Dying to Know (24 page)

“Are you insinuating what I think?”

Yes, I guess I was. “Wel , I’m asking.”

“No.” She stormed into the office and was immediately

buzzed into the detective’s bullpen. Once inside, she slammed

her phone shut. “Real y, I cannot believe you.”

“Please, just hear me out.” I looked over and saw Bear in Cap-

tain Sutter’s office with a scowl and a bad attitude. His face was drawn and mouth clamped tight, holding back what I knew was

a flurry of expletives for the man standing near us watching him.

“No, wait a minute. Something’s going on.”

Mike Spence had a big, evil smile on his face. The little bas-

tard even winked and blew Bear a cute, exaggerated kiss. He

wanted Bear to know who clipped him.

The bullpen had a half-dozen cops and detectives mulling

around but it was deathly quiet.

“Angel, wait at my desk. I gotta see what’s up with Bear.”

Angel huffed and headed across the room.

Inside Captain Sutter’s office, I said to Bear, “What’s going on,

partner?” I knew instantly when Captain Sutter held out a clear

plastic evidence bag with my .380 Walther backup gun in it. The

last time I’d seen it, it was in my den the night of my murder.

“It took us three days but we fished it out of the sewer drain

two blocks from Tuck’s house. Ballistics matched it to Tuck’s

murder.”

Bear didn’t look at the gun. “And?”

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“A neighbor saw you roaming around up the street a few

nights ago.”

He cursed and said, “No kidding. That’s the night someone

shot at Angel—it’s all in my report. I chased someone up the

street. My prints won’t be on the gun.”

“No, you’re right.” Sutter set the evidence bag on her desk.

“There are no prints at al . Not even Tuck’s. Wiped clean.”

“The murderer wiped it and tossed it after killing him. I’d ex-

pect that.”

“Real y?” Captain Sutter rubbed her eyes. “Tell me about the

emails. I’m told there are tons between you and Angela. More to

Carmen Delgado. What the hell is going on?”

“Nothing, Cap.”

“Nothing? Bul shit.”

Bear folded his arms and set his jaw. “Search my house, read

my mail, hell, you don’t need a warrant—do whatever. This is

bul shit and you know it.”

“I hope you’re right. The Sheriff wants your ass, Bear. But he’l

take your badge and gun for now.”

“Suspended?” Bear dropped his head and cursed loudly. “For

what? Being friends with my partner’s wife?”

“How about withholding information?” Captain Sutter went

to her office door and looked out. “Tell me again about the night

Tuck was kil ed. Spence pul ed your cel records. Angela cal ed

you at 10 p.m., right?”

Oh, shit. She did? I said, “Ah, Bear. You never mentioned that

before. Neither has Angel.”

Bear nodded. “Sure, yeah. Okay, she did. So?”

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“So? That’s not in your report. First I heard it.” Captain Sut-

ter’s face was on fire. “She never brought it up, either.”

“Now hold on,” Bear glanced out the window and saw half the

office watching him. “Look, Cap. Angela and Tuck were having a

bad time of it. We’ve been working night and day on Salazar’s

case—on top of our other caseload. He hadn’t been home at all in

almost a week. Jesus, she asked me to cut him loose early. So I

did.”

“She asked
you
to send him home?”

Bear shrugged.

“And you didn’t think that was important to mention?” Cap-

tain Sutter dropped down in her desk chair. “You know what this

looks like?”

I sure did.

“Listen, Cap,” Bear turned his back to the window. “The call is

innocent. I swear.”

“Christ, Bear, this whole thing looks bad.” She dropped her

face into her hands and took a few long, deep breaths. When she

looked up, any understanding was gone from her eyes. “Anything

else I need to know? Put it all on the table now.”

I leaned down to his ear. “Wel , partner? Something
we
need to know?”

He started to answer when he peered back toward the bul pen

and burst from Sutter’s office. “Oh, hell no.” He charged across

the bul pen toward Angel. I followed.

Spence stood over Angel at his desk where she was crying.

“Detective, I just explained that.”

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Bear never slowed and was over Spence’s desk before Spence

could see him coming. He landed a crushing right into Spence’s

face that sent him crashing over his desk chair onto the floor. An

“oof” of air rushed from Spence’s lungs.

“Braddock,” Captain Sutter yelled. “Get off him.”

Angel grabbed his arm, “Bear, no.”

Me, I was enjoying myself. Despite my angst with Bear, I

would pay money to see this go on another two rounds. “I dare

you to hit him again, Bear. I double-dare you.”

“Back off, Bear,” Spence snorted, wiping a stream of blood

from his mouth. “Back off.”

Captain Sutter pul ed Bear away, cussing as she did. But, as

Spence rose to his feet, Angel stepped in and landed a loud, vi-

cious slap across his face. She followed it with a harsh, head-spinning second.

Spence went down again.

“For Christ’s sake,” Captain Sutter barked. “Everyone back

off.”

Holy crap, I wish I’d done that.

“Captain, I was questioning her about that phone cal ,” Spence

said as red welts glowed on his face. “She gave me some shit

about Tuck working too much. I want charges …”

“Shut up,” Captain Sutter yelled. “You asked for that. Facts are

facts but you’re so far out in left field I could bitch-slap you myself.”

“What about the emails and the phone calls. We’ve got the

gun and Delgado said …”

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“Bul shit.” Sutter bored an iron finger into his chest. “We got a

gun with no fingerprints. A bullet matches a bullet—so what?

You still don’t know who fired the damn thing. And don’t bul shit

me about Carmen Delgado. I spoke to her myself.”

“Angel,” I said. “I tried to tell you earlier. When Spence got

into Bear’s computer—they didn’t have a warrant. They broke

into his house.”

Angel turned to Bear and repeated me word for word. To

Spence she said, “You bastard.”

“What? You little shit.” Bear started toward Spence again but

Captain Sutter pushed him away.

Captain Sutter said, “What’s this, Spence? You told me that

Delgado …”

“I can explain.” Spence patted the air. “It’s like this …”

“In my office,” Sutter said. “Now.”

Spence retreated across the room with Captain Sutter behind.

Angel stood looking at Bear with half-angry, half-sorrowful eyes.

“Bear …”

“Forget it. What’s done is done. Besides, I’ve identified Lucca.”

He stood over his desk and picked up a large manila file in his

inbox. He opened it and took out two photographs. “The FBI

sent this over. This is Lucca Tuscani. He’s a mobbed shooter like

we thought. His real name is Lucca Voccelli.”

The photographs were old and taken in poor light from bad

angles—surveil ance shots taken in haste. The man in the photos

was in his early fifties and was broad-shouldered and bulky—not

fat but muscular and strong. Everything about him was dark—

his hair, his Mediterranean complexion, and his angry eyes. He

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looked ominous and unfriendly. If there was a poster child for a

mob assassin, we were looking at him.

Behind us, Captain Sutter’s door banged open and Spence

emerged, looking a little ass-chewed and whipped. He made eye

contact with Bear—unfriendly contact—and trudged out of the

office. Captain Sutter headed straight for us.

“Okay, Bear, Spence’s screw up bought you a couple days. The

Sheriff owes me a couple favors and I just called them in. For

now, you keep your badge and gun.”

“Cap, listen …”

“No, you listen.” She stepped into him and rose on her tiptoes

to meet his eyes—she still fell short. “If you’re lying and make me look bad, you ain’t gonna make it to trial.”

“I’m not, Cap, I …”

“You have two days, max. Find me a killer, Bear—or Kel y’s

Dig might be your grave too.”

234

fort y-three

Staunton, Virginia, is a quaint historic town some ninety-five

miles south of Winchester. The town is snuggled into the heart of

the Shenandoah Valley and much of it has shown little change

since the Civil War. Historians will tell you, as did the internet welcome site Angel read to me, that Staunton was saved from the

ravaging many Virginia towns took during that war. Pronounced

“Stanton” as opposed to the phonetic spelling, its history includes Woodrow Wilson, a famous country music quartet, Mary Bald-win College, and a long litany of historical markers.

None of those brought us here.

It was close to six o’clock in the evening when Angel, Bear, and I turned off Route 81 toward the center of town. During the drive,

most of the conversation was about finding Iggi Suarez’s mysteri-

ous “Diggin’ Man,” and how Salazar’s murder might be linked to

mine. They were acting odd, both avoiding the lingering ques-

tions that hung between them like fog—keys, emails, unspoken

235

secrets. I understood why Angel was avoiding them—she knew I

was sitting in the back seat. Why Bear was avoiding them was the

real mystery and I didn’t like it at al .

Silence hung over the last half-hour.

Angel broke the quiet. “Why did you ask me along? I thought

you wanted me to stay out of your investigation.”

“I do, but now that everyone thinks we’re the new Bonnie and

Clyde, you might as well tag along.” Bear slowed as we ap-

proached the outskirts of town. “And, you’re safer with me.”

I said, “Maybe, maybe not.”

Angel ignored me. “Where’s McCorkle’s shop?”

“A mile up ahead.”

Liam McCorkle could be the key to all the mayhem sur-

rounding Kel y’s Dig. He could have information on the Diggin’

Man and that might mean on Salazar’s murder. If we were lucky,

maybe my own, too.

Since we were short on leads and long on murders, McCorkle

was our best shot.

“Here we go.” Bear made a sharp left into an alley that caught

Angel and me by surprise. Above us was a second-story bil board

affixed to the alley wall that announced, “McCorkle’s Heritage

Antiques.”

“It’s down the alley,” he said. “This town has hundreds of an-

tique dealers. But McCorkle is the king of the hil .”

The alley led to a large, gravel parking lot where only one car

remained. At the far end of the lot was a three-story, clapboard

building. Bear wheeled in front of the wrought iron fence that

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surrounded a fieldstone walk and narrow garden. The walk led

to McCorkle’s shop.

“By appointment only.” Angel read the sign on the iron gate as

she climbed out of the car. “That’s us.”

“I hope it’ll be worth the drive. Not that the company was

bad, mind you.” Bear leaned over and threw an arm around

Angel. “Dinner on me later.”

“Why, Detective,” Angel said, batting her eyes. “It’s a date.”

Ouch.

I leaned into Angel. “Hey, don’t forget about me. You know,

your recently dead lover and husband?”

“Dinner sounds great,” she said, turning away from Bear. “I’m

sure Tuck would understand. After al , a girl has to eat.”

“Tuck?” Bear’s eyebrows rose. “Him again? I suppose that was

for his benefit?”

“Yes, me again,” I muttered. “You watch him, Angel; close.”

Angel started through the gate when Bear stopped her. “Hold

it. I know Ernie thinks McCorkle is clean, but I’m going to gril

him. Keep your ears open for any history-crap that doesn’t make

sense.”

“History crap?” Angel voice was thick with irritation. “His-

tory crap?”

“What do I know about that? If he lies, I want to know.”

Angel rang the doorbel . “Of course.”

No one came to the door. Angel rang again, and then a third

time. “Didn’t you tell him six sharp?”

“Yeah. It’s two minutes ’til .”

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I peeked in the window beside the double front doors.

“Maybe he’s snooty like Ernie and wants us to wait. I’ll go see.”

“No, be quiet,” Angel said, and when Bear’s eyebrows rose,

continued, “I mean, no, maybe he’s on his way.”

“Yeah, right.” Bear headed for the gate. “I’l go around back.”

He disappeared down the alley.

After five minutes, Angel got bored and began peeking in the

windows, pressing her face against the glass like a child at a toy store. “Where the devil is Bear?”

“Angel, watch him,” I said. “Something’s not right with him

lately. And we need to talk, too.”

“Oh, Tuck. You’re jealous. Bear is …”

A dul , metallic pop split the air as the window shattered be-

side Angel’s head.

“Angel, get back!”

238

fort y-four

“Stay here,” I yelled and thrust myself through the front door.

Inside, I was standing in a huge, grand hal way. There were no

lights on, no sounds, and no sign of the shooter. Only musty air

and the familiar sensation of danger greeted me. It itched inside

me like a rash. I listened and waited, hoping for a tel tale sign of the shooter’s position. None reached me. Just as I realized how

sil y it was for me to worry about danger, something scuffled out-