Dying to Know (35 page)

soned assassin—methodical, confident, and focused. “If he goes

inside the cottage, get out the front. He won’t hear you and you’ll have a couple minutes. Try for the car.”

“I don’t know …” Angel was pale and her eyes big and pan-

icked. She clutched herself in a death-like hug. “Tuck, I can’t

make it. He’ll kill me. Can’t you …”

“No, I over did it in the cel ar. I’m spent. If I try again, I’m

afraid of what’l happen and you might be on your own. You have

to do this.”

She closed her eyes and nodded, fighting back tears and ter-

ror. “Okay.”

“Get ready.” I watched out the window. “You can do this.”

Tuscani was in front of the cottage. He crouched low amidst

overgrown shrubs and weeds and peeked into a window. Twice

he called out her name, quieted to listen, and called her again. In a sudden assault, he charged into the house and disappeared.

“He’s inside.” I said. “Go, Angel.”

She jumped up but didn’t run. “Look.”

A vehicle rolled into view behind the house and surprised us

both. A long, black Suburban stopped beside the courtyard wal .

The vehicle sat just below us, parked partial y obscured around

the side of the house. We could only see part of the vehicle, but it 343

was enough. The driver got out and stood in the open, facing the

cottage. He was a big, powerful man of considerable girth. His

back was toward us and we couldn’t see his face. He gestured to

someone still in the vehicle to stay put.

I didn’t need to see the passenger. I knew who was inside.

“Angel, here’s your chance.”

No, it was too late.

Tuscani erupted in a dead run through the cottage’s side door.

He fired three rapid shots, screaming a war cry as he charged the

Suburban. “Bastard. Bastard … you bastard.”

The driver staggered and tried to raise a weapon as Tuscani

fired again.

The driver went down—hit by three of four shots. The fourth

cracked the Suburban’s side window and splayed a macramé of

fractures across it. The passenger’s door flung open and a shot

rang out—two, three.

Tuscani staggered. His charge slowed to lethargic steps. He

fired a fifth time.

Another shot from the Suburban.

A surprised, maniacal grimace spread across the assassin’s

face. His legs couldn’t carry him and he stopped, unable to steady himself. Tuscani faltered, wavered for balance. Defiance made

his gun rise again.

A final shot toppled him backwards onto the courtyard stone.

“Tuck, oh, my God. We’re safe …”

“No, Angel, wait.”

I wanted to go to the courtyard alone. I wanted to see Tuscani

dead and know it was safe. Angel wouldn’t have it. Instead, I led

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her downstairs, staying close as she picked her steps and eased

across creaky hardwood. At the rear veranda, she took a long,

heavy breath and slipped behind an aged oak tree that obscured

her from the Suburban’s view.

“Wait. Let’s see what he does.”

I knew who killed Lucca Tuscani. He was kneeling over the

body now, staring down at his cousin with troubled, old eyes.

One hand clutched his gun. His other lay on the assassin’s shoul-

der, giving it a familiar, reminiscent squeeze. Anger. Pain. An-

guish—resolve.

Poor Nicholas Bartalotta stood up. Reverently, he touched his

forehead, chest, and each shoulder. As he stood, he whispered

contrition over the dead man. Then he turned and looked back

at the Suburban.

Tommy lay face down and unmoving.

Poor Nic turned back and cursed the man he’d just prayed for.

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sixt y-four

What made him look for us behind the big oak I don’t know.

Poor Nic took two careful, slow steps away from Tuscani as

though afraid to wake him. He raised his gun, staring straight at

the oak. Then he moved sideways to see around the tree. He

smiled, lowering his weapon, and walked toward us—a half-

frown, half-smile on his face. I didn’t know which was for Angel.

“My dear, Angela. I pray you’re unhurt.”

“Tuck,” she whispered. “What do I do?”

“I think you’re okay.”

“Yes, Nicholas. I’m fine. What are you going to do now?”

The old gangster stopped twenty feet from us. He motioned

for her to come closer and gave a convincing nod. There was

something about him—something I hadn’t seen before—some-

thing very … sad. Poor Nic was a man who knew violence, had

inflicted pain. Now, he seemed to have no taste for it.

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“Do now? Why, nothing, Angel, don’t be afraid. Please, come

here.”

She stepped from behind the oak and eased toward him. She

picked her steps as though she might choose wrong and fall

through the stone walk into some unseen abyss. I don’t think she

breathed until she stopped ten feet from him.

“What about me?” Her voice trembled. “You know I saw you

kill him.”

“Yes, of course you did.” Poor Nic cocked his head and his

face broke out in a tentative smile. “He shot Tommy and then

came at me. You saw that, too. I defended myself, Angela. Cer-

tainly you know that.”

“Man’s got a point,” I said, standing beside him where I tried a

ghost mindreading trick. I got nothing. “It was self-defense.”

“Maybe.” Angel was trying to appear unafraid and confident.

She failed miserably. “Tuscani told me you killed Amy and Caro-

line. Am I …”

“My Amy? That lying bastard. It’s been …”

“More than forty years.”

Poor Nic lowered his head and turned again toward Tuscani.

He raised his gun and for a moment, I thought he’d shoot the

dead man once more. He didn’t. Instead, he turned back to Angel

and held the weapon out, butt first. Tears welled in his eyes.

Angel stayed silent, looking at his offering.

“Freeze,” a voice barked from behind us. “Bartalotta, drop the

gun and step back. Angel, move away. Come here.”

Bear was crouching beside the farmhouse, just behind the court-

yard wal . He had his gun extended in a two-handed shooter’s

347

grip. His sights rested on Poor Nic; his finger already on the trigger.

“Now, Nic.” Bear’s voice was calm and determined. He was

ready to kil . There was something there, too—he wanted to kil .

“Drop the gun, Nic, and step away.”

“Stop, Bear.” Angel snatched Nic’s automatic from his out-

stretched hand. “I’m okay. Tuscani tried to kill me. Nicholas

stopped him. He saved my life.”

Something tugged on my brain—something warm and vi-

brant like a first lover’s kiss. I looked at Poor Nic and knew his innocence. There was pain and anger in him. Pain for Amy’s loss,

for Carolyn, and now for Tommy. Poor Nic loved Amy. He didn’t

kill her. He didn’t kill Caroline, either. There was violence in the man, for certain, but none of it had ever touched them.

I knew, but I didn’t understand.

“Angel,” I said. “Nic didn’t kill the girls. He’s aching inside.

He’s innocent.” Someone’s words tugged at me again and I added,

“He didn’t murder any of us.”

Poor Nic’s eyes stayed fixed on Bear. Self-defense or not, there

were two dead men; one a killer and the other a gangster’s body-

guard. It wouldn’t take much to cause Bear to shoot. The old

gangster knew, too, that Bear was simmering, ready for it.

“Detective, I saved Angela’s life.” He stayed emotionless, his

face unrevealing. “Lucca was hunting her. My men were watching

Angela’s home when he abducted her earlier. Tommy and I came

here to intervene. He killed Tommy—I killed him. It is that sim-

ple.”

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Bear came closer and stood beside Angel. He lowered his gun

but didn’t holster it. “I’m listening, Nic. What’s Tuscani got to do with you?”

“He was my cousin. And his family sent him to kill me.”

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sixt y-five

Poor Nic’s revelation split the air like lightning on a dark

night.

“Your cousin came to kill you?” Bear glanced at Tuscani’s

body as though expecting a rebuttal. “Why?”

“Yes, Detective, he came to assassinate me. All over a forty-

year old vendetta that was ill-conceived.”

“Get to the facts. All I have are bodies and unsolved murders.

And Nic, your name’s on them.”

“Ah, then I better explain, Detective.” Poor Nic drew a long,

heavy breath. With an approving nod from Bear, he went to the

courtyard wall and sat down. “Back in the sixties, I spent sum-

mers at this farm. My Uncle Nicholas Voccelli owned it; wel , he

was not real y my uncle, mind you, but I gave him the respect of

one. Our families were, shall I say, business partners.”

“That means mob, Angel.”

350

“Our families arranged for me to marry Nicholas’ daughter,

Amy. That is why I spent time here.”

Bear held up a hand. “Arranged? Like you were promised to

each other?”

“Of course.” Poor Nic laughed. “Ours was a very, very strict

Italian family. My father was from the old country. Her father

and mine were cousins and they chose me before I was even a

teenager. She was younger than me and we had to wait for her to

finish high school before we married.”

“Get to the point, Nic.” Bear never had patience. “Fast.”

Poor Nic wasn’t going to be hurried. “It was nineteen sixty-

eight, and like many, I was headed to Vietnam. Before I went off

to war, there was trouble.”

Angel asked, “With the law? Your family?”

“No, Angela. It was Amy.” Poor Nic looked down. He seemed

sad again, perhaps recalling the pain that was now causing his

voice to soften and falter. “While I was away at boot camp, Amy

had a secret affair. In the old country, her lover would have been killed.”

“Nice custom,” Bear snipped. “But, I’m not seeing the point.”

Poor Nic’s voice was ice. “No, that’s the problem. You haven’t

seen the point from the beginning.” He cleared his throat. “Lucca

knew she’d become involved while I was away, but wouldn’t tel

me who it was. He was young and adored Amy. Despite the situ-

ation, I wanted to take her to New York when I returned from

the war. It took days, and many arguments, but we reconciled

one night.”

“You got engaged?” Angel asked.

351

Poor Nic shook his head. “No, we never did. At the end-of-

summer dance, I gave her a bracelet and matching necklace—the

one you have, Angela. I planned on giving her my grandmother’s

engagement ring when I returned if she would have me.”

“Would she?” Angel’s voice was soft, sorrowful.

He was silent a long time and the answer glistened in his eyes.

“Yes. She left the dance to tell her father. She never arrived. I always hoped she’d changed her mind and ran away with her lover.”

Bear asked, “You hoped she ran away?”

“The alternative was unthinkable.”

Yes, murder was unthinkable. “Angel, I believe him.”

“Get to Tuscani, Nic. And get to Salazar and the rest. Get

there fast.” Bear’s patience was gone. “I don’t care about arranged marriages or vendettas.”

“Detective, it’s all one and the same.” Poor Nic walked over

and leaned on the Suburban’s fender. “Caroline was a sweet,

beautiful girl. But, Caroline’s father was a violent man. He beat

her—even raped her once. My uncle took her in and protected

her from the monster. She had been Amy’s best friend and confi-

dant since childhood. They were inseparable.”

Angel asked, “What happened to her?”

“Amy and she never arrived home that evening. They just dis-

appeared. Uncle Nicholas believed I killed them both—jealousy.

I hoped they simply ran away. My heart knew better.”

“And the police?” Bear asked.

Poor Nic laughed. “Police? No, Detective. This was a family

matter. Our families, wel , our families would receive no assis-

tance from the police.”

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“So Amy and Caroline were gone. Her family thought you

killed them,” Angel said. “Then how did you know …”

“The coins,” Poor Nic said. “You see, the night Amy disap-

peared, so did Uncle Nicholas’s coin collection. Several Civil War and Crimean War coins. They were very valuable. I have some of

my own pieces at home. I hoped Amy took the collection to

make a fresh start—that is, if she truly ran away.”

Angel asked, “What changed your mind?” She already knew

the answer.

“The truth was dug up, here, at Kel y’s Dig.” Poor Nic walked

over to Tuscani’s body, bent down, and took something from his

pants pocket. He wiped his eyes and returned to us, holding up

the bracelet and necklace that had nearly killed Angel. “When

her jewelry and the coins were found, I knew Amy and Caroline

were as wel .”

Angel reached out and touched Poor Nic’s arm, resting her

hand there to comfort an old man aching from a lifetime of re-

gret.

“Nicholas, do you know who did kill them? Was it Lucca?”

He shook his head. “Lucca was far too young. He adored

them. No, it had to be her lover.”

“Okay, Nic. Amy and Caroline were buried here somewhere?”

Bear’s voice was skeptical. “And you’re sure because of the jew-

elry and coins?”

“Yes, of course.” Poor Nic’s face was stone. “A few weeks ago,

those coins were sold on the internet. Liam McCorkle traced

them to young Raymundo Salazar and later showed him the