so I didn’t pencil it in. The remaining theme clues are much more complex.”

“All right then, what’s the clue for 27 across?”

“Three point play,” Ward answered.

“That is a hard one,” Sam said, “let’s come back to it. What about 101 across? You have the first three letters har.”

“Tranquil Fall Classic,” Ward read the clue. “The fall classic is the World Series.”

“The word series is significant in Math. Perhaps it refers to a type of series. Try harmonic series,” Sam proclaimed confidently. “Does it fit?”

“It fits Sam, my man, harmonic series! Are we great, or are we great?” Ward asked triumphantly.

“How about 90 across? You have the first letter, f.”

“The clue is First lenders,” Ward said.

“Factors,” Sam answered.

“Bingo,” Ward said.

Lentz was beginning to feel uncomfortable. “What about 77 across, Character changes?” Lentz asked, confidant that Sam would be stumped.

“What’s 69 down?” Sam asked, ignoring Lentz’s challenge.

“Sun ring,” Ward replied.

“A sun ring is a corona,” Sam said.

“It fits, Sam,” Ward said excitedly.

“What about 64 down?” Sam asked.

“A four letter word for Space,” Ward said.

“Room,” Morgan chimed in.

“Excellent, Captain,” Sam said, pleased that Morgan was able to contribute.

“What’s 78 down?” Sam asked.

“Mentored, a seven letter word,” Ward replied

“Tutored,” Lentz said. He decided to join the party.

Sam looked at the puzzle. “Twelve letter word, ending in s, third letter r, fourth letter m, sixth letter t. Character changes,” Sam repeated the clue. Within seconds Sam shouted out, “Permutations!”

“I don’t believe it, Sam. We’re happening, my man!” Ward was brimming over with enthusiasm. Meanwhile Captain Morgan had straightened up in his chair. His entire posture seemed more formal. He began to shuffle papers and folders around on his desk as if he felt the sudden need to clean up. Strange as it seemed, Sonn appeared to have more of a knack for these puzzles than did Lentz. Perhaps Sonn was deserving of the moniker Super Sleuth after all.

Lentz had graduated in mood from uncomfortable to annoyed. “Congratulations, Mr. Sonn. That was quite a display of ingenuity. But I’m afraid the remaining theme clues are inscrutable, even for someone as resourceful as yourself.” Lentz had gone from patronizing Sam to outright denial. And if there was one thing Sam could never be, it was denied. “You obviously know your math,” Lentz added.

“Thirty-eight down is Absolute truths. Eleven letters, fourth letter t, sixth letter l, eighth letter g, and last letter s,” Ward said.

“Tautologies,” Sam said in a moment of revelation that surprised even himself.

“And thirty-four down, is Think-tank output,” Lentz said tauntingly. “This is an impossible one to get. It’s eleven letters. First two are gr, fifth letter p, and last letter y,” Lentz smiled.

Though Sam was on a roll, he appeared to be stymied.

“You see Captain, this puzzle is indecipherable. It simply cannot be solved,” Lentz said as if he had the final word. He rose from his seat and reached for the ivory handle of his cane indicating that the proceedings were at a close.

“Group Theory,” Sam blurted out. “Group Theory is a field of study in Abstract Algebra.”

“That’s it,” Ward uttered in amazement.

“Sit down, Mr. Lentz,” Morgan demanded. “We’re close to solving this puzzle, and you’re going to help us.” Lentz sat down. His face reddened. Livid. But he managed to control himself.

“The only theme clue we’re missing is three point play,” Ward said.

“What term in mathematics is associated with three points?” Sam asked.

“If three points lie on a straight line, they are collinear,” Lentz said. “But it doesn’t fit. How about a triangle of some kind?” Lentz immediately regained his composure in a last ditched attempt to prove his mettle.

“What’s 21 down?” Sam asked.

“Prohibitionist, a three-letter word,” Ward replied.

“Dry,” Lentz responded.

“What’s 16 down?” Sam asked.

“It’s a fill in the blank clue. Where do all the hippies . . . ?” Morgan cued them by extending his open palm. “Four letters. I know, it’s where do all the hippies meet,” Ward answered his own question.

“Then the last two letters of the theme clue are t and y. What about collinearity?” Sam asked.

“It fits, Sam. You did it!” Ward proclaimed triumphantly.

“Sam, that was an amazing display of crossword solving technique,” Morgan added.

“Yes, Mr. Sonn,” Lentz echoed. “Most impressive.” Lentz had no choice but to pay Sam homage, albeit grudgingly.

“Mr. Lentz,” Morgan said, “I’m sure that with the theme clues in hand, you can easily solve the remainder of this puzzle.”

“I shall give it my best effort, Captain,” Lentz replied.

“Then why don’t you go into Tim’s office across the hall.” Morgan looked over at Detective Ward indicating that he should set Lentz up in his office. “It’s quiet there and you won’t be disturbed. Tim, I want you to come back in here after you make Mr. Lentz comfortable. There are some important aspects of this case that we need to discuss with Mr. Sonn.”

Detective Ward guided Lentz into his office located across the hall.

“Even if Lentz completes the puzzle,” Morgan said once they had left, “it by no means guarantees that we can identify the intended victim. In the other puzzles, the clues only made sense in retrospect. And there were only a few clues that were relevant. How do we know which ones to follow up on?”

“That’s a good question and I don’t have the answer. But I am certain of one fact: our killer is a high-powered intellect because of the ingenuity he has demonstrated in constructing these puzzles,” Sam said.

“That really doesn’t give us much to go on, Sam.”

“To the contrary, Captain, it narrows down our list of suspects considerably.”

“Sam, I respectfully beg to differ with you; my mother does the Sunday puzzle, and usually solves it. She’s very bright, but she never got past the tenth grade.”

“Yes, Captain, but she doesn’t construct them. The small community of puzzle composers is one that is almost exclusively limited to intellectuals. There was actually a study done at Princeton University, regarding the prototype crossword composer. Though the composers of fifteen by fifteen grids are generally college graduates, the composers of twenty-one by twenty-one grids have all had some graduate training and nearly forty percent hold Master’s degrees or Doctorates.”

“That does narrow down the field somewhat, Sam,” Morgan admitted. “We also believe that the killer is trying to deliver a message.”

“Perhaps reviewing the list of victims would be of some help,” Sam suggested.

By this time Detective Ward returned and took his place alongside Sam.

“Good idea, Sam. Tim, why don’t you take us through the list of victims,” Morgan suggested.

“Sure, Captain,” Ward replied. “The first victim was Everton LeBraun, Chief Information Officer at Gainsworthy Construction. In the eighties, he had gained notoriety as the spokesperson for Hardaway Tool and Die, the company responsible for dumping toxic waste up in Clifford, Mass.”

“How was he killed?” Sam asked.

“He was hunting deer and was shot through the heart with an arrow. At first it appeared to be an accident, but the autopsy showed traces of cyanide—the arrowhead had been poisoned. It was no accident; deer hunters never poison their arrows,” Ward said smiling, “it ruins the meat.”

“What were the specific clues in the puzzle that tied into LeBraun?” Sam asked.

“They were real obscure, Sam,” Ward replied. “Since LeBraun was the first victim, we didn’t scrutinize the puzzle as carefully as subsequent puzzles. But, even if we had, I doubt we would have been able to make the association with LeBraun.”

“But what were the actual clues in the puzzle pointing to LeBraun as the next victim?” Sam reiterated.

“Well, as I recall, going across was hard, and crisscrossing with the a was away. That’s pretty obscure, don’t you think so Sam?” Captain Morgan piped in.

“I must admit that’s a stretch, Captain. There’s no way I would have put it together. And besides, that only gives you the name of the company, not the victim.”

“The key to unlocking the identity of the victim was another clue word positioned directly above the Hardaway crisscross,” Ward said. “That was CIO.”

“Let me draw the pattern for you, Sam, so that you can more easily visualize it,” Morgan said.

“I see,” Sam said. “He was killed by an arrow, very clever. But, what about the clues as to the time and place of the murder?”

“This was a little less obscure, Sam. Let me write it down for you.” Morgan drew another crisscross.

“Yeah, that’s not a difficult pattern to recognize. But it doesn’t precisely specify where or when,” Sam commented.

“Sam, it might have been enough had we been able to solve the puzzle in time,” Morgan said.

“And what were some of the theme clues?” Sam asked.

“Don’t drink the water was one that comes to mind. I believe they were all warnings of an environmental nature,” Ward responded.

“Okay, I get the idea. You guys couldn’t solve this puzzle?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, the killer mailed in the solution after LeBraun was dead and buried,” Morgan admitted. “We probably could have solved this puzzle. But it was the first one and we didn’t take the threat all that seriously.”

“What’s the story on the second victim?” Sam asked.

“The second victim was Gary Wicks, the publisher of Trim Magazine,” Morgan continued.

“I don’t see how this case relates to any environmental cause,” Ward pointed out.

“Perhaps the killer regards pornography as a type of social pollution,” Sam suggested.

“Maybe, Sam,” Ward said. “The pollution angle might tie into the third crime.”

“The third victim,” Morgan went on, “was Jonathan Byteman, the son of the computer guru at Stanford. The kid was the originator of the famous Jerusalem X computer virus. They still haven’t been able to eradicate this particular bug.”

“Cyber-pollution,” Sam offered. Both Morgan and Ward nodded in agreement. “The fourth victim?” Sam asked.

“The fourth victim was Arnold Troutman. He was the chief engineer of the Far East division of Eckland Chemical. Eckland, you may recall was the company that had the industrial accident in Sri Lanka in which poisonous gas escaped from a faulty canister and thousands of people perished,” Morgan answered.

“How did this one buy it?” Sam asked.

“CO poisoning—found dead in his car with the motor running,” Ward replied.

“That certainly fits the pattern of environmental pollution,” Sam said.

“But the rest of them don’t, Sam,” Ward stated.

“The fifth victim was really an odd one. Lash Gobel, the right-wing conservative radio personality was killed in his favorite restaurant. The potato soup was laced with rat poison. He was found face down, swimming in his soup. Certainly no environmental connection here.”

“And the sixth victim?” Sam asked.

“Mary Reece, a secretary,” Morgan responded.

“That doesn’t fit the prototype,” Sam remarked.

“You’re right. Except she wasn’t just your everyday secretary. She went out on an errand for her boss, the renowned Tynan Wesley. He gave her the keys to his Jag, and kaboom,” Morgan explained.

“Another right-wing media type,” Sam said. “Isn’t Wesley the publisher of the conservative magazine, the American Standard? And I know he hosts a weekly television program, Truth and Anarchy.”

“That’s right, Sam. He’s debated many an environmentalist on his program. He’s been especially critical of the Yosemite Club.”

“That’s interesting, Captain,” Sam said. The mention of Wesley’s name lit a spark inside of Sam. Wesley was one man he wanted to meet. Sam was always impressed by his glib responses to controversial questions.

“And I don’t have to fill you in on the most recent victim,” Morgan said. “I’m certain you’re well acquainted with the facts surrounding the Moreau case.”

“Eleanor Moreau most certainly doesn’t fit the pattern of being an anti-environmentalist. She was the former wife of the Canadian Prime Minister. They’ve been divorced for some time. No, Captain, indeed this crime doesn’t jive with the others. In fact, she was a member of Green Peace and a whale rider at that. You couldn’t think of a more vocal supporter of environmental causes,” Sam pointed out.

“Sam, maybe you can help us out here. We’re still at a loss regarding the obscure references to Moreau in the last crossword puzzle,” Morgan added.

“I must say that the references to Moreau and to her murder made by the killer in the crossword puzzle were ingenious.” Sam had it all figured out. “For example, her birthday was March 15, and one of the clues was the _____ of March. Her initials were one of the clues, em___, for emcee. Then there were the ski locations that she often frequented, St. Moritz, and Aspen. Her favorite watering holes, The China Club, and Bedouins were also part of the solution. And LSU was where she went to college. Then there were other biographical facts that only someone close to her could have known.”

Morgan nodded. “Thirty across was sort of funny,” he said. “Drucilla gorilla, I still don’t know what the hell it means. The clue was Licentious simian.”

“Well, Captain, if I remember my classical history, Drucilla was the daughter of Augustus Caesar and was said to have slept with every member of the Senate,” Sam replied.

“Perhaps this is an example of sexual pollution. Did she have one of those sexually transmitted diseases?”

“I don’t think so,” Sam said cracking a smile. “But she did have a reputation.”

“I also like 49 down,” Morgan said.

“Polly Adler Rattler,” Sam rejoined.

“And 53 across,” Ward said.

“Irma la Duce Goose,” Sam said unable to contain his laughter. “The murderer was obviously drawing parallels between Moreau and famous harlots.”

“The location of the murder crisscrossed with the murder weapon,” Morgan said. “Here Sam, take a look.” Morgan pointed to the upper right hand corner of the grid.

“What about the explosive device itself?” Sam asked.

“Well as you know, gribiline is the most common chemical used in constructing letter bombs. At a low temperature the physical structure of gribilene can be changed without any instability. But above fifty degrees any lesion detonates an explosion. A gribilene seal that runs along the top inside fold of the envelope and another along the glue tracks almost always results in a successful detonation when the unfortunate victim unseals the envelope,” Morgan replied.

“Have you investigated the consignments of gribilene from its manufacturers?” Sam asked.

“Yes, of course, Sam. There are only two companies that make it. However, contractors use it in commercial demolition, and a shipment could have easily been diverted. The FBI is checking every shipment, but the truth is, the stuff can easily be made from common chemicals.”

“You know, Captain, I was denied access to the crime scene. As a result I couldn’t check Moreau’s computer files. Did you check the e-mail on the victim’s computers?”

“Yes, but we didn’t turn up anything consequential,” Morgan replied.

“You don’t mind if I have a look?”

“Of course not, be my guest.”

“You know, it’s possible that the killer picked his victims randomly. From out of the newspaper or even the Internet. But there’s also the distinct possibility that the killer knew each of them,” Sam observed.

“In order for him to have known all these people, he would have had to travel in select circles. And he would have had to have been in the center of the lens rather than on the fringe,” Morgan said.

“I’d like to read the background files on the victims.”

“I’ve already made copies of them for you,” Captain Morgan said pointing to a cardboard box next to his desk. “Anything else you need, Sam?”

“Yes. I’d like to inspect the physical evidence in the Moreau case,” Sam said.

Captain Morgan called down to the evidence room. A young uniformed officer came running up with a plastic baggy containing the remnants of the letter bomb. Morgan handed it over to Sam.

Sam looked it over. “I have to admit that I’m fascinated by this case, but Esther and I were supposed to leave for Monte Carlo tonight for a long weekend.”

“Take my advice. Forget the crossword murders. Have a nice trip. I guarantee you the case won’t be solved before you come back.”

“But it’s possible that we can prevent the next murder. From past experience, the killer always moves within one month after sending in the puzzle. We’re running out of time.”

“Sam, you’re really doing us a big favor meeting with the press. It takes the heat off the department. But we both know that the only way we’re going to get this guy is when someone comes forward with a lead. The reward money is up to a cool million. Let me give you some advice. You’re young for about fifteen minutes. If I were you, I wouldn’t waste a single one of those precious minutes. If you’re really having pangs of conscience, take this crap with you and read it on the plane,” Morgan said pointing to the box of files on the floor next to his desk.

Sam stood shaking his head in agreement. “I’ll take your advice and take the files with me.” Sam turned toward Detective Ward. “Tim, perhaps there’s something we can do about the e-mail as well. I’ll send an e-mail message to you tonight. If I remember correctly, your address is Dubliner246@aol.com.”

“Yes, Sam,” Ward replied.

“Attached to the e-mail will be a utility program. Download it. It’ll forward all of the e-mail stored on any computer to my e-mail address. All you need to do is run it on Explorer 8.04 or higher. It’s a java applet. I’ll check my e-mail while I’m away. I’m packing my iPad next to my tennis racket.”

“No problem, Sam,” Ward said before leaving the office.

“If I stumble on anything important I’ll be in touch,” Sam said.

“Try to squeeze in a little romance, Sam,” Morgan said.

“I’ll try,” Sam said with a grin. He picked up the box of folders and walked out of Morgan’s office. He was halfway down the long stone staircase of the precinct house when he remembered Lentz. Sam wanted to review the fully solved puzzle. He reversed his steps, backtracking to Ward’s office. Sam stood in the doorway.

Lentz looked up from his clipboard. “I’ve completed the puzzle, Mr. Sonn. Why don’t you make yourself a copy of the solution?”

“Thank you, sir,” Sam said politely. He took the solution and brought it over to the copy machine at the other side of the room.

“Your puzzle solving ability is extraordinary,” Lentz said.

“I’ve been doing the Sunday puzzle for years,” Sam admitted. “I actually constructed a number of 21 by 21's for Gene Mazurski.”

“Yes, Mr. Mazurski,” Lentz repeated the name, “he was a legend. It seems I’m always being compared with Mr. Mazurski. Usually not favorably.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Sam said to be polite. He really believed that Lentz’s puzzles had become far too esoteric, and were a reflection of his snooty attitude. “How long have you been with the Herald Gazette?”

“Four years,” Lentz replied.

“Has it been that long since Mr. Mazurski died?”

“Yes, Mr. Sonn.”

“And before that you worked . . ..”

“For the Chicago Sun,” Lentz replied.

“You were the crossword editor there?”

“No. I was editor of the Op-Ed page.”

“How is it that you made the jump from editorials to crosswords?”

“Well, I’ve always been a crossword enthusiast. When Mr. Mazurski died, I applied for the job and here I am.”

“It’s been an honor to meet you, sir.” Sam folded the solution to the puzzle and put it in his pocket. He hesitated before leaving. “I have my car parked outside. Do you need a lift?”

“That’s kind of you, Mr. Sonn, but I have my car. Why don’t we walk out together?”

“Sure,” Sam said. Lentz seemed to have something weighing heavily on his mind. He left the solution to the puzzle on Detective Ward’s desk and raised himself out of his seat with the aid of his cane. The two men walked down the steps and through the lobby of the station house. Neither spoke. At the exit was a large insulated vestibule. Two glass doors opened automatically, pelting them with a blast of steamy Manhattan air saturated with fossil fuel emissions. It was an unusually hot day for the middle of May, the temperature hovering near ninety. Sam reached into his shirt pocket and put on his Richaud Polaroids. Lentz tilted the brim of his safari hat.

“I’m parked in the officers’ lot across the street,” Lentz said.

“So am I,” Sam replied.

They waited for the traffic to clear on 4th Avenue before crossing. An old oriental woman sitting next to a pushcart of sundries approached Lentz. She was holding a white gardenia. Lentz handed the woman a dollar bill and pinned the flower to his lapel. By that time the traffic had abated, allowing them to cross the street.

“I’m over here,” Lentz said, pointing to a white Mercedes.

Sam began to raise his hand in a parting gesture before walking away.

“Mr. Sonn,” Lentz called out at the last possible second.

“Yes,” Sam replied, turning back to face Lentz.

“What are your politics?” Lentz asked.

“My politics?” Sam was caught off guard.

“Yes. Your politics. Are you a Republican or a Democrat?” Lentz elaborated.

“I’m a registered Democrat,” Sam replied.

“That’s surprising,” Lentz said. “I would have taken you for a conservative Republican.”

“Why’s that?” Sam asked.

“You’re a highly successful entrepreneur and then there’s the way you dress, the way you conduct yourself—typical Republican. The reason I asked is that I’d like to sponsor you as a member of my club. It’s composed of a group of intellectuals from all over the country. We meet in New York on 62^nd Street between Park and Madison at the Regency Hotel. We even have a few Democrats.”

“I live only a few blocks from there, on Central Park South,’ Sam replied.

“We only sponsor men and women of substance,” Lentz said.

“What do you mean by substance?” Sam asked.

“You must have the wherewithal and the courage to wager. You see we play games of intellect for high stakes.”

“It sounds interesting. I love risk. But right now I’m afraid that I’m forced to decline.”

“Why don’t you come down anyway? I’m sure the group would love to meet you. Perhaps they’ll succeed in convincing you to join. They’re very persuasive, you know.”

“I’ll bet they are. But I don’t think so,” Sam said.

“Take my card in case you change your mind.” Lentz scribbled something on the back before handing it to Sam. “A pleasure, Mr. Sonn.”

Sam took the card and put it in his pocket. It was getting late. He had a luncheon date with Esther and she didn’t like to be kept waiting. He walked briskly across the newly tarred parking lot to his black Volvo. The early afternoon sun was baking the tar and the vapors were very strong. Sam was anxious to immerse himself in the air-conditioned comfort of his 940 turbo. He took a quick peek back at Lentz who was still fiddling with some papers on the passenger seat. Sam inserted the key into the ignition slot on the steering column and adjusted his seat belt. As the cool air rushed out of the vents, he took a second to adjust them to point away from his face. Then he placed his right arm on the headrest of the passenger seat and began to back out of the space. But as he turned his head, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, Lentz’s Mercedes jolt backwards at high speed.

“What the . . . ?” Sam muttered. Lentz’s car rammed into the Japanese import parked behind him. Sam shut his engine and ran out of the Volvo toward the Mercedes. Lentz was slumped over the steering wheel. The Mercedes was spinning its wheels, pushing against the Japanese import. Lentz was unconscious, his leg locked, and pushing full force on the accelerator pedal. Sam reached into his shoulder holster and pulled out his silver Colt 2000 9mm automatic. But before he could aim and fire, the Mercedes succeeded in dislodging the small Japanese car. It barreled backwards, sideswiping the Japanese car twice, speeding undeterred across an open area of the lot, before crashing at about 60 mph into two parked cars. The force of the impact caused the gas tank to rupture. The rear of the vehicle was engulfed in flames. Sam ran full speed after the runaway Mercedes, pistol in hand. He shot out the passenger window and unlocked the front door. Lentz was still slumped over the wheel. Sam could feel his own flesh cooking like a hamburger as he reached across Lentz’s body to unlock his seat belt; but it was fused solid from the intense heat. Sam carefully aimed his pistol at the belt clasp and fired. He succeeded in breaking Lentz free and pulled him from the burning car just before it exploded. Sam was knocked to the ground from the fury of the explosion; Lentz lay lifeless beside him. Lentz had died instantly of a massive coronary. Nothing could have saved him.

Thirty minutes later. Detective Morgan, Ward and Sam stood off to the side, as the ambulance drove away, taking Lentz’s body to the morgue. The parking lot was filled with police and tow trucks.

“I can’t believe it,” Ward said. “He was just with us. He looked and acted fine.”

“It’s a pity,” Morgan said, “the way it ended so suddenly. You’re lucky Sam. You could’ve been killed by that explosion.”

Sam nodded.

“Well, one thing’s for sure,” Morgan said. “They’re going to need a new crossword editor down at the Herald Gazette. Whoever it is will have some mighty big shoes to fill.”

Sam didn’t reply. Nor did he make any overt gesture of agreement. He was still trying to make sense out of what had happened.