Dying to Know (29 page)

yet. I wondered if they might be connected to this.”

“Why? What are you getting at, Angela? What’s this got to do

with Civil War skeletons?”

279

She shook her head. “Never mind. You’re right, it’s probably

nothing.”

“Perhaps you should stick to history and leave the detective

work to the cops.”

“I agree,” a voice said from behind us. Bear was standing be-

hind Angel and touched her shoulder. “We need to talk—now.”

Angel looked up. “Oh, all right. Excuse me, Tyler.”

“Yeah, sure.” He stood. To Bear, he said, “Braddock, I want to

talk to you anyway.”

“Later. I don’t have time right now. I’ll call you.”

Tyler started to argue but Bear wasn’t having it. “Later.”

“Fine.” Tyler nodded to Angel and walked off with a brisk, if

not angry pace.

Bear took Tyler’s seat and leaned close to Angel. “Jack Dough-

erty called. He has some good news.”

“What is it?”

“They pulled all McCorkle’s computer records and Irene Lex-

ington put some information together for us. But, Byrd’s name

isn’t anywhere in McCorkle’s files. Neither is Salazar’s or Iggi’s.”

“Then how did Byrd’s shipping envelope get there? And who

has been making those deliveries Irene told us about?”

“My guess is it’s all the same person—Irene remembered the

big, mysterious delivery boy’s name. She pulled the account file

for us.”

“Who is it?”

“There’s just one name on the file.” Bear looked around and

spit the name out like something bitter in his mouth. “
Tommy
.”

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fift y-one

Cacapon State Park is a beautiful park resting along, what a

surprise, the Cacapon Mountains in the eastern panhandle of

West Virginia. Cacapon—pronounced “kah-KAY-pon” for those

who might bastardize the word as I have—comes from the Shaw-

nee Indian word for medicine waters, or something of that sort.

The park is located about twenty-eight miles north of Winchester

and among its many popular features is a scenic overlook of the

valley below. The overlook also features a dramatic and rocky

drop of several hundred feet to the base of the park—the express

lane to the park entrance.

Why is this all so very important?

First, Bear Braddock was entertaining a guest at the overlook—

his wayward informant, Tommy—doer of deeds for Poor Nicholas

Bartalotta. Second, Tommy was dangling backwards off the over-

look as Bear raged about the perils of keeping secrets. Lastly, if the Cacapon’s Shawnee medicine waters couldn’t fix Tommy up when

281

Bear was through, then the Winchester Hospital was a short drive

away. It all makes sense when you think about it.

“You son-of-a-bitch.” Bear pressed the very large, bulky body-

guard over the waist-high railing that barred him from a five-hun-

dred foot drop. “You’re holding out on me, Tommy. I want to hear

about Nic’s antique collection.”

“Jesus, Bear. Relax. Get me off this wall—I don’t like heights.”

“I don’t like liars.”

“You never asked about none of that, Bear. You never asked

anything about stuff like that. Dammit, let go.” Tommy’s face was

normal y round and dark, a product of pasta and Sicilian heritage.

Now, it was round and white, like a giant snow cone about to hit

the sidewalk.

“Real y?” Bear nudged him closer to the wal ’s edge. “I hear the

probation department cal ing, Tommy. Should I let go and take the

call?”

“No. Jesus, Bear, pull me back.
Please
.”

Bear hauled him back and relaxed his grip.

Tommy dropped on his haunches onto the rock wall. He

scrambled back and peered over the edge. His brow beaded with

sweat.

I was enjoying myself. I hadn’t seen Bear this upset since set-

ting him up with an internet date last year. His date, as much of a surprise to me as him, turned out to be a fifty-year-old transvestite from Baltimore. I wasn’t good at computers, so how was a guy to

know?

“All right, Tommy, give.”

282

Tommy wiped perspiration from his face and sized Bear up,

perhaps contemplating some retaliation. I’m sure somewhere in

the back of his mind he was considering snapping Bear into fire-

wood and tossing
him
off the overlook. Tommy could probably do it, mind you—he was a very experienced, very capable man.

He made a wise choice and cooperation reigned. He slinked away

from Bear and caught his breath resting on his Buick.

“I dunno what you want. How can I tell you if I dunno what

you want?”

Bear closed in on him, leaned forward, and eyed him. “What’s

Nic got to do with Liam McCorkle’s death?”

“Who?”

“You heard me.”

Tommy’s mouth gaped open. “Nothin’, Bear. I’m sure of that.

Nothin’. I didn’t even know he died.”

“He was murdered.”

“Shit, no.” Tommy looked down at his feet—not that he could

see his feet. “Okay, look. When I first started workin’ for the Man, I delivered packages back and forth to McCorkle. I guess it’s been a few years. I don’t know what’s in ‘em, and I don’t wanna know. It’s a private thing.
Capice
?”

“Keep going. I’ll tell you when to stop talking.”

“Jesus, Bear. This is all innocent, I swear.”

“If you don’t know what’s in the packages, how do you know

that?”

“Ah, I dunno.” Tommy frowned. He was a terrible liar. “Bear,

there are some things that ain’t
that
kind of business, you know?

283

This is one of them. Mr. Bartalotta has a real life, too, you know.

This is part of that. Goes back years and it ain’t for me to ask

about.”

“What does that mean?”

Tommy’s lips pursed and his one, thick eyebrow wrinkled low

across his eyes. He had reached his end. “This is a no-go. The

Man is entitled to some privacy when it ain’t nothing bad. I de-

liver stuff between him and McCorkle. The Man keeps the pack-

ages in his vault and I never see what’s in ’em. I don’t wanna see.”

“Bullshit.” Bear thrust a gun-finger into Tommy’s chest.

“You’re lying, Tommy. You’re a phone call from violating parole.”

“Then do it. I got nothin’ to say this time. The Man is clean

on this, Bear. I swear. Whatever’s in them packages, he never lets me or Bobby see. He’s private—weird private—about it. He gets

mad as hell sometimes, and like, you know, sad other times.”

“Find out.”

“No.” Tommy’s voice was flat and defiant. It surprised me as

much as Bear—maybe Bear more. There was something odd

about it, too. Tommy was drawing a line in the sand. He was fac-

ing jail and he wasn’t budging. Whatever he was protecting, it

scared him more than anything Bear could do to him.

“What did you say, Tommy?”

“No. Not this time.”

The two stood nose-to-nose glaring at each other. Tommy’s

defiance sent an unnerving message. The only things worth

guarding this much were treasure and secrets. Both were danger-

ous. Both might get you killed.

284

“Tommy, I’m not screwing around …”

“No.” Tommy’s defiance was clear. “Bust my parole if you

want—the answer is still ‘no.’ You got my word that the Man’s

clean on McCorkle’s killin’. He ain’t involved in nothin’ bad with him either. It’s a family thing. And I know not to step into that.

So, no.”

Bear wasn’t used to hearing “no” from snitches, in particular

those who danced with the probation department so often.

Nonetheless, he knew Tommy wasn’t budging.

“Okay, Tommy. Okay.”

“Thanks, Bear.”

Bear pulled an envelope out of his pocket and tossed it on the

car hood. “This month’s benefit plan. But listen,
paesano
, you so much as hear him say ‘McCorkle’ and you better be ringing my

phone,
capice
?”

Tommy hesitated, then picked up the envelope and handed it

back. “No, not this time. I ain’t givin’ on this one. I can’t. Anythin’

else, okay. Not this. Keep your money. But hey …”

Bear just looked at him.

“Maybe tell your lady pal to stop poking around about stuff.

She ain’t no cop.”

“What?” Bear’s face gave away his confusion. “What’s that

mean—exactly?”

“Just tell her. I’m just sayin’, ya know, as a favor. She ain’t

makin’ no friends.”

Bear grabbed the envelope of money off the car. “Get the hel

out of here before I bust you for being out of state without per-

mission.”

285

Tommy left in a torrent of gravel and dust.

Bear watched him disappear down the mountain road. “An-

gela, what the hell have you done now?”

286

fift y-t wo

“Churning up trouble? Do you hear yourself?” Angel’s face

was red. She sat at her university desk opposite Ernie and slapped her hand down on the desktop, killing pencils and paperclips in

the eruption. “André is lying in a hospital bed. He could have

died, Ernie—
died
. Bear and I didn’t do that. And you’re only worried about your historical society and Kel y’s Dig?”

“No, of course not, Angela. Please, I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s casting a bad light on the site.”

“The site?” Angel jumped up. “I could not care less about

your historical preservations right now. But it certainly is about your site. Someone is killing people. All of this—and I mean al

of it—is somehow about that site.”

“You don’t know that,” Ernie said. “Not real y.”

I said, “Yes we do, Ernie. Two dead girls convinced me.”

“What?” Ernie snapped back in his chair and looked at her.

“Whatever do you mean?”

287

“There have been killings there before. Two missing girls may

have been killed there. It’s all connected to that damn site.”

“Two girls? Murdered?” Ernie squinted at her and his face

wrinkled up as though she was speaking in tongues. “Have there

been more murders? I haven’t heard anything about that and I’m

sure I would have.”

She was caught.

“Now you’ve done it.” How was she gonna explain the girls?

“Listen, Ernie.” She dug into her purse, retrieving the smal

emerald we’d found. She handed it to him. “I found this at Kel y’s Dig this morning. I think there’s more going on that we don’t

know. I did some research into old, unsolved cases and found

some information on two missing girls. I asked Tyler about them

and he got angry—very angry.”

Damn, she lied wel , and was fast on her feet, too. I wonder

how many times she’d done that to me?

“Real y?” Ernie looked up from the emerald and his eyes went

dark. The mention of Byrd’s name seemed to grab his manhood

and squeeze. “Tell me what you’ve found.”

She did. Wel , I should say, she told a
story
. She didn’t say that I told her about the two dead girls—that would make her a little

crazy. She referred to me as a “source.” For many years, I’d been a cop. Now I was a “source”—a snitch.

“I see.” Ernie returned the emerald. “Angela, I realize you’re

still distraught over Tuck. Now André’s been injured. Neverthe-

less, my dear, you’re seeing shadows. I’ve lived here my entire life and don’t recall anything about unsolved murders or missing

girls.”

288

I said, “Angel, let it go. We need names and details. You can’t

very well tell people, ‘oh, my dead husband told me that two dead

girls told him … blah, blah, blah. Leave it alone.”

She knew I was right. “Okay, Ernie, maybe you’re right. I stil

have to check it out some more, though. I’m going deeper into

the Kel y’s Dig history. If I get nothing more, I’ll drop it.”

His face grew darker. “You mean the Bartalotta family?”

“Yes, you knew his family owned the farm?”

“Of course I did.”

“You’ve never mentioned it.”

He looked amused. “Wel , neither have you.”

“Tell me, Ernie. Anything you can.”

What he said changed everything. “Nicholas’ family owned

the farm many years back. I should say, his cousin did—his

namesake cousin. They bought it in the late fifties or early sixties, I think. Just after his family came over from Italy. Nicholas lived in New York back then, and he vacationed at the farm during his

summers. I don’t think many people know that.”

I asked, “Then how does he know this?”

Angel asked him, and his answer added to the swelling ache

in my head.

“Very simple, Angela,” he said, looking far too pleased with

himself. “I’ve known Nicholas for years. In fact, we knew each

other rather well in those days. André knows him wel , too.”

“André? He never mentioned that.” Angel was surprised.

Ernie went on. “Our families—André’s and mine—were very

friendly as you know. We’re all from academic backgrounds,

mind you. Nicholas’ family and ours did not get on; nor did they

289

with André’s. After al , our families were respectable and Nicho-

las’s were rather, shall we say,
notorious.
Whispers followed them everywhere.”

Notorious? Whispers? My, my, Ernie sure had a flare for

cheap drama. If I didn’t know better, I would say Ernie Stuart was enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame as an old pal of the retired

mobster. I wonder what Poor Nic would say about him?

“Ernie,” Angel asked, “you said Nicholas’ namesake owned

the farm. I don’t recall seeing ‘Bartalotta’ in the land records.”