Another Word for Murder (19 page)

The old woman turned in her chair and leveled her penetrating gaze on her younger friend. “What led you to make that absurd decision?”

Belle fidgeted under Sara's scrutiny, leaving Rosco to come to his wife's rescue with a well-placed lie. “She didn't want to worry you.”

“But I've been asked to reflect on nearly every crime she's helped solve,” Sara asserted with some warmth. “They don't worry me in the least—unless I think one of you two might be in danger.”

Belle glanced up and caught Rosco's eye. “And she also wanted to keep this evening on a purely social level,” he added.

Belle turned beet-red while Sara tossed aside Rosco's statement. “What better time to discuss the workings of the criminal mind than over supper with close friends?” Then the doyenne of White Caps suddenly sat even straighter in her chair. “Rosco, I assume the attorney for the Snyder case contacted you?” But no sooner had that query been posed than Sara leapt to another. “Have I told you that I'm establishing a scholarship fund in honor of that poor boy? I know what some would say … that it's too late to help the child himself, but something must be done as a remembrance—and a reminder. Adults who kill children and then callously drive away must be revealed as the craven cowards they are.”

“No, you didn't tell us,” was Belle's reply. “But I think that's perfectly wonderful.” She wanted to say more; in fact, she was on the verge of telling Sara just how fond of her she was and how very proud she felt to count her as a friend. But the old lady, as was her wont, intuited those words of praise, and so was able to forestall them with another change of subject.

“I'm wondering, Belle, dear … Is it possible those crosswords you received could be connected to the Snyder boy's death rather than to the Tacete's murder? Possibly the word games have nothing to do with your dentist. If indeed, these
puzzling
nursery rhymes are related to either crime.”

CHAPTER 23

At six the next morning, the sun's rays were already streaking over the oceans's horizon and gracing the peeling pink paint of the vacant Dew Drop Inn with a lively glow that temporarily banished the many unkindnesses of the decades. Except for night, when the inn was dark, it was the only time when the old structure looked halfway like it once had.

As the decrepit building reveled in its momentary return to youth, Newcastle's early risers, both human and canine, were making their way onto the expanse of lawn that had become known simply as the “dog park.” The routines of the visitors were as predictable as the dawn. At a minute or two past six, Al Lever would arrive in his Plymouth sedan, open the back door, and his “big yellow mutt,” Skippy, would amble forth and sit patiently beside the rear tire.

Murmuring
soto voce
endearments, Lever would then light a cigarette while almost simultaneously bending to unhook Skippy's leash. Watching the dog dart across the dewy grass at full speed was one of the highlights of the Al's day.

Abe Jones would arrive shortly thereafter. Since it was May, the canvas top of his new jet-black Thunderbird would be down. Once he came to a stop, he would reach across to the passenger's seat and unhook Buster's leash. Buster was a Lab-mix who still had a good deal of puppy energy. He always jumped from the car without waiting for the door to be opened; then he invariably went tearing after Skippy. By six fifteen on most weekday mornings, there would be at least a half dozen dogs and their corresponding people enjoying the inn's grounds. Almost all of the two-legged members of the group clutched take-out coffee containers as though the liquid were the last they'd be permitted in this life.

Belle and Rosco, with Kit and Gabby, were not part of the habitual six
A.M
. drill. If it weren't one of Rosco's regular jogging mornings, then sliding out of the double bed that strained to accommodate all four bodies wasn't an exercise either humans or canines looked forward to. When Rosco wasn't running, the routine worked this way: Belle would be the first up after the alarm went off. Then she'd trudge downstairs and get the coffee brewing. Kit would follow, feeling a certain amount of “watchdog” obligation, although the duties were performed with a marked lack of enthusiasm. The smell of the coffee would rouse Rosco, who would in turn inform Gabby that it was time to get her lazy bones up.

But this particular Wednesday morning was different. The conversations with Sara the previous night, combined with Belle's earlier visit to The Black Sheep Tavern, inspired her to set the alarm for five twenty so that she and Rosco—and Kit and Gabby, naturally—could join Abe and Al and their respective “canine others” for a pow-wow and update. Kit seemed game for the excursion, but Gabby needed to be carried from “her” bed all the way down to Rosco's rented car. The four arrived at the Dew Drop Inn at eight minutes past six. While the “girls” scurried off to find their friends, Belle and Rosco joined Abe and Al, who were leaning against the detective's car.

Al glanced at his watch in surprise. “What are you two lovebirds doing here at this hour?”

Rosco smiled in response, although his tone was serious. “With this Tacete mess, it doesn't look like anybody's getting too much sleep. Any developments on your end?”

“I had a man interviewing folks at Gilbert's Groceries all day yesterday. And he'll be back at it this morning. We have three people who say they saw Karen Tacete drop off the Corvette and wait for a taxi at the pick-up stand, but as of now, no one remembers seeing anyone drive
out
of the lot in the 'Vette. Which makes sense. Whoever retrieved it had to play things very cool…. Considering the vehicle's smoked windows, it's doubtful anyone would have been able to see who was driving anyway—unless they were looking directly through the windshield.”

Abe Jones pulled a small note pad from his rear pocket and jotted something into it, prompting Lever to add a vaguely peremptory “What?”

“Nothing really … just another question concerning the vehicle.”

“How's it going?” Rosco asked.

“Well, I've only had at it for a day,” Abe said, “so I'm far from finished. I got lucky on the emergency brake handle. It was about the only place on the car that wasn't charred black. I was able to pick up a few distinctly different fingerprints. One I've been able to identify as Tacete's. I sent the others to the Feds.”

“They're probably Karen's,” Belle suggested.

“That was my first thought, but we've classified the prints as male by their size. For now, anyway. Interestingly, I didn't find
any
prints on the car that I would suggest they were female. But the vehicle's a total mess. Fiberglass melts and everything goes with it.” Abe paused. “Another curious thing is that the shift knob is missing.”

“Burnt up?” Rosco asked.

“No. Missing. It was never there. Obviously you can drive the car that way, but it's fairly uncomfortable on the palm of your hand. I phoned Karen, and she said it was in place when she left the car at Gilbert's. Apparently, it was a chrome Hurst short-shifter.”

“Is that valuable?” Belle asked.

“Not really. But they're attractive.”

“Maybe a kid stole it while it was sitting in the lot,” Al suggested. “Karen said she left it unlocked.”

“It's possible,” was Abe's reply.

“Only
possible
?” Belle prodded.

“Probable … possible … All I know is that it's missing.”

The four stood quietly. After a moment, Rosco addressed another question to Abe. “I don't suppose you want to go up against the captain—and city hall—and take a look a Tacete's body?”

Jones gave Rosco his signature broad and knowing smile. “You just can't leave Carlyle alone, can you?”

Rosco returned the grin. “You need to learn how to take a compliment, my friend. Is there anything wrong with my wanting The Pro to weigh in with his expert opinion?”

“Well,” Abe responded, “
The Pro
, as you put it, has looked at Carlyle's report, and it's fine. Even Estelle, our ghouless-in-residence, signed off on it. Unless those two missed a bullet in Tacete's heart, which they didn't, there's no reason for me to examine the body. If it makes you feel any better, though, Rosco, I think you might have put a bit of a scare into your friend, Carlyle. He want back and retested all the fluid and tissue samples. Like I said, I've read the report. Tacete died at the time of the accident. I have no doubt about that.”

“How about five minutes before the accident?”

“The only one who can pinpoint it that closely is the Man Upstairs. Even I'm not that good.”

“So, anyway,” Lever said as he lit his third cigarette of the morning. “We've also been chasing down Jack Wagner's five ‘shifty characters' from his partner's patient list. It seems—”

“They all work at the Black Sheep,” Belle announced proudly.

Al looked at her sideways. “Well, yeah, two of them do. One guy heads up a local rock band, and the other two are sometime residents of Father Tom's St. Augustine mission.”

“So that would mean that Terry Friend is a man?”

“Right. We haven't tracked any of them down yet, but we'll be back on it this morning.”

“I saw Ed Trawler and Carlos Quintero at the Black Sheep yesterday afternoon,” Belle offered.

Lever glanced at Rosco and raised an eyebrow. “Your wife hangs out in some pretty classy joints, Poly—crates.” He then looked at Belle. “I had no idea you were a regular. Somehow a spot like that doesn't seem the sort of place a renowned cruciverbalist like your honeybunch might frequent.”

Belle ignored Al's gibe. “I followed Bonnie O'Connell there yesterday. Here's what I learned.” She counted the items off on her fingers as she spoke. “One: Ed Trawler and Rob Rossi work as bartenders. Two: Rob Rossi hasn't shown up for work since Dan disappeared. Three: Carlos Quintero hangs out there—”

Al snapped his fingers. “He's the one in the rock band.”

“That makes sense…. Four: There's another guy named Frank; I gather he's pulled some sort of disappearing act, too. From what I heard, he and Bonnie have some sort of relationship…. And five: Bonnie and Jack Wagner are having an affair.”

“Okaaay …” Al said, dragging out the syllables. “That's what I was picking up on, too. But what makes you so sure?”

“Ed said that Bonnie was unavailable, date-wise, as long as ‘Mr. Big-Bucks' was still in the picture.”

“That title could refer to anyone though, Belle. Everything's relative.”

“I'm just following your lead, Al. You said Wagner insisted he could earn twenty-five thousand dollars from a single mouth. Who else could the guy be?”

“Uh-huh …” Lever nodded. “You didn't catch a last name on this Frank fella, did you?”

Belle shook her head while Al noted the name on a slip of paper. He then added an offhanded “And, of course, we still have an APB out on that white Explorer Tacete was driving when he was nabbed. That baby seems to have dropped off the face of the earth.”

Jones patted Lever on the back. “Al, it's the getaway car. It's probably in Topeka right now, out in front of an IHOP waiting for the perp to finish his cheese omelette and home fries.”

“That sure seems like the logical explanation,” Al agreed. “Which is exactly why I don't like it—it's too easy.”

“And my guess is we should be looking for Rob Rossi,” Abe replied with a shrug. “He's the only person who's skipped town.”

“We've got this Frank character Belle just discovered—who also seems to have taken a powder. Plus, let's not forget that your average criminal doesn't strike and then run away. These guys are like pigeons. They're afraid to leave their own neighborhoods. You know that, Abe. A guy robs a convenience store or a liquor store, and what happens? Three days later, he ends up spending the money in the men's clothing shop around the corner…. The smart ones pull off a job and then amuse themselves by sitting around and watching the cops make fools of themselves. The dumb ones are their own worst enemies. Intuition tells me that the guy who killed Dan Tacete is still right here in Newcastle. I'll put money on it.” Al then looked at Rosco. “You're unusually quiet today, Poly—crates.”

Rosco was leaning against the NPD sedan with his arms folded across his chest, watching Gabby wrestle with Buster in an emerald-green patch of overgrown grass. He didn't turn to face Al. “I was thinking.”

“Oh, boy, that's always a bad sign.”

“No, I'm with you, Al; I don't think Dan's killer has left town either. Obviously Rob Rossi and this Frank guy need to be tracked down, but I'll bet they're still in the Newcastle area somewhere. What I'm wondering about is the Explorer. If the killer's still here, then the Explorer's still here…. Could it have been painted? Have the windows been tinted? Has the entire vehicle been given a new look—new tires, expensive detailing? Maybe what we've been looking for is right under our noses. Maybe it's no longer white.”

“Hey, you're the newfound chop-shop pro,” Al said with a smile, “you tell me.”

“I might just do that.”

CHAPTER 24

“Back so soon?” Sonny asked as Rosco stepped from his car. It almost seemed as if he'd been waiting for “Rick” to return. “I told you. My mom doesn't like the idea of using the shop for
Back Bay D.A.”

“Did you tell her it was thirty-five hundred a day? Plus, we'll pick up your electric tab for the month?”

“Yeah, she still nixxed it. What can I say?” Sonny gave an apologetic smile, and again Rosco was struck by the incongruity of the man's appearance with his surroundings. Sonny looked like he'd just missed a crucial putt on the country club green rather than a guy who needed to shout to be heard over the noise of half a dozen welding torches.