Another Word for Murder (28 page)

He nodded and glanced at his watch. “Al said he'd give us a shout when he was on his way over there, which should be soon. He wanted to allow Bonnie time to process the information after she identified Frank's body at the morgue.”

“Which was only a couple of hours ago…. Not much chance to ‘process'—”

“This is a criminal investigation, Belle. Al doesn't let grass grow under his feet; he never has. Besides, Bonnie could well be as involved in this situation as her brother.”

Belle wrapped her arms around herself. “I wish I didn't have to go with you two…. ”

“I know. I'd tell you to skip it, but Al needs you to question her about the crossword puzzles; act as a foil, if nothing else.”

“I realize that, but it's not bringing a smile to my lips.” Belle winced as the word “smile” escaped her lips and her mouth turned downward in dismay. “Maybe the dental practice should have been named Grimace! instead of Smile!” she complained. “Or perhaps Bite the Dust is closer to the truth.”

“Not too customer-friendly,” was Rosco's gentle response before his cell phone rang. He answered with a hurried, “Yes, Al,” then finished with an equally businesslike, “We're on our way. See you in fifteen.”

“To the
toothsome
Bonnie's?” Belle asked with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

“You got it.”

“‘That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain,'” she recited in a flat, dejected tone.

“
Pudd'nhead Wilson
again?” Rosco queried.

“You're off by about fifty-five hundred miles. It's Hamlet. And humor wasn't his strong point.”

“Good with a sword, but no rapier wit, huh?”

“Stop, Rosco!”

He stood and looked down at the two dozing pooches. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie.' … Charles Dickens.”

“Very good.”

“Well, I knew it wasn't the … Great … Dane.”

“I never saw any of those puzzles before!” Bonnie insisted for the fourth time. “You people need to start listening better. Besides, they all have different names on them; what makes you think Frankie made them up?” Her red, swollen eyes moved from Al, who'd posed the question, to Rosco and finally to Belle before letting her glance slide to her carpeted floor.

In the several minutes the threesome had been questioning Bonnie O'Connell, Belle had come to realize that the young woman was more comfortable in the company of men than with her own sex. In fact, Belle had begun to identify Bonnie's attitude toward her as one of wholehearted mistrust. “I mean, yeah, Frankie liked to play around with word games and stuff in the newspapers, and the ones in the magazines, too, but so what? The last I heard, that wasn't a crime.”

“So you have no idea why he constructed these particular crosswords and sent them to me?” Belle asked as she indicated the puzzles she'd spread across Bonnie's glass-topped coffee table.

“Maybe he wanted to be famous?” was the offhand reply. “You know, see his name printed in the paper? Frankie was always hoping for a big break.”

“But, as you said, they weren't sent to me under his own name. Your brother used four different pseudonyms, as well as a fake post office box. Do you know where he got the names, Bonnie? Are you acquainted with this Everts person, or Randy Isaacs, or Sal Anderson, or Nicky Flanagan? Because none of them are in the Newcastle phone book, and the post office box belongs to a woman who died six months ago.”

Bonnie only shook her head slowly.

“And there's nothing in the clues or quotations or titles that rings a bell, either? Or that might prove useful in Lieutenant Lever's investigation?” Belle continued to probe. “Because if it's there, I sure can't see it.”

Bonnie tossed her head and shrugged in a show of disinterest. “Nope. I already told you people. I never saw those crosswords before. Maybe you shouldn't be wasting your time with me. Maybe you should be looking for the person who really killed Dan Tacete. Cuz it sure as hell wasn't my Frankie.”

Belle glanced at Rosco and then at Al, who was the next to speak. “I know you're upset, Miss O'Connell, but I don't need any flippant remarks. You realize that it's a crime to withhold evidence, don't you?”

“I'm not withholding anything!” Bonnie spluttered. “I told you Frank was into a lot of things he didn't feel like sharing. I mean, how does that saying go? About not being your brother's keeper or something? Well, that's me and Frankie in a nutshell! And he's giving you this ‘dark side of the moon' business? That about says it all, if you ask me…. I mean, c'mon, look at the letter he wrote … the one you found …” Then her shoulders suddenly sagged, and her defiant chin dropped toward her chest. Reflexively, she patted the leather couch on which she sat, rubbing her fingers against the smooth grain as if the expensive expanse could bring her relief. Instead, it produced the opposite effect. “Oh, Frankie … how am I going to afford this place now? Where's the money going to come from?” she muttered under her breath.

Belle and Rosco and Al shared a look. “What do you mean ‘now'?” Al asked. “Has the picture changed financially in some way? Isn't Doctor Wagner keeping you on—?”

“Jack?” Bonnie's head jerked up, her expression now full of fury. “Jack's a louse! A complete and utter louse. Frank told me not to trust him, but I didn't listen. Boy, didn't I listen!” But this confession only served to increase Bonnie's pain, and she again resorted to stony silence.

“So it's all over between you and Doctor Wagner? Is he … is he firing you?” Belle asked.

Bonnie stared at Belle in confusion. “Why would he do that?”

“Well, I just thought … when you said he was a—”

Rosco interrupted. “Then your brother was helping support you because your salary at Smile! wasn't enough to cover this”—he waved his hand to indicate the room—“this lifestyle? Is that what you're saying?”

“Oh, honey, are you ever out to lunch! Frank give
me
a nickel? Frank? Mr. Mooch himself! I was the one carrying him along.” Then Bonnie's face crumpled again. “Why did he have to kill himself!? Why did he have to do a dumb thing like that? I could have kept giving him dough. I could have! I could … we could have figured things out … gotten him back on track and everything … He could have stopped using all that junk…. He …” She began to weep, wrapping her arms around herself and giving in to her enormous grief while Belle, Rosco, and Al looked at each other in growing perplexity.

“Your brother was dealing drugs as well as using them, wasn't he?” Al asked after a brief pause.

Bonnie nodded and sniffled. “I guess … maybe … yeah, probably … Look, Frankie did what he did. And he didn't like me asking a bunch of questions. So I didn't. End of story…. Anyway, he told me he was into something big. It was gonna turn his life around.” Her chest heaved convulsively, and she started to cry afresh.

“I assume he meant the kidnapping.” Al's voice was level and professional.

“Look, mister, everything you've got on him is circumstantial—”

“Did you help him set up the Tacete situation?” Al continued in the same measured tone.

“No!” Bonnie exploded.

“But you knew he was involved?”

“No! I already told you! Frank didn't like me knowing what he was up to. Besides, you don't know for certain he was part of that deal.”

“Yes we do, Bonnie. When we found him, his apartment was full of incriminating evidence,” Lever told her.

“Evidence can be planted. I know how these drug cops operate. You're all the same,” was Bonnie's ferocious reply.

“I hope you're not suggesting items were planted by the Newcastle police?” Al responded. His lips were now tight. “That's not going to get you very far with me.”

“I'm just saying it happens, is all,” Bonnie grumbled, but her voice had grown muffled and cowed.

“But you
did
connect your brother to the crime as soon as you learned that Doctor Tacete had died.” It was Belle who made this next statement. “You went looking for Frank back on Tuesday after you left work early, didn't you? And you were concerned about Rob Rossi's whereabouts, too.”

Bonnie's unhappy eyes had turned into bitter slits. “What is it with you, sister? You think you can read my brain or something? Well, you can't. I don't give a fig about what Rob does or where he goes or anything!”

“That's not what you told Carlos Quintero.”

Confusion swept across Bonnie's face. She studied Belle for a moment, then said, “Ah, right … you're the one who was looking for the waitress job at the Black Sheep. I thought I'd seen you somewhere before…. ”

“So where is Rob Rossi?”

“I don't know!” Bonnie all but shouted.

“So, if your brother
didn't
nab Doctor Tacete,” Rosco interrupted in a surprisingly harsh voice. “How did Frank get possession of his Ford Explorer?”

Again, Bonnie's body appeared to collapse into itself. “I don't know,” she whispered.

“And who was supposed to pose as Karen Tacete when he went to sell it, if it wasn't you? The police will be checking that car for fingerprints, Bonnie. You're not going to be able to lie about this forever. Or is Karen in on this, too? Were you all working together? Are your fingerprints on the Explorer?”

She covered her ears with her hands in an effort to block out Rosco's words. “Stop. Stop! Look, Frankie would never have hurt Dan. I know he wouldn't!”

“Well, surprise, surprise,” was Al's pointed reply. “He did a hell of a lot more than hurt him.”

“He wouldn't!” Bonnie snapped back at him. “Okay, so my brother was no saint. And maybe he did a bunch of bad things … and was high a lot of the time, and couldn't keep a job … and maybe he liked playing around with these dumb paper puzzles…. But he's dead now, okay? And that's all I'm saying. I need to talk to a lawyer. There's nothing you can pin on him. Or me.”

“Well, that's where you're wrong, Bonnie,” Al told her. “Because from where I'm sitting, you look like an accessory to murder. And I've got a strong hunch that you and Frank and possibly Karen—”

“But I loved Dan!” Bonnie blurted out. “Why would I want to kill him?”

Neither Al nor Rosco nor Belle made a move. They didn't even exchange a glance; instead, they kept their astonished eyes glued to Bonnie's face.

“So there!” she fumed with another mutinous toss of her head. “And I don't care who you tell. I loved Dan. I loved everything about him. He found me this apartment and gave me money to get all this nice stuff …”

“Wait a minute,” Lever finally muttered. “You mean you and Tacete were … and not Jack Wagner …?”

“What's that creep Jack got to do with the price of eggs?” Bonnie spat out.

Rosco sat back on the couch. When he spoke, his words were slow and thoughtful. “Was your brother aware of your relationship with Dan?”

“So what if he was?” was Bonnie's belligerent retort.

“Was Frank putting the squeeze on Tacete?” Al asked her after another silent moment. “Dan was a married man, after all.”

“They had their own deal going,” Bonnie shot back. “I don't know what it was. And I don't care.” Then her chest started to heave with sobs again. “Look, maybe Frankie was involved in something shady; maybe he was squeezing Dan; maybe he even found out who nabbed him. Or … or Frankie knew all along. But he didn't kill Dan. He wouldn't have done that to me. Not ever.”

CHAPTER 34

The top floor of the Newcastle police station consisted of a long, dreary hallway that culminated in two large, facing rooms. The space to the east was the evidence room and was kept locked at all times. The space to the west was an employees' lounge. There was a television that seemed incapable of receiving anything but sporting events, a pool table, three couches in various states of decay, a collection of folding chairs, and an assortment of vending machines. It was not a place for quiet or confidential discussion. That type of activity was reserved for the eight smaller rooms that lined the sides of the corridor: four of which were connected by two-way mirrors and used for questioning detainees, and four of which were utilized as meeting areas. Each of these spaces was soundproof, and it was in one of them that Al Lever decided to have his tête-à-tête with Abe Jones and Herb Carlyle. Needless to say, he wasn't looking forward to it. If Carlyle and Rosco were water and oil, Carlyle and Jones were potentially a more combustible mix; and the present situation wasn't improved by the fact that Al had requested that Abe sit in on the O'Connell autopsy.

“So what have we got?” Lever asked as the two men joined him at the utilitarian, formica-topped table. The room had witnessed countless such interviews, and the table's surface bore the marks of every discussion: the nicks, the gouges, the charred marks of cigarettes left in overfull ashtrays. As if adhering to an unspoken tradition, Al lit up his own cigarette while simultaneously grabbing the empty but dirty glass ashtray from the table's center.

“Why don't you have
Doctor
Jones fill you in on the situation,” was Carlyle's acid response. “That's why he's here, right? To weigh in with his
expert
opinion? That's why you had him peering over my shoulder all the time I was examining O'Connell.”

Lever took a long, slow drag and leaned back in his chair. “You know what, Herb? This whole case has got me going in circles. And I'm not happy about it. So, I intend to use every thing, and every individual, at my disposal to get to the bottom of it. And to be honest with you, I don't care who likes it and who doesn't—from the mayor on down. Do we understand one another?”

Carlyle didn't reply. Instead, he removed a manila folder from his briefcase, plopped it showily on the table, then opened it, bringing his reading glasses up to the bridge of his nose. He glanced down briefly at the paperwork, then all but glared at Al. “Frank O'Connell didn't kill himself. He was murdered.”