Dying to Know

by TJ O'Connor

  Woof. A second later, his eyes closed and he was asleep.

  “Thanks for the help, pal.”

  Doc seemed surprised I couldn’t read the file, so I returned to it on my desk. The pages were still spread about where Angel had left them. On top were blurry photographs, and with them, my yellow legal pad of notes. I concentrated on the top photograph. The image looked like a man. The face was indiscernible and his surroundings unclear. Sparks flickered in my head and the nagging feeling of recognition struck me. This man was important.

  Think, Tuck, think …

  Nothing. I touched the image. Sparks tickled my fingertips as one by one they moved over the image.

  Be there.

  Like striking a match, the sparks ignited and flames singed my fingers. An image swirled in the print as if developing before me. A thin, shallow face with haunting, powerful eyes emerged. The face was aged and showed a man worn by more than years.

  This face was no friend.

  Poor Nicholas Bartalotta.

  Poor Nic was not poor at all. In fact, he was one of the wealthiest people in Frederick County. He was also the county’s most notorious, albeit only, gangster. Poor Nic was retired from the New York City mob families. Newspapers, being as fond of notorious mobsters as they are of bestowing silly names on them, dubbed him “Poor Nic” from his lavish lifestyle. The nom de guerre followed him to Winchester.

  “Hi, Nic. I bet you thought you were rid of me.”

  I laid my hand on the photograph and a manic episode exploded in my brain. My thoughts lost focus and melted. Needles pricked me everywhere. I tried to get control but a jolt of electricity shot through me like a cattle prod to my brain. Lightning burst through—synapse by synapse. My eyes shuttered closed and the current swept through me.

  _____

  When my eyes opened, I was standing in a luxuriously furnished, two-story great room. There were antiques and expensive trappings and I could have been in an English castle amongst lords and ladies. There were paintings, sculptures, and fine art of every variety. The room exuded wealth and power. Across from me, in front of the story-tall double oak doors, two muscular men stood guard. But they were not watching me, they were watching … the other me.

  The other me?

  Bear was there too, sitting in front of a battleship-sized mahogany desk, right next to the other me—the me that had been alive, in this room, working a case with Bear. The details were as hazy as the file on my desk. Across from us was the now familiar man in the photograph. In person, he was short and thin, with silver hair recently trimmed and combed back. He looked seventy despite his younger age. Wear and tear caused battle scars but he held himself with starch and power.

  This was Poor Nicholas Bartalotta.

  Bear was questioning him. But I recalled it was more an interrogation. “Listen, Nic, lawyer or no lawyer, I want those records. If you’re innocent, show them to us.”

  “I think not.” Poor Nic sat stone-faced and played with a large gold coin. He rolled it in his fingers and fondled it like a lover. A smile traced across his boney face and that unnerved 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 donuts. 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 really 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.”

  “My men will show you out.” Poor Nic motioned for his two bodyguards 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 all. Now leave.”

  This was frustrating. I’d come in on part of the conversation—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 previously 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. Capisce?”

  “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 brute stagger backward and cough.

  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 tell 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?

  Actually, 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 together. I didn’t stay behind eavesdropping on the phone call 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 finest 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’d 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—maybe 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.

  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 wearing 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. Generally, 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.”

  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 pocketknife, 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 losing 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 nodding. 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 just sorting some things out.”

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

  “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 Bear’s 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.”

  “Spell 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 Professor 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 hell.”

  Bear agreed.

  “How about that security guard killing?”

  “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 contempt. “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—everything.”

  “It’s all here, Cap. Everything.”

  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 filing 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 gargantuan informant. Now, he was stuffing evidence in his pockets. Since 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?

  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’d 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.

  “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 stopping. She began to smile as moisture glistened from her eyes and she sighed.

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

  She jolted up, blushed, and swiped a strand of hair from her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “What’s wrong, Angela?”

  “You won’t understand. You think I imagined what happened at Ernie’s. You’ll never believe this.”

  “I always have an open mind.”

  “It’s Tuck.” She stood up and went to the sink. “He’s here—with us now. I can feel him.”

  “Oh, shit. Don’t start that.”

  “Yes, listen. I can feel him. Don’t you?”

  “No.” He went to her, put his arm around her, and kissed her forehead. “Angela, I know you want to believe he’s here. But he’s not. Sometimes I get this buzzing sound—even hear things—and I want to believe it’s him. It’s not. It’s just guilt.”

  Guilt? “Ah, partner, what does that mean?”

  Angel lowered her eyes. “No, Bear. No guilt. You promised me. Let it go.”

  “It’s my fault. I never should have let this happen.”

  This? What “this”?

  “Bear,” she slipped from his arm. “I can feel him. I’m telling you the truth.”

  He looked down at the floor, shaking his head. “Angela, I can’t do this. He’s dead. I’m going for a walk. I have to get away from it.”

  “Bear, wait …”

  It was too late. He disappeared into the hall. The front door opened and closed.

  “Damn you, Bear.” Angel dropped back down onto her chair and buried her face in her hands. “Damn you.”

  I was helpless to console her but I tried anyway. I stroked her hair and tried to reach her with a fingertip caressing her cheek. After several minutes, she wiped tears from her face and a hand went to her cheek. It lingered there as though responding to my affection.