Another Word for Murder Read Free

problem was that restaurant didn’t have valet parking, although that hadn’t prevented some clever thieves from offering that particular service one Friday evening in March; the Ides to be precise. Clearly the criminals had had a sense of humor.
    As Porto’s customers had arrived, bogus valet parking attendants outfitted in Porto-red jackets had supplied fake claim tickets to the drivers. Each ticket had a number on one side and a portrait of Julius Caesar along with the name Marcus Brutus Valet Service printed on the reverse. Any vehicle worth over fifty thousand dollars was never seen again. They’d vanished along with the keys and electronic garage door openers to twenty-two of Newcastle’s pricier residences. A number of locksmiths had done very well with emergency house calls that evening.
    Lever grunted with what sounded like another chuckle. “So what was the final tally on that job?”
    â€œSeven Mercedes, twelve BMWs, two Porsches, and a Bentley.”
    â€œYeah, well, you can forget about any chop-shops, bucko. The boys and girls in robbery say wheels like those go straight out of the country. The crooks probably drove them right onto a boat at pier six and were in Argentina before the owners finished their limoncellos and cappuccinos.”
    Rosco shrugged. “Maybe. But I’ve checked around; there seems to be a strong market for BMW and Mercedes parts, especially down in Connecticut.”
    The pair came to a stop in front of the green sedan. Rosco nodded in recognition. “My mom has a Subaru,” he said.
    Lever placed his foot on the bumper and lit another cigarette. “They’re good cars…. All-wheel drive. Great in snow and ice. Good gas mileage. You can’t go wrong with a Subaru.”
    â€œMy mom has one.”
    â€œWhat? Just because your mother drives a Subaru, that means you can’t?”
    â€œWhat does your mother drive?”
    â€œThat’s not the point. We’re not talking about my mother, we’re trying to get you a decent set of wheels.”
    â€œWhat’s she drive?”
    â€œA Cadillac, okay?”
    â€œAnd what do you drive?”
    â€œThat’s not the point. I just don’t happen to like Cadillacs. It has nothing to to with the fact that my mother drives one. I’m not that immature, Poly—Crates.”
    â€œUh-huh.” Rosco walked to the rear of the Subaru, and Lever followed. “Nope. Looks too much like my mom’s car.”
    â€œOkay, fine, no Subarus for Mrs. Poly—Crates’s little boy.”
    They walked by two pickup trucks, and came to a dark blue Audi coupe. The bright sky reflected brilliantly in the freshly waxed hood, fenders, and roof. It appeared to be brand new.
    â€œThis is it,” Lever said. “Look at this baby. Can’t you see yourself cruising around Newcastle in this? I mean, is this class, or what? And with an Audi you get your all-wheel drive, too. You’re set for winter.” He looked at the sticker. “Look at this—less than three thousand miles…. This is your car, Poly—Crates. This is you.”
    Rosco shook his head. “My sister Zoe drives an Audi.”
    â€œWhy do I even bother talking to you?”

CHAPTER 3
    Dan Tacete pulled into his driveway that evening at six forty-five. The slow-sinking sun bathed his spacious home in a rosy glow, giving its many west-facing windows such a pink and vivid hue they looked like hammered sheets of gold and copper. Dan paid no heed to this spectacular sight.
    Instead, he sat staring numbly through the windshield, his hands clenching the steering wheel, and his square, all-American jaw worried and tight. His neatly trimmed mustache stood out from his upper lip like a wire brush. By rights, what was worrying him should never have been happening. After all, he told himself, he was driving his least conspicuous car, the two-year-old white Ford Explorer that he kept