Another Word for Murder (24 page)

“No. The car was just sitting there. It was empty.”

“Did you see anyone else in the area?”

“No.”

“Did you look all around the area?”

“A little bit … kind of … Yeah, I did.”

“Did you take anything else?”

“No. I swear, I didn't.”

“How about a blue gym bag? Did you see that anywhere?”

“No.”

“You're sure, Leo? Because someone had put money in it. A lot of money in it.”

“No! I didn't see any bag. I promise!”

Carol Moody's eyes widened in shock and dismay, and she drew in a sharp breath while Lever leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and sighed. “Did you tell your mother you found the car, Leo?”

“No, he did not,” was her immediate reply. She directed her considerable anger to both Al and Leo. “He told no one.”

“And why was that, son?” Al asked.

The boy didn't reply, so his mother answered for him. “I don't know, Lieutenant. He won't tell me anything. He won't even tell me why he failed to be the least bit honest about this. I just can't—”

Al held up his hand and gave Leo an impatient look. “A man was murdered. Do you understand that, son?”

The boy mumbled something inaudible that Lever took to be an affirmative response.

“Okay. I want some answers. I don't want to have to bring criminal charges here, Leo, but I need to know why you didn't report the Corvette the moment you found it.”

“Because!” The boy's face was full of defiance, but it was clear from the way his mouth was twisting up and down that he was holding back tears.

Lever glanced at the mother, then back to the son. “‘Because'? You're going to have to do better than that.”

“It was cool,” Leo blurted out as he began to cry in earnest. “I mean, it was mine. Nobody else knew about the Corvette. I was going to keep it hidden, and go back whenever I wanted…. Then, when I was sixteen, I could fix it up and I'd have my own car, and I'd be able to do whatever I wanted to. Nobody could tell me when to go to bed or anything. Not Mom or Pop. They couldn't tell me anything ever again. If I took the knob, I figured no one could sneak the car away from me. Plus, I could practice shifting.”

The two adults sat in silence for several moments while Leo sniffled and swiped surreptitiously at his cheeks. Eventually, his mother reached into her purse for a tissue, but Leo merely balled it up without using it. Then Al pulled a pad of paper and pen from a drawer and slid them across the desktop. “I think that's all for now, Mrs. Moody. If you could just write down your phone number and address for me? In case there's something I've forgotten to ask.”

“Certainly.”

Lever stood and walked around the desk, then he sat on the corner nearest Leo as his mother jotted down the information. “I want to thank you for having the courage to bring this shifter to me, son. You should be proud of yourself. This helps our investigation a great deal.” He extended his hand to Leo's mother and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Moody. If we need to, we'll be in touch.”

The moment they departed his office, Al lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He then crossed back behind his desk and dropped heavily into his chair. Ten seconds later his phone rang. “Yeah,” he said as he brought the receiver to his ear.

“Jones, here.”

“Yes, Abe, what is it?”

“Are you sitting down?”

“Just give it to me, Abe.”

“The Corvette we've got back here? The one Tacete died in? It's not the same one his wife drove to Gilbert's Groceries on Monday morning.”

Lever let out a small chuckle. “Great…. Tell me something I don't know.”

CHAPTER 29

When Lever emerged from the rear door of the police station and passed into the evidence lot, he immediately spotted Abe Jones, who was in a crouched position on the passenger's side of the burned-out Corvette. The vehicle rested under a clear plastic tent whose support structure had been fashioned from white PVC piping. At the moment, all four sides of this temporary shelter were open, and the clean white tubing and shiny plastic flaps combined with the cerulean blue of the afternoon sky to give the wreckage a bizarre air of festivity.

Jones, however, seemed unaware of the incongruous appearance of the ruined car; instead, he was intently studying an area behind the passenger's seat. In his right hand was a plastic-framed enlarging lens. Lever approached him from behind and said, “You're looking more like Sherlock Holmes every day.” The line was only partially delivered as a joke.

“Thank you, Watson.” Abe stood, removed his surgical gloves, and pointed to the Corvette. “This is a new twist.”

“I'll show you mine if you show me yours,” was Lever's dry response.

Abe crouched back down behind the passenger seat. “I didn't get this at first because the VIN on the dash…. ” He stopped himself and looked up at the detective. “VIN; that's the vehicle identification number—”

“Thank you sooo much, Doctor Jones,” Al interrupted sarcastically.

“Hey, first time I heard VIN, I thought the car salesman was offering me a glass of French wine to seal the deal.” Abe put on an over-the-top French accent. “
Un verre de vin blanc, s'il vous plaît.”

Lever raised an eyebrow but didn't otherwise reply.

“Anyway,” Jones continued, “The VIN under the windshield was melted by the fire. Obviously the perp counted on this occurring, and that's why he thought he could get away with switching cars. What he
didn't
realize was that all the build codes—as well as a repeat of the VIN—are laid out on the lid of the lock box behind the passenger's seat here.” He straightened. “The numbers don't match the ones on Tacete's registration card; i.e. this ain't his car. It doesn't even have the thirty-five thousand dollar LT-5 engine in it. We're running a computer check to find out the history on this junker.”

“Which means that whoever killed Tacete made off with his LT-5 and left this Corvette in its place…. Someone definitely planned this thing well in advance. And someone wanted that LT-5 in the bargain…. ” Lever remained silent for a long moment as he tried to assimilate the new facts; then he proceeded to describe his interview with Carol Moody and her son—at the conclusion of which he handed Leo's shifter to Jones, who dropped it into an evidence bag and sealed it.

“Forget about fingerprints. The kid's been playing with it for days,” Al said. “What else have you got?”

“Well, speaking of prints, I've been able to identify three distinct sets on the car. One was much smaller than the other two, so I was thinking a child. I'm guessing they belong to your young friend, Leo. I'll double-check with whatever's on the shift knob, but I'm sure that will prove to be the case. The other set I confirmed as Tacete's—meaning we've got one set of mystery prints.”

“Karen Tacete?”

“Nope. They're definitely male. Too big for Karen.”

“How about Frank O'Connell's?” It was Rosco who asked the question as he sidled up alongside them.

“I won't ask how you got back here without passing the duty desk, Poly—crates,” was Lever's wry reply. “I don't even want to know.”

Although he'd left the police department six years before, Rosco still held most of the keys and security codes to the entrances and gates—a situation his former partner assiduously ignored when in the public eye. “I've been warning you, Al—change your locks once in a while. Change your clearance codes. Homeowners do it. Shopkeepers do it. What works for the average citizen should work for the NPD.” Then Rosco pointed to the Corvette. “What's up with this baby, gents?”

After bringing Rosco up to speed on the switched cars and the discovery of the shift knob, Abe added, “We'll have to haul O'Connell in here and get his fingerprints. Although, given everything you two have told me about him, it's surprising that he's never been booked for anything. Never served in the military, either, so there's nothing on file.”

“Well, it's certainly beginning to look like he's long overdue to meet our overworked justice system,” Lever said. “Anything else, Abe?”

“The car was definitely torched. It didn't ignite accidentally, that's for sure. Someone doused it with gasoline and tossed a match on it, which fits nicely with what the Moody kid told you about finding it in advance of the blaze…. So, here's how I'm starting to put it together: The perp—or perps—plant this vehicle in the ravine … no telling when, but clearly before Tacete's disappearance. They pick up the LT-5 and the twenty-five grand at Gilbert's on Monday, then drive out to East Farm Lane that night with the doc. Maybe they tell him his wife paid up, and they're going to release him. Maybe they've got him so stoned he doesn't know what's happening…. Then our bad guys bash in Tacete's head with something—probably a baseball bat—and stick him in the 'Vette and torch it.”

“So obviously Carlyle was wrong about his head hitting the windshield frame as the cause of death,” Al said quietly. It was a statement, not a question.

“If Leo's story holds water, and it sounds like it does, I'd say Carlyle's theory was definitely off the mark.”

Lever lit a cigarette. “Not to sound like Poly—crates here, but should we go back and review Carlyle's work? I know you said that his report looked solid, Abe, but history isn't on our M.E.'s side, and experience tells me that he could have overlooked something. What I'm getting at is this: Is it possible that Tacete might have been killed well
before
he was placed in the car? Because if he was killed back on Saturday, say, then the ‘accident' was staged to cover up his death.”

“Meaning that the entire deal was an elaborate and premeditated murder,” Rosco added, “making the kidnapping nothing but smoke and mirrors…. That was the same conclusion Belle and I were starting to consider after our visit with Karen.”

“Well, don't forget that the perp now has a LT-5 Corvette worth over a hundred grand,” Al said.

“But traceable,” Rosco tossed in with a shrug.

Lever chuckled, although the sound was grim. “Right, just like the twenty-some BMWs and Benzes pinched from Porto Ristorante that you and Robbery have had so much luck in locating.”

Abe smiled briefly and crossed over to a small folding table, where he flipped through a clipboard full of paperwork. “Okay … here.” He pointed to a page of scribbled notes that only he could read. “Tacete's wife said she heard his voice on the phone on Sunday, which kind of shoots your theory that he died on Saturday.” Jones looked at Lever, who replied with a pensive: “Remember that she could be lying about that call, though, Abe. Both of them, in fact. And if Poly—crates is right about smoke and mirrors …?” Al didn't conclude his theory. Instead, he released a weighty breath.

“Okay. That's true. So, let's take Karen Tacete's, nee Johnson's,
alleged
phone contacts out of the equation and go back to the facts we have. At this point, there's no telling how long this 'Vette was down in the ravine. Just because Leo found it on Sunday doesn't mean it hadn't been there for weeks. But, what we do know is this: It was there
before
Tacete died. So two points hold true: Our bad guy—or gal—planned to kill the good doctor from the git-go; and the LT-5 is still out there somewhere.”

Al moved away from the evidence site to crush out his cigarette. When he returned he stared at the burnt vehicle and shook his head in confusion. “Well, that LT-5 isn't an inconspicuous automobile, so I doubt if our perp will be driving it around Newcastle any time soon. And to be frank—”

Lever was interrupted by the ringing of Rosco's cell phone. “Sorry,” Rosco said as he scanned the caller ID, “I should take this. It's one of the guys who had his BMW pinched at Porto Ristorante.”

He walked to a far corner of the lot and tapped a button on the phone. “Yes, Mr. Gronski, what can I do for you?”

Gronski's voice crackled with the poor connection. “Yeah, listen, Polycrates, G.A.I. just paid off on my Beamer. Hundred percent. I'm a happy camper.”

“That's nice, Mr. Gronski, I'm happy to hear it.”

“Yeah, call me Phil.”

“Sure, Phil. So, what exactly can I do for you?”

“Nothin'. I was just calling to, you know, kinda apologize. I was a little rough on ya, you know; I mean, I was sore because someone had nicked my car, that's all. I don't like to leave loose ends. You were only doin' your job.”

Rosco glanced back at Al and Abe, who continued to study the Corvette. “We're still trying to solve this Porto thing, Phil. The insurers would like to recover—”

“Hey, I don't want that car back, I'm getting a new one. Next week, maybe. I got my money. I don't want no car after some joker's been driving around the world in it. Usin' the ashtray and whatnot.”

“But don't you want to see these guys caught? Keep them from doing it again?”

There was a long pause as Gronski thought this over. Finally he admitted a begrudging “Yeah, I guess …”

Rosco glanced at his watch. “How about I buy you a cup of coffee and we talk about this in a little more detail? Can you meet me in half an hour?”

“I don't know …”

“Come on, be a sport about this; help out the next guy.”

Gronski took a long moment, but eventually said, “Okay, where?” He sighed in resignation as he spoke.

“There's a burger joint over on Clawson Street. Actually it's not that far from Porto. I can be there in thirty minutes.”

“Sure, why not?”

“You can't miss it. It's right next to that big wholesale vegetable distribution center…. And there's an autobody shop across the street called Sonny's.”