Another Word for Murder (26 page)

“Hah. Wouldn't you like to know?!”

“You're kidding!” Belle said after Rosco had finished describing the scene at Sonny's Autobody, as well as Al and Abe's discovery of the exchanged Corvettes. “Wow! That's a lot of suspicious vehicles turning up in a single day…. ” She bounced up and down in the passenger seat of his leased car; although it was excessive energy that made her body jounce around rather than an uneven stretch of Route 24. “So Sonny's a big-time crook…. ”

“It would appear so.”

“Wow,” Belle repeated in an awed voice. “I wonder if his mom had any clue.”

“Aren't mothers supposed to be the last to know?” Rosco asked with a small smile. “Although, in this case I have a feeling she's up to her ears in it, too. ‘Like mother, like son?' Doesn't have the same ring, does it?”

But Belle didn't share his amused approach. Instead, she shook her head gravely. “What if Sonny's involved in this Corvette situation, too? I mean, Frank had to get the replacement model somewhere, right?
And
, someone has to fence the high-end job.”

“We'll work out that connection later. Right now, Sonny's got a lot to answer for in the Porto case. Although I've got to say that it would be pretty darn weird if he'd gotten his mitts on both Corvettes
as well
as the Explorer.”

“But he was trying to sell
you
the Explorer, Rosco—”

“That he was.”

“And not the Corvette.”

“No … I would have bought that one … and kept my mouth shut,” he added facetiously.

“And where would Kit and Gabby ride, I might ask?”

Rosco reached across and placed a loving hand on Belle's thigh. “You have a lap, don't you?”

“Wow …” Belle echoed for a third time, bringing her mind back to the case. “So Sonny's just a latter-day Jeremy Diddler.”

“Who?”

“It's a character from an early nineteenth-century farce. The name's come to be synonymous with a bamboozler or doubledealer.”

“Not to me, it hasn't.”

“Well, now you know, Rosco. A diddler is a flimflammer, a cozener, a chiseler—”

“How about a plain old felon?”

Belle laughed. “Have it your own way, Mr. Private Eye.” Then she settled in to tell her own story; as she did so, her body shifted in the seat until she was turned toward Rosco, making her appear to have forgotten she was riding in a car rather than sitting in a comfortably upholstered chair. “Remember Karen telling us that Dan was supposed to get home early last Thursday? That he'd promised to join her on their afternoon trip to the dog park? She was going to make him a special lunch and then they'd have the rest of the day together.”

Rosco nodded, but didn't otherwise respond.

“And then Karen and Lily waited and waited for him to return, and Lily went missing—?”

Again, Rosco nodded but didn't speak.

“Well, what I want to know is, what was he doing purchasing gas in the Boston area”—Belle glanced at a notebook she had open on her lap—“at two twenty-seven in the afternoon, according to the credit card company, when he was
supposed
to be with his wife and little girl? And how come he put another six dollars in the tank at eleven seventeen the same night back in Newcastle—
after
his wife had already reported him missing? And six measly dollars of gas? That's nothing for an SUV. It barely gets you down to the corner.”

Rosco shook his head. “I don't know.” Then he added a thoughtful, “Could it be that Dan was nabbed at noon or a little earlier as he was preparing to drive home from Smile!, and that it was the
kidnapper
who was using his credit card? And also driving by Explorer at that point?”

“But why would this person—or persons—go all the way up to Boston, and then come back again?”

“Maybe they needed to meet someone up north,” Rosco offered. “Maybe they stashed Dan in a safe house up there and came back to Newcastle without him.”

“I don't know, Rosco. It seems like a really sloppy way to handle things. Wouldn't this person be aware that there might well be two photos on two different security cameras? Plus there's the attendant, right?”

“Do you happen to know the location of the security camera that covers the ATM across the street from Lawson's?”

“Ahh … no.”

“See? People don't pay attention to that kind of thing anymore. We've become inured to it. It's
1984
, and Big Brother's just part of our lives.”

Belle frowned and tilted her head. “You're right…. Maybe … although I still think something weird's going on.”

“Homicide and switched luxury sport cars aren't enough to worry about?”

Belle looked through the windshield and distractedly touched the dashboard. “Cars …” she murmured, “we keep coming back to them, don't we? Karen's insurance … Frank peddling a vehicle registered in her maiden name …” Belle sighed and turned back to face her husband. “So, is Al leaning toward Karen as a suspect?”

“All I know is that he's as disturbed about those unrecorded phone calls as we are. ‘Alleged contacts' is how Abe put it. And you know Al; he doesn't count anyone out until he has a confession.”

Belle didn't speak for another moment. “She'd have to have a partner to pull off something like this, wouldn't she?”

“I assume so.”

“Then who is it?”

“That the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

They drove on in silence for several more minutes. “Are you hungry?” Rosco asked as a highway signboard came into view. It advertised dining and lodging—discreetly, of course. This was coastal Massachusetts, after all. Giant billboards in neon colors were relegated to less tradition-bound regions of the country.

“Rosco … jeez … How could I be hungry?” Belle cocked her head to one side, her expression perplexed.

“Because it's getting dark? Because it's close to eight o'clock? Because generally people have an evening meal before Letterman comes on TV.”

“Not when they're on the trail of a cold-blooded killer!”

“Mmmm … You've got a point—which explains why most homicide detectives I've encountered are so scrawny and undernourished,” he said sarcastically. “Oh, wait! There's Big Al, who's probably tucking into a nice juicy steak right about now. Or maybe he's already polishing off his meal with a caramel-fudge sundae…. Anyway, I thought you suggested ‘grabbing a bite on the way.'”

“We can do it on the way
back
. After we have a chance to talk to the attendant or at least scrutinize the first security camera video.”

“We should have just gone to the gas station in Newcastle first. We could have zipped down there in ten minutes, max, had supper at home, and then driven to Beantown in the morning. If you didn't drive me to distraction so easily, I would have thought this out better.”

“We need to view the videos in order, Rosco. You know that. If your stomach weren't growling at you, you'd have made the same assessment. In fact, you would have been the one to inform
me
of the routine.”

“Well, ignore me if I starve to death first. Grab the wheel if I look as if I'm about to black out.”

“You can't,” was Belle's breezy reply. “I forgot my driver's license, and you have to get us both home.”

“Don't ever say compassion isn't your strong suit.”

“Anyway, it's good to be hungry once in a while. It gives us an edge and makes our thought processes fire faster.”

“I believe that applies to four-footed predators rather than humans, Belle.”

“Well, everyone knows we can learn a great deal from animals.”

“And if you think about it, the only reason their thought processes are firing faster is because they're looking for something to eat.”

The Petro-land gas station attendant who had filled up the Explorer the previous Thursday had left for the day, and the video taken from the security camera was grainy, but the figure leaning against the car's front fender was easy to distinguish: a tall man in what appeared to be grubby jeans and a stained T-shirt. He wore a baseball cap. Through the snap-back protruded a greasy-looking ponytail, and although his face was somewhat blurred and shadowed, it was obvious he sported a mustache that looked as unkempt as he.

“I'd say we've got ourselves a photo of Frank O'Connell,” Rosco said.

“I'd say you were right on target, my love.”

“Does that mean I get my supper now?”

Belle beamed. “When have I ever denied you sustenance?”

With the videotaped image of Frank O'Connell watching the attendant pump gas into Dan Tacete's Explorer seared into their brains, Belle and Rosco left Petro-land and went in search of food. The area immediately surrounding the service station boasted a truck-leasing business, a muffler shop, an autobody shop, a tire warehouse, and a specialist in auto glass replacement—none of which were open at nine twenty at night. Nowhere in the space of two blocks was there any indication of a place that offered meals.

“This is bleak,” Belle said.

“Not if you're a car,” Rosco answered.

They drove back toward the interstate and finally found a fast-food restaurant where they wolfed down two burgers each and fries, every particle of which tasted like salt-covered cardboard. “I gather this food's supposed to be in the nutritional family,” Belle said, although her tone was hesitant.

“It's a family of something,” Rosco remarked. “But I think it might be more closely related to cellulose, or possibly birch bark.”

Then they returned to Newcastle, where it took some wrangling for Rosco to convince the security guard of the local Petro-land to play back the video detailing a six-dollar purchase by a man driving a Ford Explorer the previous Thursday at eleven seventeen
P.M
.

Again, it appeared to be an image of Frank O'Connell. And again he leaned against the front fender, watching as less than three gallons of gas were pumped into the car by the attendant. But the difference between the two video representations of man and machine was striking, because by the time the white Ford Explorer had reached Newcastle it was no longer white; it was red.

“So that's why Frank went to Boston,” Belle said in a stunned whisper. “He was getting the car painted—out of town. It must have been at that body shop across from the first gas station. Maybe he's not so dumb after all.”

CHAPTER 32

By the time Rosco arrived at the apartment building at nine thirty the next morning, yellow crime scene tape had been stretched from the railing of the wooden porch down to the sidewalk and across the property's narrow front yard. A uniformed police officer stood before the ribbon barrier; he was smoking a cigarette and bending slightly to listen to a stooped and elderly woman who, despite her fragile appearance, seemed determinedly inquisitive. Even at a distance, it was clear to Rosco that she was in a talkative vein—permitting the officer only a few brief nods of response to her running commentary.

The remainder of the block was dotted with the usual curiosity seekers who had gathered in groups of three or four around the medical examiner's van and the various marked and unmarked police cars that lined both sides of the street. It was an unusually large crowd for a weekday, and the message etched on every face, and marked by every tenuous stance, was clear: Something horrible had happened. Something horrible right here in the neighborhood.

As Rosco threaded his way through the onlookers, he overheard the elderly woman repeat a plaintive, “But he seemed like such a nice young man, officer…. I simply can't believe he'd do something awful like killing himself. Of course, you detectives and so forth know far more about such things than old-timers like me. Still, it doesn't seem right, does it? Not someone
his
age. If he'd been infirm like me with my chronic back and bowel problems, well, I could understand. You have to be tough to endure the health issues I've been facing all these years. Why, just last week, my rheumatologist, my new one, told me it was a miracle I—”

The officer caught sight of Rosco and began to loosen a knot in the crime tape. He seemed immensely relieved to have someone other than his current companion to talk to. “How ya been, Rosco? Long time, no see. Lever's inside…. Said you'd be stopping by.”

Rosco slid through the space in the tape as the woman turned to gawk at him. She seemed about to speak; instead, she scowled, knitting her brows together in a dark and unforgiving line. “Thanks, Will…. How's Will Junior these days?” Rosco said.

“Pitched a two-hitter at the Little League opener last weekend.”

“Must have the old man's arm.”

Will grinned. “No doubt about it.” He would have continued the conversation—as would the old lady at his side—but Rosco cut them both short with an affable “You tell him hi from me and to keep up the good work. Who knows? Maybe a scout from the Sox will be knocking on your door one day.”

“I'll tell him. It'll make his day.” Will's erstwhile companion said nothing, but Rosco nodded to her pleasantly anyway.

After that, he proceeded up the concrete walkway, where he passed two more officers and stepped inside the house. There, he climbed the stairway and walked to the rear of the building.

When Rosco entered Frank O'Connell's apartment he was glad to see that the body was no longer in the position Al had described over the phone: hanging from the overhead light fixture of the dingy one-room studio. Carlyle had taken down the corpse, but had yet to cover it with the sheet that was folded beside his medical bag. The skin on Frank's face and hands was a waxy gray color, and his eyes were open. His lips were a mottled blue. His red hair was now cut short; there was no sign of the ponytail or mustache that Rosco and Belle had seen in the service station videos, but his clothes appeared just as unkempt. In fact, the only thing that looked tidy was the mark above his upper lip where the mustache had been shaved off. Judging by the variance in skin tones, it was clear that the dead man had rid himself of his facial hair shortly before he died.