Dying for the Past

by T. J. O'Connor

  “Tuck, what do you make of this? Should I open it?”

  I knelt beside her. “We shouldn’t touch any of this. It’s evidence. But, if we peeked at the contents, I think Bear would understand—when you call him.”

  Angel used her shirt sleeve to manipulate the zipper on the top of the backpack without leaving fingerprints and guide it open. What we found inside surprised us both—dozens of checks and a pile of cash.

  “It’s the stolen donations from the gala,” she said. “The killer just left this here?”

  “Maybe the killer didn’t want anything leaving a trail.”

  Angel rooted through the pack. “I think it’s all here. Maybe Petya stole the donations. And the killer killed him because he interfered with Grecco’s murder? Or, maybe Petya was down here hiding the money and stumbled on the real killer.”

  “Too many maybes. This guy beside Petya killed Grecco. I know he had a boss—because I was in him. The boss killed him in this tunnel. Afterward, the boss tracked down and killed Petya—either because he was also an accomplice or because he was in the wrong place.”

  Angel agreed. “Jorge-the-waiter could be the killer or an accomplice, right? And if he’s not—the killer may be after him because of his video recordings.”

  “We have to get you out of here, Angel.” I knelt down and looked the bodies over again. “Bear and Spence are outside somewhere. They don’t know about these tunnels so they’d never be expecting anyone to get into the house this way. Jorge may have come through here to get his equipment he left behind. He knew about the hidden stairwell and secret attic room, so it makes sense he knew about these tunnels. He must have been the one shooting at you.”

  “Now what?”

  “We get Bear.”

  “It’ll take too long and Jorge might still be down here—or might return.” She shined her light on the old door built into the brick wall. “There has to be a way through.”

  “You look for a door release. I’ll go inside and see where the door leads and make sure it’s safe.”

  Hercule went to the door and ran his nose along its frame. He backed up two steps and sat down, looking at Angel and woofing. It was safe.

  “Good Herc,” I said, “but let’s be sure.”

  Moan, grumble. He was sure.

  I passed through the door and stepped into a small room off the Vincent House’s basement. The dank room was dark and ominous. On Angel’s side was a door, but on this side there was just a tall rack of wine racks and storage shelves running the entire length of the room. I couldn’t see any discernible door or entrance. I searched the remainder of the basement where I found several smaller rooms off to the left side and in the center of the basement were three large, ancient steel furnaces covered in cobwebs, dust, and a rats nest of old, frayed wires. Behind the old furnaces were two new furnaces and a row of other mechanical equipment my meager mechanical brain filed under “basement junk.” Nothing I saw raised any alarm.

  One thing I was certain of, though—there was no killer hiding nearby.

  I returned to the shelves where I had entered from the tunnel. There had to be a door somewhere.

  “Angel, push on the door. See if you can move it.”

  The shelves didn’t budge so I returned through them into the antechamber. Angel stood beside Hercule shining her light at the door.

  “What,” I said, “can’t you do that?”

  “Funny.”

  She showed me a round iron ring affixed to the brick wall on the right side of the chamber.

  “I think it’s a release for the door. It’s jammed and won’t budge.”

  “Let me check the other side again.”

  Back in the basement, I examined the shelves closer and found the problem. Someone had taken a heavy iron bar and wedged it under the center shelf, preventing it from pivoting open. I was helpless to remove it.

  Situations like this irritated me. Being a ghost has its perks, mind you, but moving objects—in particular ones requiring more than finesse—is not easy. Oh, a piece of paper here or a pencil there is one thing, but unjamming an iron bar from beneath a heavy oak shelf is a another. Without juice, of course. If there were an electric light or plug nearby, the power would change things. I could grab hold and charge up a good few minutes of strength and dexterity. I might even be able to go a few rounds with the killer. I did that once and saved Angel’s life.

  Not now. There was no power. No electric light. No juice. I was just a 185-pound weightless poof of air and dust. All brains and no brawn. How embarrassing.

  “Angel,” I yelled through the shelf. “Stay where you are. I’ll go find Bear. The entrance is jammed closed.”

  Her voice was faint. “Hurry. I tried calling. No signal.”

  And I was off.

  I checked the first floor and didn’t find anyone. Outside, I found Bear and Spence’s unmarked cruisers parked on the street, outside the stone wall on opposite sides of the Vincent House. Both cars were empty. I was just returning to the ballroom when faint footfalls touched my ears from the rear servant stairs by the kitchen.

  “Bear? Hey man, is that you?” Spence appeared behind me at the foot of the stairs with his weapon drawn. “Spence, you have to, Spence. Please.”

  He stopped and lifted his weapon, peering around the hallway and into the ballroom. “Bear?”

  “No, Spence. It’s me.” I moved close and touched his shoulder. “It’s Tuck. Listen for my voice. Angel’s in trouble.”

  His eyebrows rose and he swatted at this shoulder like he was brushing away a bee. He took a step back and flattened himself against the hallway wall, looking around as his face went ash-white. “This place is freaking me out. Where are you?”

  “It’s all right, Spence. It’s me, Tuck. Can you hear me? Please, go to the basement.”

  His eyes dropped to the floor as he listened. Then he looked up and around the hallway again. This time, he slipped into the lounge—was gone only a few moments—and reappeared.

  “Spence, come on—”

  A gunshot cracked from somewhere near the kitchen. I didn’t see where it hit—but it was close and it sent Spence diving for the floor. He hit, rolled left, raised his gun, and squeezed off two shots. They slammed into the kitchen doorframe.

  “Sheriff’s Department! Drop your gun!”

  Heavy footfalls ran through the kitchen and stopped. A door banged and glass rattled. Old hinges creaked. A door banged again.

  “Go, Spence, go!”

  He jumped to his feet and made chase.

  We met Bear storming through the rear kitchen door, gun drawn, and anger tight across his face. The moment Spence burst into the kitchen, Bear’s gun snapped up.

  “Whoa, Bear, it’s me.”

  Bear’s gun lowered. “What are you shooting at, Spence?”

  Spence was out of breath. “Someone shot at me. I shot back. He came through here.”

  “He didn’t go outside. The door was open but I was out back. I would have seen him.”

  I said, “Bear, the basement,” I pointed to the basement door across the kitchen. “Get down there. Angel’s in a tunnel connecting to the carriage house. She’s trapped inside. She’s in trouble.”

  “Angela?” Bear grabbed the basement door, yanked it open, and rushed down the stairs. “Let’s go, Spence.”

  “Where? What are you doing?”

  “The basement. Angela’s down there and she’s in trouble.”

  Spence fell in behind him. “How do you know?”

  “Didn’t you hear him?”

  “Him?” Spence’s face twisted. “Damn you, Bear. Cut it out.”

  Across the basement in the far corner room where the tunnel entrance was, a man’s voice screamed, “Get him back. Get back or I’ll shoot.”

  Hercule’s ferocious bark echoed like a wild beast from an old horror movie. Then the man shouted something I couldn’t understand—Hercule’s bark turned to a demonic growl.

  A gun shot.
/>   Angel yelled, “Don’t move.”

  Hercule’s bark became erratic and frenzied. The man cried out. The cacophony of the big dog thrashing about mixed with more cries and gnashing teeth.

  Silence.

  I beat Bear and Spence to the room where the secret shelf-door was open.

  A dark-skinned Hispanic man lay on his back with his hands and face smeared in blood. Hercule stood atop him with all fours planted firm and the man’s right hand twisted and clamped in his powerful jaws. A gun lay on the floor beside them. Each time the Hispanic tried to grab hold of Hercule, Hercule growled and jerked the hand clamped in his teeth, wrenching it to and fro.

  “Get him off, lady. Get him off. I give. Please. Stop him—he’s breaking my arm.”

  Hercule stared down, eye-to-eye. His mouth secured on the Hispanic’s wrist, his growls sending a clear message—resistance was futile.

  Angel emerged through the open passageway door, gun first, aiming at the Hispanic. “Good boy, Hercule. Keep him there until Bear and Daddy get here.”

  “I’m here, Angel,” I said. “Bear’s coming.”

  “Daddy?” the man said, daring a glance at Angel. “I thought you were widowed?”

  “Oh?” Angela leveled her Walther at his head. “And how do you know I’m widowed?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Bear and Clemens edged into the room. Spence flipped on a flashlight, shining it down on Hercule’s captive. “Sheriff’s Department. Don’t move.”

  “No kidding man,” he cried. “Get this beast off me. I was just trying to get my stuff. The lady almost killed me. This mutt—”

  Hercule’s jaw tightened. He shook and wrenched the man’s hand in painful twists.

  I said, “He doesn’t like the word ‘mutt.’”

  “Don’t piss him off,” Bear said. “What’s your name?”

  Spence tugged a wallet from the man’s jeans and flipped it open with one hand. “Victoria Chevez.”

  “Victorio, man. Come on, do I look like a chick?”

  “What kind of name is Victorio?” Spence asked.

  “I’m half-Mexican, half-Cuban, and all-American. What of it?”

  I stepped closer and looked Chevez over. An EMF meter hung on his belt—identical to the one we found in the attic—and started vibrating and blinking. Chevez glanced down at it as Angel pulled Hercule away. “Come on, man, get me outta this crazy place. Come on, arrest me. I give you permission.”

  “Permission?” Bear forced a laugh, moved Hercule over to Angel, and dragged the man to his feet. “You’re under arrest. We’ll start with criminal trespass and assault—”

  “He shot at me, Bear,” Angel said, soothing Hercule with a good head rub. “In the tunnels, just a little while ago. And there’s two bodies just inside the entrance—with the stolen gala donations.”

  “Angela,” Bear said with an edge to his voice. “We saw the van pull into the property and figured it was this guy coming to retrieve his equipment. But, what are you doing here?”

  She threw a thumb toward the tunnel entrance. “We figured out about the tunnels and came to see if we could find them. We were going to find you when we were done.”

  “We?” Chevy glanced around the basement. “You and who else lady?”

  “Hercule,” Angel said as Bear tried to hide a smile. “He tried to kill me, Bear.”

  “No, lady, it wasn’t me.”

  “You’re in big trouble, amigo.” Bear snapped handcuffs on Chevez and shoved him toward Spence. “Make your charges criminal trespass, assault, and attempted murder for starters—just starters.”

  “No, no. This ain’t right, man.” Chevez pulled against Spence’s grip on his arm and tried to look into the tunnel. “You got it all wrong. She was shooting at me. I swear, man. Let’s go to your office and talk it through. I wanna get out of here.”

  Spence read him his rights and Chevez calmed.

  Bear eyed him. “Did you kill Stephanos Grecco? How about Petya, the caterer, or Grecco’s killer? Or did you do all three?”

  “What are you talking about? Oh, hell no, man. None of the killings was me. Come on, get me out of here.”

  I sized him up. “Chevez, huh? He’s also Jorge the waiter and maybe Stanley Kravitz or both, Bear. And he’s your ghost investigator, too. Look at his belt.”

  The EMF meter on Chevez’s belt was still flashing and buzzing. As Spence patted him down, something buzzed in his jacket pocket and Spence pulled out a square electrical meter. The meter resembled an electrician’s volt meter with dials and lights and a needle wavering back and forth over a numeric scale.

  “This is a tri-meter, Bear,” Spence said, turning the meter around for Bear to see. “It measures—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Bear said. “Ghost farts or something.”

  “Neat toys, Chevez.” I touched the device and the lights went apoplectic. “I hope they’re worth life in prison.”

  Chevez looked from the device on his belt to the one Spence held. His eyes were wide and frightful and his voice broke with each word. “You gotta get me outta here. Now, man.”

  “You in a hurry to go to jail?” Angel asked. “You almost shot me in the tunnel. Why?”

  “Shot you? You shot at me, lady. You hit me, too.” Chevez turned and pushed his elbow out. There was a ragged hole though the lower sleeve of his denim shirt. “Almost killed me, lady. That ain’t cool. I didn’t do nothing to you.”

  “Oh? I never fired a shot.” Angel handed her Walther to Bear. “Not one.”

  “She reloaded then.” Chevez twisted but Spence held him tight. “I didn’t know you was dangerous. You tried to kill me. The man didn’t say you was dangerous.”

  “What man?” I asked, and the electronic gadgets danced away.

  “What man?” Bear repeated. “Who are you working with, Chevez?”

  “Nope. No way, man. I ain’t sayin nothing until—”

  “Until you get a lawyer,” Spence said, shoving him out of the room. “Let’s go.”

  “Screw the lawyer, man.” Chevez pulled Spence toward the stairs. “I ain’t sayin’ nothing until you get me outta here. There’s supernatural mumbo-jumbo going on—real stuff, too—and I’m in handcuffs. Man, just get me outta here. I don’t need no lawyer.”

  forty-three

  “One more time, Chevez” Bear said, placing a fresh cup of coffee on the interview room table. “From the top. And leave out the bullshit this time.”

  Victorio Chevez reached over the stacks of electronic meters and camera equipment Bear laid on the table and picked up the coffee. He took a long sip and spit it back into the cup. “Come on, man, I asked for sugar. Lots of sugar. I know my rights.”

  “Your rights don’t include sugar,” Spence said, leaning on the wall behind Bear. “Detective Braddock is getting antsy, Chevez. And you don’t want him antsy. He rips telephone booths in half—not books, Chevez … booths. So maybe focus a little.”

  I watched from the corner of the room and had to smile at Spence. He was turning into a real detective—surprising since in the past, he seemed more fitted to selling shoes or working at a car wash.

  “All right. All right.” Chevez leaned back and folded his arms, exchanging vampire-eyes with Bear. “Everyone calls me Chevy—”

  “I thought you rode a motorcycle?” Spence asked

  Okay, maybe Spence still had a job at the carwash.

  “Ah, you’re kidding me, right?” Chevy’s eyebrows rose and he cracked a smile. “Hey, Braddock, he slow or something? And you guys turned down my application to be a cop? Go figure.”

  “This guy’s a real smartass, Bear.” I sat on the corner of the table and made Chevy’s EMF meter blink and whine. “Less jokes and more answers, pal. Or I’ll haunt you for life.”

  “Oh, come on, man.” Chevy’s eyes fixed on the flickering lights as he slid his chair back from the table. “What’s goin’ on here? The EMF meter never goes this nuts.”

  “It’s my old partner
, Tuck,” Bear said as he pulled Chevy back to the table. “But you know him by his full name, Oliver Tucker.” He watched Chevy’s eyes explode. “Right—Angela Tucker’s husband. He’s watching out for her.”

  Chevy pushed back from the table again. “Don’t screw with me man. You don’t—”

  “He’s upset because you tried to kill Angela.”

  “I told you, man, I was defending myself. She shot at me and I shot back. I was just in the house to get my gear. This stuff costs money, you know? I was coming in through the tunnel she was in. She shot at me and I shot back. Just to scare her off.”

  Bear leaned over the table and went eye-to-eye with Chevy. “Listen to me, you twerp, Angela Tucker didn’t fire a shot. But you did—several—and we’ll have ballistics tomorrow. If they match those two bodies, you’re in deep trouble. So, who’s your partner? Who drove the van?”

  “Van?” Chevy’s face twisted. “What van, man? I ride a motorcycle. And I work alone.”

  “The van we towed from the Vincent place was stolen in West Virginia yesterday. You know the one.” Spence leaned over Chevy’s shoulder from behind. “Who are you working with, Chevez? Make a deal with us before we find your partner and he makes a deal.”

  “I work alone. Don’t you listen?”

  “Somebody drove the van outside. Who?”

  “I told you—I have no idea.” When Bear’s teeth bared, Chevy added, “I don’t know nothing about any van, okay? I got an email hiring me for this gig. Cash left at my office. They paid me five grand for two weeks. Cash is king.”

  I said, “What about this equipment, Bear?” The EMF meter lighted up again and its needle wavered back and forth with each inflection of my voice.

  “And all this electronic crap?” Bear asked. “What’s it for?”

  “I told you. I’m a private investigator. You got my ID and license. I’m legit. I also do ghost investigation stuff on the side, you know, for extra cash. I record everything I find and if I get anything cool, I sell it to a ghost show on TV.”

  “Did you?” Spence asked. “We know about the remote cameras and night vision, too. And this EMF meter and—”

  “You a fan, man?” Chevy asked, smiling. “You know about this stuff?”