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around down there, go ahead. They can give you some freaky stories about Thompson C. Briephs and their ‘confidential expeditions’ to that little island of his. He was definitely getting into tough love.”
    â€œSo Roth insists the Senator wants it hushed up and you agree?”
    â€œCome on, Rosco, where’s the harm? Briephs’ mother is an old lady. Ol’ Bulldog’s right when he says the shock would probably kill her … And who gets hurt in the end? Some fifty-dollar-a-night hooker. She gets two to five on accidental manslaughter and walks in six months. What’s the point?”
    â€œI don’t like it.”
    â€œLeave it alone, Rosco.”
    â€œI want to see his body.”
    â€œDrop it.”
    â€œNot a chance.”
    Lever sighed in frustration. “I don’t have time now and I mean that. Come back at three. I’ll walk you into the morgue then.”
    â€œNo funny business?”
    â€œNo funny business.”
    Rosco stood, crossed to the office door and unlocked it. “What do you know about a woman named Annabella Graham?”
    â€œThe crossword lady at the Evening Crier ?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œYou’ve never seen her around town …?”
    â€œNot that I know of.”
    Lever laughed, coughed violently, then lit another cigarette. “Of all the guys in Newcastle, I can’t believe you’ve never set eyes on Annabella Graham.” Another laugh erupted from Lever’s chest—followed by another coughing fit.
    â€œThis damn heat wave!” he sputtered. “My allergies have been driving me crazy …”
    Rosco didn’t comment.
    When Lever’s attack subsided, he eyed Rosco with a good deal of secret delight. “Annabella Graham,” he hummed. “What would you like to know about her?”
    â€œI’ve got a meeting with her … Thought I should educate myself on this puzzle biz. Find out about the newspaper game before I start poking around the Herald.” Rosco opened the door and stepped into the hall. Before he got ten feet, Lever called after him: “One bit of advice, before you make a fool of yourself …”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œAnnabella Graham is married.”

CHAPTER 6
    R OSCO HADN’T SET foot on Captain’s Walk in years. He was surprised at how many of the old seafarers’ residences lining the now malled-off street had gone through extensive renovations. Annabella Graham’s petite but immaculate eighteenth-century home was no exception. The wood siding appeared to have just received a fresh coat of white paint; the glossy black shutters reflected the dappled sunlight peering through leaves of an elm resting in the tidy front garden, and the antique windowpanes sparkled with the old-fashioned glint of spirits of ammonia and elbow grease. Rosco could almost picture a captain’s wife gazing out one of those parlor windows, patiently awaiting the return of her world-weary traveler.
    â€œYou must be Mr. Polycrates.” Annabella opened the front door, and stood on the porch, where a wicker love seat and matching chairs provided a setting that Rosco imagined might have been lifted whole from a magazine on home design. “I somehow expected you to look more like that character who sells automotive tools on late-night television.”
    â€œNot Uncle Morty … Mr. Socket Wrench? Somebody should put that guy out of his misery.”
    She laughed lightly and asked him in, flipping the door closed behind her as if its carefully preserved history were of no particular importance. “Uncle Morty.” She chuckled again. “The very one.” Her tone had the same offhand ease as her manner—something Rosco noted with pleasure.
    Lever had alluded to the fact that Annabella Graham was a good-looking woman, but she was more than that: slim and tall with vibrant, dark gray eyes and straight, fine hair the color of