Free Another Word for Murder by Nero Blanc

“Bunch” would waddle out the door at nine thirty or ten A.M . with their midsections in cramps. The participants varied from week to week depending on schedules, but this Saturday varied in another way: NPD had leaked a photograph of Dan Tacete to the evening news, and his disappearance was now general knowledge. Naturally, everyone in the Breakfast Bunch had an opinion, even though only one of them had actually met the missing man.
    Martha, the fifty-something-year-old waitress whose hair, makeup, and attitude made her seem as if she’d just stepped out of a 1957 T-Bird ad—blonde beehive and American Beauty-pink lipstick startlingly intact—analyzed the situation with her customary grain of salt. “And you say he owned six cars, Rosco? That spells one thing to me; P-L-A-Y-B-O-Y. Tacete’s found himself a younger chickie and flown the proverbial coop!”
    But Abe Jones, the African American with the movie-star looks, who happened to be NPD’s forensic expert and was no slouch in the playboy category, didn’t buy Martha’s scenario. “No way, Marth. Nobody walks away from all those goodies. Rich people like their S-T-U-F-F, and men like their trinkets. Especially car guys. Sure, he might take a powder on his wife, but there’s no way he leaves a Porsche 911 behind.”
    â€œThere’s a loving comment, gorgeous,” Martha wise-cracked, and Abe responded with an equally droll: “And ‘flying the coop’s’ supposed to be sympathetic, Marth?”
    â€œYou want T.L.C, how’s about a B.L.T. with extra mayo, Dr. J?”
    Al Lever was also there, and his offering was a habitually jaded “Not my department, Missing Persons, but nine times out of ten, it turns out these guys scooted up to Boston for a little hanky-panky. When they creep home, they’ve got their tails between their legs, and a dozen roses clenched in their sorry fists.”
    Sara Crane Briephs, the grand old lady who traced her ancestry back to the first settlers of Massachusetts, and who had become Belle’s surrogate grandmother, offered a more genteel and empathetic version. “Well, I’ve only met Dan Tacete a few times at charity fund raisers, but I can attest that he seems a most upright and wholesome young man. A thorough professional, I would imagine, beside being very pleasant … which leads me, I’m afraid, to fear the worst. I don’t mean to be a pessimist, but I don’t foresee a happy ending to this situation.”
    â€œWhat situation would that be, Mrs. B?” Al asked her as he forked up his order of French toast with a double side of bacon—extra crispy, as usual.
    â€œYou’re in charge of our city’s homicide investigations, Albert dear,” was Sara’s smooth response after she’d dabbed daintily at her lips with a still-clean paper napkin. “Perhaps, you should be telling me.”
    Later on, remembering those ominous words, Rosco slumped into his office chair and rubbed his stomach. Once again, he’d overeaten. He released a groan as he scanned his cluttered desk. Dedicating a full day in an effort to help Karen locate her husband had left him behind with his investigation into the Porto Ristorante valet parking scam. On top of that, his answering machine was blinking rapidly. He tapped the play button, and an automated voice announced, “Friday, one twenty-seven P.M .” This was immediately followed by a human, but also staccato, “Rosco, it’s Elaine Vogel. I was hoping to catch you in. I’d like to work with you on the Snyder case, but if I need to get someone else, let me know ASAP.” She then left a string of numbers for work, home, and cell. She was a person who left nothing to chance.
    Rosco released a second groan, although this one was full of self-criticism. He’d promised to call Elaine on Friday, but with the Tacete mess it had completely slipped his mind.