Dying for the Past (11 page)

twenty-seven

Bear walked to his
unmarked cruiser under the scrutiny of one of Poor Nic's thugs—er, security guards. Before he reached his door, a large black four-door SUV careened through the gate entrance and almost ran over the guard attempting to stop it. The vehicle caused quite a stir. Two other guards drew their weapons and charged as it rolled to a stop behind Bear's cruiser.

“No one move,” one guard shouted. “Driver, turn off the ignition.”

Bear rested a hand on his semi-automatic in its holster. “What's this all about?”

What an entrance. I said, “Bear, it's our new best friend from the Attorney General's office.”

“Oh, please. Tell me it isn't.” He held his badge up in the air and
yelled at the security guards aiming at the SUV. “Put your guns down
. Everything is all right. Just relax and back off.”

The driver's door opened and a man's arm poked out with a badge and credential in his hand. The voice wasn't happy. “Federal Agents. Lower your weapons. Get away from our vehicle.”

One of the guards snapped a glance at Bear, then walked to the SUV and leaned forward to check the driver's credentials. Before he could read the “U” in United States, they were snatched back and the door flung open.

“I said put the guns down,” the driver ordered. “And step back.”

The guard complied and ordered the other to holster his weapon,
too. “You can't just bust in here, mister. You almost hit me.”

“I told you—Federal Agents.”

“I don't care who you are.” The guard held up a hand. “You got a warrant?”

“Step back. Now.”

I said, “As much as I don't like some of Nic's entourage, this doesn't look right.”

“Everyone just settle down,” Bear called, striding over to the SUV. “What's this about, Agent. I'm—”

“Detective Braddock,” the voice from the open passenger door said, “what are you doing here?” Ruth-Ann Marcos stepped out. “Is Bartalotta now a suspect in Mr. Grecco's murder?”

“I'm following leads. What are you doing here?”

“Introducing myself, Detective.”

I watched Ruth-Ann assess Poor Nic's estate. “Mob retirement seems to suit him, don't you think?”

Two dark-suited men climbed out of the SUV from the back seat and stood behind her.

“One of you stay here and watch these men,” she ordered. “No one leaves—except for Detective Braddock.”

Bear feigned a smile. “Maybe I should stick around and hear what's happening. After all, Ruth-Ann, this is my homicide investigation. The Feds have no jurisdiction.”

“On your case, no, not yet.” She headed for Poor Nic's door, flanked by two FBI men. “My visit has nothing to do with your investigation.”

I said, “Bear, I'll hang around and snoop. It'll be okay. Trust me.”

“Right. Okay, I'll leave you to it.” He returned to his car and gave Ruth-Ann a curt nod. “Remember, if you get anything—”

“Of course, Detective,” she said with the hiss of a cobra. “I'll be sure to call.”

“Bear, give her a ticket for public-bitchiness. She's got a thing about Poor Nic, doesn't she?”

He cursed and slipped into his cruiser, started it, and left black streaks of frustration on Poor Nic's driveway. He, too, almost hit a security guard, but the guard was smart enough to jump out of the way again.

Inside, I missed the opening salutations between Betty-Law and Johnny-Evil. But I knew Poor Nic well enough to know he was taking it all in stride and enjoying the tit-for-tat. Ruth-Ann, however, didn't seem to be. She stood in front of him—he was still seated at the patio table beside Angel—with a scowl on her face hinting she was overdue for a tax audit.

“Please, please,” Poor Nic said, gesturing to a seat at his table.
“Let us be civil. Sit. Coffee for your men? Tea perhaps for you? Angela
and I were just—”

“No. I'm here to ask about a federal matter.” She turned to Angel. “I'd like to speak in private, Professor Tucker. Please don't leave the premises. I am curious to know why you're here.”

Oh, crap. “Angel, don't—”

Too late.

“I'll wait inside, Nicholas, we'll finish our catching-up afterward.” She stood with a glare at Ruth-Ann that could freeze fire. “Ruth-Ann, you can make an appointment with my secretary on campus. I'll make myself available for any
pertinent
questions.”

“Angel, go easy. She's a fed, for God's sake.”

Ruth-Ann sighed. “Yes, of course, Professor. I'm sorry. Forgive me. But this is a sensitive matter and I'm concerned for the safety of one of our assets. I'll have my office call you tomorrow. If tomorrow is convenient.”

“Yes, you do that.”

“Professor Tucker,” Ruth-Ann began with a faint smile, “perhaps you can answer just one question.”

“Perhaps.”

Ruth-Ann cocked her head. “How is it you chose the Vincent House for your Foundation work? Is it the Calaprese history? You seem to gravitate to those types, don't you?”

“No, Ruth-Ann, I don't gravitate toward anyone except those interested in helping my foundation—as Nicholas is. You might consider checking your facts before you make accusations.”

“You still didn't answer my question.”

“André Cartier.” Angel folded her arms. “André did some government research not long ago about organized crime during the second world war. Vincent Calaprese was a gangster, yes, but he also provided valuable assistance to the government in tracking Nazi, Japanese, and Soviet spy rings. André knew about the Vincent properties and suggested I contact the family to see about transferring the estate into my foundation's charity.”

“André?” Ruth-Ann smiled again and I wondered if it were a nervous habit. “I see. Yes, André told me about his research when I first met him. A remarkable man. How convenient for your charity.”

“And this will be the end of your interrogation until you make an appointment.”

“Yes, of course.” Ruth-Ann nodded to one of her agents who opened the patio door. “Please do forgive me for being so rude and—”

“A bitch.” Angel just had to say it. She glanced at Poor Nic. “Don't be long, Nicholas.” And without another word, Angel walked off into the house.

Did I mention my wife was more than just a university professor and a beautiful woman? She's also a cage fighter. Well, she would be but the competition barred her.

Ruth-Ann pounced. “All right, Bartalotta, tell me what you know
about Anatoly Nikolaevich Konstantinova.”

Holy Russian mafia, what a name.

Poor Nic lifted his coffee cup and sipped it, looking over the rim at her. “Ms. Marcos, I am not personally familiar with him. But I am, as you are aware, familiar with his reputation.”

“His reputation? Come on, Bartalotta, give me—”

“Please, Ms. Marcos, perhaps we can keep a less-hostile tone, no?
After all, you arrived here uninvited. You may call me Nicholas. Or you may call me Mr. Bartalotta. Now, I cannot tell you much about Anatoly. But I will tell you what I can.”

“Anatoly? I thought you didn't know him.” Ruth-Ann's mouth tightened into a prune, and when Poor Nic didn't offer any further comment, she said, “He's making moves in Washington and it seems he's interested in real estate out here, too. What do you know about that?”

“Nothing.”

“He hasn't been in contact with you?”

“No.”

“Oh, come now, Bart … Nicholas. You mean to tell me he's not reached out to you at all?”

“Yes, of course he has.” Poor Nic sat his cup down. “However, you did not ask such a question. I said I have not been in contact with him. He has reached out to me but I am not interested in his kind.”

“His kind?” Ruth-Ann cocked her head. “You mean your kind, don't you? The thug-mobster kind?”

Ouch, Ruth-Ann is as subtle as a bullet in the heart. And I
should
know, I have one.

“Why Ms. Marcos, even the Attorney General's office is aware of the significant difference between my family roots and Anatoly's. And even more aware of the ethics of our two—businesses.”

She laughed. “Oh come on, Nicholas. Apples and oranges, really?”

I said, “Nic, she's got a point. Gangsters are gangsters. Even if you're retired.”

“Ms. Marcos, you must admit the Russian organizations have a different perspective on life, no? I mean they tend not to honor it
at all. They are ruthless. Barbaric at times. And not just to their own
either. They solve with bullets and brutality what we Europeans tend to solve with negotiation and—”

“Yeah, you're just a real ambassador, aren't you?” Ruth-Ann looked around at his estate again. “Let me get to the point.”

“I wish you would,” I said. “You're boring both of us, Ruth-Ann.”

Nicholas laughed. “Please do. And did you say ‘no' to coffee for your men? Or to at least sit at my table to talk?”

“Forget the coffee, Bartalotta.” She dropped her hands onto the back of a chair and leaned forward, glaring at him. “Where's Katalina?”

A wide, silly smile broke across Nicholas' face. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his lap. “Ah, I see why you have come to visit. You have misplaced a federal witness.”

“No, a fugitive. How did you know?”

“You would not be here if she were not missing. She is not part of my staff. Is she not part of Anatoly's?”

Ruth-Ann eyed him. “Do you know where she is or not?”

“No.”

“You're lying.”

“You have evidence of this?”

“I can get a warrant with a phone call.”

“Oh, a phone call?” He laughed again. “Then you did not bring one. If you could get one with a phone call, it would be in your possession, Ms. Marcos. So let's not play this game. You are missing an important Russian crime witness. For some reason, you feel she is here or I have somehow inserted myself into Anatoly's business. But, you have no proof or your men would be ravishing my home already.”

“Don't push me, Bartalotta.”

I said, “Nic, what's she talking about? Who's Katalina?”

He looked over at the agents watching him. Then he stood and wiped his mouth with his linen napkin and extended a hand to Ruth-Ann. “Good morning to you, Ms. Marcos. I'll have my men show you out.”

“I'm not through yet.” She jabbed a finger at him. “If I find out—”

“If you find something you do not already know, then you'll have enough probable cause to obtain your warrant. And even over your phone, no? Until such time, you may call for an appointment with my attorney—any of the four. Two of them are on K Street in Washington not far from your office. So, it will be convenient.”

Ruth-Ann's mouth snapped tight again and she turned to go.

“Oh, and Ms. Marcos,” Poor Nic said in a light voice, “I wanted to ask you. Your name, ‘Marcos,' it is Cuban, is it not?”

She stopped and turned around. “What of it? My family escaped Castro before I was born.”

“Nothing, I'm very interested in ancestry, in particular the history of my friends.” He didn't smile but looked at her with hard, penetrating eyes. “And I understand you're forming a campaign for a senate run in the coming election. You can count on my support. I'll have my accountant send over a donation. Please include me on your mailings. But, no need to leave your card on the way out. I have everything I need.”

She didn't thank him and almost ran into the glass patio door—and would have if one of her agents hadn't yanked it open at the last second.

Me, I watched her leave and was conflicted. Nic might be a retired mob boss and a ruthless man, but he had helped stop my killer and had saved Angel's life. In the process, he took a bullet that might have been meant for her. Ruth-Ann, on the other hand, made a great target for flying houses and trick-or-treaters. Watching him kick her ass—with a smile—caused a collision between my twenty years as a cop and the satisfaction I felt.

So, while he was a retired gangster, he was my pal-the-gangster now.

What did that say about me?

twenty-eight

Jorge-the-waiter parked his motorcycle
on the side street and walked toward Old Town Winchester, keeping an eye open
for any curious passersby or a Winchester police cruiser. Neither made their appearance. At the corner, he crossed the street and headed toward the center of town, slipping into a narrow alley a half-block from the Old
Town walking mall. There, he ambled another half-block to an old stone building under renovation and went inside.

“Hello?” he called out, looking around the old antique shop. “Anyone here?”

The ground floor was barren of anything but dust and grit. Its walls had been stripped revealing only brick, mortar, and framing. The ceiling was exposed; rough-cut wood beams and a few telltale electric wires remained. There were no lights affixed anywhere and the room was dark except for ambient light filtering through the building's dusty glass picture window. Outside the window, a few bags of mortar mix and an assortment of tools and wood were piled on the sidewalk. There was no one around.

He was alone.

He slipped the thick, manila envelope out of his leather jacket and tucked it behind the ancient radiator on the rear wall. A moment before he retraced his steps back into the rear alley, faint footfalls came from the second floor—at least he thought there were. He turned to go back inside, but thought better of it.

His instructions had been unequivocal. He was to secure the envelope behind the radiator and leave. He was not to speak with anyone. He was not to return to the old antique shop. He was to go to his office and await instructions. Any variance, any lapse whatsoever, and payment would be withheld. More important and more ominous, his name would be provided to the Frederick County Sheriff's Department with a mixture of facts and false allegations which might take weeks to sort out.

Money talked and handcuffs hurt.

He never made it to his motorcycle before one of his two cell phones rang. When he realized it was his burner-phone—an over-the-counter, untraceable convenience store phone—it could be only one person.

“Yeah? What?”

The voice was low and the words sparse. “Where are the drives?”

“Hey man, don't you read the papers? I can't get everything yet. It'll be later today or tomorrow before I can go back.”

“Unacceptable. Must I make the call?”

He snorted. “Go ahead, man. Call the cops. You're in this same as me.”

“Perhaps. But they will not know me. And you do not know me.”

He reached his motorcycle and surveyed the street. “What makes
you so sure, man? Huh? How do you know I didn't check you out?”

Silence.

“I thought so.”

The voice was cold, stark … menacing. “Based on what? Phone calls and cash? The real question, Victorio Miguel Chevez, is how do you know I have not checked you out? Jorge is not a fitting name for you, is it Victorio?”

Chevez, who preferred the nickname “Chevy” since his younger days at Parris Island, felt a knot in his stomach. “What do you want, man?”

“My disc drives. No more. No less—for now. Soon enough, you can provide me with the recordings, too.”

“And I said you'd get it all. It's gonna take time. Just time, man.”

Silence. Then, “I want the drives by tomorrow morning. Your first
report on the recordings is due in two days. I'll send you the drop information. Oh, and Chevy,”

The mysterious client knew too much. “Yeah, what?”

“Silence is golden. You'll have a lot of money by the end of the month—don't blow it by getting scared.”

Chevy laughed. “Yeah, well, you don't blow it by being cheap either.”

The call went dead.