Dying to Know

by TJ O'Connor

  “Your partner?” André asked. “Who’s that?”

  The question drew the air from Tyler’s bluster. His eyes dropped to the table and he looked irritated he’d spilled the beans.

  “Nicholas Bartalotta,” he said, and his fingers turned white around his beer.

  Angel’s mouth dropped. “Poor Nic?”

  “Yes, Nic.” Tyler went on. “Nicholas’s distant family owned Kelly Orchard back in the sixties—at least for a short time. That’s why he decided to retire here. He took an interest in the bypass project when it first got started and came to me as an investor.”

  “I see,” André said. “Is that why he wanted the farmhouse saved?”

  “Yes. Nic planned the construction through the farm. The original plans brought the main highway ramp closer to the farmhouse. He got it moved. He wanted to save the farmhouse at all cost. Sentimental old fart. He even provides security at the site now.”

  “Bartalotta runs your security?” André asked. “Isn’t that the fox guarding the hen house?”

  “No, it’s not. He owns a security company, doesn’t he?” He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and dropped several onto the table. When he did, a heavy coin fell out onto the table beside the bills.

  Angel scooped it up. “Very nice gold piece, Tyler.”

  André eyed the coin. “May we ask where you got this?”

  “No, you may not.”

  Angel handed the coin back to him. “Then, does the name Liam McCorkle mean anything to you?”

  “No.” Tyler strode off and never looked back.

  Angel said, “Tyler Byrd and Poor Nic are partners. And Nic’s family owned Kelly Orchard forty years ago. Some coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe in them,” André said. “And I’d bet those two have many more secrets—much more interesting ones, too. I’d bet my life on it.”

  forty-two

  “Angel, we need to talk about Bear.”

  We were standing on the sidewalk outside my office. We’d come straight here after lunch to find Bear.

  Angel glanced around to see if anyone was watching. “Tuck, I can’t very well have a discussion with you out here, now can I?”

  “But …”

  “Hold on,” she pulled out her cell phone and put it to her ear. “What?”

  Wow, neat trick. I got serious. “Is there anything about him I should know? I mean, you know, anything you know about him that I don’t?”

  “Like what?” Angel scrunched up her face. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  Jesus, she was making this difficult. “Angel, it’s about our house key and all the emails.”

  “The key? Emails?”

  “Not just a key—our house key. And lots of emails. Is there anything, you know, with you two I need to know? I mean, before I died of course … no, I mean …”

  “Are you insinuating what I think?”

  Yes, I guess I was. “Well, I’m asking.”

  “No.” She stormed into the office and was immediately buzzed into the detective’s bullpen. Once inside, she slammed her phone shut. “Really, I cannot believe you.”

  “Please, just hear me out.” I looked over and saw Bear in Captain Sutter’s office with a scowl and a bad attitude. His face was drawn and mouth clamped tight, holding back what I knew was a flurry of expletives for the man standing near us watching him. “No, wait a minute. Something’s going on.”

  Mike Spence had a big, evil smile on his face. The little bastard even winked and blew Bear a cute, exaggerated kiss. He wanted Bear to know who clipped him.

  The bullpen had a half-dozen cops and detectives milling around, but it was deathly quiet.

  “Angel, wait at my desk. I gotta see what’s up with Bear.”

  Angel huffed and headed across the room.

  Inside Captain Sutter’s office, I said to Bear, “What’s going on, partner?” I knew instantly when Captain Sutter held out a clear plastic evidence bag with my .380 Walther backup gun in it. The last time I’d seen it, it was in my den the night of my murder.

  “It took us three days, but we fished it out of the sewer drain two blocks from Tuck’s house. Ballistics matched it to Tuck’s murder.”

  Bear didn’t look at the gun. “And?”

  “A neighbor saw you roaming around up the street a few nights ago.”

  He cursed and said, “No kidding. That’s the night someone shot at Angel—it’s all in my report. I chased someone up the street. My prints won’t be on the gun.”

  “No, you’re right.” Sutter set the evidence bag on her desk. “There are no prints at all. Not even Tuck’s. Wiped clean.”

  “The murderer wiped it and tossed it after killing him. I’d expect that.”

  “Really?” Captain Sutter rubbed her eyes. “Tell me about the emails. I’m told there are tons between you and Angela. More to Carmen Delgado. What the hell is going on?”

  “Nothing, Cap.”

  “Nothing? Bullshit.”

  Bear folded his arms and set his jaw. “Search my house, read my mail, hell, you don’t need a warrant—do whatever. This is bullshit and you know it.”

  “I hope you’re right. The sheriff wants your ass, Bear. But he’ll take your badge and gun for now.”

  “Suspended?” Bear dropped his head and cursed loudly. “For what? Being friends with my partner’s wife?”

  “How about withholding information?” Captain Sutter went to her office door and looked out. “Tell me again about the night Tuck was killed. Spence pulled your cell records. Angela called you at 10 p.m., right?”

  Oh, shit. She did? I said, “Ah, Bear. You never mentioned that before. Neither has Angel.”

  Bear nodded. “Sure, yeah. Okay, she did. So?”

  “So? That’s not in your report. First I heard it.” Captain Sutter’s face was on fire. “She never brought it up, either.”

  “Now hold on,” Bear glanced out the window and saw half the office watching him. “Look, Cap. Angela and Tuck were having a bad time of it. We’d been working night and day on Salazar’s case—on top of our other caseload. He hadn’t been home at all in almost a week. Jesus, she asked me to cut him loose early. So I did.”

  “She asked you to send him home?”

  Bear shrugged.

  “And you didn’t think that was important to mention?” Captain Sutter dropped down in her desk chair. “You know what this looks like?”

  I sure did.

  “Listen, Cap,” Bear turned his back to the window. “The call is innocent. I swear.”

  “Christ, Bear, this whole thing looks bad.” She dropped her face into her hands and took a few long, deep breaths. When she looked up, any understanding was gone from her eyes. “Anything else I need to know? Put it all on the table now.”

  I leaned down to his ear. “Well, partner? Something we need to know?”

  He started to answer when he peered back toward the bullpen and burst from Sutter’s office. “Oh, hell no.” He charged across the bullpen toward Angel. I followed.

  Spence stood over Angel at his desk where she was crying. “Detective, I just explained that.”

  Bear never slowed and was over Spence’s desk before Spence could see him coming. He landed a crushing right into Spence’s face that sent him crashing over his desk chair onto the floor. An “oof” of air rushed from Spence’s lungs.

  “Braddock,” Captain Sutter yelled. “Get off him.”

  Angel grabbed his arm, “Bear, no.”

  Me, I was enjoying myself. Despite my angst with Bear, I would pay money to see this go on another two rounds. “I dare you to hit him again, Bear. I double-dare you.”

  “Back off, Bear,” Spence snorted, wiping a stream of blood from his mouth. “Back off.”

  Captain Sutter pulled Bear away, cussing as she
did. But, as Spence rose to his feet, Angel stepped in and landed a loud, vicious slap across his face. She followed it with a harsh, head-spinning second.

  Spence went down again.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Captain Sutter barked. “Everyone back off.”

  Holy crap, I wish I’d done that.

  “Captain, I was questioning her about that phone call,” Spence said as red welts glowed on his face. “She gave me some shit about Tuck working too much. I want charges …”

  “Shut up,” Captain Sutter yelled. “You asked for that. Facts are facts but you’re so far out in left field I could bitch-slap you myself.”

  “What about the emails and the phone calls? We’ve got the gun and Delgado said …”

  “Bullshit.” Sutter bored an iron finger into his chest. “We got a gun with no fingerprints. A bullet matches a bullet—so what? You still don’t know who fired the damn thing. And don’t bullshit me about Carmen Delgado. I spoke to her myself.”

  “Angel,” I said. “I tried to tell you earlier. When Spence got into Bear’s computer—they didn’t have a warrant. They broke into his house.”

  Angel turned to Bear and quoted me word for word. To Spence she said, “You bastard.”

  “What? You little shit.” Bear started toward Spence again but Captain Sutter pushed him away.

  Captain Sutter said, “What’s this, Spence? You told me that Delgado …”

  “I can explain.” Spence patted the air. “It’s like this …”

  “In my office,” Sutter said. “Now.”

  Spence retreated across the room with Captain Sutter behind. Angel stood looking at Bear with half-angry, half-sorrowful eyes. “Bear …”

  “Forget it. What’s done is done. Besides, I’ve identified Lucca.” He stood over his desk and picked up a large manila file in his inbox. He opened it and took out two photographs. “The FBI sent this over. This is Lucca Tuscani. He’s a mobbed-up shooter like we thought. His real name is Lucca Voccelli.”

  The photographs were old and taken in poor light from bad angles—surveillance shots taken in haste. The man in the photos was in his early fifties and was broad-shouldered and bulky—not fat but muscular and strong. Everything about him was dark—his hair, his Mediterranean complexion, and his angry eyes. He looked ominous and unfriendly. If there was a poster child for a mob assassin, we were looking at him.

  Behind us, Captain Sutter’s door banged open and Spence emerged, looking a little ass-chewed and whipped. He made eye contact with Bear—unfriendly contact—and trudged out of the office. Captain Sutter headed straight for us.

  “Okay, Bear, Spence’s screw up bought you a couple days. The sheriff owes me a couple favors and I just called them in. For now, you keep your badge and gun.”

  “Cap, listen …”

  “No, you listen.” She stepped into him and rose on her tiptoes to meet his eyes—she still fell short. “If you’re lying and make me look bad, you ain’t gonna make it to trial.”

  “I’m not, Cap, I …”

  “You have two days, max. Find me a killer, Bear—or Kelly’s Dig might be your grave, too.”

  forty-three

  Staunton, Virginia, is a quaint historic town some ninety-five miles south of Winchester. The town is snuggled into the heart of the Shenandoah Valley and much of it has shown little change since the Civil War. Historians will tell you, as did the Internet welcome site Angel read to me, that Staunton was saved from the ravaging many Virginia towns took during that war. Pronounced “Stanton” as opposed to the phonetic spelling, its history includes Woodrow Wilson, a famous country music quartet, Mary Baldwin College, and a long litany of historical markers.

  None of those brought us here.

  It was close to six o’clock in the evening when Angel, Bear, and I turned off Route 81 toward the center of town. During the drive, most of the conversation was about finding Iggi Suarez’s mysterious “Diggin’ Man,” and how Salazar’s murder might be linked to mine. They were acting odd, both avoiding the lingering questions that hung between them like fog—keys, emails, unspoken secrets. I understood why Angel was avoiding them—she knew I was sitting in the back seat. Why Bear was avoiding them was the real mystery and I didn’t like it at all.

  Silence hung over the last half-hour.

  Angel broke the quiet. “Why did you ask me along? I thought you wanted me to stay out of your investigation.”

  “I do, but now that everyone thinks we’re the new Bonnie and Clyde, you might as well tag along.” Bear slowed as we approached the outskirts of town. “And, you’re safer with me.”

  I said, “Maybe, maybe not.”

  Angel ignored me. “Where’s McCorkle’s shop?”

  “A mile up ahead.”

  Liam McCorkle could be the key to all the mayhem surrounding Kelly’s Dig. He could have information on the Diggin’ Man and that might mean on Salazar’s murder. If we were lucky, maybe my own, too.

  Since we were short on leads and long on murders, McCorkle was our best shot.

  “Here we go.” Bear made a sharp left into an alley that caught Angel and me by surprise. Above us was a second-story billboard affixed to the alley wall that announced, “McCorkle’s Heritage Antiques.”

  “It’s down the alley,” he said. “This town has hundreds of antique dealers. But McCorkle is the king of the hill.”

  The alley led to a large gravel parking lot where only one car remained. At the far end of the lot was a three-story, clapboard building. Bear wheeled in front of the wrought iron fence that surrounded a fieldstone walk and narrow garden. The walk led to McCorkle’s shop.

  “By appointment only.” Angel read the sign on the iron gate as she climbed out of the car. “That’s us.”

  “I hope it’ll be worth the drive. Not that the company was bad, mind you.” Bear leaned over and threw an arm around Angel. “Dinner on me later.”

  “Why, Detective,” Angel said, batting her eyes. “It’s a date.”

  Ouch.

  I leaned into Angel. “Hey, don’t forget about me. You know, your recently dead lover and husband?”

  “Dinner sounds great,” she said, turning away from Bear. “I’m sure Tuck would understand. After all, a girl has to eat.”

  “Tuck?” Bear’s eyebrows rose. “Him again? I suppose that was for his benefit?”

  “Yes, me again,” I muttered. “You watch him, Angel; close.”

  Angel started through the gate when Bear stopped her. “Hold it. I know Ernie thinks McCorkle is clean, but I’m going to grill him. Keep your ears open for any history crap that doesn’t make sense.”

  “History crap?” Angel voice was thick with irritation. “History crap?”

  “What do I know about that? If he lies, I want to know.”

  Angel rang the doorbell. “Of course.”

  No one came to the door. Angel rang again, and then a third time. “Didn’t you tell him six sharp?”

  “Yeah. It’s two minutes ’till.”

  I peeked in the window beside the double front doors. “Maybe he’s snooty like Ernie and wants us to wait. I’ll go see.”

  “No, be quiet,” Angel said, and when Bear’s eyebrows rose, continued, “I mean, no, maybe he’s on his way.”

  “Yeah, right.” Bear headed for the gate. “I’ll go around back.” He disappeared down the alley.

  After five minutes, Angel got bored and began peeking in the windows, pressing her face against the glass like a child at a toy store. “Where the devil is Bear?”

  “Angel, watch him,” I said. “Something’s not right with him lately. And we need to talk, too.”

  “Oh, Tuck. You’re jealous. Bear is …”

  A dull, metallic pop split the air as the window shattered beside Angel’s head.

  “Angel, get back!”

  forty-fo
ur

  “Stay here,” I yelled and thrust myself through the front door.

  Inside, I was standing in a huge, grand hallway. There were no lights on, no sounds, and no sign of the shooter. Only musty air and the familiar sensation of danger greeted me. It itched inside me like a rash. I listened and waited, hoping for a telltale sign of the shooter’s position. None reached me. Just as I realized how silly it was for me to worry about danger, something scuffled outside where Angel waited.

  Crash!

  Bear kicked in the front door behind me. He burst through, gun first, and flattened himself against the wall. We’d done this a hundred times together. Every other time, however, the risk of the chase was checked by covering each other. He was now alone—no backup, no partner, no me to cover his ass. He began to move deeper into the hall when I stopped him cold.

  “Get back, Bear. Stay here and let me go first.” I watched his eyes flash surprise. “Listen to me, Bear. Listen.”

  “Shit.” He froze, and before retreating to the front door, whispered, “I hope that’s you, Tuck, or I’m going crazy. Shit, shit, shit.”

  I ran into a large office to the right of the front door. Inside was a battlefield-sized desk cluttered with papers and books but no one was there. Across the hall was a similar room filled with red shrouded display tables and wall-to-wall bookshelves.

  Nothing. No one. I moved on.

  Down the hall was a set of open, grand doors that reached the twelve-foot ceiling. I went through into a cavernous ballroom on the other side—when I did, I felt the uncontrollable itch creeping into my head again; something, or someone, was ahead. Above me was a three-story-high barrel ceiling and endless rows of shelves, display racks, and cubical-like display areas. Each held a plethora of antiques and wares from every walk of life. A dozen sprawling chandeliers hung from the ceiling, reminiscent of the ballroom’s turn-of-the-century grandeur. I froze in a mixture of amazement and trepidation.

  Still, I saw no one—heard nothing. The itch spread inside me.