Dying to Know (13 page)

ney was empty. No electricity charged me. No welcome tingle of

anticipation warmed me. I col apsed into a chasm of hopeless-

ness. When the light took me, I had no desire to leave the dark-

ness I was in—no will to escape. Perhaps it was the darkness—

my darkness—that held me firm. Perhaps this was what death

was for me now.

110

I was lost. Hopeless. Alone.

I’d been unable to manage doors and office files. I had little

control of movements. There was nothing I controlled—nothing.

Yet, I had to find a way. I had to be more than a spectator; more

than an onlooker. Nothing was more important. Perhaps this is

why I was back—why I never left.

Doc told me I was only a witness, a bystander—no killing. I

had to prove him wrong.

Somewhere, sometime in the future, someone was going to

take my Angel.

111

nineteen

“No.”

“No?” I opened my eyes to Doc Gil ey. He was standing be-

hind my recliner where Hercule sat enjoying a petting. “‘No’

what?”

He frowned, raising his eyebrows like the answer was too ob-

vious. “I know what you’re thinking, Oliver. You can’t change it.

You can’t stop it. It’ll be whatever it will be.”

“You know where I’ve been? What I saw?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me. Where is Angel going to be attacked? Who

takes her? Tell me when.”

He shook his head. “Slow down. I don’t know. I know what

you know—perhaps a bit more. What’s important is that you

were there for a reason—and it’s not to change things. Didn’t you

ever see that flick? You can’t change events.”

“Bullshit.” I sat behind my desk and studied the ceiling for

answers. They were hiding elsewhere. “I also saw the movie from

112

the forties about ghosts solving crimes. Don’t give me that crap

about changing time. Nothing makes sense; my being here makes

no sense.”

“It will.”

“Tell me what to do, Doc. Please.”

“No. I couldn’t even if I knew. All I do know is that you can-

not change what happened.”

I caught that. “What happened? It already happened? How? I

just saw Angel this morning.”

“No, no.” Doc came to the front of the desk. His lips tightened

and he looked down, gathering his thoughts. When his eyes rose

to mine, his face was sad and dark. “It hasn’t happened yet. You

saw it for a reason. Find the reason.”

Oh, Christ—riddles. “What for?”

“You saw it like a movie, right?”

I nodded.

“Then watch the movie. Play your role.”

Huh? Oh, yeah. “Right. Be a detective and investigate.”

“Yes, but don’t trust your eyes. Use your gut. Question every-

thing—everyone.”

“Right. Everyone’s a suspect.”

“Everyone should be.”

113

t went y

Angel’s abduction churned terror inside me. Doc’s insis-

tence that I couldn’t change things was damning. I had but one

thought on that—
bullshit
. I had to try. And I could think of one way—Jeremiah Dempsey.

When I was a young deputy a year out of the academy, I hap-

pened upon a fugitive outside of town during a routine traffic

stop. It was purely accidental, mind you. He was sitting near the

main Post Office when I rounded the corner heading his way. He

tried hard—too hard—not to look at me. When he couldn’t resist

any longer, he squealed his tires pulling away. I pulled him over.

Jeremiah Dempsey was wanted for murder in Pennsylvania—

four murders and suspected in six others. Two homicides were

the Pennsylvania State cops who last tried to apprehend him. Jer-

emiah Dempsey vowed not to be taken without a fight and he’d

already left a trail of bodies to prove it. My shotgun sticking in his left ear convinced him to fight another day. The newspapers

114

said I’d saved lives by capturing him. No one knew how many

more he would have murdered had I not stopped him.

A serial killer only stops by capture or kil . Jeremiah wanted

the latter.

I had to stop the killer before he could strike. Whoever killed

me was now after Angel. Maybe she saw more than she knows

that night. Perhaps she knew something beforehand. Perhaps the

killer wants to be sure.

Jeremiah Dempsey was the answer.

Four people could help me. First of course, was Angel, who

I’d have to try and keep away from dark, rainy parking lots. And

there was Bear, who was technical y off my case and who these

days had checkmarks in both the plus and minus columns. I

could shadow Bear anytime and Angel would be even easier, so

they’d be last. No, I’d start with the last two, Spence and Clemens.

They were assigned my case and might trip over clues. It would

be an accident, of course, but I’ll take any help I can get.

I found them sitting in the corporate offices of the Bartalotta

Industrial Storage Corporation. They were smarter than I

thought. While they were supposed to be investigating
my
murder, they were here investigating Raymundo Salazar’s. Even those

two can add one and one and get two. I guess they figured the

best motive for my murder was my connection to Salazar’s. Two

cases, twice as many clues. All they needed was a suspect.

So far, there was none.

The Bartalotta Industrial Storage Corporation, or BISCORP,

was the last place Raymundo Salazar was seen alive. He worked

as a security guard on the three-to-twelve shift. An hour after he 115

left work one night, his body was found beside his car along the

country road heading back to Winchester. As previously noted,

there were no leads, no witnesses, and no motive.

Just like my case.

Oh, I should mention that BISCORP is owned by one Nicho-

las Bartalotta—my old pal Poor Nic.

The facility was a huge tract of warehouses twenty miles

southeast of Winchester. There were five main warehouses and a

smaller, two-story corporate office building. A well-guarded, fif-

teen-foot chain link fence surrounded the premises. From a dis-

tance, it was often confused with a prison or jail. Of course, considering my feelings about Poor Nicholas Bartalotta, that was a

reasonable conclusion.

Clemens was sitting opposite a short, stocky man in a dark,

pinstriped suit, Kirk Wallchak, Poor Nic’s Operations Manager.

Spence was roaming around Kirk’s office pawing every knick-

knack and photograph like a kid in a toy store.

To my disappointment, I arrived too late to catch the opening

salvo of questions. They must have been good ones, too. Wal -

chak didn’t look happy and was letting Clemens have it.

“Look, fel as, no offense, ’cause we want to cooperate,” Wal -

chak said.

“Then cooperate.” Spence’s voice was testy and he wasn’t try-

ing to hide it. “Now.”

Wallchak shook his head. “We already gave statements to the

other two cops.”

“Braddock and Tucker.” Clemens wasn’t asking. “We know.”

116

Spence tossed an autographed baseball to Wallchak from a

col ection on a wal rack. “We’re just fol owing up. Can we see

your boss?”

“He’s out. And he said no more information without a war-

rant.”

Wallchak’s desk phone rang and he picked it up. The voice

was loud but I couldn’t make out any words. Whoever it was, was

chewing Wallchak’s butt. Wallchak hung up and threw a thumb

at the door.

“Sorry, interview’s over. No warrant, no cooperation. You

gotta go, I have a meeting.”

Clemens shot a glance over his shoulder to Spence who was

playing with a model airplane he had taken off the bookcase.

Spence dropped it back onto the shelf, fumbled with it, and broke

off the propeller trying to right it on its stand.

Spence ignored the crash landing. “Okay, Kirk, have it your

way. Be seeing you with a warrant.” The two detectives didn’t

wait for a reply and meandered out of Wallchak’s office.

I stayed put.

Wallchak waited a minute before escaping to the corner office

down the hall. I, of course, was in tow. We entered without

knocking past the brass plate that read, “Chief Executive Officer, Nicholas Bartalotta.”

Kirk Wallchak was a liar.

Nic was sitting behind a large antique desk, not quite as gran-

diose as the one at his home, but impressive. He looked up with a

stern, un-amused tightness in his face. “They gone?”

“Yeah. They wanted to rehash the entire murder.”

117

“Which one?”

Now, that was an odd question. “How many are you involved

with, Nic?”

Wallchak paused, then said, “Salazar’s of course.”

Nic shook his head. “Christ, anything new? What have they

come up with?”

“Nothing, I guess. They don’t know about Iggi Suarez, though.

They never even asked about him.”

“Good. But you make sure they don’t. ”

Wallchak nodded. “The boys won’t say nothing.”

“Keep it that way. All we need now is for somebody to find

out about Salazar’s moonlighting.”

“They won’t from us, boss. Count on it.”

Poor Nic turned in his plush leather chair and gazed out his

window for a long time. Without turning back to Wallchak, he

said, “Is there anyone else who might talk?”

“Well, I dunno,” Wallchak muttered. “Maybe Sarah. But I

think she knows better.”

“Yes, yes, Sarah. You make sure the other boys are loyal. Leave

Sarah to me.”

Kirk Wallchak knew when to exit stage left. When he closed

the door behind him, I slipped into a cozy chair opposite Poor

Nic and put my feet up onto his desk.

“So, Nicky, who’s Iggi Suarez and what’s this about Salazar

moonlighting? You never told me about that when I was alive.”

Poor Nic sat staring out the window. He sighed and looked

thoughtful, as if he was contemplating Plato or a new bank heist.

118

“And what are you going to do with Sarah Salazar? I’ll be

watching, pal. You be nice to her.”

He ignored me. “Stupid bastards have no idea what’s going

on. None at al .”



Downstairs outside in front of the entrance, Spence stopped and

retreated back two steps. His face went pale and he looked like he was having a heart attack. “Ah, shit.”

I stopped beside him and looked out. Yup, he was having a

heart attack.

Bear Braddock sat on the hood of his car. He did not look

happy. When Bear didn’t look happy, the world around him got

unhappy.

We made it two steps from the car before Bear lurched for-

ward. He landed a right hook into Spence’s face that sent him

crashing to the ground. To his credit, he didn’t make any over-

tures to stand up or be a hero. He lay there, stunned and dazed.

Bear stood over him. “You son of a bitch. Carmen Delgado

called me. What the hell do you think you’re doing going after

Angel like that?”

“Easy, Bear.” Clemens started forward, but Bear’s stare

stopped him. “Easy, man. Let him explain.”

I said to Bear, “Carmen’s hiding something, pal. Even Spence

knows that.”

“So,” Bear hesitated and bit his lip—his eyes seemed unsure of

his words. “Carmen said … she said…”

119

Clemens looked from Bear to Spence and back. “What’s with

you, Bear? You okay?”

“Yes, shut up.” Bear settled his thoughts. The buzzing in his

head must have stopped. “You told the Captain that Carmen said

we were screwin’ around?”

“Yeah, so?” Spence was defiant but he stayed down. “She did,

Bear. Real y. She brought it up.”

“Hey, go easy, man,” Clemens said. “Let him up. This ain’t the

place for this.”

Spence rose to one knee. “Look, we have to chase every lead.

You know that. Affairs are the leading cause of murder. We were

asking questions. No harm, no foul.”

“Bul shit,” Bear said. “That’s not the way Carmen sees it.”

“I’ll fix this,” Clemens said, stepping between them. “We got a

little overzealous. I’ll straighten the Captain—promise.”

“We’re trying to find a murderer.” Spence stood up, eyeing

Bear for any sign of attack. “We’re on the same side, man. Relax.”

“Are we?” Bear poked a finger at him. “I’m not so sure what

side I’m on.”

120

t went y-one

Navigating when you’re dead is like watching television. If

you don’t like the show, change the channel. It was, to my annoy-

ance, also like watching without a television guide. I had to

switch from place-to-place until I found what I wanted.

It took me three tries to find Angel—home, the university,

and final y Kel y Orchard Farms. That’s where I found her.

Kel y’s Dig was located a half-mile deep in the farm’s original

apple orchard. About a third of the orchard was cleared. The re-

mainder of the farm was still lined with rows of overgrown trees

that hovered over the hil s like ranks of weary soldiers ready for battle; in a few short weeks, many of them would be slain. The

actual dig site was in a small clearing made by bulldozed apple

trees and brush plowed into a two-story debris pile behind the

main site. At the rear of the clearing was a pile of stones and

earth that was once an old barn’s foundation—this was ground

zero.

121