Dying to Know

by TJ O'Connor

  Iggi’s eyes darted around the room and he trembled, struggling against Bear’s grasp. He looked down where I’d been sitting. I was on the other side from him now.

  I blew into his other ear. “Fantasmas. Talk shithead.”

  “Madre. Si, si. The Diggin’ Man pay me and Raymundo do diggin’. Raymundo and me took stuff. We want more money. We had to get away from this place. If the Diggin’ Man knew what we done, we be dead. Raymundo—maybe me soon. Please, take me out.”

  “The Diggin’ Man?” Bear shoved Iggi down onto the couch. “Sit. Now, what are you talking about?”

  Iggi crawled onto the couch armrest. Sweat pooled beneath his eyes. “Raymundo and me dig up stuff the Diggin’ Man didn’t know was there. We sold it.”

  I said, “Angel, it’s my vision of the two men. They found those coins and sold them. That’s where Ernie’s and Sarah’s came from—I’d bet on it. Iggi was there.”

  Angel asked, “From Kelly’s Dig? The gold coins?”

  “Madre, you know. The Diggin’ Man find out, ’cause Raymundo got killed. All we was to do was get the bones out. Just bones.”

  “Get the bones out?” Angel sat down and gently grasped his shoulder. “Iggi, calm down. Tuck won’t hurt you unless I tell him to. Tell us about the Digging Man. Who is he?”

  I patted Iggi’s cheek. He recoiled and almost cried. I said, “Yeah, pal. I’ll be good. Tell Angel everything.”

  Iggi closed his eyes and muttered a prayer.

  “Was it Lucca?” Bear asked, and the name sent Iggi rigid.

  “Lucca?” He met Bear’s eyes and his face said he was more afraid of Lucca than of me. “You know ’bout Lucca?”

  Bear nodded, and lying, said, “Yeah, we do. You better decide if you want to talk to me or him.”

  “Muy bien.” Iggi’s voice was slow and broken, articulating the words as if they were poison. “Okay, Señor Braddock. I never met the Diggin’ Man. Raymundo do that.”

  “Go on, Iggi,” Angel said. “Bear will help you.”

  “Lucca …” Iggi took a long breath. “They say he from New York. He kill for money. He kill me for money.”

  Tears escaped Angel’s eyes. “Did Lucca kill Tuck?”

  “I dunno.” Iggi’s voice was unsteady, apologetic. “Maybe—I dunno.”

  Bear said, “Cut the bullshit. Start with what you do know.”

  His answer made me shiver.

  “Si, si. It start when me and Raymundo was workin’ for Señor Byrd.”

  thirty-eight

  “Lucca Tuscani,” Bear said, peering at Iggi through the observation room’s one-way glass. “He’s our killer—has to be.”

  “Can Iggi identify him?” Captain Sutter asked.

  “No. Iggi only had the name. He never met Tuscani. I’m heading to the FBI to see what they have.”

  “Best guess?”

  My best guess was that “Homicidal Maniac” was on Lucca Tuscani’s business cards.

  Bear tapped the glass when Iggi tried to open the interrogation room door. Iggi retreated into his chair. “A New York shooter—mobbed up.”

  “Smells like Nic Bartalotta. He’s the only one I know with that kind of juice around here. But why?”

  Bear recapped Iggi’s entire story for her, spending most of his time on the mysterious Diggin’ Man who hired Salazar and Iggi to move the bones from Kelly’s Dig and their treasure hunting exploits that ensued.

  He ended with, “And all this started when Iggi and Salazar found those coins and antiques.”

  “So, I’m thinking Tyler Byrd gains most by getting those bones out of his construction project. How he knew about them, I don’t know.” Captain Sutter thought a moment before going on. “He sends Iggi and Salazar to move them, but they find some loot and go into business for themselves. And shortly after, Salazar’s murdered.”

  Bear was nodding. “He needs muscle to clean up and maybe gets Poor Nic to bring Tuscani in to clean up.”

  “We just don’t have a connection between Nic and Byrd.” Captain Sutter watched Iggi. “Not yet. What’s your next move?”

  “First, I gotta get what I can on Tuscani. Then, I’m headed to see Liam McCorkle, an antique dealer down south. Ernie Stuart did business with him. McCorkle might know who the Diggin’ Man is. It’s worth a shot.”

  “Take it.” Sutter was thoughtful. “Spence and Clemens have been running phone and financial records on everyone surrounding Tuck. They said they’re onto something.”

  “Cap, I’ve been all through those records. There’s nothing there.”

  “Well, for now, I’m giving them some extra rope on this.”

  Bear grunted. “Great, Cap. I wonder who they’re gonna hang with it?”

  thirty-nine

  Bear sat at his desk, focused on Lucca Tuscani. He was shuffling paper and banging on his computer. I was bored watching, so I decided to stroll down to see what my two favorite comedic detectives, Spence and Clemens, were doing. Instead of playing crossword puzzles or video games as I thought, they were rushing out the door like real-life detectives often do.

  “You drive,” Spence barked. “He’ll be leaving soon.”

  I took the back seat of their unmarked cruiser and expected them to head out chasing some leads. I was wrong. We parked in the visitor’s lot where they sat watching the rear entrance of the sheriff’s office.

  Clemens was looking around, uneasy. “Are you sure about this, Mikey?”

  “Hell yes.”

  “Really sure?”

  “There he goes. Wait for him to clear the corner.” Spence tapped the dashboard and signaled Clemens to start their car. “The captain says he’s heading to the FBI so he’ll be gone a while.”

  A hundred yards away, Bear pulled out of the parking lot and turned right.

  I said, “What are you doing, Spence?” They were apparently immune to my ghost-speak. “You’re going to tail Bear?”

  No, they weren’t. I was wrong.

  Instead of falling in a safe distance behind Bear, Clemens made a hard U-turn and sped away in the opposite direction. He watched his rearview mirror for several blocks, not relaxing until Spence said, “Clear. Bear’s nowhere in sight.”

  “Ah, boys, what are you up to?” No one answered me.

  Fifteen minutes later, I got my answer and I wasn’t happy when

  I did. It would have been better if we’d tailed Bear to the FBI. Anything would have been better.

  Clemens rolled up to the curb a half-block from the Hunter’s Ridge Garden Apartments. The complex was a cluster of two-story buildings that resembled rows of English Manor houses. Each building housed several condominiums and garden apartments owned predominantly by professionals and academics—many of whom were Angel’s university colleagues. Some were close friends; especially one such ground floor, courtyard entrance unit. That was number Three-A West, belonging to one rather unacademic Theodore Braddock.

  I leaned forward in the seat and flicked Spence’s ear—he recoiled and threw an accusatory glance at Clemens. I said, “You two better not be doing what I think you’re doing.”

  “Okay,” Spence said, jumping out his door. “I’ll go in. If you see him coming, call fast. That’ll give me a good two minutes to get out. Then, meet me around the other side of the courtyard. And Christ, don’t let him see you.”

  “No kidding. Jeez, Mikey. I don’t like this. We don’t have a warrant. If the captain …”

  “Quit whining.”

  “But …”

  It was too late. Spence and I were already jogging down the sidewalk toward Bear’s backyard. I followed him to the rear patio door where it took him three minutes to pick the lock—about an hour less than I bet. I could have saved him the time and shown him the hide-a-key beneath the patio table, but it was fun watching him sweat.

  Ins
ide, Spence zigged and zagged around the five-room flat until he found Bear’s computer atop an old wooden table in the spare bedroom. I’d comment on all the junk, stacks of books, and movies piled everywhere, but invading Bear’s home was bad enough. Chastising his manly décor would have really been in poor taste.

  The computer was in sleep mode. Spence tapped the keyboard, and in a few seconds it came to life. Bear used no password and in a few more seconds, Spence was opening up his files and surfing through his emails. He even came prepared with a USB flash drive.

  “Spence, if you plant evidence, I’ll haunt you forever.”

  I watched him peruse months of emails. I was about to chuckle—the knucklehead didn’t seem to know what he was doing—when he clicked on a couple buttons, sorted the mail by sender, and clapped his hands in victory.

  “Gotcha, Braddock.”

  Reading over his shoulder, my mouth went dry. Spence was looking at a group of thirty or forty emails. Some went back more than six months and others were as recent as last week. The sender’s name bit like a rattlesnake.

  Dr. Angela Hill-Tucker—my Angel.

  “I’m sure Bear and Angel have a good reason for all these emails. They’re pals, remember?” Was I trying to convince him or me?

  He was elated. “Oh, my, Detective Braddock. You have some ’splaining to do.”

  My insides—if I had any—were rockin’ and rollin’. As the dozens and dozens of emails scrolled by, Spence’s fixation on Bear and Angel didn’t seem too stupid anymore. Had I missed something? No. No. They’re pals—that’s all. It had to be all.

  Spence pulled a USB flash drive from his pocket to copy the files just as his cell phone buzzed with a text message from Clemens.

  Bear was on his way.

  “Shit, I’m not done.”

  Spence pocketed the USB drive and backtracked out of the apartment. He relocked the door and evaporated through a row of tall ferns. Another two minutes and we were back in the cruiser. I don’t think Spence breathed the entire trip.

  Clemens was pale. “What’d you find?”

  “Emails between the missus and Braddock. I couldn’t copy them, but they’re there.”

  “What’s that to us?”

  “Leads,” Spence said. “But, after we get a warrant, we’ll be calling them ‘evidence.’ ”

  forty

  “Why so sad?”

  “What?” I looked up, and instead of the bald spot on Clemens’s head, I saw the two young girls from my visions watching me. Strange—not that anything was normal anymore—but I was in my den instead of the backseat of Spence’s cruiser.

  The brunette was kneeling beside my recliner scratching Hercule’s ears. He was, of course, all about spirits these days. “Why so sad?”

  “Sad? Where’d you come from?”

  The blonde seemed to be on the other side of Hercule, standing farther behind the chair. I say “seemed to be” because I couldn’t focus on them, and it wasn’t my eyes that were blurry—it was them.

  “Why are you so sad, Oliver?” The blonde asked, again. “Don’t be sad.”

  They knew my name? “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

  “You know.” The brunette seemed to be playing coy like school girls sometimes do. “Of course you know.”

  “Please,” the blonde said, “there’s no need to be sad. You’ll fix everything. You have to.”

  I stood there looking from one to the other. Hercule woofed and bade the brunette scratch him more. She dutifully obeyed and I continued gawking.

  “Please, I have so many questions …”

  “You have to hurry.” The brunette stood up and reached back, taking the blonde’s hand. “You saw what he did. You have to stop him. He will do it again.”

  A haunting vision of two young girls’ murders played in my thoughts. “That was you I saw. Your murders? Who did it—who killed you?”

  The brunette said, “That was a long time ago. Very long. Now the soldiers protect us. You can’t help us. It’s too late for us. Help the others.”

  “How? Tell me who killed you?” I took two quick steps toward them. “Please. Just tell me who it is.”

  “Help the others, and hurry.” The brunette’s eyes flashed wide—my approach startled them. She retreated behind Hercule and joined arms with her companion. “Don’t.”

  “I’m sorry, please …” I stepped back, but it was too late. They faded and were mere dust drifting in the window’s sunlight.

  As the girls disappeared, someone began unlocking my front door and I went to the den window to check. The instant I did, a brew of jealousy churned inside me. It was Bear. Something startled him and he turned around, visually surprised to see Angel pull up to the curb. He relocked the front door and met her on the sidewalk.

  Something strange happened just then. I tried to blink myself outside onto the porch to listen in. I could not budge. Just as I had been twice before, I was stuck in my tracks and unable to spirit myself anywhere. Before, I had been forced to witness the two girl’s murders and later, Carmen Delgado’s abduction.

  What was it that held me now?

  Angel and Bear’s conversation didn’t last long and it was interesting even without benefit of the words. Bear’s side was worrisome—I could tell from the way his head shook and his occasional glance skyward. Angel wasn’t taking his news well, either. She stepped back from him, glanced toward the house and my den window, and flashed a hand to her face. She looked upset and angry. Their tête-à-tête went back and forth for two or three more minutes until it happened.

  Angel’s hand snapped out and Bear reluctantly removed our house key from his key ring and surrendered it. Afterward, Angel gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, snuck another glance toward the house, and drove off.

  Bear watched her go. He looked sad, and if kicking the side of his cruiser meant anything, pissed off.

  The newest question on a long list of unanswered ones was—what the hell just happened?

  forty-one

  For two hours, I wandered around the house looking for Doc. Even though he rarely gave a straight answer or offered more than ethereal philosophy, talking with him did make me feel better. I could use some of his name-calling and deprecation right now. Of course, I couldn’t find him anywhere.

  Even Hercule stayed sleeping in the chair and uninterested in either a chat or toss of the ball.

  I gave up and dialed into Angel. She was halfway through a Caesar salad at the Old Town Bistro in Winchester. Tyler Byrd and André Cartier were there, debating the pros and cons of protecting historical sites across Virginia. André was an expert on the topic and Byrd was an expert on the free enterprise system—making lots of money.

  Considering what Iggi told us, this was one meeting I wished I’d heard from the beginning. Angel was just getting to the good part and the redness on Tyler’s face told me he knew it, too.

  Tyler was a medium height, stout, balding man. He was in his early sixties and had a muscular, fire-plug build that I found very construction-worker-esque. He looked more like a professional wrestler than a businessman, even in his two-piece suit.

  “Suarez and Salazar? Oh, I know where this is going.” Tyler folded his powerful hands in front of him and leaned back in his chair. “Let me tell you what I told Braddock—I don’t know shit.”

  André began, “They worked for you …”

  “Listen, I didn’t know anything about them hunting for bones or pirate treasure at Kelly’s Orchard. I gave them odd jobs here and there. They were supposed to be doing preconstruction site work—clearing trees and helping the surveyors. I had no idea they were prospecting at night. If I had, I would have fired them.”

  “Some might think you stood to profit from concealing what they found—the bones and such.” André was curt. “See the point?”

  “Sure, e
xcept there’s a fatal flaw in your big conspiracy theory,” Tyler said, leaning his hulking body forward.

  “What’s that?”

  “It didn’t stop anything.”

  Angel and André exchanged glances that said, “Oops, he’s right.”

  Tyler went on. “Those two knuckleheads dug up their loot a week before my crew found those bones—and we reported it to the police. I’m responsible for putting a hold on this project, not those two. Me. I could have plowed it all under, but I didn’t.”

  He had a good point. He had a very good point.

  Angel said, “Your survey crews called the police first—before they called you. That’s what you told police.”

  Tyler Byrd was not known as a patient man. Nor for being bullied or intimidated. So, when he lurched to his feet with a steel finger stabbing at Angel, I wasn’t surprised.

  “Now you listen here, Professor Tucker. I had nothing to do with Salazar’s murder—your husband’s either. Who do you think you are? You’re not the cops. You’re supposed to be advising the court on what to do with Kelly’s Dig. I suggest you stick to that before …”

  “Before what, Tyler?” Angel snapped. “Before something else happens to me? Like getting shot at? Attacked? My best friend attacked again? What else could you possibly do?”

  “He could kill you, Angel,” I said. “Go easy.”

  André grabbed her hand and gave it a gentle tug. “Easy, Angela. Please, you don’t mean that. Tyler wasn’t threatening …”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  The three of them looked around the patio at the tables of people watching. Tyler sat back down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what it sounded like. I’m losing hundreds of thousands on this deal and everyone thinks I’m a murderer.”

  Angel said, “There is more than money at stake here.”

  “Yes, but a lot of money, too.” Tyler wasn’t interested in being conciliatory. “My partner was damn careful about the Kelly Orchard historical zone. He negotiated allowances so we could get the excavation through without disrupting the original farmhouse site. He was a fanatic about that, and it set well with everyone at the time. Now, this gravesite business could cost me five million or more.”