Read Online Another Word for Murder by Nero Blanc - Free Book Online Page B

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 …”
    â€œNo, no,” Rosco objected, “we don’t know anything’s ‘happened’.”
    â€œI understand; and I may be wrong. As I said, it’s a little early to start sending up flares. But—.”
    â€œBut 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.”
    â€œThat’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.
    A normal Saturday gathering at the eatery consisted of too much food and too many laughs, which meant that everyone involved in the