Dying for the Past (12 page)

twenty-nine

“This is the way
we found it, Bear.” Spence waved his hand toward the piles of debris in Bonnie Grecco's living room. “The rest of the house looks the same. Somebody was looking for something last night.”

“What time did you get here?” Bear asked.

“About seven a.m. Mrs. Grecco didn't want to come here from the Vincent House last night. We put her up at a hotel down by the highway. But this morning, Cap wanted us to look for the letters and for anything else we could tie to his murder.”

“Got it.” Bear walked around, surveying the mess. “Someone else had the same idea.”

There was nothing in the house that wasn't open, torn apart, dumped on the floor, or pulled from shelves and cabinets. The only thing not destroyed was a corner bar made of oak and decorative brass. The three tiers of liquor bottles were largely untouched—two or three were broken and dripping expensive booze—but most of the other bottles and the wine and champagne glasses hanging from a rack and on the rear counter were unscathed.

Whoever had been here either had a passion for good whiskey or was exhausted from the rampage before they reached the bar.

This was no routine breaking-and-entering either. The house
sat in rural farm country all by itself south of town off County Route
11. It was a big house, aged, and well kept. There were more luxurious homes all around—newer, with expensive trappings and “look at me” nuances that the Grecco home didn't have.

Someone knew who and what they were looking for.

I said, “Bear, they must have been looking for the threatening letters she received.”

“Spence, did you find the letters?” Bear picked up a stack of books
and fanned through them. “Anything else left behind? Are we sure it wasn't trashed before last night?”

“Mrs. Grecco said it was fine,” Spence said. “Why?”

“Just thinking out loud. But you have to wonder if she had anything to do with all this, right?”

“What are you saying, Detective?” Bonnie Grecco stood beneath
the archway leading into the kitchen. She held a tray of coffee and cups and her face was washed with exhaustion and grief. “You think I wrecked my own place? You think—”

“I don't think anything, ma'am—not for sure.” Bear stepped forward and took the tray. “I'm trying to look at this from all angles. I'm sorry, but I have to consider every possibility.”

“Including me killing Steph?”

“I'm afraid so, yes.”

“I shot him through the back while I stood in front of him on the dance floor? In front of all those people?”

I said, “She's got you there. Ask about the letters. Then ask her about André again.”

He did.

Bonnie handed out cups of coffee to Bear and Spence and sent two more with a deputy standing by the stairs for the others searching the house. “I have no idea where they are. I told you I gave them to Steph. And if they were here, I guess they're gone.”

Spence held a pen over his notepad. “Assuming, of course, the letters are what they were looking for.”

“What else would they be here for, Detective Spence?” Bonnie's
voice was edgy. “Maybe you think we're drug dealers or something
? I'm a murderer and a drug dealer?”

“No, ma'am, I meant—”

Bear held up a hand. “Mrs. Grecco, tell me about your relationship with André Cartier.”

“André?” She took a long swallow of coffee and looked around for somewhere to sit. “Dear God, do you think he killed Steph?”

“We are holding him as a suspect.” Bear lifted his chin at Spence to keep notes. “What do you think?”

Bonnie resettled a cushion from the floor into a chair across the large great room and sat down. “I don't know. He seems so nice.”

“So you do know him?” Bear asked. “How well?”

Bonnie blinked several times and set her coffee on the arm of the chair, balancing it with her hand. Tears welled in her eyes and she fought them back with little success. “No, we met last night. I only know what he told me—something about the Washington museums and his work in, history, right? He's on the charity circuit; he told me as much. And he came with a nasty, rude woman named Amelda Marco.”

“Ruth-Ann Marcos,” Bear said, smiling a little. “She's with the US Attorney General's office in DC.”

I watched Bonnie as hot, sizzling fingers gripped my spine. “Bear, don't let go here. She's not telling us everything.”

He pressed her. “Mrs. Grecco—Bonnie—there is something you're not telling me. I need to know it all. Hiding something will only—”

“Enough, Detective.” Bonnie's eyes flared and she stood up, send
ing the coffee cup crashing to the floor among several books and papers littered there. Her right hand flew to her left wrist and gripped her watch—a beautiful European piece. When her fingers caressed it, I knew.

“Hold on a second, Bear. I got something.”

I went to her and took hold of her fingers and the watch together. When I did, Bonnie gasped in air and her eyes grew wide with the surprise of a scary movie. She stepped back and faltered, falling back down into the chair with me still clutching her wrist.

It was too late.

The lightning exploded around me and the tornado of light descended. The room swirled and breathed in and out—light, darkness, light … darkness.

And then, from nowhere, my breath caught as the rush of passion seized me—sweat, the sweet taste of wine-moistened lips, and the warm fire of bare skin.

Oh my, how was I going to explain this to Angel?

_____

Bonnie Grecco writhed above me, pressing herself deeper and deeper onto me while my hands explored
…
my
hands? She leaned down and kissed my mouth, whispering, “Please
…
a little more
…
please
—”

Well, I stayed this long.

Her body shuddered and released a moment before the one I now shared—she gripped my fingers and let out a low, intense breath just before collapsing beside me.

“You are amazing,” she whispered, and rolled out of bed. “I want some champagne. Can we order?”

Order wine? From where?

Somewhere in my head, thoughts struggled for control. I was me—Oliver Tucker, ghost-detective extraordinaire. And I was him, wild, passionate lover. And whoever he was, he was good—amazing, even. Oh, not to say I'm not—wasn't—or whatever. But since my death, this was my first time at bat and, well
…
damn
.

“Sure, hon, I'll order some room service while you grab a shower.
Anything special?”

She slipped on a bulky cotton robe—one of those plush, expensive ones the finer hotels put in your room for just such a need. When she turned to face me, the robe was open and the light from the window bathed her. Stephanos Grecco had been a happy man, albeit a tired one. Of course, if he knew about me—er, him—he wouldn't be too happy at all.

“Strawberries and chocolate. Lots of both. And champagne.”

“Strawberries, chocolate, and champagne. On the way.”

“Now I know why we meet in expensive Washington hotels. It's all about room service.”

She giggled and flashed her robe open. “Of course. But you know, I don't want anyone thinking I'm some bimbo after your money and prestige. And—”

“And you don't want me to look like an old fart chasing girls half my age. I get it.”

“Half? Hmmm … not even.” She raised her arm and admired her expensive watch. “And I just love my gift. Thank you again, it's wonderful.”

“I'm so glad you like it.” I strode to the window and gazed out at the Potomac. “I guess hotels are best for now. My Georgetown neighbors would have us both on the gossip pages in no time. Besides, I don't have a maid who brings champagne and strawberries.”

“Can you hire one?” Her voice was lost when the shower started.

I went to the bathroom and stood in the doorway. This body was a little stiffer and creakier than mine; which might have been the marathon I'd just run before and after my arrival. “So, have you decided?”

“Decided?” She stuck her head out of the shower. “Decided what?”

“About the gala next week. You know, the charity in Winchester?”

Bonnie stepped out of the shower dripping wet—pressing her sexy, hard body against me and running her lips lightly across mine. “I think I've already been rather charitable, don't you?”

Wow, if I had a dollar for every time I heard that at home. “Yes, you have. But they could use the extra support. So, how about it, for me?”

“Ah, isn't the check I gave you enough?” She nibbled my neck—
er, our neck. “Do I have to drive all the way out there for moonshine and pigs feet or whatever those hillbillies eat?” She tickled my chin
with her lips. “Do I?”

I kissed her and touched my finger to her nose. “They are not hillbillies, Bonnie. There are some wonderful people out there. You know the Vincent House is an important project and the charity needs capital. Look, come on out and bring a date if you're embarrassed to be with me.”

“A date?” Bonnie ran her fingers across my back and down. Her lips closed on my ear and she whispered, “Well, okay, but we should talk about it after the champagne, okay? I've got a secret to share.” She returned to the shower.

Oh, lord, what a life I was missing. At the sink, I splashed some cool water in my face. “What's the secret, babe? Should I order two bottles of champagne?”

I don't know which was worse—when Bonnie said, “I need to tell you about my husband,” or when I looked into the bathroom mirror and watched the color drain from the face of André Cartier.

Lightning
.

thirty

“André lied to you,
Bear,” I said when the sparks subsided and I got my bearings back in Bonnie Grecco's living room. “He and Bonnie are having an affair.”

Bear stood across the room watching Spence sort through a pile of books and bric-a-brac lying on the floor. He glanced over at Bonnie who was still sipping coffee. He caught Spence's eye, and nodded toward Bonnie.

Spence readied his pen and notepad.

“You said you don't know Professor Cartier, right?” Bear asked. “You want to think about your answer real careful, okay?”

“Enough.” Bonnie's lips pursed and she pointed a finger at him. “I've had it. I'm calling my lawyer.”

She stood and headed for the phone across the room.

“Bear,” I said. “Tell her you know about the donations to Angel's charity she gave to André at the hotel in DC last week. And ask her if she liked her strawberries and champagne—and her new watch.”

He didn't even pretend it was his idea. “I'll have the check by this afternoon, Bonnie. And Cartier won't stay locked up alone for
long. You two were playing footsie in DC last week and checks and room
service leave a trail. He gave you the watch, didn't he? Cut the b.s. and talk to me.”

“Wonderful. Just great.” She didn't turn around but replaced the
phone on the end table. Then she went to the bar and pulled down an undamaged bottle of gin, poured a hefty three-fingers, and downed it in three long gulps. She refilled it again. “How'd you know? Did he tell you?”

“No.” Bear righted a bar stool lying on the floor. He slid it around
to her and found another nearby for himself. “But he will. I have a source who told me about your affair. Let's hear it, Bonnie. The truth this time.”

Spence scribbled notes. “Ah, Bear. Can you fill me in a little? Seems like I missed something—a lot of somethings.”

“Later. Just write.”

Bonnie took another long tug of her drink. “It started a few months
ago. I met André in DC at a party. He was so great. Nothing like Steph. Steph was fun at first, but he just wanted a trophy—you know—
who looked like me. Otherwise, he had no use for me.”

“And André?”

“André?” She smiled and raised her glass. “He didn't want anything. We had fun. Dinner, dancing. Drinks. You know, fun. I wanted
him more than he wanted me. Least I thought so, anyway.”

Bear exchanged looks with Spence. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on, Detective. You know. He's an old guy—not too
old—but old. He doesn't need anything except some company now and then. He's got money and friends and everything. He wasn't looking for marriage or anything close. At least, I thought so
until he found out I was married.”

“And?” I asked as Bear's lips moved.

“He flipped. What did he think, I went home to my mom at night?” She chugged the drink. “But, it was Steph who scared me.”

“Did he find out?” Bear asked. “Was he abusive?”

“Well, not at first. I told you, we just met on a cruise. But he wanted to live out in this tiny little place—”

“You mean Winchester?” Spence said. “It isn't so tiny.”

She forced a laugh. “It isn't Manhattan or DC, now is it?”

Spence shrugged.

“Anyway, he started staying out all night and got angry all the time. He was seeing someone—I know he was—he got calls and would take them outside. I might not be old but I'm not stupid. And he spent money way faster than anyone I've ever seen.”

Bear waited for Spence to catch up with his notes. “You don't know anything about his business affairs?”

“No.” She shook her head. “He's a deal-maker. That's what he told me. He makes all kinds of deals—business mergers, sales, real estate—for a percentage.”

“And now it's all yours.” Spence looked up as though he hadn't planned on moving his lips. “Right?”

“Maybe. I never signed a pre-nup. You're asking about it, right? But like I said earlier, I couldn't shoot him from behind on the dance floor, right? I'm flexible, Detectives, but not that flexible.”

Boy, was she ever. “Bear, ask her about the thousand-dollar notes in his wallet.”

He did.

“Steph liked to flash money around. At least he did until last week.”

“What happened last week?” Bear asked, leaning forward to pour
another three fingers into her glass. “What changed?”

“He went out and met his lady friend. I know because I followed
him. I couldn't see who it was but they went to a hotel. Afterward, he told me we couldn't spend any more money for a while and we were moving—fast. I asked why but he just got mad, he hit me a couple times, and ran off for the night. Probably back to her.”

I asked, “How much money are we talking about here, Bear?”

Bear got halfway through the question when the front door burst open and four men in suits strode in. “What the hell?”

“FBI,” one of them said.

“Detective, have your men stand down.” An average height, thin man in an expensive suit strode in behind the other four. He had heavy eyebrows and a swarthy complexion. “I'm Special Agent Jim Dobron, Chief of the Organized Crime Task Force, WFO.”

“WFO?” Bear asked.

To many, “WFO” meant “What the Frig Over,” or you can use your imagination. In this case
, it stood for “Washington Field Office” of the FBI—Fed central in these here parts. But often, especially to us local cops, the two definitions are synonymous.

“Now, just hold it a minute.” Bear held up a hand to stop the four men moving toward him from the doorway. “I'm Detective
—”

“Theodore Braddock, Frederick County Sheriff's Office, Chief of nothing. Yeah, I know,” Agent Dobron said. “Thanks for babysitting—I'll put in a good word with your captain. We'll take over now.” He waved two of his agents toward Bonnie.

She tried to pull away when they latched on. “Detective, what's going on? I don't understand.”

“Neither do I.”

Dobron held up a hand at Bear to silence him as he walked up
to Bonnie. “Bonnie Grecco—or shall I call you Bonnie Long, Wise
man, or DeFleur? You're under protective custody as a material witness in a Department of Justice RICO Probe.”

No, RICO does not stand for “Really Innocent, Cooperative Old-guys,” it meant “Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations—mobsters, gangsters, organized crime families, thugs, thieves, murderers, et cetera, et cetera.

Bear looked at Bonnie. “What haven't you told me, Bonnie?”

There must be a few things Bonnie held out on us. Although she didn't hold out much on André, or me, earlier.

“I'm not saying anything more. Help me, Detective. Help me and I'll help you.”

As Dobron's men whisked her from the room, I couldn't help
but wonder what else she was hiding from us. I also couldn't help but
think about the few moments I'd been André.

Is it cheating if you have a girl like her while you're possessing another guy's body?

Nah, can't be.