Another Word for Murder (4 page)

18.  “—killed Cock Robin?”

22.  Haw's partner

24.  ——lite

25.  Grasshopper & ant eliminator; abbr.

26.  Waterloo warrior

27.  Flowers-by-phone folks; abbr.

28.  MS——

29.  NYSE offerings

30.  ACLU & NRA

33.  Mr. Torme

34.  Dune buggy; abbr.

35.  Skating surface

36.  Mauser mufflers

37.  Like a beanstalk

38.  Nosegay item

41.  Parrot's nose

43.  Arabian marketplace

44.  Presidential nickname

45.  Monopoly purchase; abbr.

46.  The big——wolf

47.  Pound sound

49.  Stern or Hayes

50.  Sunset——

51.  Numbers game

52.  Globe base?

53.  Large bays

54.  In the past

58.  Amend

59.  Salinger character

61.  One-third of a Beach Boys hit

62.  Function

63.  ——Angelico

64.  Marry

65.  Nice summer

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CHAPTER 5

Smile!, the dental practice owned by Jack Wagner and Dan Tacete, sat squarely in the section of Newcastle that was viewed as the city's most up-and-coming neighborhood. Once-abandoned Victorian-era brownstones were being rehabbed into condominium apartments, art galleries, and boutiques, which meant that passersby peering through the buildings' first-floor windows were more likely to spot a wall-sized canvas or a minimalistic display of trendy Italian jackets than the suite of cherrywood furniture displayed during an earlier era—or the rubble and decay of ten years past.

In the case of Smile!, the view was of a well-appointed waiting area: black leather Eames chairs, attractive side tables, and standing lamps that looked as though they belonged in an exclusive country club rather than an office. The examination rooms were at the building's rear, so that entering Smile! it almost seemed as if the patient had made an error and wandered into an appointments-only gallery. Except for the smell, of course. No amount of potpourri and flowering plants could successfully eradicate the scent of mouth-wash, paste tooth polish, and alcohol, or the nose-tickling aroma of local anesthetic. And nothing could disguise the persistent buzz of the high-speed drill.

On this day, the contrast between the comforting facade and the potentially painful truth was also reflected in a conversation between the practice's two partners. Facing each other over the inlaid wood of the reception desk, the two men all but glowered at one another. It was fortunate the desk lay between them; acting as an inanimate referee.

“Let's talk about this later, why don't we, Jack? Rob is my last appointment for the day, so I suggest we—”

“I'd like to discuss the matter with you
now
, if you don't mind.” Wagner's lips attempted a polite and toothy smile, although his eyes did not. “The hours you spend here are getting harder and harder to predict. It's no way to run a business; and if I'm left to pick up the slack, as I was this morning, it's detrimental to the practice. When patients expect to see you, they're disappointed if I do the work and vice-versa. It has nothing to do with expertise or ability; it has to do with comfort levels. And if patients aren't encouraged to feel relaxed and safe, they will go elsewhere. I've seen it happen.”

Dan glanced at Bonnie, the receptionist, as if seeking her support, but she lowered her eyes and pretended to study the list of that Wednesday's appointments. “As soon as Rob and I are done, I'm all yours, Jack. And I'm sorry if I was late getting in today—”

“And early leaving yesterday—”

“Yesterday was my scheduled afternoon at the Bay Clinic, which is something I cleared with you two years ago when we first established our—”

“Mrs. Harris called; she had an emergency. You're her doctor, not me. You need to be available, and you need to keep your cell phone turned on. Mrs. Harris was not happy.”

Dan turned away and looked toward a patient who was sitting in one of the Eames chairs holding a copy of
Moderne
magazine. “All set to undergo some more torture, sport?” The tone was intended as a friendly one, but it had a definite bite.

“Hey, I can wait a couple of extra minutes, Doctor D,” was the easy reply. Although he was more or less Tacete's height, Rob Rossi had a loose and rubbery manner, as if his bones had been jumbled together rather than stacked in an orderly fashion. Sitting in his chair with this casual and haphazard posture, he appeared shorter than he was—as well as a good deal younger and more boyishly earnest. “I don't have to show up for work till late. You guys take care of all the business you want to. I'll scan the mags or shoot the breeze with Miss Bonnie here.”

“Good. Thank you.” It was Wagner who responded. The words were cold. He put his hand on Dan's elbow and steered him through the doors that led to the examination rooms and offices. Despite the fact that Dan was the taller and probably the stronger of the two, he submitted to what appeared to be a command.

Once the partners had disappeared, Rob tossed
Moderne
onto a low glass-topped table and stood, stretched, then sauntered over to Bonnie. “What's up with Mr. Stuffed-Shirt, anyway?”

“You mean Doctor Wagner?”

“I sure as hell don't mean Doctor Dan.”

Bonnie's eyes returned to the desk's surface. She didn't speak.

“I hope Wagner doesn't treat a kid like you the same way he treats his partner.”

“I'm not a kid.” Bonnie sat straighter, her jaw jutting high. Her curly red hair seemed to bristle, giving her a schoolgirl's defiant aura—which was belied by the soft and voluptuous figure of a young woman in her prime.

“Which is kinda obvious.” Rossi grinned, draping himself over the desk as though he were leaning across a chummy bar—a position he knew something about since he was a mixologist at one of Newcastle's more notorious watering holes, The Black Sheep Tavern. “How come you never stop by the Sheep for a drink? Your brother does. Quite a bit, in fact.”

Bonnie made no answer.

“Not your brother's keeper, huh?”

“No, I'm not.”

“Uh oh, that's a frosty tone if I ever heard one. And, believe me, I know from ladies with ice cubes where their hearts should be.” Rob leaned closer. “Hey, you don't want to hang out where Frank does, fine by me, but you and me could, you know—”

But Rossi's suggestion was interrupted by the increasing volume of the arguing partners. Despite the closed door leading to the rear cubicles and the obvious solidity of the building, the sound carried clearly into the waiting area.

“He has as much right to be here as anyone else, Jack—”

“Look, I'm not saying I want to stifle your generous impulses—”

“Oh no—?”

“But this kind of work could easily be done after regular office hours when our other patients aren't—”

“You mean, sneak them in at night like vampires—?”

“That's not what I'm—”

“Since they're clearly blood-sucking individuals who depend on society for help—”

“Come off it, Dan. I've never—”

“You come off it, Jack! Every time I need to bring one of my quote ‘freebie' patients in here, you—”

“What I'm saying is, we've built up a solid practice in a comparatively short amount of time. We've got the elite of the city. They don't want to rub shoulders with—”

“With folks like Rob Rossi who opens beers and pours shots for a living? What, you don't think members of our ‘elite' clientele don't hoist a few now and then?”

“That's not the point, and you know it. Maybe you could just suggest that these people try to adopt a certain dress code. How about slacks and shoes as opposed to torn jeans and sneakers?”

“‘These people'? What does that mean?”

There was a thud that sounded like a hand banging hard upon an equally unforgiving surface. Bonnie rose from her desk and walked swiftly through the door leading to the back. Rossi couldn't hear her words, but whatever she was saying had the effect of silencing her two bosses.

When she returned she graced Rob with a bland and professional smile. “Doctor Tacete will be ready for you in just a moment, Mr. Rossi.”

“You're some tough chick, Bonnie.”

The receptionist resumed her seat, but made no reply.

“Remind me not to get into a fight with you,” he added. “Hell, I should warn Frank to mind his P's and Q's. He grew up with you, though, so I guess he should know. Maybe he's the one should be warning me?”

“My brother does just fine without anyone's help.”

Rob offered no response, and Bonnie's face suddenly crumpled into a troubled frown.

“Hey, he's a good guy, Bonnie. He'll straighten himself out. I know guys a lot worse off than Frankie, that's for darn sure.”

A light on the receptionist's phone flashed. “Doctor Tacete will see you now, Mr. Rossi.”

CHAPTER 6

When Bonnie O'Connell left the offices of Smile! at six fifteen that evening she actually gave Rob Rossi's invitation to stop by the Black Sheep some serious thought. Her workday had been filled with tension, and a frozen margarita was beginning to look like just the ticket. It had all started with Dr. Tacete's late arrival that morning and his insistence that he'd been trying to lose a car that was tailing him. Things like that didn't happen in Newcastle, and his tardiness had contributed greatly to the annoyance not only of Mrs. Harris but also of old Mrs. Whitehead—who, naturally, took out her considerable ire on the receptionist.

“Young lady, I always take Doctor Tacete's first appointment because I do not expect to be kept waiting. I'm punctual; I expect others to be punctual, as well.” Bonnie could still hear the woman's ancient, Bourbon-and-cigarette scoured voice ringing in her ears.

The day had deteriorated from that point on, ending with the doctors going at each other's throats like a couple of wild dogs. It had seemed clear that after two years of building up a strong and lucrative practice, Dan Tacete and Jack Wagner had grown to despise one another, and the chill, Bonnie knew, even extended itself to their wives. She guessed that it was only a matter of time before the men ended their relationship altogether; and the fear of losing her job, and the resulting lifestyle she'd been able to establish, only fueled her anxiety.

So she drove directly to The Black Sheep Tavern from work. Rob Rossi wasn't a bad-looking guy; and even though she was presently
involved
with someone, she was beginning to realize that the liaison had all the markings of a dead end. The time to move on could not be far away, so why wait for the ax to fall?

As she turned off Third Street and angled her car up Hamilton she could see the Black Sheep's weather-beaten sign swinging slightly in the breeze. Although the bar had no lot, street parking was readily available as this part of Newcastle hadn't yet caught the gentrification rage that was transforming other sections of the city. The neighborhood remained an area caught out of time, with the tavern being its single stable—and sustainable—business: an old bar whose patrons were solid, blue-collar locals or the few outside visitors who wanted to sample Newcastle's earlier and earthier ambience.

Bonnie opted to park as near to the entrance as she could, but as she drew closer she caught sight of her brother Frank's pickup truck resting on the opposite side of the street. She sighed and thought,
I'm not ready for Frank tonight
, and drove on without stopping. She then dropped by a Mexican restaurant three blocks from her apartment, picked up some takeout burritos and a Diet Coke, and arrived home a little after seven thirty.

Her apartment entrance was on the ground floor, a comfortable one-bedroom duplex in a newly completed complex on Newcastle's west side. The design was modern and bright, and she'd furnished it with care, opting to overspend on a sleek leather sectional couch and a wall unit that looked built-in. The bedroom boasted a massive Southwestern-styled four-poster bed that might have seemed out of place in coastal Massachusetts, but Bonnie had fallen in love with it the moment she spotted it on the showroom floor.

In fact, she loved the entire property: the outdoor swimming pool—which would be opening in a few weeks—the private gym, and the three tennis courts. The only downsides were high rent and poor security. Because of the town-house-style layout, anybody could walk up to her front door and ring the bell.

True, the buildings had their own security staff; and the guards were friendly and efficient, but they couldn't be everywhere at once. Which meant that the occasional kid selling candy or raffle tickets, or college student looking for signatures on a petition was bound to appear on her doorstep. So when her door chime sounded at nine
P.M
., Bonnie wasn't startled, although it did seem a little late for solicitations. For caution's sake, she drew the safety chain across the door before she opened it.

“Heya, babe.” Frank's crooked and hesitant grin meant that he'd clearly had one too many beers at the Black Sheep. His long, red hair had been sloppily pulled back into a makeshift ponytail; his rust-colored mustache was matted; he needed a shave; and his shirttail hung halfway out of faded black jeans that had gone too long without a washing. “No smile for your old bro?”

Bonnie let out a small sigh but not one loud enough for her brother to hear. “Hi, Frank.” She slipped the chain from the door. “Come on in.”

Frank stumbled past her, flopped onto the couch, and proceeded to light a cigarette—albeit with shaky hands. Then he placed his feet on the corner of the glass-topped coffee table. “I was down at the Sheep. Rob told me you might be stoppin' in when I saw him yesterday. Said he was finally gonna get up his nerve and ask you to come around when he was at Smile! this afternoon.”