Dying for the Past (5 page)

nine

Katalina—Kat to her friends
at the county property office—made the turn off I-81 onto County Route 37 and headed south
around Winchester. She was sleepy and knew she'd drank too much
at the club. But it was Friday night and it had been months since she'd done more than work and sleep and work some more. Her second job took too much out of her and paid her little more than nothing—the cost of the right papers and a chance at a new life in Virginia.

Her new girlfriends—two older divorcees and one loud party girl who were as obnoxious as they were fun and friendly—wouldn't take no for an answer and swept her to a night out. They ended up at a nearb
y bar whose promise was cheap beer, loud music, and country boys for any rodeo she wished to ride.

Kat wasn't looking for any bronco riding, but a few drinks and some dancing made her reminisce about happier days. Days before a man named Anatoly came into her life. She took fifty dollars from her rent money, donned a tight, bright-red dress cut too low for the meek at heart, and drove her dilapidated Escort ten miles across the West Virginia border.

Did she know what she was doing?

Hours later, and too many sweet drinks down, she wasn't sure.

She had to concentrate to keep the car steady and under the speed limit. She couldn't afford to attract the police. The alcohol coursing
through her veins would mean jail. Jail would mean an unexplained absence. Both would mean Anatoly.

Fifteen minutes later, she navigated two backstreets, nearly collided with a bicycle left along the road, and turned into the entrance to her condo.

It was then she saw him. He was the cliché he portrayed—a tall, wide, muscular man with short black hair and dark sunglasses even at night. He wore a heavy black leather jacket and dark pants. He smoked a cigarette, leaning on the side of his dark four-door in the far corner of the center lot. Even in the faint moonlight, he was unmistakable.

Anatoly.

Her breath caught. Adrenaline washed the fuzziness of alcohol from her eyes. Her fingers screamed from her grip on the steering wheel. She was already committed to the entrance but she veered hard left and made a tight circle, accelerating out of the turn and speeding back to the main street before Anatoly could get a good look at her car.

His car headlights came on.

She crushed down on the gas and headed across town. She fumbled
in her clutch bag and found her cell phone. Three times she dialed the wrong number. She was supposed to commit it to memory—stored numbers or speed dials were dangerous. But at the moment, fear was hiding it. On the fourth attempt, she connected with a voicemail.

“Dmitry, please answer—”

The voice on the mailbox was not familiar.

She swerved down a side street trying to remain undetected. “Think, Katalina.” Finally, she reached a voicemail only answered with a number. “Dmitry! You say no call you unless important. Please. It is Anatoly. He come to house. He chase me. Help me. Anatoly, he coming.”

She ended the call and turned right, heading south toward the highway.

The headlights behind her were gone, replaced by a higher, wider set she was hoping was a pickup truck like the local boys drove. She wheeled into an all-night convenience store and parked around the side where no one from the street could see her car.

She redialed the number again but got the same voicemail. Once. Twice. Three times.

Tears drained her makeup into black tracks down her cheeks. She could not face Anatoly—not tonight. Not again. Not ever.

Kat wiped her eyes and dug into her clutch bag again. This time, she slipped out a plain white business card secreted in her makeup kit. The card was simple—one name printed in the center and a handwritten phone number below it.

If she called the number, there would be no going back. Not to Anatoly. Not even to Dmitry. But if Dmitry did not reach her in time—if Anatoly found her first—there would be no going back
anywhere
.

She dialed the number, whispering a prayer, and cursed at the same time.

A grandfatherly voice answered, “Good evening.”

“Yes. I … I am sorry—” For a moment she considered hanging up but realized she had forgotten to mask her number with *67. She closed her eyes. “You say to call if ever I needing help. I am afraid. Dmitry, he will not answer. I am in very terrible fear.”

“I understand, Katalina. Please, do not be afraid. Tell me where you are. I can have someone accompany you to my home. You will be safe there.”

She sighed. “No. It must be you. I will not go with anyone. Just you. You must know this, yes? A man like you must understand, yes? Anatoly and you, you are not so different, no?”

The old voice laughed over the sounds of many mumbling voices. “Forgive me, I am unable to leave just now. And, Katalina, Anatoly and I are very much different people. Please, do not confuse us. Tell me where you are.”

“Please, you must tell me, what will it cost—what must I repay you to help me?” Kat's hands trembled and she peered around the car as though someone might be just outside. “What must I do for you?”

The smooth, grandfatherly voice sounded sincere—comforting. “My dear, Katalina. You owe me nothing. If an old man cannot protect a young woman in trouble, then why grow old at all?”

She closed her eyes as rivers of black streamed down her face. “Thank you. I will meet your men. Please, hurry them. I am so afraid, Nicholai. I am so afraid.”

ten

After wandering the house
for clues and snooping on all the hush-hush conversations the rich-folk were having—that's what private eyes do—I got bored and looked for Angel. A few of the conversations were, to say the least,
interesting
. Oh, one or two voiced genuine concern for Stephanos Grecco's murder, but most of the guests never heard of him. I listened to catty sniping about who wore what dress and the way Mr. Him undressed someone else's Mrs. Her with their eyes. Then there were never-ending complaints about the police taking too long, “Dear God, I want to go home—can't it wait until morning? He'll still be dead then, won't he?”

Someone even sniped the caterer should have been murdered.

Did anyone understand one of their own was lying in a pool of blood face down in the middle of the ballroom? Didn't they notice Stephanos Grecco bought it during a champagne dance in front of their eyes?

No. They didn't. “Oh, look, a murder. Waiter, the champagne isn't chilled right.”

Still, I didn't think the caterer deserved to be murdered—no matter how slow the service.

I found Angel in the rear garden patio under the watchful eye of a uniformed deputy. She sat at a small wrought-iron table with Stephanos Grecco's wife, Bonnie. She was an elegant lady in her late twenties—
maybe
in her thirties. Her slim, sleek figure and platinum hair should have come with a removable sign reading “trophy wife” for whenever she was with the round, frumpy, and much older Stephanos Grecco.

But, based on what I'd heard in the crowd, perhaps the sign was unnecessary.

Bonnie wiped tears from her face—at least appeared to—and with each dab, she glanced into a compact mirror in her hand to check her appearance.

“I don't believe this happened,” Bonnie sniffed. “I just can't.”

“It's going to be all right, Bonnie,” Angel said, touching her arm.
“It's very difficult, I know. I recently lost my husband. Whatever I can
do, just ask.”

“Well, not too lost.” I slipped into an empty chair beside Angel. “You two shouldn't be out here, Angel. The cops—”

“It's all right. Captain Sutter said we could sit here. Away from the crowd, I mean.”

Bonnie looked at her and then around the garden. “I know.”

Angel just smiled. Sometimes, without thinking, she forgets others cannot hear or see me. “I'm sorry, of course you know. I just didn't want you to feel rushed. Take all the time you need.”

“Thank you.” Bonnie dabbed a tear and straightened her gown. “I wish I had gone to the police sooner.”

Excuse me? What?

“Bonnie?” Angel squeezed Bonnie's hand. “What do you mean?”

“Steph's murder is my fault. I could have stopped it.”

Angel blinked several times and shot a glance at me as she leaned forward in her chair. “What do you mean?”

“It's my fault.” Bonnie dropped her face into her handkerchief
and sobbed for a long time. Then, she turned away from Angel and
set me back on my seat.

“Steph's bullet was meant for me.”

“You?” Angel stared. “Why?”

“Steph and I were arguing.”

Angel nodded. “Yes, I know—it was hard not to see you two fighting. But how does—”

“I got real mad.” Bonnie looked down. “He was drinking too much again. So I grabbed the nice man at our table—the very handsome
young
man—and Steph got madder.”

“But why do you think the shooting was meant for you?”

“I know it was.” Bonnie cleared her throat and looked around the garden as though there were spies behind the forsythias. “The letters.”

“The letters?”

Bonnie took Angel's hand in hers and whispered, “I got two let
ters this past month. They said they were going to get even. I'd
destroyed them and they were going to get even. One said that I'd
betrayed him and I had to pay. They said I'd taken everything from him and he wouldn't let me go on hurting people.”

Angel's mouth went agape waiting for more details. None came.

I said, “We gotta get those letters, Angel. And—”

“Do you still have them?” She was way ahead of me. “Do you know who sent them, Bonnie? Do you know what they mean?”

I had trained her well.

“No, I don't. The letters were like a computer printed them, not handwritten, and they weren't signed. I showed them to Steph and he laughed. He said he got letters, too, and it was old news. He said forget about it and he'd take care of it.”

“Angel,” I said, “you better get Bear. He needs to hear this.”

Angel stood up but Bonnie held tight to her hand, pulling her back into her chair. “Please, don't go. I'm so afraid. He could be anywhere. If he can try to kill me here—if he can kill Steph in front of all of you—I'm not safe anywhere.”

“It'll be all right, Bonnie. I promise.”

“No, I'm not safe. He's going to kill me next.”

eleven

“Revenge?” Captain Sutter stood
with Bear beside the wrought iron table
watching Angel console Bonnie Grecco. “Revenge for what?”

“I am not sure, Captain,” Bonnie said. “If I knew, I would tell you.”

“Committing murder in public shows a lot of anger,” Captain Sutter said, “or arrogance. And it takes a lot of planning.”

“
And no one saw him and there's no evidence yet.” Bear's crossed
arms
and
set jaw showed frustration. “We need a break.”

For the past twenty minutes, Captain Sutter and Bear had listened to Bonnie's story over and over—pulling details and fishing for lost memories. None were caught. So far, all we had were a couple threatening letters and a dead Stephanos Grecco.

“Bonnie, where are the letters?” Bear asked.

She shrugged. “I'm not sure. Steph had them. I don't know what he did with them, but they must be at home in his office.”

“Okay. As soon as we're through here, I'll have two of my detectives escort you home to search for the letters and anything else helpful.”

Bonnie nodded.

Angel asked, “Would you like me to come with you, Bonnie?”

“No.” Bonnie feigned a smile. “I'll be all right. I'm afraid I'm a little wobbly right now, and, to be honest, I don't want to stay at home tonight. I can't.”

I understood. “She's terrified, Angel. And distraught.”

“Take your time,” Angel said, patting her hand. “It'll all sort out—we'll help you. Bear will find the killer.”

“Thank you.” Bonnie looked away. “I'm afraid I know very little about Steph. I don't even know about a will or his finances—not about burial stuff. I cannot believe I was so stupid.”

Bear leaned in. “You're not stupid. It's normal—well, as normal as these things can be. Angel knows what to do. You're in good hands.”

“Bonnie,” Captain Sutter said, “You said you have no idea who sent the letters or what they meant. Do you think Stephanos knew? I mean, he seemed unconcerned about them, right?”

“No, he didn't take them seriously at all, so I never thought twice about the threats afterward. I asked and he dismissed it. Like always. If I asked about his past, he changed the subject. He never liked talking about it.”

“Oh?” Bear's eyebrows went up. “Why?”

“He didn't like talking about his money. You know, about business. He didn't with me, anyway.”

I said, “Bear, I've been snooping around. You know, listening to the guests. Nobody knew anything about him. Nothing. Zip. Crap-ola. Odd, don't you think?”

“Really?” Bear looked down and frowned. “What did your husband do for a living, Bonnie?”

She thought a moment; a moment too long for me. “He was a, what do you call it, a day trader? Yes, a day trader. He worked the stock markets and made private business deals. You know, like financing deals for people. He seemed to be very good at it.”

“What company did he work for?” Bear glanced over at Captain Sutter and she didn't look convinced either. “I'd like to contact them.”

“None I that I know of. He worked alone.”

“But, you said he did business deals.” Captain Sutter's eyes narrowed in the way I'd seen her when a suspect was weaving a tale.
“We'd like some names, Bonnie. Did any of those deals go bad? Any
one whose money Stephanos lost?”

Bonnie raised her chin. “I wouldn't know, Captain. As I said, he didn't discuss his business. I knew better than to ask.”

Disbelief telegraphed between Captain Sutter and Bear—telltale looks, raised eyebrows. Cop-intuition. Even my bullshit-meter was pinging.

Angel picked up on it, too, and broke a long silence. “Bonnie, how long have you been married to Stephanos?”

“He seems much older,” Captain Sutter added.

“Yes, he is much older,” Bonnie snapped, flipping her hair off her shoulders with more resentment than grief. “I know what you're thinking. We married three months ago, after we met six months ago on a cruise. Anything else? Am I your suspect?”

“No, Bonnie, no.” Angel patted her hand. “They have to ask personal questions. They have to know everything about Stephanos. And—”

“And they have to see if I killed him for his money.” Bonnie's voice was flat and cold. “I know what they're getting at.”

“Yes, Bonnie.” Bear sat down across from her. “It's unfortunate, but that's how this works. Look, we can do this later if you like. I understand—”

“No, Detective. Now is fine. I'll be honest—I don't know the details of Steph's will. But I'm sure he left everything to me. Why not, I'm his wife, right?”

“But you don't know, correct?” Captain Sutter asked. “For sure, I mean.”

Bonnie shook her head.

“Does he have any other family?” Bear asked in a softer voice. “Children by another marriage?”

“None he told me about. But we've not discussed much of his past. What would it look like if I started asking him about his money and wills and business stuff? He would have been angry and suspicious. Just like you.”

Bear and Angel exchanged glances. Angel said, “You're right, Bonnie. But they have to ask. Let's go find some tea. Okay, Bear?”

“Sure,” Bear grunted. “We'll take this up later.”

Captain Sutter agreed. “We'll get you out of here soon, Bonnie. I'm sorry about the questions. I am. If you don't want to go home, we can make arrangements for a hotel. But I'd like my men to be able to search your home tonight. It's important.”

Bonnie nodded and followed Angel into the house.

Bear watched them leave and said, “She's different, isn't she?”

“Yeah—half his age and no clue about him.” Captain Sutter shook
her head. “I bet she inherits a fortune. She claims not to know for sure. I don't know what to believe from her, so just in case, we better put protection on her for a while, Bear. Starting now.”

“Sounds like a job for Spence, Cap.”

She forced a laugh. “Yeah, okay—Spence. He'll love you for volunteering him.” Then she turned and looked at the house. “This case is bizarre.”

Me, I think the entire evening was bizarre. Like this mansion of Vincent Calaprese's—of the New Jersey Calapreses—was one interesting, weird, bizarre place. What bothered me the most was that despite all my neat spirit-tricks and snappy detective skills, I had no idea what was going on. Neither did Bear. But, one thing was certain—either Bonnie or Stephanos Grecco had made someone very mad. And that someone was skilled and brazen; a very bad combination.

Then there was sweet Sassy and the Big Band mobster demand
ing I deliver Benjamin—whoever he was—or I swim with the fishes.

I better find Benjamin. After all, I'm not so sure ghosts can swim
.