Dying to Know

by TJ O'Connor

  “I don’t know.” Someone knocked on her door. “Come in.”

  I nearly wet myself when the door opened.

  Poor Nic Bartalotta stood in the doorway. Behind him, a beefy bodyguard with no neck and less gray matter blocked all light from the outer room.

  “Professor Tucker?”

  Angel went pale. “Mr. Bartalotta? What can I do for you?”

  “May I come in?” The aging gangster didn’t budge from the doorway. Gangsters are like vampires—they can’t enter without an invitation.

  “Well, yes, I guess so.”

  “Angel, tell him to leave his goon outside.”

  Before she could, Poor Nic whispered to the man who then disappeared from view. Then, Poor Nic walked into the room, quietly closed the door behind him, and stopped in front of Angel’s desk. He reverently bowed his head.

  “Please accept my deepest condolences, Professor Tucker. I was saddened—and shocked—by your husband’s death. I should have sent my condolences before. Forgive me for that. His death was so tragic.”

  Angel’s face tightened. “You mean his murder.”

  “Of course—murder is such a ruthless word.” He offered a grand-fatherly smile. “Professor … may I call you Angela?”

  I said, “Sure, let’s all be pals. He probably killed me so we’re all family.”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t know you that well.”

  “Ah, of course.” He looked down at the two chairs in front of him, waited for Angel to nod, and sat. “Let me get to the point.”

  “Please do.”

  I sat beside him. “Easy, Angel. Let him talk. He thinks he’s safe here with you. Maybe he’ll tell us something.”

  She nodded.

  “Professor Tucker, many believe I was responsible for your husband’s death.”

  Kapow! The words etched across her face and she looked straight at him. Then she glanced around the room, perhaps hoping to see me. Poor Nic noticed and followed her gaze.

  “Murder,” she repeated, snatching back his attention. “And yes, I’ve considered that you murdered Tuck.”

  “Yes, of course—his murder.” He didn’t flinch. “I am here to tell you in person—I am not responsible. Because of that, you should be concerned.”

  “Excuse me? I don’t understand, Poor …”

  He laughed and his smile lingered. “Yes, they call me Poor Nic—policemen and reporters love the drama. Please call me Nicholas.”

  Angel stayed silent, waiting for his lead.

  “You see, Professor Tucker, it’s very simple. I did not kill your husband, and the police aren’t looking elsewhere very hard. They’re so focused on me that they aren’t looking anywhere else at all.”

  Angel thought about that. “You were involved in Tuck’s last case—maybe others, too. You’re a …”

  “Easy Angela,” I said. “He doesn’t take criticism well.”

  “Now, now.” He raised a hand and patted the air. “I’m retired. Let’s leave it at that, shall we? And I don’t kill policemen. I never have and never will. Your husband was a good man I’m told. To me, however, he was a pain in the …”

  “Often to me, too.” Angel caught him off guard and they both chuckled. She added, “Yes, he was a good man—and husband.”

  Poor Nic’s face hardened as he lifted his chin. “Professor Tucker, I am not in the habit of stalking women in parking lots. How stupid could I be to kill your husband and then attack you? Let alone twice. Don’t you think the police have had me under surveillance all this time?”

  “Perhaps. But, you wouldn’t do these things yourself, would you? You have others to do your dirty work.”

  Sweet mobster-mash, Angel was pushing his buttons hard. “Easy, easy. And you say I have no couth.”

  “No, very good, Professor. Let me be straightforward. I am concerned for your safety. If anything happens to you, it would be tragic. More to the point, however, I might be blamed.”

  “I see.” Angel let his words settle. “So, you’ve come to proclaim your innocence. You’ve done that.”

  Poor Nic stood up and clasped his hands in front of him. “A crazy person killed your husband. I believe that same person killed Raymundo Salazar. Perhaps he even tried to kill Miss Delgado.”

  “Perhaps,” she said.

  “I must ask,” he said in a quiet voice, narrowing his eyes on her. “The night your husband was murdered … what did you see? What did you …”

  “Nothing,” Angel said in a sharp tone. “Tuck was shot downstairs while I was in our room. Someone tried to come upstairs and I let Herc go. He saved me.”

  “Herc?”

  “Hercule, our Lab. A bullet grazed him. He’s fine, though.”

  He laughed. “Ah, very Agatha Christie. I adore Labradors. I have three myself. Good for Hercule. Keep him close, Professor.”

  And with that, Poor Nicholas Bartalotta gave her that warm, grandfatherly smile. He handed her a card that read simply, “Nicholas” with a handwritten phone number.

  “Angela,” he said in a soft, calming voice, “you are a strong and charming woman. Your loss is my loss. I will check in on you from time to time—if you don’t mind. Should you need anything, do not hesitate to call.” He turned and disappeared through the office door.

  Angel watched him leave. “What just happened, Tuck?”

  “Hell if I know, Angel. But I think Poor Nic just became your godfather.”

  twenty-nine

  It was a coin toss whether I stayed with Angel or tagged along with Poor Nic. Since he was my nominee for murderer of the year, he won the toss.

  I slipped into his Lexus when Bobby, his driver, opened the door for Poor Nic. Then, Bobby drove us straight back to his estate ten miles out on the west side of the county. When we pulled into the gated, high-walled property, the first thing I noticed were the two men standing guard. They became animated and attentive. I guess everyone likes to look good for the boss.

  The house—I’d call it a mansion—was immaculate and as grand as I recalled. It was a two-story Tudor-style that looked like it belonged outside London instead of Winchester. Gardens and trees surrounded the property, and of course, more big goons with guns patrolling all around. Okay, so maybe London was wrong. Maybe San Quentin was a more appropriate venue.

  With or without the gun-toting hoods, Poor Nic had style.

  He stopped at his front door and turned to Bobby. “Keep the car ready. I may be going out later. Get Tommy and come to the great room.”

  Inside, Poor Nic helped himself to a five o’clock cocktail and took his customary place behind the huge antique desk. Bobby and Tommy were standing in front of him before his ice got wet.

  He looked at his men and took a long swallow of his drink. They neither drank nor sat.

  Poor Nic said, “Tommy, what’s new from your friends downtown?”

  “Braddock is getting close on Salazar. He’s made the connection.” Tommy was one of Poor Nic’s knuckle-draggers—muscle. While I hadn’t recognized him on the golf course when Bear met him, his resume was clear now. Tommy was playing both sides of the game. He was snitching for Bear on Poor Nic and reporting Bear’s demands back to him.

  Tommy was a double agent.

  “I see.” Poor Nic sipped his drink and contemplated the glass. “And how is he making such progress?”

  “Dunno. He called Wallchak with a bunch of questions. He knew just about everythin’. Bear knows a lot more than we thought. All of a sudden-like.”

  “How is that?”

  Bobby spoke up. “Boss, I was with Wallchak the other day. He said he hadn’t talked with Braddock about that stuff. In fact, he said he hadn’t seen him for a while. I’ll go see him.”

  “Call him—now.” Poor Nic gave him a dismissive wave and returned to Tommy. “What else about your
friend?”

  “He’s gettin’ to be a pain in the ass. He knows about Salazar moonlightin’, but he dunno where yet.”

  “Can you slow him down?”

  Tommy shrugged.

  “Try.”

  I watched Tommy. He was playing his cards like a riverboat gambler. It was obvious Poor Nic knew about his connection to Bear—perhaps it was at his direction. Yet, at the same time, Tommy wasn’t giving him many details. Perhaps he’d already filled Poor Nic in on the golf course meeting. Perhaps not. Like his master, Tommy was no doubt a stone-faced thug and capable of the deepest deceit. The lingering question on my mind was, of course, who was he deceiving the most—Poor Nic or Bear? The difference could mean jail or sleeping with the fishes—as they say.

  Bobby returned. “Wallchak hasn’t spoken with Bear for a week. He showed up the other day but got into it with Spence and left. Wallchak never talked to him.”

  “Then Braddock has inside information. Someone’s helping him. I don’t like that.”

  Both bodyguards shrugged.

  “Perhaps he knows about Iggi, too. Bobby, you’d better pay Iggi a visit—and Salazar’s widow, too. Make sure they understand things. Take care of Sarah Salazar—good care. If Iggi doesn’t feel like cooperating, well, take care of him, too.”

  Bobby disappeared again.

  “Tommy, get the box, won’t you?”

  “Sure, Boss.” Tommy walked to the far corner of the room and pulled on one of the heavy bookshelves. Like an old Hollywood movie scene, the heavy oak bookshelf glided forward and revealed a wall safe. Tommy deftly manipulated the dial and opened the door. Inside, he retrieved a heavy wooden box adorned with brass hinges and a heavy ornate lock. It resembled a pirate’s treasure chest, but was no larger than a shoebox. Reverently, he carried it to Poor Nic’s desk and laid it before him. Then, he retreated to his post behind the leather armchair and waited.

  “Thank you. Recent events force me to consider my actions all those years ago. There were so many questions. I am close to the answers, Tommy. No one is going to keep me from them.”

  Tommy remained silent.

  Poor Nic sat stoically holding the sides of the box. His eyes said he was miles away. The box had a profound spell that seized him when his eyes rested on its lock. When he reached into his pocket and withdrew a skeleton key, I’d swear he held his breath. He manipulated the lock and lifted the lid. Before he looked inside, his right hand signed the cross as his lips proclaimed his faith.

  I couldn’t see what treasures lay inside. Strange, though, as I felt no compulsion to move closer. There was something about the box. Something powerful that repelled any notion of violating the old man’s privacy.

  He withdrew several folded newspaper clippings and read them. Then, he withdrew photographs and other papers and laid them down in a neat stack beside the box. There was also a gun—a nickel-plated derringer that he hefted and seemed oddly pleased to hold. Poor Nic was lost in memories. After reliving some long ago secret, he replaced each item inside the box. He locked it and sat back, closing his eyes.

  Tommy’s voice startled me. “Do you want me to take care of this, boss?”

  “No, but thank you,” Poor Nic said with a low, sardonic laugh. Then, in a graven tone, he added, “I will handle this myself. Perhaps not today or tomorrow. Perhaps not this year or next. But I will take care of this before I die.”

  “Okay, Boss. I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Yes, please do. Go make sure Wallchak has everything straight.”

  “Sure, Boss.”

  “We can’t afford another Salazar situation, can we?”

  Whatever that question meant, Tommy knew it didn’t require an answer and left.

  The desk phone rang. He let it ring three times before lifting the receiver and grunting a shallow greeting. He twice closed his eyes and drummed his fingers against his temple. The tightness of his lips and the telltale shake of his head told me he was not pleased with the call.

  “Hold on.” He lurched forward. His fingers whitened around the receiver. “I’m aware of our liability. Don’t presume to explain that to me. Get your hands on those other pieces or else.”

  Poor Nic’s face twisted as the caller spoke. He cut in. “We share that responsibility. Do you understand? Do your part and I’ll do mine. Iggi is for me to handle and Lucca is your problem—I cannot deal with him yet. So do it. Do it soon.”

  He hung up the phone. As he leaned back in his chair, he sipped his cocktail and contemplated the box once again. His demeanor softened and his face relaxed.

  “Lucca, Lucca, Lucca. You’ve been a bad boy. Very bad indeed.”

  thirty

  “Angel, you here?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She spun around at our kitchen table and looked around the room. “Tuck, you scared me half to death.”

  “Well, it could have been all the way,” I mused. “Like me.”

  Her eyes followed my voice to the kitchen chair opposite her. “Herc and I have been looking for you.”

  I told her about the visit with Poor Nic. “So, if you’re up to it, I have an idea.”

  She listened and when I was through, said, “I’m not sure of this. Let’s call Bear.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Her eyes dropped. “You want to find … can’t you be happy the way things are?”

  “No, I can’t. There are no leads on my case. Maybe if we solve Salazar’s it’ll help.”

  “If I help you solve Salazar’s murder, we could link it to yours?”

  “Sure, maybe.”

  She thought about that. “Then I’m calling Bear. I don’t want to …”

  “No, wait until we’re done. Sarah never trusted him.”

  _____

  Ten minutes later, we pulled into a parking space in front of a long block of row houses. The homes were in poor repair with dirty brick exteriors and paint-chipped windows. Boxes of trash piled out front spilled into the street. Many of the houses were dark and most of the streetlamps were, too. The parking lot was eerily dark and forbidden at this nine o’clock hour.

  Angel looked around and frowned. “Oh my, Sarah lives here?”

  “Nice, isn’t it? Raymundo Salazar was working two jobs for this. Sarah has a young baby, too. And, she’s not working.”

  “How do they do it? And with a baby?”

  I looked around the neighborhood and saw two men climbing into a large sedan down the block. “There goes Bobby and one of his pals, Angel.”

  “Terrific, just what we need. Remember, Tuck, we have a deal. I do some detective work and we turn it over to Bear, right?”

  “Right.” Hercule was sitting in the front passenger seat. I whispered to him and he barked. To Angel, I said, “Leave your window down. Herc will have you covered. You’ll like being a detective. Trust me.”

  “Tuck, I mean it. I’m not doing this after tonight.”

  A moment later, we were standing on Sarah’s stoop as Angel rapped on the door. It opened almost instantly. Perhaps she was expecting Bobby again. The expression on her face said she was not expecting Angel.

  “Yeah? Who are you?”

  Sarah was a plain girl of about twenty. She was blonde with large blue eyes and a broken, but pretty smile. She was tiny—about five feet tall and slender. The remnants of baby fat showed above her jeans. She bounced and coddled a young infant in her arms.

  “Sarah,” Angel said in a small voice. Then she gained her confidence. “Sarah, I’m Angela Tucker.”

  Sarah looked her over and then peered around her into the parking lot. “So? What’s that mean to me?”

  “Angel Tucker, Sarah,” Angel repeated. “Tuck, my husband, was murdered—Detective Tucker.”

  Sarah’s face paled and she stopped bouncing her baby. “Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t kno
w. Right, Tuck’s wife. Sorry.”

  “May we come in?”

  “We?” Sarah looked around Angel again. “Is someone with you?”

  Angel blushed. “No, I’m sorry. I left my dog in the car. Just me. May I come in? I need your help. Please?”

  “My help?” Sarah’s face transformed from cold and angry to shameful. A couple tears filled her eyes and began the journey down her face. She pushed the screen door further open. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tucker. I heard about him on the news. I’m real sorry. Come in.”

  Angel followed Sarah into her tiny kitchen. The room smelled musky and damp. Overhead, a single, bare bulb lighted the room. A baby’s bottle was warming on the stove and there was a small plate and spoon ready on the counter.

  “Sorry ’bout this.” Sarah moved a pile of laundry off a kitchen chair and motioned for Angel to sit. Then, she opened the refrigerator. “Hope you don’t mind if I feed Annie. She’s hungry—as always.”

  “Go right ahead.” Angel winced when Sarah’s refrigerator revealed only a half-empty gallon of milk, two jars of baby food, and some old, browning fruit. “Can I help?”

  “No. Annie’s funny with strangers.”

  I said, “I wonder how she took to Bobby and the other hood.”

  Angel was thinking the same thing. “Sarah, don’t Poor Nic’s men scare her? Or is she used to them?”

  Bullets wouldn’t have gotten Sarah’s attention any faster. “What does that mean? You tryin’ to say somethin’?”

  “We—I saw them leave.”

  Sarah shrugged. “Bobby brought Ray’s last paycheck. I couldn’t pick it up. My car don’t work.”

  “Of course.” Angel nodded. “I’m very sorry about your husband, Sarah. I know what you’re going through.”

  “Thanks. My Ray was a hard worker—he was always workin’—two jobs for me and Annie. And he would’a had three if I’d let him.”

  “There’s your cue, Angel,” I said. But when she sat watching Annie and didn’t make a move, I pressed her. “Angel, come on. The faster you get what we came for, the faster we’re out of here.”