Another Word for Murder (17 page)

Belle couldn't believe her good fortune. “Would that be Rob
Rossi
, the bartender here?” She hoped her expression looked as naive as she believed her words sounded.

“You know the Rob-man?” It was Carlos who responded. He hitched up his pants. There was a swagger in his movement and a peacocking challenge in his eyes. “He surely does get around.”

“No … ahh … the ad mentioned his name. Applicants were to ask for Rob Rossi.”

Carlos looked at Ed and the big man shrugged. The handful of Black Sheep afternoon drinkers paid little attention to Belle or the two men; they were too intent on nursing their beers.

“You got some real pretty hair, blondie,” Carlos said as he returned his gaze to Belle. “Don't she, Big Ed?”

“I guess I should be speaking to Mr. Rossi, then,” Belle persisted. She maintained her smile, but it wasn't easy. Providing ample personal space didn't appear to be one of Carlos Quintero's priorities.

“I guess you didn't hear me tellin' my little friend there that he wasn't around.”

“Oh, was that your ladyfriend?”

Carlos chuckled and looked up at Ed. “What do you say to that, Mr. Trawler? Is Bonnie my squeeze?”

Ed Trawler
, Belle thought.
Boy oh boy, have I hit the jackpot tonight!
But finding three of the names on Jack Wagner's list of questionable patients seemed minor in comparison to what she next discovered.

“Not as long as Mr. Big-Bucks is in the picture, you ain't.”

Belle felt one eyelid twitch and a corner of her lips flicker. It was all she could do not to shout out loud. So, Al had been correct in questioning Bonnie's relationship to her boss. Belle took a steadying breath and returned her focus to Carlos. “Well, I really need the work, so if you could tell me when Mr. Rossi—”

“I already told ya. He's not around.”

“Well, when he comes in then. The newspaper ad said—”

“I don't know nothin' about no ad, sweetpea. What I
can
tell ya is that Rob ain't here. You can come back tomorrow if ya want to try your luck again. Walt should be in tomorrow. Maybe Rob'll be puttin' in an appearance, too; who knows.”

Belle frowned. “But I don't know why this Rossi person was mentioned if he's not here. Maybe I got the name wrong.”

“Hey, it's a mystery to me, too. Rob's got a good gig goin' here, and he's makin' a big mistake thinkin' Walt's gonna hold it for him forever. Guaranteed income, which means nice digs and a good-lookin' ride. Why louse it all up by doin' a disappearin' act? But hey, maybe he's got himself another job?”

It was only after Belle had extricated herself from the Black Sheep and was driving home that a phrase Carlos Quintero had used returned to her.

“Sugar and spice”: It seemed impossible that his use of the nursery rhyme words was coincidental.

CHAPTER 21

Despite Dan Tacete's death and the turmoil of the last few days, Rosco was still in the employment of Northern Mutual Insurance, which meant that he felt obligated to keep an appointment he'd scheduled the previous week with Sonny of Sonny's Autobody. The shop was on Clawson Street in the industrial zone, which sprawled along the coastline at the northeastern end of the city and featured a polyglot assortment of businesses: distributors specializing in reinforced concrete, manufacturers of steel beams and bars, residential and commercial storage facilities, trucking depots, used car lots, and a gigantic wholesale food mart.

Sonny's Autobody was the sixth such establishment on Rosco's list of potential accomplices in the disappearance—and possible dismantling—of twenty-two luxury automobiles from Porto Ristorante on March 15. To this point, the investigation had come up dry. The previous five body shop owners he'd spoken with had appeared to be running legitimate concerns; although, to a man, they'd maintained that there were no assurances that the auto parts they used were “factory fresh.” The rule of thumb seemed to be that as long as wholesalers guaranteed the parts, the shop owners asked no questions.

Adjusting the blue ABC-TV baseball cap that had been a souvenir from a recent trip to Los Angeles, Rosco ambled through the broad double garage doors that led into the airplane-hanger-like expanse of Sonny's Autobody. As with the previous repair shops, his “cover” involved being a location scout for the Boston-based TV program,
Back Bay D.A.
, and the necessity of finding a place to shoot an upcoming episode about a sting operation.

Initially, Rosco had wondered if his chop-shop description of the storyline might deter the owners, but as a Hollywood producer had once told him, “Hey, it's TV. Nobody says no to TV.” Rosco had found the maxim to be one hundred percent correct. In fact, as Sonny extended his muscular hand in greeting, the first words out of his mouth were an enthusiastic “Hey, great hat. ABC-TV. Yeah, that's cool. Can you get me one of those?”

Physically, Sonny was a clear departure from the previous autobody shop owners. Where the others had been roundish, meat and potatoes, hands-on sorts of men with soiled mechanics' jumpsuits and black fingernails, Sonny was trim and tall, six-two at least; judging by his weightlifter's forearms and biceps, he appeared to spend a good deal of his time working out at a gym. His stylishly faded blue jeans were pressed and spotless; his apple-green polo shirt was form-fitting with
Sonny
embroidered in the spot where others might display an alligator or little man on a horse. His sandy blond hair was salon-tinted and blow-dried, his mustache neatly trimmed. There wasn't the slightest evidence of grease and grime anywhere on him, least of all under his fingernails.

Rosco pulled the cap from his head and looked at the logo. “These babies are hard to come by. ABC changed their colors a while back, but I'll see what I can do for you…. I'm Rick Richards, from the
Back Bay D.A
. production office.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Sonny responded with a genuine smile. He cocked his head toward the open garage door and Rosco's parked car. “I mean, who else drives those low-end leases these days besides middle-management types and salesmen? No offense meant, Rick. But, hey, that's what keeps the Big Three going, right?”

“Big Three?”

“GM, Ford, and Chrysler.”

“Ahh…. And you knew it was a lease? Just by looking at it?” Rosco glanced back at the car. “I don't see anything wrong with it myself.”

“Hey, Rick, wake up. It screams
corporate lease
. You need something that says you're your own boss if you want to turn some heads. That's what a BMW says—'I'm hip, I'm cool, and I got money to burn.'” He looked quickly at Rosco's left hand and his wedding ring. “But, what the heck, you're a married man, same as me. Which means our babe-magnet days are over. Besides, you take what the boss gives you, right? It's a freebie, so go for it.”

Knowing that he really
was
in the market for a new car, Rosco said, “Actually, ABC has been trying to phase out the leases. They're looking into having employees buy our own cars, then providing a mileage allowance. Cost-cutting obviously, but I'll be losing that sedan soon, and I'll need to purchase something of my own. Anyway, I'm not here to yak about what I'm driving; or what I might or might not be buying in—”

“No, no,” Sonny interrupted, holding his large paw up toward Rosco's chest. “I get my hands on some very nice—and I mean
very
nice—low-mileage vehicles here. Sure, they've been nicked … door-panel or bumper crunched, so the original owners don't want them anymore. That's how these Beamer-boys are. As soon as the vehicle gets a scratch, they trade it in, or go back on the lease. So I'm the guy who has the first look-see if some hot-shot wants to dump his car…. And they're clean as a whistle when my shop's done with them; you'll save yourself a bundle over new car sticker prices. You let me know when you're ready to make a move, Rick. I'll hook you up with something really nice.” Sonny pointed at an SUV sitting out in the lot near Rosco's lease. “Take that red Explorer out there. It's got a ding—that's all, just a ding. The babe who dumped it is moving up to a newer model. Just came in this morning. The gal didn't even smoke, so it's sweet as a rose inside and out.”

“I don't know,” Rosco said, “My last car was red. Somehow it seems as if I'd be unfaithful if I bought another red car.”

Sonny laughed. “Hey, we're not talkin' about your wife here, Rick…. But you don't like red? No problem. My guys can make it L.A.-style aqua-blue. Detail it with a couple of tiny palm trees, too. Real discreet. Just say the word and people'll think you're Brad Litt.”

“I'll think it over.” Rosco looked around Sonny's shop. Unlike other places he'd visited that specialized in body work, Sonny's was also equipped to handle any and all mechanical repairs. There were six hydraulic lifts, each with a vehicle in place and a technician performing some type of mechanical magic. The shop walls displayed handsomely lettered signs that outlined hourly wages and the spectrum of available services, from simple oil changes to brake jobs to complete engine overhauls. Beyond the lifts was the auto-body shop itself, where half a dozen men were working on dented automobiles; and beyond that were four dust-proof paint stalls, two of which were aglow with amber heating elements used for drying fresh paint. Rosco noted that nearly every car in the shop was European or a high-priced SUV.

“This is some operation you have here,” he observed. And he meant it; Sonny's was easily three times larger than any of the previous shops he'd seen.

“Yeah, well, my dad started it all. He named it after me, Sonny, but he did all the dirty work. He kicked the bucket a while back, but my mom still runs the books and everything. Me? Hell, I don't know jack about mechanics or knocking dents out cars, but I'm a good front man and I've got an eye for what sells, know how to talk to different types of customers, too…. That's what four years at Yale will do for you. Got a lotta actor in me, if you know what I mean? I'd be great on
Back Bay D.A
. People look at me and say to themselves, ‘Heck, if my car comes back lookin' half as good as Sonny-boy, I'm in Fat City.'” He laughed, exposing all thirty-two of his perfect white teeth.

Rosco strolled halfway down the mechanic's area, taking in as much as he could. He pointed up to the steel I-beams that supported the roof. “Can we hang some of our lighting equipment from there if we need to? Will it support the weight?”

“You can hang a tank from there, Rick. My dad built this place himself.”

“So if this was really a chop-shop—as our script requires—how would a situation like that work in a place like yours?” The question was posed casually while Rosco continued observing the space as though envisioning camera angles and the positioning of the booms and dollies necessary to shoot an interior scene. “Would someone bring the stolen vehicles in at night, and then—”

“Nah, nah, you got it all wrong, Rick. First off, this part of Clawson Street never shuts down. They're unloading vegetables—carrots, garlic, radishes, and whatnot—across the street all night long. Too many witnesses. You'd have to bring the cars in through a back door. On the alley, where no one would see what you're doing.”

“Do you have a rear door here? One we could use for the shoot, I mean? Make it look like the genuine article?”

Sonny thought for a second, glanced once toward the office door, then said, “Yeah, it's in the back.”

Rosco refrained from saying,
That's a good place for a back door
, and instead opted for “Can we take a look at it? Just for sight lines and so forth. I'm not certain yet how the director wants to approach that aspect of the storyline, but I need to see everything I can.”

“You bet.”

As they worked their way past the mechanics, body shop workers, and paint specialists, Rosco became aware that many of the men had stopped work. The glances they gave him appeared less than friendly. “You seem to get a lot of German cars in here,” Rosco said as the walked toward the rear garage entrance. “Mercedes, BMWs, …”

“Yeah, that's our specialty. And SUVs. See, it takes just as long to knock a dent out of a Honda as it does to clean up a Mercedes Benz. So why mess around with the small stuff, right? Plus our turnaround time is faster than anyone around. These big-money guys like that. If they plan to hang onto the car, they want it back in jig time.” Sonny pressed a button on the wall and a large rear door silently rolled off to one side. “Quiet as a church mouse …” Sonny laughed again. “That's what my dad used to say every time he opened this door.”

“If your turnaround time is quicker than other shops, then you must be able to get your parts faster than your competitors.”

“Not really…. It's our staff that makes the difference.” He cocked his thumb over his shoulder toward the men working on the cars. “I don't order parts; my mom does that. But we have more employees than the other dudes. They're more dedicated, too. That's the reason we work faster. Plus, my mom's figured out some good incentive deals for the guys.”

“Got it…. So, let's see, a stolen vehicle—or vehicles—would enter through this door…. then what happens? You cut them up for parts on the spot?”

“If this was a real chop-shop?” Sonny asked in a slow and cautious tone.

“If this was the genuine article … right. Which it isn't, of course.”

“It would depend on how big the operation in your storyline is. I've heard of some syndicates taking direct orders from Mexico and South America; they're looking for specific makes and models, and colors, too. They're not after parts, at all; they just ship those babies right out of the country. ASAP.”

Rosco stepped into the alley and looked up and down. “Pretty quiet back here. Of course, we'll need to get a permit from the city to shoot in the street.” He glanced at the bright afternoon sky. “Speaking of Newcastle, didn't you guys have a big auto theft back in March, was it? A lot of high-end cars stolen from some local restaurant?”