Dying to Know (23 page)

ing him sweat.

Inside, Spence zigged and zagged around the five-room flat

until he found Bear’s computer atop an old wooden table in the

spare bedroom. I’d comment on all the junk, stacks of books, and

movies piled everywhere, but invading Bear’s home was bad

enough. Chastising his manly décor would have real y been in

poor taste.

The computer was in sleep mode. Spence tapped the key-

board and in a few seconds, it came to life. Bear used no pass-

word and in a few more seconds, Spence was opening up his files

and surfing through his emails. He even came prepared with a

USB flash drive.

217

“Spence, if you plant evidence, I’ll haunt you forever.”

I watched him peruse months of emails. I was about to

chuckle—the knucklehead didn’t seem to know what he was

doing—when he clicked on a couple buttons, sorted the mail by

sender, and clapped his hands in victory.

“Gotcha, Braddock.”

Reading over his shoulder, my mouth went dry. Spence was

looking at a group of thirty or forty emails. Some went back

more than six months and others were as recent as last week. The

sender’s name bit like a rattlesnake.

Dr. Angela Hill-Tucker—my Angel.

“I’m sure Bear and Angel have a good reason for all these

emails. They’re pals, remember?” Was I trying to convince him or

me?

He was elated. “Oh, my, Detective Braddock. You have some

‘splaining to do.”

My insides—if I had any—were rockin’ and rollin’. As the doz-

ens and dozens of emails scrolled by, Spence’s fixation on Bear

and Angel didn’t seem too stupid anymore. Had I missed some-

thing? No. No. They’re pals—that’s al . It had to be al .

Spence pul ed a USB flash drive from his pocket to copy the

files just as his cell phone buzzed with a text message from Clem-

ens.

Bear was on his way.

“Shit, I’m not done.”

Spence pocketed the USB drive and backtracked out of the

apartment. He relocked the door and evaporated through a row

218

of tall ferns. Another two minutes and we were back in the

cruiser. I don’t think Spence breathed the entire trip.

Clemens was pale. “What’d you find?”

“Emails between the Mrs. and Braddock. I couldn’t copy

them, but they’re there.”

“What’s that to us?”

“Leads,” Spence said. “But, after we get a warrant, we’ll be

calling them ‘
evidence
.’”

219

fort y

“Why so sad?”

“What?” I looked up and instead of the bald spot on Clem-

ens’s head, I saw the two young girls from my visions watching

me. Strange—not that anything was normal anymore—but I was

in my den instead of the backseat of Spence’s cruiser.

The brunette was kneeling beside my recliner scratching Her-

cule’s ears. He was, of course, all about spirits these days. “Why so sad?”

“Sad? Where’d you come from?”

The blonde seemed to be on the other side of Hercule, stand-

ing farther behind the chair. I say ‘seemed to be’ because I

couldn’t focus on them, and it wasn’t my eyes that were blurry—

it was them.

“Why are you so sad, Oliver?” The blonde asked, again.

“Don’t be sad.”

They knew my name? “Who are you? What do you want from

me?”

220

“You know.” The brunette seemed to be playing coy like

school girls sometimes do. “Of course, you know.”

“Please,” the blonde said, “there’s no need to be sad. You’ll fix

everything. You have to.”

I stood there looking from one to the other. Hercule woofed

and bade the brunette scratch him more. She dutiful y obeyed

and I continued gawking.

“Please, I have so many questions …”

“You have to hurry.” The brunette stood up and reached back,

taking the blonde’s hand. “You saw what he did. You have to stop

him. He will do it again.”

A haunting vision of two young girls’ murders played in my

thoughts. “That was you I saw. Your murders? Who did it—who

killed you?”

The brunette said, “That was a long time ago. Very long. Now

the soldiers protect us. You can’t help us. It’s too late for us. Help the others.”

“How? Tell me who killed you?” I took two quick steps to-

ward them. “Please. Just tell me who it is.”

“Help the others, and hurry.” The brunette’s eyes flashed

wide—my approach startled them. She retreated behind Hercule

and joined arms with her companion. “Don’t.”

“I’m sorry, please …” I stepped back but it was too late. They

faded and were mere dust drifting in the window’s sunlight.

As the girls disappeared, someone began unlocking my front

door and I went to the den window to check. The instant I did, a

brew of jealousy churned inside me. It was Bear. Something star-

tled him and he turned around, visual y surprised to see Angel

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pull up to the curb. He relocked the front door and met her on

the sidewalk.

Something strange happened just then. I tried to blink myself

outside onto the porch to listen in. I could not budge. Just as I

had been twice before, I was stuck in my tracks and unable to

spirit myself anywhere. Before, I had been forced to witness the

two girl’s murders and later, Carmen Delgado’s abduction.

What was it that held me now?

Angel and Bear’s conversation didn’t last long and it was in-

teresting even without benefit of the words. Bear’s side was wor-

risome—I could tell from the way his head shook and his occa-

sional glance skyward. Angel wasn’t taking his news wel , either.

She stepped back from him, glanced toward the house and my

den window, and flashed a hand to her face. She looked upset

and angry. Their tête-à-tête went back and forth for two or three

more minutes until
it
happened.

Angel’s hand snapped out and Bear reluctantly removed our

house key from his key ring and surrendered it. Afterwards,

Angel gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, snuck another glance

toward the house, and drove off.

Bear watched her go. He looked sad, and if kicking the side of

his cruiser meant anything, pissed off.

The newest question on a long list of unanswered ones was—

what the hell just happened?

222

fort y-one

For two hours, I wandered around the house looking for Doc.

Even though he rarely gave a straight answer or offered more

than ethereal philosophy, talking with him did make me feel bet-

ter. I could use some of his name-calling and deprecation right

now. Of course, I couldn’t find him anywhere.

Even Hercule stayed sleeping in the chair and uninterested in

either a chat or toss of the bal .

I gave up and dialed into Angel. She was halfway through a

Caesar salad at the Old Town Bistro in Winchester. Tyler Byrd

and André Cartier were there, debating the pros and cons of pro-

tecting historical sites across Virginia. André was an expert on

the topic and Byrd was an expert on the free enterprise system—

making lots of money.

Considering what Iggi told us, this was one meeting I wished

I’d heard from the beginning. Angel was just getting to the good

part and the redness on Tyler’s face told me he knew it too.

223

Tyler was a medium height, stout, balding man. He was in his

early sixties and had a muscular, fire-plug build that I found very construction-worker-esque. He looked more like a professional

wrestler than a businessman, even in his two-piece suit.

“Suarez and Salazar? Oh, I know where this is going.” Tyler

folded his powerful hands in front of him and leaned back in his

chair. “Let me tell you what I told Braddock—I don’t know shit.”

André began, “They worked for you …”

“Listen, I didn’t know anything about them hunting for bones

or pirate treasure at Kel y’s Orchard. I gave them odd jobs here

and there. They were supposed to be doing pre-construction site

work—clearing trees and helping the surveyors. I had no idea

they were prospecting at night. If I had, I would have fired them.”

“Some might think you stood to profit from concealing what

they found—the bones and such.” André was curt. “See the

point?”

“Sure, except there’s a fatal flaw in your big conspiracy the-

ory,” Tyler said, leaning his hulking body forward.

“What’s that?”

“It didn’t stop anything.”

Angel and André exchanged glances that said, “Oops, he’s

right.”

Tyler went on. “Those two knuckleheads dug up their loot a

week
before
my crew found those bones—and we reported it to the police. I’m responsible for putting a hold on this project, not those two. Me. I could have plowed it all under, but I didn’t.”

He had a good point. He had a very good point.

224

Angel said, “Your survey crews called the police first—before

they called you. That’s what you told police.”

Tyler Byrd was not known as a patient man. Nor for being

bullied or intimidated. So, when he lurched to his feet with a

steel finger stabbing at Angel, I wasn’t surprised.

“Now you listen here, Professor Tucker. I had nothing to do

with Salazar’s murder—your husband’s either. Who do you think

you are? You’re not the cops. You’re supposed to be advising the

court on what to do with Kel y’s Dig. I suggest you stick to that

before …”

“Before what, Tyler?” Angel snapped. “Before something else

happens to me? Like getting shot at? Attacked? My best friend

attacked again? What else could you possibly do?”

“He could kill you, Angel,” I said. “Go easy.”

André grabbed her hand and gave it a gentle tug. “Easy, An-

gela. Please, you don’t mean that. Tyler wasn’t threatening …”

“No, I wasn’t.”

The three of them looked around the patio at the tables of

people watching. Tyler sat back down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean

what it sounded like. I’m losing hundreds of thousands on this

deal and everyone thinks I’m a murderer.”

Angel said, “There is more than money at stake here.”

“Yes, but a lot of money, too.” Tyler wasn’t interested in being

conciliatory. “My partner was damn careful about the Kel y Or-

chard historical zone. He negotiated allowances so we could get

the excavation through without disrupting the original farm-

house site. He was a fanatic about that, and it set well with every-225

one at the time. Now, this gravesite business could cost me five

million or more.”

“Your partner?” André asked. “Who’s that?”

The question drew the air from Tyler’s bluster. His eyes

dropped to the table and he looked irritated he’d spilled the

beans.

“Nicholas Bartalotta,” he said, and his fingers turned white

around his beer.

Angel’s mouth dropped. “Poor Nic?”

“Yes, Nic.” Tyler went on. “Nicholas’ distant family owned

Kel y Orchard back in the sixties—at least for a short time. That’s why he decided to retire here. He took an interest in the bypass

project when it first got started and came to me as an investor.”

“I see,” André said. “Is that why he wanted the farmhouse

saved?”

“Yes. Nic planned the construction through the farm. The

original plans brought the main highway ramp closer to the

farmhouse. He got it moved. He wanted to save the farmhouse at

all cost. Sentimental old fart. He even provides security at the site now.”

“Bartalotta runs your security?” André asked. “Isn’t that the

fox guarding the hen house?”

“No, it’s not. He owns a security company, doesn’t he?” He

pulled a wad of bil s from his pocket and dropped several onto

the table. When he did, a heavy coin fell out onto the table beside the bil s.

Angel scooped it up. “Very nice gold piece, Tyler.”

André eyed the coin. “May we ask where you got this?”

226

“No, you may not.”

Angel handed the coin back to him. “Then, does the name

Liam McCorkle mean anything to you?”

“No.” Tyler strode off and never looked back.

Angel said, “Tyler Byrd and Poor Nic are partners. And Nic’s

family owned Kel y Orchard forty years ago. Some coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in them,” André said. “And I’d bet those two

have many more secrets—much more interesting ones, too. I’d

bet my life on it.”

227

fort y-t wo

“Angel, we need to talk about Bear.”

We were standing on the sidewalk outside my office. We’d

come straight here after lunch to find Bear.

Angel glanced around to see if anyone was watching. “Tuck, I

can’t very well have a discussion with you out here, now can I?”

“But …”

“Hold on,” she pulled out her cell phone and put it to her ear.

“What?”

Wow, neat trick. I got serious. “Is there anything about him I

should know? I mean, you know, anything you know about him

that I don’t?”

“Like what?” Angel scrunched up her face. “What on earth

are you talking about?”

Jesus, she was making this difficult. “Angel, it’s about our

house key and all the emails.”

“The key? Emails?”

228

“Not just a key—our house key. And lots of emails. Is there

anything, you know, with you two I need to know? I mean, be-

fore I died of course … no, I mean …”