Dying for the Past (18 page)

forty-one

“Don't move,” Angel yelled.
“I've got a gun and I'll shoot.”

Crack
! I reached her just as the next shot whistled past her and struck the tunnel wall. “Stay back, Angel. Get down.”

Hercule barked but stayed around the corner of the tunnel out of the line of fire as Angel knelt on one knee. She peered around the corner trying to see down the main tunnel. “Someone came running up the tunnel. I heard him but I couldn't see anything.” She leaned back against the tunnel wall and gestured with her Walther. “I was standing here and turned around. They fired but I couldn't get a shot off. I think they moved back beyond the hub.”

“Could you see who it was?”

“No. It all happened so fast and I cannot see anything in the dark without my flashlight. I didn't dare turn it on.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“Just running feet. I think they have gone back down the tunnel to the Vincent House.”

“Whoever it was must have double-backed on me. There was no one at the carriage house. Let me check ahead.”

I left them on the side tunnel and moved toward the Vincent House, careful to listen as I did.

Nothing.

“Come on, Angel, it's clear.”

She kept her flashlight low and obscured the light with her other
hand.

When she reached me, I said, “Keep Hercule close. I'll go up ahead around the corner and clear the way. Wait for me to call for you before you move up. And for crying out loud, stay low in case someone shoots again.”

“Be careful.”

“Why?”

I could see her smile even in the darkness. “Old habit, I guess. Just hurry.”

The tunnel was empty for another two-hundred feet. There were
no noises. No lights. Nothing. Since bullets and bad guys don't faze me, I jogged along until I found another sharp bend. There, I made the turn and reached an antechamber at the end of the tunnel—the dead-end of the tunnel. Facing me was a stone wall and in the center of it was a narrow, heavy wood plank door secured by rusty, iron hinges.

Moving closer to examine the door, I found what the shooter was trying so hard to escape. Dead bodies.

Two bodies lay beneath an old canvas. The first I recognized from my vision. It was the tuxedoed assassin I'd met the night of Stephanos Grecco's murder. Now though, his tuxedo was tattered and dirty and his cummerbund lay torn beside him and his jacket balled at his feet. His white corsage was dead and crumbled on his tux lapel. I recalled smelling the sweet scent of the flower the second before I pulled the trigger and killed him—well,uh, killed him in my vision.

The other body was easier to identify. It was the catering manager with the heavy, Ukrainian accent—Petya Sergeyevich Chernyshov.

Vincent Calaprese warned me about Ruskie Commies back in his day. I wonder if Ukrainians fell under his definition of Ruskies now?

They did mine.

forty-two

“Petya,” Angel said, shining
her cell phone light around the antechamber. “The caterer. Poor man. Who is the other one?”

“I think he's Stephanos Grecco's killer.”

She shined her light over the body. “Then who killed him?”

“Me.”

“What?” She looked at me with crazy eyes. “Oh, yeah—in your vision. But it wasn't you. Is this where he was killed?”

“I'm not sure, maybe. Or another part of the tunnels and they moved his body. The question is, who was I when I killed him?”

“My guess is whoever shot at me just now.” Angel walked around the antechamber examining everything her light fell upon. “He must have been trying to move the bodies. We interrupted his plans.”

“Maybe.”

Angel knelt down and unwrapped part of the canvas covering the two bodies. A dark-colored backpack lay between them.

“Tuck, what do you make of this? Should I open it?”

I knelt beside her. “We shouldn't touch any of this. It's evidence. But, if we peeked at the contents, I think Bear would understand—when you call him.”

Angel used her shirt sleeve to manipulate the zipper on the top of the backpack without leaving fingerprints and guide it open. What we found inside surprised us both—dozens of checks and a pile of cash.

“It's the stolen donations from the gala,” she said. “The killer just left this here?”

“Maybe the killer didn't want anything leaving a trail.”

Angel rooted through the pack. “I think it's all here. Maybe Petya
stole the donations. And the killer killed him because he interfered with Grecco's murder? Or, maybe Petya was down here hiding the money and stumbled on the real killer.”

“Too many maybes. This guy beside Petya killed Grecco. I know he had a boss—because I was in him. The boss killed him in this tunnel. Afterward, the boss tracked down and killed Petya—either because he was also an accomplice or because he was in the wrong place.”

Angel agreed. “Jorge-the-waiter could be the killer or an accomplice, right? And if he's not—the killer may be after him because of his video recordings.”

“We have to get you out of here, Angel.” I knelt down and looked the bodies over again. “Bear and Spence are outside somewhere. They don't know about these tunnels so they'd never be expecting anyone to get into the house this way. Jorge may have come through here to get his equipment he left behind. He knew about the hidden stairwell and secret attic room, so it makes sense he knew about these tunnels. He must have been the one shooting at you.”

“Now what?”

“We get Bear.”

“It'll take too long and Jorge might still be down here—or might return.” She shined her light on the old door built into the brick wall. “There has to be a way through.”

“You look for a door release. I'll go inside and see where the door leads and make sure it's safe.”

Hercule went to the door and ran his nose along its frame. He backed up two steps and sat down, looking at Angel and woofing. It was safe.

“Good Herc,” I said, “but let's be sure.”

Moan, grumble. He
was
sure.

I passed through the door and stepped into a small room off the Vincent House's basement. The dank room was dark and ominous. On Angel's side was a door, but on this side there was just a
tall rack of wine racks and storage shelves running the entire
length of
the room. I couldn't see any discernible door or entrance. I searched
the remainder of the basement where I found several smaller rooms off to the left side and in the center of the basement were three large, ancient steel furnaces covered in cobwebs, dust, and a rats nest of old, frayed wires. Behind the old furnaces were two new
furnaces and a row of other mechanical equipment my meager mechanical brain filed under “basement junk.” Nothing I saw raised any alarm.

One thing I was certain of, though—there was no killer hiding nearby.

I returned to the shelves where I had entered from the tunnel. There had to be a door somewhere.

“Angel, push on the door. See if you can move it.”

The shelves didn't budge so I returned through them into the ante
chamber. Angel stood beside Hercule shining her light at the door.

“What,” I said, “can't you do that?”

“Funny.”

She showed me a round iron ring affixed to the brick wall on the right side of the chamber.

“I think it's a release for the door. It's jammed and won't budge.”

“Let me check the other side again.”

Back in the basement, I examined the shelves closer and found the problem. Someone had taken a heavy iron bar and wedged it
under the center shelf, preventing it from pivoting open. I was help
less to remove it.

Situations like this irritated me. Being a ghost has its perks, mind you, but moving objects—in particular ones requiring more than finesse—is not easy. Oh, a piece of paper here or a pencil there is one thing, but unjamming an iron bar from beneath a heavy oak shelf is a another. Without juice, of course. If there were an electric light or plug nearby, the power would change things. I could grab hold and charge up a good few minutes of strength and dexterity. I might even be able to go a few rounds with the killer. I did that once and saved Angel's life.

Not now. There was no power. No electric light. No juice. I was just a 185-pound weightless poof of air and dust. All brains and no brawn. How embarrassing.

“Angel,” I yelled through the shelf. “Stay where you are. I'll go find Bear. The entrance is jammed closed.”

Her voice was faint. “Hurry. I tried calling. No signal.”

And I was off.

I checked the first floor and didn't find anyone. Outside, I found
Bear and Spence's unmarked cruisers parked on the street, outside the stone wall on opposite sides of the Vincent House. Both cars were empty. I was just returning to the ballroom when faint footfalls touched my ears from the rear servant stairs by the kitchen.

“Bear? Hey man, is that you?” Spence appeared behind me at the foot of the stairs with his weapon drawn. “Spence, you have to, Spence. Please.”

He stopped and lifted his weapon, peering around the hallway and into the ballroom. “Bear?”

“No, Spence. It's me.” I moved close and touched his shoulder. “It's Tuck. Listen for my voice. Angel's in trouble.”

His eyebrows rose and he swatted at this shoulder like he was brushing away a bee. He took a step back and flattened himself against the hallway wall, looking around as his face went ash-white. “This place is freaking me out. Where are you?”

“It's all right, Spence. It's me, Tuck. Can you hear me? Please, go to the basement.”

His eyes dropped to the floor as he listened. Then he looked up and around the hallway again. This time, he slipped into the lounge—was gone only a few moments—and reappeared.

“Spence, come on—”

A gunshot cracked from somewhere near the kitchen. I didn't see where it hit—but it was close and it sent Spence diving for the floor. He hit, rolled left, raised his gun, and squeezed off two shots. They slammed into the kitchen doorframe.

“Sheriff's Department! Drop your gun!”

Heavy footfalls ran through the kitchen and stopped. A door
banged and glass rattled. Old hinges creaked. A door banged again.

“Go, Spence, go!”

He jumped to his feet and made chase.

We met Bear storming through the rear kitchen door, gun drawn,
and anger tight across his face. The moment Spence burst into the kitchen, Bear's gun snapped up.

“Whoa, Bear, it's me.”

Bear's gun lowered. “What are you shooting at, Spence?”

Spence was out of breath. “Someone shot at me. I shot back. He came through here.”

“He didn't go outside. The door was open but I was out back. I would have seen him.”

I said, “Bear, the basement,” I pointed to the basement door across
the kitchen. “Get down there. Angel's in a tunnel connecting to the carriage house. She's trapped inside. She's in trouble.”

“Angela?” Bear grabbed the basement door, yanked it open, and
rushed down the stairs. “Let's go, Spence.”

“Where? What are you doing?”

“The basement. Angela's down there and she's in trouble.”

Spence fell in behind him. “How do you know?”

“Didn't you hear him?”

“
Him?
” Spence's face twisted. “Damn you, Bear. Cut it out.”

Across the basement in the far corner room where the tunnel entrance was, a man's voice screamed, “Get him back. Get back or I'll shoot.”

Hercule's ferocious bark echoed like a wild beast from an old horror movie. Then the man shouted something I couldn't understand—Hercule's bark turned to a demonic growl.

A gun shot.

Angel yelled, “Don't move.”

Hercule's bark became erratic and frenzied. The man cried out. The cacophony of the big dog thrashing about mixed with more cries and gnashing teeth.

Silence.

I beat Bear and Spence to the room where the secret shelf-door was open.

A dark-skinned Hispanic man lay on his back with his hands and face smeared in blood. Hercule stood atop him with all fours planted firm and the man's right hand twisted and clamped in his powerful jaws. A gun lay on the floor beside them. Each time the Hispanic tried to grab hold of Hercule, Hercule growled and jerked the hand clamped in his teeth, wrenching it to and fro.

“Get him off, lady. Get him off. I give. Please. Stop him—he's breaking my arm.”

Hercule stared down, eye-to-eye. His mouth secured on the Hispanic's wrist, his growls sending a clear message—resistance was futile.

Angel emerged through the open passageway door, gun first, aiming at the Hispanic. “Good boy, Hercule. Keep him there until Bear and Daddy get here.”

“I'm here, Angel,” I said. “Bear's coming.”

“Daddy?” the man said, daring a glance at Angel. “I thought you were widowed?”

“Oh?” Angela leveled her Walther at his head. “And how do you know I'm widowed?”

He didn't answer.

Bear and Clemens edged into the room. Spence flipped on a flashlight, shining it down on Hercule's captive. “Sheriff's Department. Don't move.”

“No kidding man,” he cried. “Get this beast off me. I was just trying to get my stuff. The lady almost killed me. This mutt—”

Hercule's jaw tightened. He shook and wrenched the man's hand in painful twists.

I said, “He doesn't like the word ‘mutt.'”

“Don't piss him off,” Bear said. “What's your name?”

Spence tugged a wallet from the man's jeans and flipped it open with one hand. “Victoria Chevez.”

“Victorio, man. Come on, do I look like a chick?”

“What kind of name is Victorio?” Spence asked.

“I'm half-Mexican, half-Cuban, and all-American. What of it?”

I stepped closer and looked Chevez over. An EMF meter hung on his belt—identical to the one we found in the attic—and started vibrating and blinking. Chevez glanced down at it as Angel pulled Hercule away. “Come on, man, get me outta this crazy place. Come on, arrest me. I give you permission.”

“Permission?” Bear forced a laugh, moved Hercule over to Angel,
and dragged the man to his feet. “You're under arrest. We'll start with criminal trespass and assault—”

“He shot at me, Bear,” Angel said, soothing Hercule with a good
head rub. “In the tunnels, just a little while ago. And there's two bodies just inside the entrance—with the stolen gala donations.”

“Angela,” Bear said with an edge to his voice. “We saw the van pull into the property and figured it was this guy coming to retrieve
his equipment. But, what are you doing here?”

She threw a thumb toward the tunnel entrance. “We figured out about the tunnels and came to see if we could find them. We were going to find you when we were done.”

“We?” Chevy glanced around the basement. “You and who else lady?”

“Hercule,” Angel said as Bear tried to hide a smile. “He tried to kill me, Bear.”

“No, lady, it wasn't me.”

“You're in big trouble, amigo.” Bear snapped handcuffs on Chevez
and shoved him toward Spence. “Make your charges criminal tres
pass, assault, and attempted murder for starters—just starters.”

“No, no. This ain't right, man.” Chevez pulled against Spence's grip on his arm and tried to look into the tunnel. “You got it all wrong. She was shooting at me. I swear, man. Let's go to your office and talk it through. I wanna get out of here.”

Spence read him his rights and Chevez calmed.

Bear eyed him. “Did you kill Stephanos Grecco? How about Petya, the caterer, or Grecco's killer? Or did you do all three?”

“What are you talking about? Oh, hell no, man. None of the killings was me. Come on, get me out of here.”

I sized him up. “Chevez, huh? He's also Jorge the waiter and maybe Stanley Kravitz or both, Bear. And he's your ghost investigator, too. Look at his belt.”

The EMF meter on Chevez's belt was still flashing and buzzing.
As Spence patted him down, something buzzed in his jacket pocket
and Spence pulled out a square electrical meter. The meter resembled an electrician's volt meter with dials and lights and a needle wavering back and forth over a numeric scale.

“This is a tri-meter, Bear,” Spence said, turning the meter around
for Bear to see. “It measures—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bear said. “Ghost farts or something.”

“Neat toys, Chevez.” I touched the device and the lights went apoplectic. “I hope they're worth life in prison.”