Dying to Know (25 page)

side where Angel waited.

Crash!

Bear kicked in the front door behind me. He burst through,

gun first, and flattened himself against the wal . We’d done this a hundred times together. Every other time, however, the risk of

the chase was checked by covering each other. He was now

alone—no backup, no partner, no me to cover his ass. He began

to move deeper into the hall when I stopped him cold.

239

“Get back, Bear. Stay here and let me go first.” I watched his

eyes flash surprise. “Listen to me, Bear. Listen.”

“Shit.” He froze, and before retreating to the front door, whis-

pered, “I hope that’s you, Tuck, or I’m going crazy. Shit, shit, shit.”

I ran into a large office to the right of the front door. Inside,

was a battlefield-sized desk cluttered with papers and books but

no one was there. Across the hal was a similar room fil ed with

red shrouded display tables and wall-to-wall bookshelves.

Nothing. No one. I moved on.

Down the hall was a set of open, grand doors that reached the

twelve-feet ceiling. I went through into a cavernous ballroom on

the other side—when I did, I felt the uncontrol able itch creeping into my head again; something, or someone, was ahead. Above

me was a three-story high barrel ceiling and endless rows of

shelves, display racks, and cubical-like display areas. Each held a plethora of antiques and wares from every walk of life. A dozen

sprawling chandeliers hung from the ceiling, reminiscent of the

ballroom’s turn-of-the-century grandeur. I froze in a mixture of

amazement and trepidation.

Stil , I saw no one—heard nothing. The itch spread inside me.

The maze would take a dozen cops to conduct a safe, deliber-

ate search—the shooter could be hiding anywhere, ready to kil

without warning. He could be there now, waiting. One wrong

step and he could shoot and escape. There was just Bear and I to

do it.

I considered our options as Bear slipped inside the ballroom

behind me. He knelt down beside a display of old furniture and

scanned the ballroom in freeze-frame snapshots. I could tell

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when his lips tightened that he’d drawn my same conclusion—

this was a dangerous, impossible task.

“Slow, Bear,” I said. “Let me go first. Listen for my voice. Lis-

ten,
listen
.”

His breathing was heavy—not from exertion but tension. He

surveyed in front of him for danger and readied himself. “Damn.”

“Okay, let’s move.” I started forward, not sure he could hear

me or sense what I was saying. “Slow.”

He broke from cover and slithered to the first display case ten

feet away. From there, he leapfrogged from cover-to-cover

through the ballroom. He took refuge behind furniture and

shelves of books and glassware—anywhere to stop a bullet. Each

time pausing to listen and waiting for an attack. Each time

breathing a sigh when none came.

Shadows haunted us everywhere. Cluttered displays offered

refuge. Rows of furniture and tall racks suborned a shooter’s es-

cape. Everywhere was a stalker’s ally. Nowhere was there any

safety from every line of fire. Every step was exposed—the wrong

step could bring death—his.

I stayed ten steps ahead of him and used every sense and in-

stinct to find danger. “Hold it, Bear.”

He froze.

I moved ahead checking the blind spots that were as plentiful

as the dust and cobwebs. Twice, I ordered his retreat but found

only old uniformed mannequins and garment racks. Each time,

his conscience heard me and obeyed.

If I weren’t dead, this place would have given me a heart at-

tack.

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On a hasty retreat, Bear crashed into a shelf and sent a cring-

ing sound of shattering bottles and crystal. Then came the curs-

ing and fuming. I jogged further ahead and cleared a path to the

far end or the ballroom.

Nothing. No shooter. No stalker. No Liam McCorkle. No one.

At the rear of the ballroom were tal , hanging draperies that

reminded me of a fortuneteller’s stage. Behind them, a short hal -

way disappeared into darkness. I fol owed it to a door that led

outside to the rear of the antique shop. I emerged a block from

the front parking lot, just down the alley from where we parked.

The door was open and its lock forced.

Bear appeared behind me and glanced around the alley. He

didn’t waste much time and returned to the ballroom.

“Bear,” Angel called out from the front of the ballroom.

“Come here. Upstairs, look.”

We retraced our path and emerged ten feet from her. She

stood just inside the ballroom entrance, pointing above our

heads to a balcony overlooking the entire ballroom. “There.”

When I first entered the ballroom, my focus was on the thou-

sands of possible dangers ahead of us; neither of us looked up,

behind us. Had a sniper been nested behind its banister mo-

ments ago, Bear could be dead.

Instead, someone else was.

Protruding through the balcony banister above our heads was

a man’s arm.

I knew who it was—
by appointment only
.

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“Angel, stay there.” Bear found a door obscured behind a

stack of old shelves that led to a narrow stairway. He started up, one wary step at a time.

I waited beside Angel, watching the balcony. She was shaking

and her face was ashen and drawn. I wanted to comfort her, but

the best I could do was whisper that she was safe. The itch was

gone, now. Everything would be all right. At least for us.

“He’s dead,” Bear called over the railing. “I’m going to check

up here. Stay put.”

He was gone only a minute. “Angel, get outside and call 911

on your cel . And make sure you tell them I’m a cop and armed. I

don’t want them shooting
me
when they arrive.”

She ran for the parking lot and I joined Bear.

“Liam McCorkle, I presume.” Bear knelt down and began ex-

amining the body. “You won’t be telling anyone anything, will

you?”

McCorkle was in his seventies. He was well-groomed and

dressed in an old suit—not worn or unpressed—just old. His

body appeared to have dropped as he walked; his legs were in

mid-stride and he lay on his side. His aged body crumpled to the

floor when life ceased and death refused to guide his limbs any

further. Despite this violent end, death didn’t seem too far away.

He was painful y thin and tal , with a gangly, disconcerted frame.

He face was gaunt, at odds with a heavy mustache hanging over

his lip. What hair that was not matted with blood was neatly cut,

although age left it gray and thinning. His eyeglasses were

smashed beside his outstretched left hand and his right still held a spilled can of cola. He lay on his right side, legs apart and bent.

243

He died of a gunshot wound. The shot entered through his

rear skull and exited the right eye. Blood formed an eerie pool

around his head. Death came instantaneous—I doubted Liam

McCorkle knew it arrived at al .

Angel and I didn’t hear the shot that nearly killed her, and

that meant the killer came prepared with a silenced weapon. He

took his prey from behind—silent, swift, exact. Either McCorkle

was surprised on his balcony, or he knew his killer and had dared

turn his back. His skull showed no signs of powder burns or

singeing; the killer had not been close. The path of the bullet told me it was fired level at its victim. Blood and brain matter splat-tered the side balcony wal and indicated McCorkle was facing

down the hal , away from the ballroom toward the offices there.

Whether his killer had emerged from hiding behind him or had

accompanied him up the stairs would require more investigation.

The difference could solve his murder.

Either way, Liam McCorkle was just as dead.

244

fort y-five

Detective Jack Dougherty signaled Bear that he was fin-

ished with Angel and was satisfied with her statement. It had

taken more than three hours to reach that point, and while Jack

and Bear were old friends, Jack had a homicide to investigate.

His questioning left Angel tired and edgy.

Jack was a short, round man with reading eyeglasses forever

perched on his nose. He was the senior man at the Staunton P.D.

detective squad and had a good reputation. Years ago, he and

Bear roomed at the FBI’s National Academy and they’d been

friends since. That kinship allowed Angel fewer biting questions

now.

He was rereading his notes and didn’t look up when he said,

“Mrs. Tucker, I am sorry about Tuck. He was a great guy.”

“Bullshit, Jack,” I snorted from the window where I’d been

during her interview. “You didn’t like me any more than I liked

you.”

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“Thank you, Jack.” Angel sounded sincere. “Call me Angela.”

“Angela, then. Yeah, it’s been a night, hasn’t it?”

“Are we through? I have to get home.”

Jack nodded. “Soon, I promise. Bear’s digging around upstairs

with my men. As soon as he’s done, you can go. I have your state-

ment and we know where to find you.”

“Is there anything you can tell us? Anything at all?”

“No, you know what we do.” He stood up and wandered

around the front office as he had a hundred times. Jack was a

pacer. “The shot through the front window at you is long gone.

The team’s looking, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. Maybe we’l

get lucky and find it in the wall down the alley; needle in a hay-

stack, though.”

“What about Mr. McCorkle?”

“What about him?”

Angel looked down. “I feel somewhat responsible.”

“Don’t.” Jack stopped pacing and tucked his notepad into his

suit coat. “McCorkle is a well-known antique dealer in Vir-

ginia—hel , in the entire country. If it was old and worth a for-

tune, McCorkle traded in it. He was worth a bundle.”

“Robbery?” Angel asked. “You don’t think it had anything to

do with Bear and me coming to see him?”

“I didn’t say that. I don’t believe in coincidences. As soon as

Mrs. Lexington gets here—that’s his assistant—we’ll do an inven-

tory to see what’s what.”

“You should start with the computer problem.”

“What computer? I haven’t seen one.”

“That’s my point.”

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Jack nodded but didn’t take out his pad. “Not everyone uses

computers, Angela. I can barely turn one on myself.”

“What a surprise,” I sneered. “He probably still has a type-

writer.”

“Oh, stop,” Angel said, but then added, “stop and think, Jack.

With all these antiques, he’d need a computer to keep records,

right? And he traded online.”

“Hmmm, yeah.” Jack walked to the doorway rubbing his

chin—all cops did that when they were deep in thought, or

wanted to look that way. “You might have something. Let’s see

what Mrs. Lexington says before we get upset about a missing

computer that may not be missing.”

There were low-whispers in the hall and a uniformed police-

man guided an older black woman into the office. Bear was in

tow.

Jack said, “Here she is now.”

“Detective Dougherty, what happened? The officer said

something has happened to Mr. McCorkle.”

“Yes, I’m sorry to say it has, Irene.” Jack introduced Mrs. Irene

Lexington and Angel made her comfortable in a chair beside the

desk. Clumsily, Jack explained McCorkle’s murder. The seventy-

year old bookkeeper was crying into her handkerchief before he

got past, “found murdered.”

Bear waited for her to compose herself. “Mrs. Lexington, do

you know if Mr. McCorkle had any appointments this evening?

Other than Angela and me?”

247

“No—and it’s Irene.” She straightened herself and dabbed the

tears from her eyes. “No, but I didn’t know you were coming.

That is not unusual for Mr. McCorkle. Not lately.”

Bear and Jack exchanged sideways glances. Bear asked, “He’s

been secretive? Do you know why?”

“Mr. McCorkle often handled his own affairs when he was

working a special exchange. I wouldn’t call him secretive—I

think ‘private’ is more appropriate.”

“Uh, huh.” Jack was writing. “And when did he become, ah,

private?”

“About three, maybe four weeks ago. He was doing an un-

usual project and asked me to handle all the routine transfers. He was searching for a unique piece of jewelry—paid quite a large

retainer as wel .”

“Retainer?” Angel asked. “Someone paid him a retainer to

find a piece of jewelry? Who?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Irene looked around the room as though

she were searching for something. “You’ll find all his notes in his computer. Mr. McCorkle was a fanatic about keeping a business

diary. I see you’ve already taken it.”

“Ha,” I roared, “She told you so, Jack.”

Jack shrugged at Angel. “No, Irene. It’s gone. Do you have du-

plicates of everything?”

“Duplicates?” She raised an eyebrow. “You mean ‘backups’

Detective? My, my, you real y have to get out from behind your

desk more often. Yes, the backups are in the safe upstairs.”

“We’ll need the combination, Irene.” Jack handed her his

notepad and she wrote the numbers on it.