Dying to Know

by TJ O'Connor

  The maze would take a dozen cops to conduct a safe, deliberate search—the shooter could be hiding anywhere, ready to kill without warning. He could be there now, waiting. One wrong step and he could shoot and escape. There was just Bear and me to do it.

  I considered our options as Bear slipped inside the ballroom behind me. He knelt down beside a display of old furniture and scanned the ballroom in freeze-frame snapshots. I could tell when his lips tightened that he’d drawn my same conclusion—this was a dangerous, impossible task.

  “Slow, Bear,” I said. “Let me go first. Listen for my voice. Listen, listen.”

  His breathing was heavy—not from exertion but tension. He surveyed in front of him for danger and readied himself. “Damn.”

  “Okay, let’s move.” I started forward, not sure he could hear me or sense what I was saying. “Slow.”

  He broke from cover and slithered to the first display case ten feet away. From there, he leapfrogged from cover to cover through the ballroom. He took refuge behind furniture and shelves of books and glassware—anywhere to stop a bullet. Each time pausing to listen and waiting for an attack. Each time breathing a sigh when none came.

  Shadows haunted us everywhere. Cluttered displays offered refuge. Rows of furniture and tall racks suborned a shooter’s escape. Everywhere was a stalker’s ally. Nowhere was there any safety from every line of fire. Every step was exposed—the wrong step could bring death—his.

  I stayed ten steps ahead of him and used every sense and instinct to find danger. “Hold it, Bear.”

  He froze.

  I moved ahead checking the blind spots that were as plentiful as the dust and cobwebs. Twice, I ordered his retreat but found only old uniformed mannequins and garment racks. Each time, his conscience heard me and obeyed.

  If I weren’t dead, this place would have given me a heart attack.

  On a hasty retreat, Bear crashed into a shelf and sent a cringing sound of shattering bottles and crystal. Then came the cursing and fuming. I jogged farther ahead and cleared a path to the far end or the ballroom.

  Nothing. No shooter. No stalker. No Liam McCorkle. No one.

  At the rear of the ballroom were tall, hanging draperies that reminded me of a fortuneteller’s stage. Behind them, a short hallway disappeared into darkness. I followed it to a door that led outside to the rear of the antique shop. I emerged a block from the front parking lot, just down the alley from where we parked. The door was open and its lock forced.

  Bear appeared behind me and glanced around the alley. He didn’t waste much time and returned to the ballroom.

  “Bear,” Angel called out from the front of the ballroom. “Come here. Upstairs, look.”

  We retraced our path and emerged ten feet from her. She stood just inside the ballroom entrance, pointing above our heads to a balcony overlooking the entire ballroom. “There.”

  When I first entered the ballroom, my focus was on the thousands of possible dangers ahead of us; neither of us looked up behind us at the balcony. Had a sniper been nested behind its banister moments ago, Bear could be dead.

  Instead, someone else was.

  Protruding through the balcony banister above our heads was a man’s arm.

  I knew who it was—by appointment only.

  “Angel, stay there.” Bear found a door obscured behind a stack of old shelves that led to a narrow stairway. He started up, one wary step at a time.

  I waited beside Angel, watching the balcony. She was shaking and her face was ashen and drawn. I wanted to comfort her, but the best I could do was whisper that she was safe. The itch was gone, now. Everything would be all right. At least for us.

  “He’s dead,” Bear called over the railing. “I’m going to check up here. Stay put.”

  He was gone only a minute. “Angel, get outside and call 911 on your cell. And make sure you tell them I’m a cop and armed. I don’t want them shooting me when they arrive.”

  She ran for the parking lot and I joined Bear.

  “Liam McCorkle, I presume.” Bear knelt down and began examining the body. “You won’t be telling anyone anything, will you?”

  McCorkle was in his seventies. He was well-groomed and dressed in an old suit—not worn or unpressed—just old. His body appeared to have dropped as he walked; his legs were in mid-stride and he lay on his side. His aged body crumpled to the floor when life ceased and death refused to guide his limbs any further. Despite this violent end, death didn’t seem too far away. He was painfully thin and tall, with a gangly, disconcerted frame. He face was gaunt, at odds with a heavy mustache hanging over his lip. What hair that was not matted with blood was neatly cut, although age left it gray and thinning. His eyeglasses were smashed beside his outstretched left hand and his right still held a spilled can of cola. He lay on his right side, legs apart and bent.

  He died of a gunshot wound. The shot entered through his rear skull and exited the right eye. Blood formed an eerie pool around his head. Death was instantaneous—I doubted Liam McCorkle knew it arrived at all.

  Angel and I didn’t hear the shot that nearly killed her, and that meant the killer came prepared with a silenced weapon. He took his prey from behind—silent, swift, exact. Either McCorkle was surprised on his balcony, or he knew his killer and had dared turn his back. His skull showed no signs of powder burns or singeing; the killer had not been close. The path of the bullet told me it was fired level at its victim. Blood and brain matter splattered the side balcony wall and indicated McCorkle was facing down the hall, away from the ballroom toward the offices there. Whether his killer had emerged from hiding behind him or had accompanied him up the stairs would require more investigation. The difference could solve his murder.

  Either way, Liam McCorkle was just as dead.

  forty-five

  Detective Jack Dougherty signaled Bear that he was finished with Angel and was satisfied with her statement. It had taken more than three hours to reach that point, and while Jack and Bear were old friends, Jack had a homicide to investigate. His questioning left Angel tired and edgy.

  Jack was a short, round man with reading eyeglasses forever perched on his nose. He was the senior man at the Staunton P.D. detective squad and had a good reputation. Years ago, he and Bear roomed at the FBI’s National Academy and they’d been friends since. That kinship allowed Angel fewer biting questions now.

  He was rereading his notes and didn’t look up when he said, “Mrs. Tucker, I am sorry about Tuck. He was a great guy.”

  “Bullshit, Jack,” I snorted from the window where I’d been during her interview. “You didn’t like me any more than I liked you.”

  “Thank you, Jack.” Angel sounded sincere. “Call me Angela.”

  “Angela, then. Yeah, it’s been a night, hasn’t it?”

  “Are we through? I have to get home.”

  Jack nodded. “Soon, I promise. Bear’s digging around upstairs with my men. As soon as he’s done, you can go. I have your statement and we know where to find you.”

  “Is there anything you can tell us? Anything at all?”

  “No, you know what we do.” He stood up and wandered around the front office as he had a hundred times. Jack was a pacer. “The shot through the front window at you is long gone. The team’s looking, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find it in the wall down the alley; needle in a haystack, though.”

  “What about Mr. McCorkle?”

  “What about him?”

  Angel looked down. “I feel somewhat responsible.”

  “Don’t.” Jack stopped pacing and tucked his notepad into his suit coat. “McCorkle is a well-known antique dealer in Virginia—hell, in the entire country. If it was old and worth a fortune, McCorkle traded in it. He was worth a bundle.”

  “Robbery?” Angel asked. “You don’t think it had anything to do with Bear and me comi
ng to see him?”

  “I didn’t say that. I don’t believe in coincidences. As soon as Mrs. Lexington gets here—that’s his assistant—we’ll do an inventory to see what’s what.”

  “You should start with the computer problem.”

  “What computer? I haven’t seen one.”

  “That’s my point.”

  Jack nodded but didn’t take out his pad. “Not everyone uses computers, Angela. I can barely turn one on myself.”

  “What a surprise,” I sneered. “He probably still has a typewriter.”

  “Oh, stop,” Angel said, but then added, “stop and think, Jack. With all these antiques, he’d need a computer to keep records, right? And he traded online.”

  “Hmmm, yeah.” Jack walked to the doorway rubbing his chin—all cops did that when they were deep in thought, or wanted to look that way. “You might have something. Let’s see what Mrs. Lexington says before we get upset about a missing computer that may not be missing.”

  There were low whispers in the hall and a uniformed policeman guided an older black woman into the office. Bear was in tow.

  Jack said, “Here she is now.”

  “Detective Dougherty, what happened? The officer said something has happened to Mr. McCorkle.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry to say it has, Irene.” Jack introduced Mrs. Irene Lexington and Angel made her comfortable in a chair beside the desk. Clumsily, Jack explained McCorkle’s murder. The seventy-year old bookkeeper was crying into her handkerchief before he got past “found murdered.”

  Bear waited for her to compose herself. “Mrs. Lexington, do you know if Mr. McCorkle had any appointments this evening? Other than Angela and me?”

  “No—and it’s Irene.” She straightened herself and dabbed the tears from her eyes. “No, but I didn’t know you were coming. That is not unusual for Mr. McCorkle. Not lately.”

  Bear and Jack exchanged sideways glances. Bear asked, “He’s been secretive? Do you know why?”

  “Mr. McCorkle often handled his own affairs when he was working a special exchange. I wouldn’t call him secretive—I think ‘private’ is more appropriate.”

  “Uh, huh.” Jack was writing. “And when did he become, ah, private?”

  “About three, maybe four weeks ago. He was doing an unusual project and asked me to handle all the routine transfers. He was searching for a unique piece of jewelry—paid quite a large retainer as well.”

  “Retainer?” Angel asked. “Someone paid him a retainer to find a piece of jewelry? Who?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Irene looked around the room as though she were searching for something. “You’ll find all his notes in his computer. Mr. McCorkle was a fanatic about keeping a business diary. I see you’ve already taken it.”

  “Ha,” I roared, “She told you so, Jack.”

  Jack shrugged at Angel. “No, Irene. It’s gone. Do you have duplicates of everything?”

  “Duplicates?” She raised an eyebrow. “You mean ‘backups,’ Detective? My, my, you really have to get out from behind your desk more often. Yes, the backups are in the safe upstairs.”

  “We’ll need the combination, Irene.” Jack handed her his notepad and she wrote the numbers on it.

  Bear asked, “What else can you tell us about McCorkle’s new project?”

  Irene wiped her eyes and glanced over at the cluttered desk, then out the window, lost in silence for a long time. I didn’t blame her—murder was a shocking and horrible thing. After a few more tears, she cleared her throat and straightened in her chair.

  “I don’t know much. Mr. McCorkle was private about the new business.”

  “You don’t know who the retainer came from?” Angel asked.

  “No. That’s all in the computer I’m sure. Oh, wait …”

  Jack leaned forward. “Yes? What do you remember, Irene?”

  “There was a man—a big man as I recall—he scared me. He delivered a package to Mr. McCorkle. It was concerning one of the new accounts. Oh, I can’t recall his name. I’m sorry. I’m just so upset. May I go?”

  “Irene,” Angel said, moving beside her. “Please think. That name is extremely important. Try to remember. The man may have killed Mr. McCorkle. He may also have killed my husband; perhaps others, too.”

  “What, oh no. Oh my, I didn’t know. Oh, oh … I can’t … the safe …”

  Jack called the uniformed officer from the hall and met him in the doorway. He gave him instructions in a hushed voice. When he turned back to us, he frowned and waited for Irene to calm again.

  He said, “We’ll take her home now. One of my officers will stay with her for the evening. As soon as she’s able, we’ll get her to help with the inventory and see what we can do with those computer records from the safe.”

  “Yes, of course.” Angel walked Irene to the waiting policeman. “Irene, I’m so sorry. Thank you for helping us.”

  Irene stopped in the doorway and brushed Angel’s cheek with a shaky hand. “My dear, it’s me who is sorry. I don’t understand what’s happening, but I will do everything I can to help you. Everything. I just need to rest. It’s so, so terrible …”

  “Yes it is. And it’s not over yet.”

  forty-six

  The nineteenth-century railroad safe sat in the corner of the second floor office. It too was an antique and fit in amongst a wall of old clocks and artwork. It took Jack ten minutes before he was able to combine the numbers Irene gave him with the correct turns left and right. It might have taken another ten if I hadn’t whispered in his ear.

  “Go ahead, Bear,” Jack said, dropping into a tall-back wooden chair against the wall. “Use gloves; evidence is evidence.”

  Bear withdrew stacks of folders, old cigar boxes, and several jewelry containers of varying sizes. There was even an unlocked, canvas deposit bag still containing several thousand dollars in cash. He stacked everything on the round table in the center of the room and Jack started an evidence inventory.

  Angel sat watching the process unfold.

  It took thirty minutes to sort through the contents of the safe. When Jack was finished, he allowed Angel to sit at the table and examine it. Angel found what we were looking for in a cigar box buried beneath the first stack of documents.

  “Here are the flash drives.”

  “Flash drive?” Jack made no pretense about his computer skills. “I’ve heard of them, but never quite understood what they are.”

  “There’re three here.” She handed the cigar box to him. “They’re small USB storage devices that can hold several gigabits of data.”

  “Yeah, USB.” Jack rolled his eyes and jotted notes. “My computer guys will know what to do with them.”

  “I wish we’d arrived an hour sooner,” Bear said, flipping through several shipping envelopes. “McCorkle may have been killed to keep him from talking to us.”

  “It just doesn’t make sense,” Angel said. “None of this.”

  “Murder doesn’t always make sense. Sometimes it just happens,” Jack said.

  Bear added, “Whoever’s behind this isn’t short on bullets. Maybe ballistics will match Salazar and McCorkle’s killers. Maybe not. But …” Bear’s eyebrows raised and he handed Angel a large packaging envelope. The “to” address label was peeled away leaving a large, odd shaped scar on the orange paper. The return address was still intact and read, “Byrd Construction & Development Corporation.” It was a Winchester post office box.

  “Very interesting.” Angel opened the envelope. “Why keep an empty envelope in the safe?”

  Bear winked. “So the hired help doesn’t know you have it.”

  Jack stretched and looked at his watch. “Listen, we have no idea what we’re looking for. Anything or everything could be important. I’ll get a couple of my squad to go through this in more detail. I’ll send you a copy of everything.”


  “Great, but email it, will you?” Bear asked. “Don’t leave any messages at the office.”

  “Oh?” Jack’s eyebrows rose.

  “Long story, Jack. Just email me, okay?”

  Angel was studying some photographs and drawings stuffed in a folder. There were dozens of sketches and snapshots of rings, necklaces, and other pieces of jewelry. She showed the file to Jack.

  “These must be the special projects Irene mentioned. I guess he used the drawings and photographs to find them. I’m no expert, but some of these look pretty valuable.”

  “I’m going to chat with Tyler Byrd tomorrow,” Bear said. “I’m curious about his business with McCorkle. When can I have a copy of his client list?”

  “Soon as my boys get into these flash things,” Jack said. He turned toward a uniformed officer in the doorway. “I want this room processed by morning.”

  The officer got on his radio and relayed the command.

  Jack’s cell phone rang. He took the call and disappeared into the hallway.

  “Bear, let’s go,” Angel said. “I’ll call André on the way home. He was at Kelly’s Dig tonight. Maybe he’s got something new.”

  “All right.”

  I was in the doorway listening to Jack’s call. I figured out what was happening before he did. “Angel, Captain Sutter is a little pissed. You guys better scram before she shows—she found out about McCorkle and is a half-hour out. Jack’s people called her to let her know her detective was involved in another murder.”

  Angel gestured to the door, “Bear, Sutter’s on her way here.”

  “How do you …” Bear rolled his eyes. “Oh shit, you’re doing that Tuck thing again.”

  Jack came red-faced into the room. “Thanks, pal. Why didn’t you tell me you were already on thin ice. You’re captain is hot and said to keep you here.”

  “Sorry, Jack.” Bear gave him a dismissive wave. “It’s a long story. When she arrives, you don’t know when we left.”

  “Damn right I don’t. You owe me big. Now, get the hell out of here.”