Dying to Know (18 page)

“Oh, you know him,” Angel said. “He’s been like my dad since

I was a kid.”

“That doesn’t make him your keeper.”

“Funny, that’s exactly what he thinks about you.”

“Yeah?” Bear’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe I should talk to him

about it.”

I stood behind Angel and said, “Tell Bear what I told you

about Salazar moonlighting from his security job with Poor Nic.”

She did.

Bear’s face tightened. “How do you know that?”

“Kirk Wallchak and Poor Nic were talking about it the other

day.”

“Oh, shit.” Bear sighed. “Listen, I’m not listening to the buzz-

ing in my head and I suggest you do the same.”

“Bear listen …”

“No.” He changed the subject. “I checked the campus CCTV

security tapes and they caught Carmen’s attack. None of the se-

curity guys were in the office so they completely missed it. Can’t make out any face or details, though—rain and bad lighting.”

“Oh my God.” Angel’s voice was a whisper. “She’s lucky to be

alive.”

“And that begs a question.” He leaned forward. “How did you

know about the campus? How did you know about Salazar and

Wallchak? For real, I mean.”

“Go easy, Angel,” I said. “Real easy.”

She didn’t. “Tuck told me. He’s here. Now.”

Oh, crap. “Not what I had in mind.”

163

Bear jumped back. “I knew you’d say that.” He started pacing.

“Angela, it’s all in your head. Hell, it’s all in my head, too. I’ve heard things, and it’s driving me nuts. He’s gone, dammit. He’s

gone.”

“No, Tuck’s here—so you better watch what you say … and

do.”

“I’m not afraid of ghosts; even his. Tuck didn’t tell you any-

thing.”

“Then how could I know?”

“You’re a witch.” Bear tried to smile but frowned instead. “I

don’t know. You’re saying he was at …”

“The warehouse, yes. Clemens and Spence met Wallchak the

day you punched Spence and knocked him down.”

“Jesus. Anything else?”

“Poor Nic asked about Iggi Suarez.”

“Iggi?” Bear started nodding. “I need to find him. He didn’t

mention where he was, did he?”

“No.” Angel smiled and pointed a finger at him. “There’s

more. Wallchak told Poor Nic that Spence and Clemens were

asking about the murder. Poor Nic asked him, ‘which one?’”

“Which one?”

“Isn’t that an odd question?”

“Yes it is.” Bear’s voice trailed off. For a long time, he stood

shaking his head. Final y, he said, “So tell me, why is Tuck haunting you?”

“He’s not just haunting me.” Angel leaned forward on her desk

and captured his eyes. “He’s here to find his killer.”

“Then why isn’t he haunting both of us?”

164

t went y-eig ht

“He meant because you were partners, Tuck.”

Did he? We’d been arguing that point since getting to her of-

fice two hours ago. “Sure, okay, maybe. I’m just saying it’s a

strange way to look at this.”

“Oh, please,” Angel said, sighing. “He doesn’t even believe

you’re here.”

“Of course I’m here.” I was lying on her office couch watching

her work. “Where else …”

Her phone rang.

“Hello, Tyler.” It was Tyler Byrd and she put it on speaker at

my request. “Yes, I spoke with Dr. Cartier this morning.”

Byrd’s voice was edgy. “It’s disappointing that Cartier is al-

ready drawing conclusions. Your analysis isn’t finished and he’s

suggesting Kel y’s Dig could be a cemetery. That could cost me a

fortune.”

165

“Tyler, we’ve not reached any conclusion. He’s trying to con-

sider other possibilities on the remains’ origins. That’s the whole point here, right?”

“Wel , yes of course, but …”

“And he has a question about the number of remains. And he

found a coin in the site that might be helpful dating the remains.

He’s onto something.”

Silence. Then, “Cartier didn’t tell me those details.”

“Well, he didn’t give me any details, either.” Tyler grunted

something and Angel went on with, “He’s following it up himself.

I’m sure we’ll both know as soon as he has all the analysis com-

pleted.”

“He should check with Ernie Stuart.”

“Ernie?”

“Yes, Ernie.” Tyler seemed more relaxed. “Stuart and his his-

torical society pals have gotten their hands on some antiques

from Kel y’s Dig. I’ll deal with that in court, so no matter now.

When is Cartier headed back to Kel y’s Dig?”

“Tomorrow, I think.”

“Good. I’ll pay him a visit.”

When she hung up, I said, “Swell guy, that Tyler Byrd. I won-

der what he meant about Ernie.”

“I don’t know.” Someone knocked on her door. “Come in.”

I nearly wet myself when the door opened.

Poor Nic Bartalotta stood in the doorway. Behind him, a

beefy bodyguard with no neck and less gray matter blocked al

light from the outer room.

“Professor Tucker?”

166

Angel went pale. “Mr. Bartalotta? What can I do for you?”

“May I come in?” The aging gangster didn’t budge from the

doorway. Gangsters are like vampires—they can’t enter without

an invitation.

“Wel , yes, I guess so.”

“Angel, tell him to leave his goon outside.”

Before she could, Poor Nic whispered to the man who then

disappeared from view. Then, Poor Nic walked into the room,

quietly closed the door behind him, and stopped in front of An-

gel’s desk. He reverently bowed his head.

“Please accept my deepest condolences, Professor Tucker. I

was saddened—and shocked—by your husband’s death. I should

have sent my condolences before. Forgive me for that. His death

was so tragic.”

Angel’s face tightened. “You mean his murder.”

“Of course—murder is such a ruthless word.” He offered a

grandfatherly smile. “Professor … may I call you Angela?”

I said, “Sure, let’s all be pals. He probably killed me so we’re al family.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t know you that wel .”

“Ah, of course.” He looked down at the two chairs in front of

him, waited for Angel to nod, and sat. “Let me get to the point.”

“Please do.”

I sat beside him. “Easy, Angel. Let him talk. He thinks he’s

safe here with you. Maybe he’ll tell us something.”

She nodded.

“Professor Tucker, many believe I was responsible for your

husband’s death.”

167

Kapow! The words etched across her face and she looked

straight at him. Then she glanced around the room, perhaps

hoping to see me. Poor Nic noticed and followed her gaze.

“Murder,” she repeated, snatching back his attention. “And

yes, I’ve considered that you murdered Tuck.”

“Yes, of course—his murder.” He didn’t flinch. “I am here to

tell you in person—I am not responsible. Because of that, you

should be concerned.”

“Excuse me? I don’t understand, Poor …”

He laughed and his smile lingered. “Yes, they call me Poor

Nic—policemen and reporters love the drama. Please call me

Nicholas.”

Angel stayed silent, waiting for his lead.

“You see, Professor Tucker, it’s very simple. I did not kill your

husband, and the police aren’t looking elsewhere very hard.

They’re so focused on me that they aren’t looking anywhere else

at all.”

Angel thought about that. “You were involved in Tuck’s last

case—maybe others, too. You’re a …”

“Easy Angela,” I said. “He doesn’t take criticism wel .”

“Now, now.” He raised a hand and patted the air. “I’m retired.

Let’s leave it at that, shall we? And I don’t kill policemen. I never have and never wil . Your husband was a good man I’m told. To

me, however, he was a pain in the …”

“Often to me, too.” Angel caught him off guard and they both

chuckled. She added, “Yes, he was a good man—and husband.”

Poor Nic’s face hardened as he lifted his chin. “Professor

Tucker, I am not in the habit of stalking women in parking lots.

168

How stupid could I be to kill your husband and then attack you?

Let alone twice. Don’t you think the police have had me under

surveil ance all this time?”

“Perhaps. But, you wouldn’t do these things yourself, would

you? You have others to do your dirty work.”

Sweet mobster-mash, Angel was pushing his buttons hard.

“Easy, easy. And you say I have no couth.”

“No, very good, Professor. Let me be straightforward. I am

concerned for your safety. If anything happens to you, it would

be tragic. More to the point, however, I might be blamed.”

“I see.” Angel let his words settle. “So, you’ve come to pro-

claim your innocence. You’ve done that.”

Poor Nic stood up and clasped his hands in front of him. “A

crazy person killed your husband. I believe that same person

killed Raymundo Salazar. Perhaps he even tried to kill Miss Del-

gado.”

“Perhaps,” she said.

“I must ask,” he said in a quiet voice, narrowing his eyes on

her. “The night your husband was murdered … what did you see?

What did you …”

“Nothing,” Angel said in a sharp tone. “Tuck was shot down-

stairs while I was in our room. Someone tried to come upstairs

and I let Herc go. He saved me.”

“Herc?”

“Hercule, our Lab. A bullet grazed him. He’s fine, though.”

He laughed. “Ah, very Agatha Christie. I adore Labradors. I

have three myself. Good for Hercule. Keep him close, Professor.”

169

And with that, Poor Nicholas Bartalotta gave her that warm,

grandfatherly smile. He handed her a card that read simply,

“Nicholas” with a handwritten phone number.

“Angela,” he said in a soft, calming voice, “you are a strong

and charming woman. Your loss is my loss. I will check in on you

from time-to-time—if you don’t mind. Should you need any-

thing, do not hesitate to call.” He turned and disappeared

through the office door.

Angel watched him leave. “What just happened, Tuck?”

“Hell if I know, Angel. But I think Poor Nic just became your

godfather.”

170

t went y-nine

It was a coin toss whether I stayed with Angel or tagged along

with Poor Nic. Since he was my nominee for murderer of the

year, he won the toss.

I slipped into his Lexus when Bobby, his driver, opened the

door for Poor Nic. Then, Bobby drove us straight back to his es-

tate ten miles out on the west side of the county. When we pulled

into the gated, high-walled property, the first thing I noticed

were the two goons standing guard. They became animated and

attentive. I guess everyone likes to look good for the boss.

The house—I’d call it a mansion—was immaculate and as

grand as I recalled. It was a two-story Tudor-style that looked

like it belonged outside London instead of Winchester. Gardens

and trees surrounded the property, and of course, more big

goons with guns patrolling all around. Okay, so maybe London

was wrong. Maybe San Quentin was a more appropriate venue.

With or without the gun-toting goons, Poor Nic had style.

171

He stopped at his front door and turned to Bobby. “Keep the

car ready. I may be going out later. Get Tommy and come to the

great room.”

Inside, Poor Nic helped himself to a five o’clock cocktail and

took his customary place behind the huge antique desk. Bobby

and Tommy were standing in front of him before his ice got wet.

He looked at his men and took a long swallow of his drink.

They neither drank nor sat.

Poor Nic said, “Tommy, what’s new from your friends down-

town?”

“Braddock is getting close on Salazar. He’s made the connec-

tion.” Tommy was one of Poor Nic’s knuckle-draggers—muscle.

While I hadn’t recognized him on the golf course when Bear met

him, his resume was clear now. Tommy was playing both sides of

the game. He was snitching for Bear on Poor Nic and reporting

Bear’s demands back to him.

Tommy was a double agent.

“I see.” Poor Nic sipped his drink and contemplated the glass.

“And how is he making such progress?”

“Dunno. He called Wallchak with a bunch of questions. He

knew just about everythin’. Bear knows a lot more than we

thought. All of a sudden-like.”

“How is that?”

Bobby spoke up. “Boss, I was with Wallchak the other day. He

said he hadn’t talked with Braddock about that stuff. In fact, he

said he hadn’t seen him for a while. I’ll go see him.”

“Call him—now.” Poor Nic gave him a dismissive wave and

returned to Tommy. “What else about your friend?”

172

“He’s gettin’ to be a pain in the ass. He knows about Salazar

moonlightin’, but he dunno where yet.”

“Can you slow him down?”

Tommy shrugged.

“Try.”

I watched Tommy. He was playing his cards like a riverboat

gambler. It was obvious Poor Nic knew about his connection to

Bear—perhaps it was at his direction. Yet, at the same time,

Tommy wasn’t giving him many details. Perhaps he’d already

fil ed Poor Nic in on the golf course meeting. Perhaps not. Like

his master, Tommy was no doubt a stone-faced thug and capable

of the deepest deceit. The lingering question on my mind was, of

course, who was he deceiving the most—Poor Nic or Bear? The

difference could mean jail or sleeping with the fishes—as they

say.