Dying for the Past (13 page)

thirty-one

Chevy Chevez—the former Jorge
the waiter—snapped
three photographs of the luxury sedan pulling out of Nicholas Bartalotta's estate. Chevy sat on his motorcycle parked down the street, secreted behind some trees, watching. The distance to the gate wasn't a problem for his telephoto lens but, just in case, he snapped four more as the Lexus passed him heading toward Winchester.

The driver didn't notice him. So far so good, considering Bartalotta's men had a reputation for disliking cameras. So, Chevy waited until the car was well ahead before pulling out and following.

It took about fifteen minutes to reach the three-story Victorian sitting on a side street a few blocks from Old Town Winchester. The driver knew the streets well and negotiated an alley a block north of the house in order to avoid construction and arrive with the passenger's door along the sidewalk at the gate.

Chevy made it to the top of the hill overlooking the house and snapped three more photographs as the thirty-something history professor climbed out of the sedan, thanked the driver, and headed inside. He watched her check her mail on the front porch and snapped two more shots while she searched for her keys, keeping his eye on the viewfinder a little longer than he needed, admiring her auburn hair and sexy figure. During his time on campus, she turned as many college-boy heads as any campus coed.

“Oh, my, Angela, you're sure fine. And no husband either. I might
have to take some of your classes.”

Chevy moved his motorcycle around the corner a block from the Victorian. He dismounted and changed the telephoto lens for another, more compact one from his backpack. Then he made his way back along the sidewalk to the rear of the Victorian. There, he slipped behind a tall oak, swung up on a limb, and easily negotiated the four-foot wrought-iron fence. He dropped into the side yard among overgrown, bushy evergreens and shrubs which provided him ample cover to penetrate the property unobserved.

Chevy knelt, readying his camera at the side of the Victorian's rear sun porch where the shrubs concealed him from the street. He checked the rear and side yards, confident no one could see him unless they pulled into the small driveway at the rear of the house. He would hear anyone turn into the drive and he could retreat before being seen. If surprised, he was ready with a cover story—business cards and desktop published literature for “Good Neighbor-Scapes Landscaping.” A pleasant smile and ready handouts fooled 90 percent of wary observers.

So far, so good.

He tried the sun porch door. It was locked. His pocket knife and practice got him through in seconds. Inside, he went to the inner windows. One gave him a view down the Victorian's long
hallway bisecting the first floor; one window viewed into the kitchen;
and another the dining room. From where he was, he could get some
good photographs.

Dr. Angela Hill-Tucker was nowhere to be seen.

He knelt down and adjusted his camera for a few low-light shots. He took a chance and stood, lifted his camera, and froze.

Staring back at him through the window was a large, black, furry face the size of a concrete block. The huge beast was eye-to-eye with him, standing on his rear legs with front legs braced against the window frame. The animal watched him—unblinking, dark eyes—rigid and powerful. His mouth opened and a low, rumbling sound started rattling the window glass.

“
Madre de Dios
.” Chevy remembered the photograph on the
professor's office shelf. The big Lab was 115 pounds or more. He was
a powerful animal whose breed reputation as playful and loving was
lost somewhere behind bared teeth and target-locked eyes.

“
Madre de Dios
.”

The Lab's tail snapped straight out. His powerful jaws opened to bare shiny, white,
large
teeth. When he barked, the sun porch windows reverberated and the alarm was unmistakable. A powerful paw hammered against the window frame as the wooden blind fell from its hanger and crashed onto the floor inside.

Chevy fell backward and dropped his camera.

Before he could retreat through the sun porch door—he'd closed
it behind him—the interior door swung open and the huge Lab charged.

“No, hell no—”

Someone yelled, “Freeze! I've got a gun.”

Chevy wasn't worried about guns. He didn't stop. He scrambled for the door and dove head-first toward the shrubs. He didn't make it alone.

The dog was on him.

“Hercule, hold him.”

Hercule tackled him around his waist and drove him through the door, over the outside railing, and down into the shrubs. The Lab's powerful jaws clamped around his arm and twisted—yanking him back and whiplashing him around like a ragdoll. Then, Hercule settled over his mid-section and chest with all fours pinning him to the ground, half in, half out of the evergreen shrubs.

“Get off me! Whoa, boy, easy.”

“Hercule, back,” a voice shouted from the porch. “Come on, boy
, back.”

Hercule bore down with powerful jaws and growled a deep, guttural warning on the “no trespassing” rules he was enforcing.
After one last clamp of his jaws, he released Chevy's arm and backed
up onto the sun porch stairs.

“Don't move.” The voice said from inside. “I've called the police
.
I have a gun.”

“Screw you, lady.” Chevy crawled backward deeper into the
bushes. He rolled over, scrambled to his feet, and bolted over the
fence.

He never looked back.

A city maintenance truck rounded the corner and slammed on his brakes when Chevy darted across the street at a full run. The driver laid on his horn and cursed out his window. Chevy never missed a step and sprinted down the block, disappearing around the corner. Out of breath, he eased farther on and settled into a brisk walk, taking the time to check over his shoulder and listen for any sound of police sirens or charging hooves approaching.

No one gave chase. No one approached. There were no sirens.

And he was empty handed.

“Oh, shit.” He left his camera behind. “
Mierda que pendejo
.”

He dug his cell phone out of his pocket. He cursed again as he walked up to his motorcycle and found a ticket tucked into the handlebars—he was parked in front of a fire hydrant. He hit a speed dial number.

The call went to a voicemail only identified by its number.

“Man, you better call me back, pronto. We got trouble. You don't
pay me enough to get eaten.”

thirty-two

Poor Nic looked up
from the papers on his mahogany desk as Bobby opened the heavy doors and led a young woman in. He gestured to a chair in front of the desk, waited for Poor Nic to nod, and left, shutting the doors behind him.

“Ah, my dear, I trust you slept well?”

The woman was young—perhaps twenty-eight or nine—with long, curly black hair pulled back behind her ears. She was pretty with big, round eyes and a full figure—not fat—but curvaceous and not slight at her bosom. She sat opposite Poor Nic and watched him. Her eyes were red and tired, her face drained of color, and her fingers gripped the arm of the chair as though fearing she would have to flee.

“No, I do not sleep. Maybe later.”

Poor Nic's voice was smooth and warm. “There is nothing to fear here, Katalina. You have my word. Bobby will be with you at all
times. Even in the house—he is right outside the door.”

“Yes, Nicholai, thank you. But—”

“Anatoly cannot reach you here, my dear. I assure you he cannot.”

“If he know where I am, he reach me.”

“No. But only time will convince you.” He stood and moved around
his desk and sat in the chair beside her. He crossed his legs and folded his arms, bathing her in confidence. “Now, my dear, please tell me what brings you to my home.”

Katalina's eyes flushed and the terror made a dark stream down her cheeks. She stared at her hands, her knees, and to the floor. When she looked up and over to Poor Nic, she steeled herself as her chin rose. “Anatoly Nikolaevich Konstantinova. He owns all of us from New York to—”

“Not all of us, Katalina,” Poor Nic said with a slight, confident smile. “Anatoly controls all things
Russian
. He is a very dangerous man. But even so, of the things Anatoly is willing to do, entering my home is not one of them. I will protect you.”

“Dmitry, he say he will help. He will protect me.”

Poor Nic nodded. “Ah, but you do not trust him?”

She shook her head.

“And why is it that you do not, my dear?”

Katalina looked away and her fingers whitened on the chair arms. “I must do things—listen and learn what Anatoly do and say. I must do these things for Dmitry. But I am so fear … afraid. I tell him many things—then, Anatoly, I think he knows.”

“I see. You believe Dmitry is working for Anatoly?”

She shrugged.

“What is it you learned, Katalina. What is so important?”

“Nicholai, I know this book.” She cleared her throat. “I know Anatoly's people. And I know what book will bring—very bad things.”

“Ah, yes, the book.”

Katalina leaned over and touched Poor Nic's hands. “Nicholai, for what I know of book, Anatoly and others kill me.”

_____

“You're sure you are okay?” I asked Angel from across our kitchen table. “I'm so sorry. I usually pick up on things when you're in trouble. I don't know how I missed it.”

I was lying of course. Oh, not the part about picking up on Angel being in trouble—that was true enough. Whenever she was in danger, her fear found me and brought me to her. It was weird. Uncanny. Spooky if you pardon the pun. And it never failed before. No, the untrue part was me not knowing why I'd missed her peril this time. It was my philandering with the sexy Bonnie Grecco—as André Cartier of course. After all, I couldn't be getting signals from two women at once, could I?

“Yes, I'm fine. I told you, he never got close to me. Hercule was here.” She sat at the table with a Walther .380 semi-automatic on the table between her and Bear. And, after thirty minutes of questions—the same ones over and over—she was more irritated than upset.

“I should have been here sooner, Angel. I'm sorry.”

I didn't know what had happened until Bear got the call at Bonnie's place. Then I caught the spirit-train here presto-changeo-quick. But I was too late. Whoever had been here was gone. He was brazen, too. He made a move on the house in broad daylight. But brazen was also dumb. His mistake was thinking there was no man around the house. He hadn't counted on Hercule—who was more beast than man but smarter than most men. And braver. And more protective. And he bit harder, too.

“You're a hero again, Hercule,” I said to him across the kitchen. “How can I reward you this time? Cookies? A belly rub?”

He flipped his head and tossed his big, red ball across the kitchen where it landed at my feet.

Woof.

Bear looked down at the ball and over at Hercule staring at it. “Jeez, even the dog does it. Can't you get him to stop playing ball with no one?”

Woof. Wag. Woof.

“He wants to play with Tuck,” Angel said. “You know he's here, Bear.”

“Fine, yeah, okay.” Bear changed the subject. “You never saw his face? Any description? Anything at all?”

“No. Nothing.” She shook her head. “When Hercule went for him, I ran inside for my gun. When I came out on the porch, Herc had him in the bushes but I couldn't get a good look at him. I called Herc off and he ran.”

“Any idea who he was or why he'd be following you around?”

“Following me around?” She cocked her head. “What do you mean? Isn't this just some perv or something?”

“No, I'm afraid not.” Bear picked up a large evidence bag from one of the kitchen chairs. In it was a digital camera. He found it lying behind the rocking chair on the sun porch when he arrived. “Angela, I don't think this was an ordinary peeping-Tom or break-in. I think it's a bigger problem. And since you're keeping secrets these days—”

“I'm not keeping secrets.” She pushed back on her chair.

“You never told me why you were at Nic's house this morning. Maybe the two incidents are connected.”

“Two incidents? I told you, I went to Nicholas' about the party last night. I'm trying to find out what happened and prove André's innocence.”

“This investigation is my job.”

I said, “And this changes things how, Bear? You know she's goin
g to play detective.”

Angel's face twisted. “I don't play detective. I did pretty well last time.”

“And almost got yourself killed.” I hate to say it, but she was right. She'd chased down several leads on my murder case which proved invaluable. But I was right, too. The leads almost got her killed. “Angel, you have to be careful. No investigating without Bear or me. Okay?”

“Fine, but you two weren't around.” She looked at Bear. “And why
do you think they could be connected?”

“Because whoever he is, he's been watching you for days,” Bear said, laying the camera on the table. “Including going to and from Nic's house—I looked at the shots on the camera's memory stick. He was outside Nic's and followed you here.”

“Why? Why would anyone want to follow me?”

Good question. “I don't know, Angel. But you know what happened the last time someone took a strange interest in you.”

“Yes, I do. He killed you.”

True enough. Old Ernie came to our house to kill her and retrieve evidence against him. But he screwed up and put a hole in my heart—right down the hall—and ended my life.

“Look.” Bear fumbled through the evidence bag with a couple buttons on the rear of the camera—the plastic made manipulating them difficult. He hit the right sequence and the display screen lit up. He showed her the hundreds of digital pictures. “Whoever he is, he's up to more than some perv-shots. I better find him fast.”

“Yes, Bear, fast is good.” Angel watched the display screen and with each photograph, her face paled more until she turned away. “I don't want to see any more.”

The photographs began with shots of our house—early morning and late night when only lights were on in our upstairs bedroom. There were photographs from all angles. Shots of her Explorer coming and going in the driveway, too. The next series was at campus; shots of her parking, walking to and from the car to her office. Shots around campus at lunch, sitting outside the cafeteria with friends and colleagues. There was even a shot of her lecturing—the creep had taken photographs through the door windows in the back of the lecture hall. The worst ones—the ones that unnerved all of us—were a series of her talking to me on campus and in our back yard one night she'd cooked out. Well, not talking to me per se. She was sitting at the picnic table or standing over the grill having an animated conversation with, well, no one. Many were high-speed shots catching the moments very well. Too well. She was a crazy woman—talking and making a point to me with her spatula. Sharing a laugh. Even a warm moment when she sipped some wine.

Anger flooded me. Our property was not unprotected. During my murder investigation, my killer and an assassin found it too easy to enter and make their way around our home. Later, Angel was kidnapped from our house. When the case was closed, Bear upgraded our security—a new alarm system, repairs to the wrought-
iron fence around the front and side yards, a higher privacy fence around the rear yard, and reinforced locks on all the doors.

This stalker wasn't deterred by any of those steps. Two things about
him scared me—he was stupid and gutsy. He braved our security and ignored Poor Nic's beefy bodyguards. Hercule was nothing compared to them. Yet he took the photographs anyway.

“Bear, this guy's stalking Angel,” I said. “He's dangerous. He was trying to get into the house and he knew she was home, too. If not for Hercule, God knows.”

Bear grumbled and continued looking at pictures. “There has to be something on this memory stick to ID him. I'll have the techs go through it. Maybe they can find something erased that'll give me a lead.”

“Angel,” I said, looking at shots of her talking to me outside the Vincent House last night. “You gotta be a little more careful around me. You look a little, well, nuts, babe.” She sat behind her steering wheel in a couple telephoto shots, turned facing the passenger seat, talking to no one; talking to me. I had complimented her dress—her black evening dress, my, my—and she was lecturing me on my dinner etiquette.

Now, the photograph made her look like she was lecturing her second grade imaginary playground friend. It was not, to say the least, a flattering shot.

“I see,” she said. “I never considered any of this before. I'm used to having you around and forget.”

Bear said, “I'll find this guy, Angela. But he's right, you do need to be more
careful.”

She looked up and smiled, taking Bear's hand on the table. “See, you do hear him. When did you decide to give in and admit it?”

“I admit nothing.” The thinnest of smiles tried to hide the lies on his lips.

“Of course not.” She looked out the kitchen window at a crime tech packing up his van. “I guess your people are done.”

“Yeah, no prints on the glass, nothing. But we have the camera. I'm taking this to the lab myself.”

Angel stood and went to the refrigerator and took out the makings for sandwiches. She busied herself at the butcher block across the room. “Do you think there's any danger? I mean, why would someone be following me around?”

It was the million-dollar question.

“I don't know. I'll have someone watching the house and I'll alert
campus security. Don't go anywhere without telling me—and pack
your Walther. With any luck, we'll have this creep by morning.”

“Yeah, by morning,” I said as Angel made a sandwich for Bear. “Mustard or mayo, partner?”

“Mayo—Jeez, I did it again.”

Angel grinned. “Just give in, Bear. It'll be easier.”

“Whatever.” He stood up and went to the refrigerator. “Got any beer?”

“Bear? You're on duty,” she said. “And it's only one-thirty in the afternoon.”

“Is it that late? Maybe I need bourbon.”