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Authors: T. J. O'Connor

Tags: #paranormal, #humorous, #police, #soft-boiled, #mystery, #mystery fiction, #novel, #mystery novel, #tucker, #washington, #washington dc, #washington d.c.

Dying for the Past (8 page)

BOOK: Dying for the Past
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eighteen

“Nothing.” After two hours,
the word was Spence's mantra. “Not a damned thing.”

Bear stood across the sitting room command post, leaning on the wall. “If Cartier isn't the killer, then someone got past the deputies around the house. Is it possible?”

“Maybe.” Spence rubbed his eyes. “It was rainy, dark—maybe they slipped past. But then again, we didn't find any footprints in the yard or anything. One of our guys thought they saw someone moving around one of the estate houses next door. But, there were no signs of anyone.”

“Spence, it
was
raining. There should have been tracks or a sign of something if someone got outside.” Bear was sullen again. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.” Spence took out his notepad and checked through
the pages. “The houses next door were locked up. And there were
no tracks, or water, or anything inside or out. I can't explain it. The killer has to be one of the guests or caterers in here.”

“Maybe,” Bear said. “Then how did he get all the way from the upstairs and outside with no one seeing him and no tracks in the
rain and mud? He shot Clemens on the second floor and we chase
d him down to the first floor before he vanished. The uniforms were right
outside the kitchen door. Right?”

“Right.” Spence closed his notepad and looked dumbfounded. “Beats me. Unless he mingled back in with the guests and no one noticed.”

“One thing, though,” I said, “if it was André—and it wasn't—then
why return to the second floor? Rita said he came down just after the shooting, right? Then why go back up there later and shoot Clemens?”

Bear looked at Spence with a blank expression. I think he was considering the same thing. “Doesn't make sense. Why go back upstairs?”

“What?”

“Cartier, Spence. Rita saw him come down right after the shooting, right? Then why go back upstairs in time to shoot Cal?”

Spence shrugged. “Heck, I don't know. Maybe to hide the gun?”

“No. He would have hidden it before coming down. And if he hid it already, he couldn't have shot Cal.”

I said, “I'm telling you, Bear. It wasn't André. And you haven't found the other body yet.”

Bear wandered to a window on the far wall. He peered out with a troubled, angry look. “None of this makes sense. How did we miss him? Where'd he go?”

“I don't know,” Spence said. “But we must have—”

“Find out.” Bear's voice was curt. “Spence, we're missing something—”

“Detectives?” A voice from the hallway startled us all. It was
Captain Sutter standing with a dark-skinned, short woman of about
forty-five or fifty. “Detectives, this is Ruth-Ann Marcos from the US Attorney General's Office. Unbeknownst to me, she was one of the guests tonight.”

Bear glanced at the woman, nodded, and said, “What's someone from the Attorney General's Office doing here?”

“Bear,” Spence said, “Remember the two guests who never signed in—”

“You?” Bear looked at the woman again. “You weren't on the guest
list and Spence says you refused to sign in. What are you doing here?”

“It's Ruth-Ann, Detective,” she said as her eyes dissected him into
little pieces—perhaps for examination later. “I assure you, Detective, I'm here as a guest only. I thought I would offer any assistance you may need.”

“Assistance?” Bear looked from Spence to Captain Sutter. “I don't
think­—”

“Bear,” Captain Sutter said, “she was André Cartier's guest tonight. Give her an overview—it's okay, this is on me.” She gestured to a nearby table and everyone sat.

Ruth-Ann took a chair opposite Spence, but her attention was on Bear. Her black, floor-length evening dress was incapable of hiding her strong, full shape. She was short, perhaps only a couple inches taller than Captain Sutter, with wavy, black hair and round, dark eyes. She was elegant in a mysterious, Latina way—simmering and spicy. The expensive jewelry she chose was flattering and her diamond necklace said she didn't need a lot of overtime at the office.

Jeez. When I was a breathing cop, the best I got was Ralph Barone, a dumpy, bald, middle-aged, Commonwealth's Attorney. With me gone, Bear gets Ruth-Ann Marcos?

“Thank you, Detective,” she said. “I was present for what happened, so just go over what you have found.”

Bear looked at Captain Sutter, who shrugged and waved a “just tell her” hand in the air. He did. He started with the immediate search of the guests and the money found on Grecco's body. Then, he went over his men's search of the estate grounds. He glossed over the missing charity donations and commented he thought it had nothing to do with Grecco's murder—a crime of opportunity. Everyone agreed. Ruth-Ann wondered about the caterers. After all, none of
these
guests would stoop to such unsavory conduct.

Bear ended with André's arrest. He left out the few tidbits I'd implanted in his brain about the assassin's murder—the one from my vision. I'm sure he didn't want to admit what the ghost of his former partner told him, so I said, “there are some other thoughts and theories, but I'll keep those to myself if you don't mind.”

Ruth-Ann shrugged. “Not much, is it?”

“No, it's not, Ruth-Ann,” Bear said. “Somehow, the killer murdered Grecco and got past us. Our patrols and the Winchester City police are searching everywhere.”

“And André is your only suspect?” Ruth-Ann's eyes wandered between Bear and Captain Sutter. “I'm skeptical—but we're friends, too. Any GSR or prints?”

“We're skeptical too, Ruth-Ann.” Spence tapped the table. “But we had no choice. André's a friend of—”

“You can call me Ms. Marcos, deputy. And I know André Cartier very well—he escorted me tonight. I've known him since I transferred to Washington, and frankly, I find him above reproach.”

“Yes, of course,” Spence said. “The coroner will be working up the body first thing in the morning—er—later this morning, I mean.”

“Captain, would it be possible for me to see the ME's results as soon as they are ready?” Ruth-Ann looked to Captain Sutter. “And I'd like to see the guest list and the staff lists, if you approve.”

Captain Sutter cocked her head. “Why? There's no federal case here?”

Ruth-Ann folded her hands. “Yes, Helen, I'm so sorry. You're right, of course. I am just a guest tonight. But many of your guests are from the Washington circles—as am I. Perhaps I can help. I don't want to intrude. I am very concerned for André, you understand.”

Helen? No one ever called Captain Sutter “Helen.”

“All right, Ruth-Ann.” Captain Sutter nodded. “Maybe you can help.”

Spence retrieved a file from another table where notepads and evidence bags lay. He flipped it open and dug through the inch-thick stack of papers. After finding what he was looking for, he slid a three-page printout across the table. “Guests and caterers.”

As Ruth-Ann scanned down the columns of names, Captain Sutter caught Bear's eye and shook her head as the telegraph lines sent a clear message—there would be no more information sliding across the table.

“Yes, I know many of these names. Some quite well, too.” Ruth-Ann didn't look up. “And you cannot account for a caterer and two other guests?”

Bear leaned forward. “We think the caterer left before the shooting. We're following up. There were two people who weren't on the guest list and didn't sign in—you were one of them. So we're only missing one now.”

“Well, how very interesting.” Ruth-Ann's head snapped up and her eyes found Captain Sutter's. Her charm and “thank you, yes ma'am” tone was gone. In its place, was an edgy, dry tone. “André was arrested when this man is present?”

Bear said, “ ‘This man' who?”

“Come now, Detective.” Ruth-Ann stood up and stabbed her finger on the guest list. “You know full well who I'm talking about. I'm shocked he's even here. Let me see his statement.”

Spence leaned over and followed her thin finger to the name. He rolled his eyes. “Ah, his guest is the one missing.” He looked at Bear. “Sorry, Bear, I forgot to tell you.”

“Who's missing, dammit?” Captain Sutter said, snatching the list from Ruth-Ann's fingers. “If you have a point, make it.”

“Nicholas Bartalotta.” Ruth-Ann folded her arms. “New York mobster and killer extraordinaire. I assume the other missing guest is his thug bodyguard. Great work, everyone.”

Oh, brother. Poor Nic was a suspect again.

nineteen

“Nicholas Bartalotta isn't on
our interview list, so he must have left the party before we started,” Spence said, reviewing his notes for the third time. “I'm checking on him and I've sent a car to his place.”

“Unbelievable.” Captain Sutter cringed. “Spence, how the hell did this happen?” Then she turned to Ruth-Ann. “We'll follow this up, but I have to tell you, Nicholas has proven to be a rather upstanding person—at least around here. I know his past—”

“Upstanding? Are you kidding me?” Ruth-Ann's face contorted. “He's a thug and a murderer.”

Spence, never understanding the safety of silence, said, “Well, retired thug, I think.”

I'm not sure whose look castrated him fastest—Captain Sutter or Ruth-Ann's. It's a shame, really, because while Spence was out of line, he was not wrong.

Nicholas Bartalotta was an aged New Yorker who retired a few years ago to Winchester after a forty-year hiatus. Poor Nic, as he was dubbed by some New York newspaper years ago, has become something of a local legend—part retired gangster who filled hearts with fear and part celebrity who filled charity coffers with cash. Somewhere in there, he ran a couple local businesses, was restoring his family farmhouse—a Civil War historical site—and helped solve my murder.

Nicholas Bartalotta was a man of many talents—or perhaps, many personalities. Some of those you could even talk about without risk of retaliation. And, despite his former life, he was Winchester's favorite, and only, mobster—retired or not.

“Retired?” Ruth-Ann shook her head. “Are you kidding me? He's mob—plain and simple. He's here and you arrest André? Detective, you need my help more than you know.”

“Slow down,” Bear said. “Let me check with Angela. She'll know
the score on Nic.” He didn't wait for permission and left the room.

Ruth-Ann said, “He's a friend of Professor Tucker?”

“Now, Ruth-Ann, let me—”

“No, Helen, don't you think you should focus on Bartalotta? If he's around, he's involved.”

“Geez,” Spence said, snorting a laugh. “Everyone said the same thing last time and he was—” Ice and daggers stopped him. “Sorry, Cap.”

“Ruth-Ann, I know how to run an investigation,” Captain Sutter said. “So does my team. Thank you for your advice, but we'll handle this. Is there anything else?”

Ruth-Ann stood and walked around the table. Without a word, she scooped up Spence's investigative file and fanned through the pages. A few seconds later, she looked up.

“Yes, there is something. I don't see where you finished canvassing the area—”

“Manpower, Ruth-Ann.” Captain Sutter took the case file from
her. “This is Frederick County, not Washington DC. We have smaller
budgets and only one crime scene team. We've called in assistance from Loudoun County, but it'll be a while.”

“I can have the FBI—”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, thank you.” Captain Sutter threw a thumb over her shoulder for Spence to leave and stuffed the file in his hands. When he was through the doors, she stepped in close to Ruth-Ann. “Listen, Ruth-Ann, it's just us gals now.”

“No,” I said, “I'm still here, but feel free to slug it out.”

Neither cared.

Captain Sutter went on. “Look, you asked for access because of André Cartier. I gave it to you. We're done. There's no federal case here. We can handle this and if we need your help, I'll be sure to ask. But until then, you
are
just a guest.”

“All right, Helen,” Ruth-Ann looked down. When she looked back up at Captain Sutter, she painted a plastic smile on her face that fooled no one. “You're right, of course. I trust you'll still keep me informed. If Bartalotta is involved, this will be a federal matter. And I want him. We've been after him for years. And Helen, one call to the sheriff and you're washing cars until retirement.”

“Yes, of course we'll keep you informed. But Ruth-Ann, the sheriff's up for reelection soon and I'm dating the town news-
paper's editor.”

She was?

“How wonderful for you. Remember, Captain, we feds decide what we're interested in and what we're not interested in.” Ruth-Ann sauntered to the door. “And I choose
interested
.”

twenty

It was four thirty
in the morning when the last of the guests and catering staff were checked off Bear's list and released. Bear, too, took an instant dislike to the catering manager, Petya, so they released him last. As Petya's catering van pulled away from the rear of the mansion, Bear went room-to-room checking, double-checking, and triple-checking every bit of cop work he could think of.

There was nothing more to do tonight.

“Spence, what's the word on Poor Nic?” Bear said, walking into the kitchen where Spence was draining another cup of coffee.

“Jeez.” Spence spilled coffee all over his shirt. “You scared the crap out of me, Bear.”

“And what about this Kravitz guy and Jorge-whoever?”

“Bartalotta ain't home and there's no word on Kravitz yet. Our boys are sitting on both places.”

“He isn't home? At this hour of the morning?”

“Nope.”

“Bullshit, you tell our people to—”

“Bear?” Angel walked in. “What's wrong?”

“It's almost five a.m. and Bartalotta isn't at home.” He gave her a quick summary of his argument with Ruth-Ann. “Are you sure Nic was even here last night? I don't recall seeing him.”

“Yes, and he donated a very sizable check,” she said. “Twenty-five thousand dollars, I think.”

“Wow.” Bear poured two coffees from a large pot on the stove and handed one to Angel. “Do you remember him leaving?”

Angel thought a moment. “No, but he must have. I don't even recall seeing him after the evening got underway. But then, I was busy and didn't have much time to speak with you or—”

Bear rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know—
him
.”

“Him” would be me. “Your loss, Angel. No worries, I'm making new friends, dear. You can throw fancy parties and make new friends if you like. But so can I. In fact, I already have.”

“I was going to say André,” she snapped. “But
him
either.”

Spence stood up. “I'm going to check the guys again.” He said, and walked off.

“Angela, you should go home,” Bear said, “We're not through here, but no need for you to hang around.” He left in Spence's wake.

I watched him go. “He just won't give in about me, will he?”

“No, and he won't talk about it either.”

“He knows I'm here, and he can hear me sometimes, too.”

“Yes, he can. I'm sure of it.” Angel laughed. “Ever since the day—that was a lot for him. Give him time, Tuck. Give him more time.”

“The day,” as Angel referred to it, was when Ernie Stuart got justice. After killing me, some of Ernie's victims came back and helped catch him. In the end, at Kelly's Dig where he started his decades of killing with Caroline and Amy, they came back and scared him to death. He died of a massive heart attack. We were all there—Angel, Bear, and even Spence and Clemens. Something happened out at Kelly's Dig. Something no one ever spoke about afterward. Not Bear for certain. You see, there's something about admitting you're seeing ghosts that always makes the room go a little icy. Everyone on “that day” saw me. No one could bring themselves to admit it.

But Bear's coming around. He doesn't have a choice. I'm not easy to ignore.

“I guess I'll leave, Tuck,” she said, yawning. “I'll look for you later.”

“Sure, go. I'll be home soon.” Something tickled my ears like the jingle of a far-away bell. That was my spirit-radar telling me something was afoot. “Or maybe not.”

Fats Waller played
It's A Sin To Tell A Lie
and I turned. Sassy stood in the kitchen doorway and walked off toward the hall stairs. She beckoned me with a whistle, and being a former red-blooded, all-American male, I obeyed. “I'll see you at home. Don't wait up.”

I walked into the hall as Angel headed for the front door.

Sassy was waiting on the stairs. “Hey, Tuckie, don't be going nowheres yet. I gotta show you something. It's just the cat's pajamas.”

Huh? “Sassy, you're gonna get me in big trouble. What do you want?”

“Come on, Tuckie.” She winked and strutted up the stairs. “You'll see. Shake a leg.”

I did.

On the third floor, she led me to the mansion's west wing and a bedroom at the end of the hall. There, she flung herself on the huge canopy bed and laughed like a schoolgirl.

“Okay, baby, take a look around.”

Baby? If Angel heard this, I'd really be dead. “Come on, Sassy, just tell me. No more fooling around.”

“Nope. You gotta play, Tuckie. Look around.”

The room was furnished with a few antiques like every other room in the house. There was a small bureau near the windows, nightstands on either side of the bed, and a built-in armoire taking up a third of the wall opposite the bed. Nothing gave off any bells and whistles—just another room in a mega-million-bucks mansion. If you've seen one, you've seen them all.

“What am I looking for?”

She laughed again. “Silly, in there.” She pointed to the armoire. “Inside, Tuckie. Look inside.”

“Sassy, Vincent's gonna re-kill both of us. I don't think he'll—”

“Tuckie, let me worry about Vincent. He's busy with other stuff.” She jumped up and went to the armoire. “Here, silly, I'll show you.”

She opened the double-doors revealing an empty cabinet except for a few old hangers and cobwebs. Then she pulled on one of the garment hooks on the side panel. A rear panel opened and revealed a narrow staircase leading up to the attic.

“Hey, how come you can do stuff so easy?” I said. “Open and close things, I mean. I need electricity to help me out.”

“I been around longer, that's all. Just pay attention.” She went inside and poked her head out. “Come on.”

“What's this, Sassy?” I don't generally need to open doors and climb stairs if I don't wish to. But despite the television and movie spin, being a ghost does not make you omnipotent. If you don't know where something is, you can't
poof
to it. Likewise, if you don't know there's a secret room beyond the secret passage door, you can't very well poof to it either.

“Why didn't you just tell me, Sassy?”

She grabbed my hand with schoolgirl enthusiasm. “Come see, Tuckie. You'll be glad. It's one of our old getaways. Coppers could never find me.”

“No? I cannot wait to find out why they were looking for you, Sassy.”

She nudged me toward the hidden stairs. “Silly, I was a good girl. Honest.”

“I believe you.” I didn't, but it made her smile.

“You do?” She threw her arm around my shoulder and pushed me up the stairs. “Swell, 'cause Vincent never does. He says he knows I'm lying 'cause my lips move.”

BOOK: Dying for the Past
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