Another Word for Murder (7 page)

“Where the hell is Dan?” he barked. He then glanced briefly at Rosco before leveling an indignant gaze on Bonnie, as if blaming her for his partner's tardiness. Wagner's perfect teeth were clenched, and the jaw that looked surgically enhanced quivered. It was clear that the dentist was barely containing a considerable amount of anger. Rosco studied the man—his hair was black and wavy, his eyes almost as dark, and his complexion the color of opals. As a Greek American in a city full of people of Portuguese, Italian, Russian, and Armenian descent, Rosco wondered if “Jack Wagner” was the name he'd been born with; in fact, Wagner looked a lot like Rosco's second cousin Ari.

“Doctor Wagner, this is Mr. Polycrates. His wife is a friend of Mrs. Tacete's.”

Jack Wagner didn't extend his hand. A look of something approximating outrage passed briefly across his face, then it morphed into what Rosco assumed was an effort at empathy. “Is Dan all right? I mean, he hasn't been in a car accident or anything like that, has he?”

“Is there somewhere private we can talk, Doctor Wagner?”

The co-owner of Smile! turned without speaking and led Rosco back to his office.

What do you mean, ‘missing'?” Wagner demanded, flipping Rosco's business card back and forth between his manicured fingers. He was seated at a mahogany desk whose surface was so meticulously ordered it looked as though every object on it had been lined up with a ruler. Three life-size replicas of the human jaw, pink gums and pearly white teeth gleaming, rested on a Plexiglass shelf on the wall behind him. Above them were picture frames displaying the requisite medical degrees and scholarly accolades from Harvard and the University of Pennsylvania medical school. Ensconced in one of the two chairs reserved for patients, Rosco let his eyes drift to the signatures of the university big-wigs. He was having a difficult time overcoming his initial dislike of Dan Tacete's partner.

“Missing means missing. That's the word we're using at the moment.”

“What do you mean,
we're
?”

“His family. The police. Doctor Tacete has been officially listed as a missing person. Maybe there's another word that you feel might better apply to the situation?”

Wagner eyed Rosco coldly. “What are you trying to imply?”

“I'm implying that you, as Doctor Tacete's partner, may have been privy to information he might not have wished to share with his wife. In circumstances like these, there are generally three probable scenarios. One: there's another woman or man; two: the person in question may have manifested signs of depression—not being able to work, showing up late, and so forth. As a result—”

“Oh, yeah, he's showed up late, all right. But that's because he's such a damn goody-two-shoes. It had nothing to do with depression.” Wagner leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. “So, my partner's flown the coop, is that what you're telling me?”

“Well, there's the third option, which is foul play.” Rosco watched Wagner's face to see what secrets it might reveal. The doctor only clenched his chiseled jaw.

“Look, I don't know what you're suspecting me of, or why you're poking your nose around here—”

“I don't suspect you of anything. I'm simply asking if you've noticed anything unusual. I'm trying to locate a missing person. That's it.”

“Dan does his work; I do mine. End of story. If he's missing, I'm sorry. It doubles my case load, all right? He'll turn up. But when he does, he won't be getting any red carpet treatment from yours truly.”

“What can you tell me about his work at the Bay Clinic?”

“I never go down there.”

Rosco waited for Wagner to continue, but instead he stared belligerently ahead. “I take it you didn't approve of his donating his time?”

“Look, Polycrates, we're a small but busy practice—just the two of us. If Dan gets stuck helping a bunch of ne'er-do-wells and leaves me hanging, then what am I supposed to feel? Pride that he's such a terrific and generous guy? Or ticked off because the folks who pay our rent—and who let Dan indulge his taste for expensive cars—are breathing fire down my neck? This is a profession, not a charity. And, for the record, I didn't approve of his bringing those undesirables into our office here. This is a nice place, and I've worked hard to establish it within a certain social strata of the city…. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to prepare for my first patient.” Jack Wagner didn't stand and walk Rosco to the door; instead, he depressed a button on his intercom and leaned into the speaker. “Bonnie, cancel Dan's patients for today, will you? Try to set them up for next week sometime. And try to squeeze in any emergency cases there might be into my schedule.”

Bonnie O'Connell's eyes were huge and anxious when Rosco reappeared at her reception counter. “Is Doctor Dan okay?” she asked in a near-whisper. “When his wife called yesterday to ask if he'd left yet, I had a feeling she was upset about something. And not just the usual work-related stuff.” Although Bonnie's voice was full of worry, Rosco detected an underpinning of strength. Looking at her face, he noted the same traces of determination and resolve. He imagined she was a person who'd weathered a good many difficulties in her short life.

“Doctor Tacete never returned home; no one's heard from him since he left here yesterday.”

Bonnie drew in a rapid breath. “Oh … but … I mean, where could he have gone?” She seemed far more upset over the news than Jack Wagner had been.

“We have no idea. Did he have any relationships with patients that seemed odd to you? Either overly hostile, or overly friendly? Or did he seemed depressed at all?”

“Well … I mean,” she said uneasily, “we're not all that close. I mean, he's always pleasant when he arrives here, but he usually goes straight to the back and gets to work. I'm not saying he's not a nice guy to work for and everything, because he is. But he
is
my boss; well, he and Jack are
both
my bosses…. ” A tear formed in her eye. “This is horrible. Doctor Tacete can't just disappear. I mean, where could he be?”

“That's what I'm trying to find out.” Rosco placed his card on the counter. “If he there's anything you think I should know, give me a call, okay?”

Father Thomas Witwicki was in his fifties, stood six-feet-five, and weighed close to three hundred pounds. His short-cropped hair was a fiery red, and he had a slight limp and a nose that had been broken three times. Rosco always felt that Father Tom, as he was affectionately called by the men residing at the Saint Augustine Mission, looked more like a former pugilist than a man of the cloth.

The mission itself was housed in what once had been a boot factory in the section of Newcastle that had formerly been strictly industrial and that was now undergoing a steady transformation. Trendy lofts were sprouting up in buildings that had been warehouses and manufacturing plants during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and the spaces were now deemed “hot properties” on the residential market. At least once a year some new neighbor would make it his or her
raison d'etre
to try to force Father Tom and his “clients” to move to a less hip area.

Rosco's path had crossed Father Tom's on several occasions in the past, and they'd developed a mutual fondness and respect for one another. Upon seeing Rosco, the priest gave him his habitual ironclad handshake and followed it with a bone-crushing bear hug. “Long time, no see,” Father Tom bellowed. “I don't suppose you'd like to step into the kitchen and give us a hand fixing up today's lunch?”

Rosco raised his hands, regained his breath, and smiled. “No can do, Padre. I'm up to my ears.”

“Yeah? What's shakin'?”

“I'm working on a little missing persons problem.”

Father Tom sighed. “Okay, shoot. Give me a description, I'll let you know if he's checked into the mission. But I've gotta tell you, Rosco, I haven't seen any new faces down here for the past few weeks.”

“No, I doubt if this guy would be checking into the mission.” Rosco stopped and gave Tom's notion some thought. “But then again, you never know who's got a secret passion for the demon rum, causing him to slip off the deep end one day.”

“Happens all the time, my friend.”

“No, I'm looking for the dentist who works with your men.”

“Dan Tacete?”

“Yep. He left work yesterday noontime and hasn't been seen since. I gather he was at the Bay Clinic on Tuesday?”

Tom tilted his head toward the mission's kitchen door. “Come on, I'll buy you a cup of coffee. I need to make sure things are going smoothly back there. Don't worry, I won't put you to work baking bread like I did the last time you drifted in here.”

The men entered the kitchen, walked over to a standing urn, and filled two porcelain mugs with coffee. Three other men were busily making sandwiches while another was dumping commercial-size cans of soup into a large steel pot on a gas range.

“Twenty-four hours,” Father Tom said after he'd sampled the coffee. “That's a little early to start calling out the Marines, isn't it?”

“Tacete's a family man, Padre. No, I don't think it's too early to start looking. His wife's very concerned.”

The priest nodded toward the men toiling in the kitchen. “They're all family men, too. I guess the difference is, nobody's looking for them.” He sighed and leaned his big frame against a work table. “Dan's a good person. He started the dental branch of the Bay Clinic, and he's the only reason it's kept going. The few other dentists he persuaded to get involved haven't lasted. There's no Medicare money floating his way—it's all pro bono stuff. A lot of people aren't into that, or simply don't have the time, or devote the time they do have to golf … but I have to tell you …” He stopped and took another swig of coffee.

“Tell me what?” Rosco prodded.

Father Tom considered his answer for a moment longer, then said, “I've watched Dan work. He has a real affinity with these men. They get along very well. They have a lot of laughs together. Believe it or not, these guys actually look forward to going to the dentist.”

“So, what are you saying? Dan Tacete's a sorcerer? I have a lot of laughs with my dentist, but that doesn't make his drill a sight for sore eyes.”

“No. What I'm saying is, he's got a lot in common with the kind of men who end up here. In an odd way, they seem cut from the same cloth. I've spent half my life around men who've dropped out. There's a through-line in most of their stories…. I guess I'm saying that it wouldn't surprise me if Dan just took off. It's not something I would have suspected or predicted, but now that it's happened …”

“No, no,” Rosco objected, “we don't know anything's ‘happened'.”

“I understand; and I may be wrong. As I said, it's a little early to start sending up flares. But—.”

“But it wouldn't surprise you if Tacete turned up three sheets to the wind in a homeless shelter in Toledo by Monday morning,” Rosco said facetiously.

Father Tom nodded at the man opening cans. “You see that fellow handling the soup? He's been here about seven months now. Does he look familiar?”

Rosco shook his head. “No. I don't think I've ever seen him before.”

“That's because twenty-two months ago he was a federal judge in Broward County, Florida.”

CHAPTER 10

Rosco walked into his office, draped his windbreaker over a wire coat hanger, and then wedged the garment onto the wooden rod in his overly crowded corner closet. The closet was home to a serious collection of thrift-store clothing—items that came in handy when he needed to convince someone he was something other than what he really was: a PI.

There was a designer three-piece, charcoal-gray suit—that he detested wearing—but nonetheless made him look every inch the high-priced attorney or stock broker. There was a pair of distressed work boots; four pairs of blue jeans in various stages of deterioration; white painter's pants; a scuffed, black leather motorcycle jacket; a construction hardhat; green hospital scrubs; a tweed sports jacket with leather patches on the elbows; a pair of cowboy boots; as well as a spectrum of sports caps that were designed to persuade folks that he was either a local—and therefore a rabid Red Sox or Pats fan—or that he came from as far away as California and Florida. The Lakers and Marlins were represented; Washington D.C. was covered with a
Go Skins!
hat. Though, given his Massachusetts accent, these out-of-town ruses were never quite as successful as he hoped.

After marrying Belle, Rosco had relocated his office from a low-rent neighborhood to a newer building not far from Lawson's Coffee Shop—which many considered one of the hubs of downtown life. The reasons for Rosco's move had been threefold. One: his business had improved steadily, and he could now afford a raise in rent; two: Belle had developed a habit of dropping by unannounced every now and then to add some “great find” of hers to his undercover clothing collection, and he didn't like the idea of her having to search for a parking place in the raunchy section of town he'd originally inhabited; and three: he liked Lawson's. Beside being a favored haunt of his old NPD pals and allowing him pick up all sorts of useful information, it was also the scene of the Saturday morning “Breakfast Bunch”—a convivial crew that formed the basis of many of the friendships he and his wife shared.

Maybe it was the fact that the restaurant had seen its last major renovation sometime during the Eisenhower administration, or that its resolutely pink decor couldn't help but produce a smile, or that the waitresses and kitchen staff treated everyone like family. Whatever the cause, stepping inside the glass-paneled front door was to return to an easier era in American life. In the heart of a big, modern city, Lawson's was its own small and quirky village.