Dying to Know (9 page)

me—both of me. “Detective, you don’t have a warrant. You get

nothing. Now, leave my home.”

Alive-me sat next to Bear and leaned forward, tapping the

desktop. “Listen, Nic. Give Bear a break. You don’t have any do-

nuts. What he means to say is, if you don’t cooperate, you’ll be in our office later today. You’ll be answering questions and it will be real y unpleasant. Give us the records and we’re out of here. You

know the warrant is just a formality.”

“Then get one.”

“Come on, Nicky, do the right thing.”

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“My men will show you out.” Poor Nic motioned for his two

goons and continued fondling his good luck coin. “I’ve told you,

I had nothing to do with that guard’s death. He worked at my

warehouse—that’s al . Now leave.”

This was frustrating. I’d come in on part of the conversa-

tion—the part I remembered—and the missing part left me

blank. “Damn, will one of you just say the dead guy’s name?”

“Have it your way.” Bear stood and shot a gun-finger at the

two bodyguards. “Sit, boys, or I’ll shoot you.”

As I stood there, just a foot from myself, a mind-meld sizzled

through me and everything fell into place. This was Saturday

morning more than a week ago. Bear and I had been working a

homicide that led us to Poor Nic Bartalotta. After the crime

scene, we headed straight to this house. Poor Nic was, as previ-

ously mentioned, our local—albeit retired—mobster. He had his

finger in everything from land deals to labor unions in his time

with the New York crime families. So why not here? Bear was

convinced he was involved in our case, but I couldn’t remember

why. The victim was … nuts. I couldn’t remember the name.

“Nic,” Alive-me said. “Get your lawyer and be at the office by

noon. If not, we’ll come back with two warrants—one for your

books and the other for you.
Capice
?”

“Be on time,
gumba
,” Bear added. “Got it?”

Poor Nic glanced at his men and they closed in. Bear turned

and brushed past them on his way to the door. He threw an

elbow into one of the bodyguards that made the big goon stagger

backward and cough.

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Alive-me followed, but stopped at a grand bookcase near the

door. On the center shelf was a lighted mahogany and glass case.

Inside were a dozen or more mounted coins of varying sizes and

distinctions. I knew less about rare coins than I knew about space travel, but I could tel these were valuable. In the very center of the display’s mounting apron were several empty, circular holes.

“Hey, Nic. You have a robbery?” Even Alive-me had wit.

One of his bodyguards stepped in front of me and blocked

my view.

Nic said, “No, Detective. I’m a collector. Those are family

heirlooms—the pieces are 1881 Twenty-dollar gold pieces—

without mint markings. They are very, very rare and valuable.”

“You’re missing a few.”

Nic stood up. “Good day, Detective.”

When Bear and Alive-me were gone, I was surprised that I

didn’t follow them or evaporate into nothing again. Instead, I

stayed behind, standing in Poor Nic’s great room. I felt locked

inside as though the memory held me tight. That rattled me. But

hey, what was this old gangster going to do, kill me?

Actual y, he did something much, much better.

He picked up his phone and dialed.

When I was here the first time—alive—I left with Bear. What

was happening could not be from memories. Bear and I left to-

gether. I didn’t stay behind eavesdropping on the phone cal as I

was now.

I liked this part of being dead. It didn’t require a warrant.

“It’s me,” Poor Nic said, jabbing a finger toward the door that

sent his two bodyguards from the room. “Frederick County’s fin-

73

est just left. Get your sorry ass down here and bring your list of friends. We have an appointment with them you have to cancel.”

Okay, so being here was cool, but it had its limits. I could not

hear the other half of Nic’s conversation. Maybe Doc would show

me the Texas-two-phone later. For now, it was frustrating. I failed to watch Poor Nic dial the phone so I had no clue what number

he called.

Lesson learned.

Poor Nic went on. “I don’t give a damn. Tyler made promises

and I expect him to keep them. Now get down here.”

He began nodding and cursing—more the latter. When he

laid the phone down, his face was tight and angry. He rolled his

good luck coin in his fingers and tossed it in the air, deftly catching it. Then he laughed and slapped it down on the desk beside

his phone. He turned in his chair, striking a pose of heavy

thought. He closed his eyes and began mumbling.

I studied the coin and tried to make out the engravings on its

face. It was thick and heavy and looked like solid gold. It had to be an antique or perhaps something rarer—perhaps one of the

twenty-dollar pieces from his display case. Whatever the coin

was, it didn’t flash any memory or turn on warning lights. So, for now, it was just a gold coin.

I reached out to touch it but Poor Nic spun in his chair and

slapped his hand atop it. His eyes flared and darted around the

room in freeze-frame snapshots as though searching for a spy

laying in wait.

Kaboom—
I left into nothing.

74

thirteen

I landed in the Frederick County Detective Squad room on the

outskirts of Winchester. Bear was there, too, sitting at his desk

rummaging through a stack of files and plastic evidence bags.

For more than a decade, I sat opposite him. I’d witnessed that

big ugly mug happy and sad, asleep and pumped on adrenaline,

and even so angry he’d overturned his desk. Bear could have a

rather broad-brush stroke of emotions at times. Now, though, I

was looking at a man I hadn’t seen before. His face was dull and

eyes bloodshot. His clothes were wrinkled and dirty from wear-

ing them more than thirty-six hours. His hair was uncombed, his

shirtsleeves rolled up at different heights, and his tie was undone and dangling from his neck. General y, he looked like shit.

“Cheer up, Bear,” I said, slumping into my chair across from

him. “I may be dead, but I’m not gone. But, there are a few things we need to talk about first. I don’t like your secrets, pal. After that, I’ll help you solve this case.”

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He rubbed his eyes. Then, he opened a large flex-file on his

desk and dumped the contents out, sorting through the items

one-by-one. Inside were a pen and some loose change, a pocket-

knife, assorted pieces of paper, and a white envelope. He pulled

out a notepad and began making an inventory list of all the

items. He recorded all but the loose papers and stopped. One of

the papers wasn’t a paper at all but a business card. He turned it over and dropped it on his desk. When he did, I saw several

numbers scrawled on it. The numbers weren’t familiar and there

was no name.

“Ah, Bear? You look like you could use some coffee.”

“Yeah, coffee.” He frowned and rubbed his eyes. “Shit, I’m los-

ing it—again.”

A cup of black coffee later and he was back at his desk. He

picked up the folded papers, read them, logged them on his list,

and set them aside. Then, he picked up the business card and

read it. Something on the card struck him and he began nod-

ding. Instead of recording the card on his list, he slipped it into his shirt pocket.

“Bear? You can’t do that. It’s evidence.”

Nothing.

“Braddock, what the hell are you doing here?” Captain Sutter

emerged from her office and startled us both “You should be

home, sleeping.”

“Sure, Boss. I’m Bear just sorting some things out.”

“Go home.” Her voice left no room for negotiation. “Now.”

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“Yeah, yeah, I’m going.” He stuffed the folded pieces of paper

back into the envelope and slipped it into his pants pocket. “Boss, what’s the idea of putting Clemens and Spence on Tuck’s case?”

Captain Sutter came over and leaned against his desk. “I have

to have a clean investigation. One wrong move and any defense

attorney could have a field day. You were his partner—let alone

anything else. You can’t investigate this one, so stay clear.”

“What ‘anything else?’”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Spel it out, Captain.” Bear watched her with curt, angry eyes.

“What ‘anything else?’”

“You’re too close to Angela. You can’t be objective. Plain and

simple.”

“Come on, Captain.” He pounded a heavy fist onto the desk

sending papers to the floor. “No way in hell she’s involved.”

“That’s my point. Everyone’s a suspect, Bear—including her.

When a cop goes down, even the frigging dog is a suspect.”

“Hercule has an alibi,” I yelled.

She changed the subject. “What about this break-in at Profes-

sor Stuart’s house this morning?”

He shrugged. “No break-in at all as far as we know. Stuart’s

convinced it’s all in her head. Our boys didn’t find anything. I

think Stuart’s right.”

“Can’t say I blame her. She’s been through hel .”

Bear agreed.

“How about that security guard killing?”

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“Salazar?” Bear didn’t look interested. “He was found shot

dead ten days ago just down the road from where he worked at

Bartalotta’s warehouse. Tuck and I went to see Bartalotta but got

nowhere. No witnesses. No evidence. No leads. All corpse and no

clues, boss.”

Raymundo Salazar—my last case. His name belonged on that

strange file back home—the file Bear hid in my den.

“Anything new on Tuck?” Bear’s tone was flat and oozed con-

tempt. “Spence and Clemens are acting like there is.”

“No,” she said. “Leave it alone, Bear.”

He softened. “Okay, Cap.”

“Look, we have no evidence. Someone got in and left no trace

behind. The hit was clean and fast. If it weren’t for that dog, Angela might be dead, too.”

“That’s right, the bastard shot my dog.” I pounded my fist on

the desk, but despite my assault, not even Bear’s coffee rippled.

“Hey, Bear, tell her about Tommy at the golf course.”

Bear went rigid, but then shrugged and looked embarrassed.

“Sorry, Cap. I get a buzz in my ears now and then. It’s driving me nuts. I’m just tired.”

“What the hell, Bear? Tell her what he said about the New

York Heavy. What’s up with you?”

Captain Sutter crossed her arms and studied him. “You need

to go get some sleep.”

“Sure, Cap.”

“First thing tomorrow, I want the entire Salazar file—every-

thing.”

“It’s all here, Cap. Everything.”

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No it wasn’t. “Ah, Bear, what about my file at home? The one

you hid?”

“Including everything at the house?”

He nodded.

“Okay then, get it all logged in and cataloged tomorrow.

Every damn page.”

“Right, Cap.” Bear stuffed the files from his desk into the fil-

ing cabinet and slammed the drawer closed. As he disappeared

through the squad room doors, Captain Sutter was in her office

doorway on her cell phone.

“He just left. My bet is he’s heading to get drunk. There’s

something just not right with him. Find out what it is.”

There were several “somethings” that were not right with

Bear. There was the hidden file, my house key, and a secret gar-

gantuan informant. Now, he was stuffing evidence in his pockets.

Since from my death, Bear’s secrets unnerved me and sent a

chilling question through me. Were his secrets because of my

murder or the reasons for it?

79

fourteen

“I’m sorry. I drank too much to drive.” Bear sat back in the

kitchen chair and drained his second cup of coffee. When his cup

hit the wood tabletop, Angel refilled it.

“Stop it,” she said. “I’m glad you didn’t drive. You should have

called me. I would have picked you up.”

When he arrived an hour ago, he startled Angel with his

ragged and red-faced appearance. He walked five blocks from

Old Town Winchester to our front gate, muttering and fuming

the entire way. Several times, I’d swear he was talking to me, but unlike his reaction at the office, he didn’t respond when I spoke.

The walk was laden with angry outbursts of self-deprecation and

unintelligible comments, several times stopping and turning

back toward town. Each time, he returned to the path to our

front door.

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“Walking helped.” Bear gulped his coffee. “Damnedest thing,

honey. I swear someone was following me, too. Maybe it’s the

booze—maybe I’m getting paranoid.”

“Or …” Angel sat down at the end of the table. “Maybe it was

him.”

“Him?”

“Tuck.”

He snorted and sipped at his coffee.

I leaned over and touched her hand. With every ounce of

emotion I could muster, I glided a finger across hers. I’d done

this a million times and I knew now that I’d taken that feeling for granted. The thought punched into me. As I caressed her hand, a

warm tickle etched down my fingers until it disappeared into

hers. Her eyes closed and her breathing slowed—almost stop-

ping. She began to smile as moisture glistened from her eyes and

she sighed.

“Angela? What is it?” Bear’s eyes fixed on her.