Corpus de Crossword by Nero Blanc Page A

two unmatched chairs facing the desk, a small round table between them, a coat rack, three filing cabinets, and the necessary electronic equipment his private investigative agency required. Bare bones stuff, and unchanged despite his modified marital status. Belle’s home office’s unusual appearance notwithstanding, she had little interest in interior design. The decor of the Polycrates Agency was the same as it had been when he and Belle had first met. Although there had been a few additions to the office closet that contained an assortment of apparel, i.e., disguises which could help Rosco pass himself off as anything from banker to busboy—items Belle had “discovered” at various thrift stores.
    â€œLook, miss … ma’am—”
    â€œIt’s Ms. actually.”
    â€œRight … Ms.…?”
    No name was forthcoming. Rosco suppressed another sigh, and pushed ahead. “I know Milt Hoffmeyer’s a good guy … an excellent candidate, in fact, and I understand that political campaigns need money—”
    â€œI’m not calling in reference to contributions,” the voice snapped back, then added an equally peppery: “I’m not a fund-raiser. Please hold for Mr. Hoffmeyer.”
    Rosco had only a second to gaze ceilingward in surprise before another voice appeared on the line.
    â€œMr. Polycrates? Milt Hoffmeyer here. Thanks for taking my call.”
    Rosco sat up straighter in his chair. Although his career had at times brought him into contact with the rich and famous, his encounters with men like Milton Hoffmeyer III were rare. Perhaps that was because the Hoffmeyers of the world were honorable folk who didn’t have nasty secrets they wanted to suppress—or enemies who wanted to expose them. “What can I do for you, Mr. Hoffmeyer?”
    Hoffmeyer hesitated for the briefest moment before proceeding. The tone was expansive and open—the genuine article. At least that was Rosco’s read, and he was usually correct when it came to intuition. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Mr. Polycrates, but skeletal remains were found on a construction site in Taneysville.”
    â€œI did see something about that in the paper, yes.”
    â€œTaneysville is where I grew up, Mr. Polycrates. It’s where my grandparents still live.”
    Rosco recalled the story the media spouted about Hoffmeyer, although he hadn’t remembered the locale. Small-town boy, raised by hard-working grandparents after both his parents had been killed. DUI, the cause of death had been ruled, if Rosco remembered rightly. DUI—as well as a series of prior arrests and numerous other scrapes with the law. Milt III had worked hard to overcome his father’s unhappy history and follow his paternal grandfather’s virtuous example. In fact, his campaign literature stated that he “owed his life and his love of his nation to his granddad and grandma.” The statement could have seemed insincere and cloying, but listening to the candidate’s voice, Rosco suspected that it wasn’t.
    â€œI remember reading about your grandparents, Mr. Hoffmeyer.”
    Hoffmeyer allowed himself a brief laugh. It was a warm sound, intimate and inviting, the kind engendered by a joke shared with a friend. “And do they ever hate reading about themselves …! Those two are New Englanders through and through. ‘Don’t you go calling attention to us, now, Milt. We’re simple people, in a simple community; you go off and do what you need to do; we’re happy being quiet.’ … And that’s precisely why I’m calling you, Mr. Polycrates. This … unfortunate discovery happened near the old Quigley house—on the hill just above Taneysville’s church—and I was hoping that you—”
    Rosco interrupted. “You’re not suggesting you want to retain my services are you, Mr.