Dying for the Past

by T. J. O'Connor

  She did. She described a computer USB flash drive. “Show me.”

  We went to the northwest attic room—Chevy’s secret room—where she’d shown me the ghost hunting paraphernalia yesterday. The equipment was long gone—seized first by Bear’s men and then by the FBI. All that remained were an old wobbly wood table and some shelving. Outside the room, someone banged and smashed things around the attic.

  “It’s him, Tuckie. That’s the guy who drives the Chevy.”

  “No, Sassy, his name is Chevy.”

  “Why would someone name their kid after a car?”

  It was no use. Sassy was still back in 1939 with the mind of a sexy, wild party girl whose chair at Mensa would be forever vacant. But alas, she was a bubbly, good-natured gal, even for a dead one.

  We followed the sounds of breaking glass and crashing furniture and found Chevy in a panic. He dumped packing boxes on the floor, kicked over old furniture, and careened around the attic like a drunken tornado. He’d worked up a sweat and stood panting and cursing beneath the attic eaves.

  “Hi ya, Chevy, what are you looking for?” I asked, and when I did, I saw his EMF meter hanging on his belt flashing like a plane about to crash. “Did you lose something?”

  Chevy grabbed the meter off his belt and turned in a slow circle until the row of multi-colored lights stayed on—a high-pitched whine erupted when it settled on Sassy and me. “Oh, man, not you again. Go away, fantasma, leave me alone.”

  “Tuckie, his thingy is telling on us again.”

  “Relax, Sassy. Where’s Chevy’s flash drive?”

  She looked at me like I’d just asked a 1930s girl about, well, a flash drive.

  I tried again. “The lipstick-thingy?”

  “Oh, yeah, it’s downstairs behind the bar. I hid it in the wine closet in an empty champagne bottle.” She threw her hands on her hips. “Didn’t I have a great idea?”

  “A champagne bottle?”

  “Yeah, it wouldn’t fit in a wine bottle, silly.”

  “Of course not. Good girl.”

  Chevy waved the EMF meter around again, each time it flickered and chirped until he pointed it back at us. Then it shrieked a steady cry and stayed lit.

  “No. No. No. Shit. You a ghost, man?”

  “Yep.”

  “You a ghost man? Talk to me, man. Don’t hurt me but talk to me.” His face paled and he slid something out of his pocket. “This is a recorder, ghost … okay? Don’t get mad.”

  I moved closer to him, touching the thin, silver digital recorder and watched the lights light up as it turned on. “I know, Chevy. I had one just like it when I was alive.”

  Chevy’s eyes exploded as the signal strength meter—a tiny string of red indicator lights on the top of the recorder—flashed full-power every time I spoke.

  “Boo, Chevy. You looking for your flash drive?”

  The signal strength meter spiked.

  “Oh, man. You are here.” He looked around the attic and back at the recorder. “Tell me what you want, ghost.”

  “Tell ’em, Tuckie.” Sassy said, hooking her arm in mine. “Tell him where his thingy is. I want to see his face.”

  I did. “And Chevy, you better get the flash drive to Bear when you’re done. He’s pissed enough for handcuffing him to a radiator and stealing his car. Having the evidence you promised might keep you from getting your butt kicked.”

  When the signal meter weakened, Chevy clicked a couple buttons on the recorder and held it up to listen. The sounds were faint and he turned up the volume. I didn’t have to listen to know when it played. His eyes erupted and his mouth dropped.

  “Boo, Chevy. You looking for your flash drive?”

  “¡Hijo de puta!” He jumped back and dropped the EMF meter on the ground. He spun in a circle as his face contorted and sweat broke out on his forehead. “No way, ghost. No way.” He took a deep breath and listened to the remainder of the recording.

  “Tell ’em, Tuckie. Tell him where his thingy is. I want to see his face … And Chevy, you better get the flash drive back to Bear when you’re done. He’s pissed enough for handcuffing him to a radiator and stealing his car. Having the evidence you promised might keep you from getting your butt kicked.”

  I said, “Sassy, we better give him a minute. He’s about to—”

  Chevy’s face flushed and he ran for the corner of the attic, pushed open the round window, and tried to stick his head out. When he couldn’t gulp in enough air, he bent over and heaved bile and fear onto the floor. After a few moments, he stood up, turned around, and stared into the attic. Then, he flipped the recorder back on and waited.

  “Easy, Chevy. We aren’t here to hurt you. I’m Oliver Tucker. Bear and Angel know all about me. And this is Sassy—she’s, ah, well, she’s not from here. Oh, she’s from the Vincent House, just not from the here and now like you and me. Long story. Trust me.”

  When the strength meter lowered, Chevy replayed the recording and fell back against the wall. His eyes were closed and sweat poured down his face. “Madre de Dios, fantasmas.” When he got his nerve, he retrieved his EMF meter and waved it around until the lights and squealing showed him where we were standing.

  “You … You’re … Detective Tucker?” He looked down at his recorder as I answered, waited for the meter to slow, and listened to my reply. “How?”

  We found a rhythm. He asked, I spoke, he replayed the recording. For ten minutes we went through his questions and my answers. With each question, he laughed a little more, almost cried twice, and settled into a calm, disbelief-but-it’s-happening mindset.

  “Why are you hanging here?”

  Talk—record—listen.

  “Sorry, Chevy, but I don’t have a lot of answers. I was murdered and I’m back. I think I’m back to help solve cases like mine. You know, I can connect with Angel and Bear and help others like me.”

  Talk—record—listen.

  “Like you?” He didn’t wait for the reply. “Oh, dead guys.”

  “And gals,” Sassy added. “Us girls can get whacked, too, Chevrolet.”

  “Chevy. It’s Chevy, short for—”

  “Yeah, I tried to explain,” I said, “but forget it. Let’s go get your evidence and find Bear.”

  Downstairs, Sassy led us to the bar’s wine closet and pointed out the dusty champagne bottle where she’d hidden the flash drive. It took a minute or two for Chevy to rattle and shake the small device free.

  Sassy sat on a bar stool twirling in circles. “Come on, let’s have some fun, boys. Vincent will be back soon.”

  Talk—record—listen.

  “Who is this Vincent guy?” Chevy waved his EMF meter around the bar. “Should I worry? Will he hurt me or is he like you?”

  Good questions. I didn’t know the answers. “He’s a gangster before gangsters were in the music business. He’s from the thirties. And Chevy, he isn’t like me. He doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

  “Great. What could be worse than an angry gangster ghost?”

  That was an easy one. “Bear Braddock.”

  “Uh-oh. I forgot about him. He’s coming here, isn’t he?”

  Another softball. “Yeah, but relax. This flash drive will make him all happy. If it has the evidence on it you promised, anyway.”

  “It does. It’s my get-out-of-jail-free card.” Chevy stood in the open wine closet doorway. “But I need it first, Tuck. Are you stuck in this house or at home or something? Or can you guys—and gals—like, you know, go anywhere and follow people? Like on TV?”

  Good question. “Well, Sassy and Vincent are pretty much here I think. I don’t know why. But I can go where I want. But I can’t just poof in and out and find people—not yet. And I can’t do the movie stuff like know everything and do spirit tricks. So if I don’t see something happen or hear it for myself, I’m no better off than you.”

  Talk—record—listen.

  “So you just can’t dial me up or something? You gotta find me like if you were alive?”


  “Yes. Unless I have something personal of yours. Sometimes I can find Angel or Bear by using their personal things. Cool, huh? Why?”

  Click—listen.

  “’Cause I’m outta here before Braddock gets here.” He stepped into the wine closet and opened the secret passage. “Sorry, man, but I got things to do.” He disappeared.

  “Tuckie, what is he doing? Chevy’s a funny guy, ain’t he?”

  The front door slammed and heavy footsteps came down the hall toward us.

  The stomping would be Bear Braddock—an unhappy Bear Braddock.

  “Yeah, Sassy, he’s a real card. He thinks he’s going to hide from me. But he can’t.”

  “No? I thought you said you can’t find him with a snap? You know, like Houdini or something?” She twirled on the bar stool again and began fading as Bear walked into the room.

  “Tuck? You in here?”

  “Nothing like Houdini, Sassy. But I don’t need to be. I know where he’ll be later tonight.”

  fifty-two

  “1930s mobsters. Soviet spies. Three dead guys. The Russian mob and some secret book?” Bear spat out his frustrations and downed half his bourbon. He sat in a leather recliner near the front living room window. He’d started with a tall bourbon and ice—a very tall bourbon and one tiny ice cube—it was almost gone. “Not to mention someone stalking you, Angela. And the stalker’s missing. What’s next?”

  “Well, you forgot about Bonnie Grecco.” Angel said from the couch across from him. “And—”

  “And she’s disappeared, too,” I said and watched her look away. “Angel?”

  “Nothing. I’m worried about her.”

  The three of us had been hashing out the entire case since Bear and I returned from the Vincent House an hour ago. He was still stinging from Chevy’s second escape. Luckily for Chevy, he forgot to take Bear’s cell phone when he hog-tied him to the radiator. Bear was able to call Spence to get released—Spence rescuing him would torment him for months.

  “Where does this leave us?” Angel asked, sipping a glass of red wine while she scratched Hercule’s belly. He was on his back with twenty-toes up beside her on the couch. “Do you have anything on the two bodies from the tunnels?”

  “All bad news,” Bear said. “One was Viktor-something, a Russian mob enforcer who was supposed to be in Federal prison. Petya, the caterer, was also mobbed up with the Russians. He ran low-level scams and errands. Feds think he’s laundering mob money through the catering company and get this, he’s skimming payroll at the same time. Very enterprising guy.”

  I sat beside Hercule. “Someone pays Viktor-the-Russian-hit-man to shoot Stephanos Grecco. The someone then kills Viktor—I know, because I was there. Petya got involved somehow and somebody kills him—to silence him is my guess. So we have three dead, all connected by one killer—the ‘someone.’ The question is, who is this someone?”

  “Whoever sent Chevy to the Vincent House,” Bear said. “Chevy’s mysterious client. The one wanting all the video of Angel.”

  Angel asked. “What do I have to do with any of this?”

  I remember what Sassy told me. “Angel, what can you tell me about Francesca Calaprese-Masseria?”

  “Frannie?” Angel was thoughtful. “She’s ninety-plus and in a retirement home. All her relatives are gone—at least the ones I knew about. She has some distant cousins and such, but they’ve not been in touch with her for decades.”

  Bear asked, “What are you thinking, Tuck?”

  “The book, maybe.” I told them what Sassy said about Frannie leaving and taking all ‘the good stuff.’ Then I added, “Maybe Frannie took the book with her, too. If so, it could be why Chevy’s mysterious client had him stalking you, Angel. You met with Frannie about the foundation buying the Vincent House and all the house’s antiques and such. Maybe the killer thinks you know where the book is.”

  “I didn’t even know about the book then.”

  “Maybe they don’t know that.” I had a hunch. “What did Frannie do with all the things she took with her from the Vincent House?”

  Angel sipped her wine. “I’m not sure. I had to track down three storage places to retrieve some of the original furniture. After all the years, some of it wasn’t any good anymore but there was enough to put back in the house. Frannie had several personal items with her in her retirement suite—including her antique bedroom furniture.”

  “Sassy thought she took a lot of books from the Vincent House library,” I said.

  Bear jiggled his ice cubes and contemplated the empty glass. “She must have taken the book, too. Right? You said your friend, Vincent, told you she was supposed to protect it.”

  “Yes, he did. What about it, Angel?”

  “Frannie had some books.” Angel said as Hercule bounced up and went to the window to peer out. “What is it boy?”

  I followed him and looked up and down the street into the dimming light but saw nothing suspicious. “Easy boy. Give a bark if you see something.”

  Angel went on. “Frannie had a large bookshelf in her retirement suite. And there were boxes of books in storage. Would she put something so valuable in storage?”

  “You said she’s over ninety,” Bear said. “Maybe she wasn’t thinking. Or maybe someone did it for her without knowing.”

  “Or it’s sitting on her bookshelf.” I felt a road trip coming. “We need to go see Frannie, Angel. Tomorrow morning, first thing.”

  Bear stood up. “Count me out. I have a date with Chevy and his client tonight—if they show. Chevy is supposed to make a pickup and drop off with this guy later this evening. I want to be there and grab both of them. If things go well, I’ll be dealing with them tomorrow.”

  Hercule trotted over to the living room door, turned, and woofed at me. Then he disappeared into the foyer heading for my den.

  “I’ll be right back.” I knew what Hercule wanted and followed him.

  When I walked into my den Hercule was curled up in my—his—favorite leather chair. He had his favorite ball between his paws and was getting a good head scratching from Doc.

  “Where have you been, Doc? I’ve been looking for you since yesterday.”

  He continued patting Hercule and didn’t look up at me. Hercule moaned and was all about Doc’s house calls.

  Doc said, “I’ve been busy thinking.”

  “You couldn’t think here? You couldn’t talk to me?”

  “No. It’s you I’ve been thinking about.”

  “Is there something wrong?”

  He looked up and bored holes through me. “Of course there’s something wrong, Oliver. And we both know what it is.”

  We do? Oh yeah, we do. “Did you kill Vincent Calaprese?”

  “Yes.”

  Yes? Huh? No, wait … Yes? “Ah, Doc, I need a little more than just ‘yes.’ I’m a detective after all.”

  “You’re dead after all.” He forced a laugh. “Come now, Oliver. Surely you’ve figured it out.”

  Surely I haven’t. “Enlighten me. And give me the condensed version, okay? Angel and I are going to see Frannie—”

  “To find the book. Yes, good idea. Then you’ll bring it to me.”

  “Yeah, okay. But only if you tell me about you and Vincent—and about you and Sassy.”

  Doc stood and wandered to my bookcase, taking his time there and avoiding the issue. By the time he turned around, he could have memorized War and Peace.

  “It was thirty-seven and I was a surgeon in Washington—a healer—and your grandfather was getting ready for college. I wanted things for him. Things even as a surgeon, there wasn’t enough money for in those days. The country was coming out of the Depression and money was tight for everyone.”

  “You never told me about my grandfather, Doc. How come?”

  His voice was strange—raspy, half-whisper, half-distant, and melancholy. “He was young and adventurous and I wanted him to travel and see the world. I wanted him in a good school. Those things cost money. A
nd, no one wanted to admit it, but war was coming, too.”

  “No, I get it. Times were hard.”

  “Yes indeed things were. But it’s a terrible excuse for what I did.”

  Boy, could Doc spin a mystery. I had no idea what he was talking about.

  He looked over at me and sat on the arm of the chair beside Hercule. “One day, late in the evening, some men came to my practice in DC. They wanted me to visit an elderly patient too sick to travel. They offered me an enormous amount of money—over two-hundred dollars. It was a lot back then—so I went. They brought me here to Winchester.”

  Ah, a light in the darkness. “And the patient was Vincent?”

  “Yes. He had pneumonia and was very ill. But, his pneumonia was not why he wouldn’t come to my office—”

  “He was hiding out?”

  Doc nodded. “Yes, though I didn’t understand it at the time. It was later—days later. So, I treated him and healed him. I stayed with them for over a week until he was back on his feet. At the end of the second week, when I returned home, some government agents were waiting.”

  “G-men, Doc? The FBI was waiting for you?”

  “They were, yes. They wanted to know everything that happened to me. I had no idea who Vincent Calaprese was—he was using a false name while I was in Winchester. And there, I saw no one but him and his men. I had no way of knowing what I’d fallen into.”

  Boy, Doc was a celebrity. “What did you tell them—the feds, I mean?”

  “Nothing.” He shook his head. “I knew nothing so there was nothing to tell. It didn’t matter. I refused to speak with them because of doctor-patient confidentiality. They threatened me—to have me audited and arrested—even to take my license and close me down. It was unbelievable what they put me through.”

  I watched him as he drifted away. He was lost somewhere between reminiscence and anger. “And? Did you give in? How’d you—”

  “No, I did not. Not to them, anyway.” He took a deep breath. “Months went by and Vincent’s men came for me again. I went with them but Vincent was fine. He wanted me to be his doctor—for him and his men—in secret. When he learned the FBI had tried to coerce me and failed, he decided to trust me.”