Another Word for Murder (32 page)

He laughed and then said, “No, I'm not buying it because I don't see a
reason
behind the crimes.”

As the couple stood there talking, a larger wave than the others crashed behind them and sent a pool of water speeding up the beach. In a moment, their bare feet felt the shock of cold, May water; a second later, Belle's picture was wiped away.

“A clean slate,” Rosco observed with a half-smile. “So … do we start all over from the beginning?”

Belle gazed at her husband. “A clean slate. Maybe, that's exactly what Dan wanted—a perfectly clean slate.”

CHAPTER 37

“I gotta tell you, Poly—crates, this is not the kind of thing that will improve your endearment-rating with our buddy, Herb Caryle…. ” Al Lever's voice rumbled out of the speaker-phone in Belle's home office. Despite the hardboiled-detective act, it was abundantly clear he was relishing the fact that the mayor's brother had dropped the ball yet another time. In proof of which, Al permitted himself a self-satisfied chuckle while Belle and Rosco exchanged a knowing glance. Perched atop the desk, she leaned closer to Al's disembodied voice while Rosco hunched forward in his chair to better hear the words. “Coward that I am, Poly—crates, I sent Jones down to check up on Carlyle's Tacete file. I was in no mood to confront Mr. Personality first thing in the morning…. Anyway, it seems your lovely lady just might be on to something.”

“Meaning?” Husband and wife demanded in unison. After explaining Belle's theory to Lever the previous evening, the couple had spent a restless night awaiting Jones return to the NPD and his positive confirmation—or lack thereof—of Carlyle's autopsy report on Dan Tacete. It was now ten
A.M
., and sleep deprivation, coffee, and only a cursory nod at nourishment had made the pair jittery and apprehensive—Belle, especially. “Meaning what, Al?” she repeated.

“Arrgh …” Lever replied with another chortle, “You have me on the speaker phone? I can't believe it. This completely shatters the image I've always had of you two; cozying up the telephone receiver, ear-to-ear, listening to your incoming calls as though you had Krazy Glue stuck to the sides of your heads.”

“Get to the point, Al. Please.” Belle released a sigh that indicated eagerness rather than indignation.

“The
point
, Miss Impatient,” Lever continued, “is that your supposedly harebrained notion may very well be correct. Ostensibly, the quickest method of corpse identification is through dental records, especially when the remains are charred beyond recognition. So when Carlyle made the match, he never looked further. And in Herb's defense, there's no listing of blood type on many dental records, so he assumed Tacete was type A—same as the corpse. If our favorite dentist hadn't had an emergency appendectomy a year and a half ago, no one would've been the wiser.”

Belle and Rosco could hear Al strike a match and inhale on his cigarette. Belle half expected smoke to begin drifting through the phone. “So the blood types don't match?” she asked. Her voice quivered.

“Nope. They sure don't. Tacete's a type O. The body in the Corvette was type A.”

“And Rob Rossi?” Rosco said. “Do we know his blood type is yet?”

“Oh, yeah, that was all with his military records. He's A, as well.”

“I was right,” Belle murmured, and then her spine unexpectedly bent as though a heavy weight had been thrust upon her shoulders. She'd expected that confirmation of her hunch would please her, but it only produced a wave of sadness.

“I'd say the chances are ninety-nine percent that you're on the money,” was Al's response. And considering the fact that we have Rossi's fingerprints all over the 'Vette, and that no one has seen him since well before the accident … Who else's body could be sitting in the morgue? I'm having Abe run the DNA tests now for a positive confirmation, but that almost seems a moot point.”

“I take it you've already notified the federal agencies?” Rosco asked, although he knew exactly what his ex-partner's response would be.

“Absolutely. I'm not waiting around for any DNA tests, that's for sure. One thing is certain: If Tacete's alive, and it sure looks like he is, then he's gonna do his best to get the heck out of the country. The Feds have transmitted his photo to every airport and Canadian border crossing in New England. If he's still in America, he's staying in America.”

“Belle and I also discussed the fact that it may have been Tacete who took the Explorer to Sonny's Autobody, as well as tanking up at those two gas stations and getting the vehicle repainted in Boston—which means he was successfully impersonating O'Connell by wearing a wig and coloring his mustache.”

“I imagine he's already tossed that disguise Poly—crates, but you're right, he may be sporting another. I'll pass the info along.”

They said their goodbyes, and Belle tapped the button to disconnect the call. Then she looked at her husband. “This all seemed so … I don't know … otherworldly and unreal as a theory…. But here it is, and instead of feeling vindicated and proud, I simply feel sick.”

Rosco stood and walked behind his wife, placing his hands on her shoulders and rubbing them. “I know what you mean…. The idea that Dan was so premeditated … finding someone his own weight and build—Rob Rossi; luring him into his office, growing a mustache, switching the dental records, all the while knowing full well that he was going to murder the poor schlub…. And then setting O'Connell up as the ineffectual kidnapper; and again, knowing Frank was going to die…. It takes a special kind of brain to maintain that level of emotional disconnect.”

“Not to mention the effects on his wife and step-daughter. At best, he realized he'd leave them with the memory of a kidnapping and fiery death; at the worst …” Belle's words trailed off; her head bent in empathy.

Rosco had no answer; instead, he massaged his wife's weary muscles.

“Do you think Dan had help?” Belle asked at last. “I mean, did he do this by himself, or could Bonnie have acted as an accomplice?”

“I can't believe she'd set up her own brother to be murdered.”

Belle thought for a long moment. “I'd like to agree with you, but the fact is that some siblings loathe one another. Fratricide is a word of Latin origin. And let's not forget Cain and Abel.” Belle grew silent again, then, at length, added a resigned “I'm guessing—just
guessing
, mind you—that Bonnie may be in on the crime, and that she's planning to hang around Newcastle for another few months and then hook up with Dan somewhere out of the country.”

“If that's the case … she gave us one heck of a performance yesterday.”

Belle's head jerked up. She stared hard at her husband. “Yesterday, we were accusing Frank of killing
Dan
… which Bonnie was denying up and down. She didn't have to pretend because Frank
didn't
kill Dan.”

“I don't know, Belle…. That's an awfully messy picture you're painting; and Dan planned this thing too carefully to leave behind a flake like Bonnie—and then trust to heaven that she was going to keep her mouth shut about the entire thing. That's a dangerous loose end to leave dangling.”

“
Tacete …”
Belle murmured, giving the word a proper Italian accent, and then offering up its translation, “Shut your mouth…. ” She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them. When she did, their gray color had darkened with resolve. “He's killed two people, already. Why not a third?”

Rosco folded his arms across his chest. “Bonnie?”

“If she helped him carry off this scheme, he doesn't really have a choice, does he?”

Rosco and Belle drove directly to Smile!, where they learned that Bonnie had called in sick first thing that morning. It was now ten to eleven; time seemed to be conspiring against them. “Maybe she's already flown the coop,” Belle said after the couple had returned to their car and begun driving toward Bonnie's apartment complex. “Maybe our interrogation yesterday sent her running to Dan; maybe he's—” Belle bit off her words, reflexively gripping the door handle.

“Don't do this to yourself,” was Rosco's quiet reply. “You're not responsible for Bonnie's actions—or for Dan's. Besides, if the theory you've been spinning out is correct, then Bonnie's an accessory to murder. Two murders, in fact.”

“Nobody deserves to be killed in cold blood,” Belle observed in a hollow tone.

“I take it you're not referring to Rob and Frank?”

She sighed but made no further answer, and they continued on in silence until they pulled up in front of Bonnie's home. As luck would have it, Bonnie was just emerging from her front door with Carlos Quintero. “Well, at least we're not too late,” Belle said as she threw open the car door.

“Assuming we're looking at the real Carlos and not Dan in disguise,” Rosco tossed in, but there was nothing amused in the sound of his words.

As Belle and Rosco approached the pair, Carlos stepped in front of Bonnie. He'd assumed full bodyguard pose: arms straight, palms out as if preparing for a shoving match, knees bent, feet firmly planted.

“Bonnie told me all about you, doll. You weren't looking for any waitress job, and your hubby here is a PI. Bonnie, ain't answering any more of your questions, so you'd better just clear out. Go back where you came from. Both of you.”

It was Rosco who responded. “There have been two homicides in Newcastle county during the past week, Quintero. Either one carries with it a life sentence. If you're involved, then your behavior here is probably justified. However, if you're not involved, and you choose to interfere with any conversation with Ms. O'Connell, then you're in danger of becoming accessory to the fact and being charged with obstruction of justice.”

Before Carlos could answer, Bonnie pushed her way forward. “What do you mean,
two
murders?” Her voice was raspy and frightened.

“Your brother didn't commit suicide, Bonnie,” Belle said in a level tone, “he was murdered and—”

But before the sentence could be completed, Bonnie had fainted. Carlos caught her upper body in his arms, and then he lowered her slowly onto the concrete sidewalk, where he began fanning her face. Her skin was bluish-white and covered with a sheen of perspiration. There was no faking her physical distress.

“What do you mean Frank was murdered?” Carlos asked in utter confusion, “Bonnie said he hung himself.”

Rosco handed Carlos his jacket. “Here. Put that under her head, and get her legs in the air. Sit down by her feet, and put them in your lap.” Rosco dropped down onto one knee and checked Bonnie's pulse. Belle moved to the other side of the prone woman so that she would cast a shadow over her face. Rosco added a businesslike, “The autopsy concluded that Frank was first strangled and then hung in his apartment. The killer's intention was to make the death look like a suicide.”

Bonnie's eyes flickered as she slowly regained consciousness. She gazed up at Rosco, Belle, and Carlos, and then closed her eyes again as if hoping the bad dream would disappear.

“Did you hear me telling you what happened to Frank?” Belle asked her.

Bonnie nodded, but instead of responding with speech, she began to cry. Abundant tears flowed from her cheeks into the red hair spread upon the pavement.

“You know who killed your brother, don't you?” Belle continued.

Bonnie opened her eyes and stared straight up into the sky. She made no other movement.

“And you know about Rob, too?” Belle prodded.

“Rob?” Bonnie echoed. She stared at Belle.

“That it was
his
body found in the Corvette.”

“No … it was … Dan …” Bonnie began struggling into a sitting position. “It was my Dan…. ”

Above Bonnie's head, Belle and Rosco looked at each other.

“You're certain of that?” Rosco asked.

“That's what the police told me.” Bonnie's eyes searched first Belle's face and then Rosco's. “And that lieutenant friend of yours—”

“Bon, you know you shouldn't be talking to these people here without a lawyer present,” Carlos interrupted, but she was having none of his advice.

“Shut up, Carlos! I haven't done anything wrong!” She turned back to Belle. “You said someone killed my brother.”

“And we think you know who it was,” Rosco replied.

Bonnie looked at Carlos. “How could I …? I don't know all the lowlifes Frankie used to hang out with…. He was into a lot of dumb things. I already told you people that…. ” Again her words faltered. Then she gasped.

“It … was … Dan, wasn't it?” she mumbled at length. “He's not dead…. He … he … he set all this up, didn't he?” Her eyes jumped toward Belle, then as rapidly fell away. “That note …” she whispered, “I knew that note couldn't be Frankie's. It wasn't his language … it was Dan's. It was
Dan
saying goodbye to
me
…. He knew the letter would end up in my hands. He knew I'd be the one reading it over and over. And he must have done those puzzles, too, because Frankie—” Bonnie's words halted abruptly; she sat fully erect, hugging her knees to her chest and lowering her head until her face was nearly hidden. Her shoulders shook with grief.

“The police believe you helped plan this,” Rosco lied as he rose to his feet. “That you and Tacete—and your brother—arranged to drug and murder Rossi—”

“Hey … hey!” Carlos piped in. “You gotta read the lady her rights. She's allowed to have a lawyer present if—”

But Bonnie overrode him. “What you're saying would mean that I let Dan kill my brother! Why would I do that? Why would I do anything as horrible as that?”

“That's right,” Carlos insisted. “Bonnie wouldn't ever have—”