Dying to Tell (16 page)

thirty-five

“Nicholas!” Angel dropped down
beside him.

His bodyguard Bobby charged up the stairs.

Bear drew his weapon and dropped to one knee. He shielded Angel and Poor Nic with his hulking body and searched for the shooter.

Another shot flashed from somewhere across the parking lot. Seconds later, a pickup truck skidded across the rear of the parking lot, bounced over the curb, and lurched onto Route 11, gathering speed as it disappeared.

I ran into the lot, but in the dark and at that distance, it was impossible to see any details of the truck. When I returned to the valet area, Bear was on his cell phone yelling at Dispatch for backup and an ambulance. Angel knelt beside Poor Nic.

She said to Bear, “It's a shoulder wound and not bad. We need to get him inside and warm or …” But before she finished her sentence, Bobby bent, scooped up the gangster like a doll, and carried him through the club doors. She followed.

A crowd formed inside the open club door as Cal emerged, sax in hand.

“You all right?” Cal called.

“Cal, keep everyone inside,” Bear said. “Backup's five minutes out.”

Cal nodded and disappeared back into the club.

“Did you see anything?” Bear was talking to me.

“Nothing. And before you ask, no, I'm not
getting
anything
either.”

A voice called from the parking lot and a tall man emerged from the darkness. “Is everyone all right? Was anyone hit?”

Franklin Thorne—and in his hand was his
short-barreled
,
nickel-plated
handgun.

thirty-six

“Drop the weapon, Thorne,”
Bear ordered as he lifted his Glock. “Slow—real slow.”

“What?” Thorne stopped ten feet from Bear. “Hold on, Detective. I was at my car when the shooting started. I pulled my weapon and tried to find the shooter. I'm sure he was in that pickup that tore out of here.”

Bear prodded the air in Thorne's direction with his gun. “Drop the weapon—now.”

“Fine. Here.” Thorne turned the semiautomatic around and held it out, butt first. “It's not been fired. Well, last week on the range, yes, but …”

Bear snatched the gun away. “What did you see?”

“I heard a couple shots then the truck started up and flew out of here. I looked around and when I didn't see anyone, I came back. I didn't see the shooter. But my best guess is he's in the truck.”

I watched Thorne. He seemed at ease, unshaken. “Cool as a corpse, Bear. He seems okay with gunfire around him.”

Bear smelled the barrel of Thorne's handgun. “Not fired today.” Then he bore into Thorne with skeptical eyes. “I thought I took your weapon this morning after the bank shooting?”

“I have several, Detective. I'm not going unarmed after the bank was robbed.” Thorne reached for his weapon and after a long moment, Bear reluctantly released it to him. “Would you?”

“Maybe he's the shooter and that truck was just getting out of the way,” I said. “He could have used a throwaway gun.”

“Have a seat, Thorne.” Bear pointed to the club stairs. “You're staying put for a while.”

Two sheriff's cars—lights flashing—pulled into the lot and Bear went to meet them. He issued orders, pointed in all directions, and twice took one of the deputy's radios to issue more orders. A few minutes later, Bear returned.

I said, “What did you think of the shots, Bear?”

“Quiet,” Bear said, “
low
-c
aliber
I'm thinking …”

“.
22-caliber
.” I ran into the parking lot where the deputies were beginning a slow, careful search. “I'm sure of it. Not quite a loud bang—not like a .38 or a 9mm, right? More like a ‘thwack.' Same as the bank annex.”

“Just like.” He thought about that. “No CCTV cameras within miles. As busy as things are around here, I doubt anyone noticed anything. That truck is gone—not enough patrols to check all these roads, but I have them looking anyway.”

“Interesting string of events, right?” I said, “A botched bank robbery, a dead bank executive in a secret, private vault, and an attempted murder of our one and only gangster.”

Bear was halfway through forming a word when Angel came back down the stairs. “Nicholas will be fine. It's a shoulder wound and not too bad. There was an ER nurse dining inside and she's tending him.” She looked over at Thorne sitting on the steps. “Franklin?”

“He's in a
time-out
,” I said. “He doesn't play well with others.”

She frowned. “Bear? What's this about?”

“Just questions, Angela.” Bear turned to one of the bouncers standi
ng by the door. “Club's closed. Turn off the booze sales and keep everyone in their seats.”

“The club is closed?” a female voice said from behind us. “Come now, Bear, surely those inside can finish their evening?” Lee Hawkins walked through the small crowd beside the door and down the steps. “Bear, please.”

Bear said, “Sorry, Lee. We have to speak with anyone who saw or heard anything.”

“No one did.”

“And how do you know that?” Bear asked.

She frowned and looked up the stairs. “Because until that gorilla, Bobby, carried Nicholas in, no one knew anything had happened.”

I said, “She's right, Bear. But we'll have to interview anyway.”

Bear waved to Cal who was organizing the deputies near the parking lot. “I'll have Cal talk to folks as fast as we can. I've got more detectives coming, too. I promise, Lee, it won't take long and maybe we can get things back to normal in a couple hours.”

“A couple hours?” Lee checked her watch. “The night is over then. Okay, Bear, I'll serve up some coffee and pass the bad news. You owe me more than lunch, now.” She turned and headed back up the stairs to the club.

Angel said, “Bear, what about Franklin?”

Thorne stood up beside her. “I was in the parking lot when the shooting started. I pulled my gun and looked around. Now the detective wants to make sure I didn't do the shooting.”

“Really, Bear?” Angel said with a snarky bite. “Why would you think that?”

“Because it's my job to think nasty thoughts about people walking around parking lots with guns. It's procedure.”

“It's all right, Angela.” Thorne patted the air. “I only regret it ruined our date.”

“Oh, puke.” My eyes rolled in tune with my stomach. “I knew it was a date.”

Angel asked Bear, “Is this necessary? Can you get his statement tomorrow? After all that's happened today?”

“No, I can't.” Bear's mouth tightened a little. “But I'll have Cal get right on it. Then you go right home, okay?”

“Thank you,” Angel said to Bear. “If it's not too late, come on by for coffee when you're done here.”

I eyed Thorne. “Good idea, Bear. She'll be alone all night. She could use better company.”

Angel closed her eyes and muttered something I'm sure I didn't want to hear.

“Detective, I'll wait inside.” Thorne nodded to Angel and headed back into the club.

When he was out of earshot, Angel leaned in close to Bear. “Nicholas is involved again?”

“Why else would someone try to kill him?”

I coughed. “Oh, a million reasons.”

“Seriously,” Angel said. “He's lucky it's not bad.”

“No,” I said, “they're unlucky. If his people find them before we do, they'll be worm food.”

Bear said, “Angela, I can have one of my men drive you home.”

“Not yet. Franklin was just opening up to me.”

“What did he tell you?” Bear asked. “Maybe this was a good plan.”

I laughed. “A plan? This was a date. Plans don't involve dancing.”

“Someone is just jealous they can't dance and drink champagne.” She handed Bear a business card. “Franklin has his own ideas about William. He found this at the bank—and there's much more you need to know.”

Bear glanced down at the embossed print on the card. “Amphora Trading—again. Like the shipping crates in William's basement.”

“Franklin thinks William's death is connected to a couple others some years ago. Two old friends of William and Keys's—friends from the war. He also thinks something is going on at the bank. He thinks …”

“Of course something is going on at the bank,” I said. “It doesn't take a genius to see that.”

She grinned. “Good, so you see it too?”

Ouch.

Bear said, “Anything else, Angela?”

“No, not yet. But I'm working on it.” Angel turned toward the stairs but stopped. She looked back at Bear but said to me, “I'll wait up for you, Bear. And I
will
be alone.”

As she climbed the stairs, I said, “Partner, you know what's worse than a snotty,
too-perfect
Vice President of Bank Security?”

“No, what?”

My mouth went dry. “A wife who's too damn classy and alive for me but won't come out and say it.”

thirty-seven

I got home a
little after two a.m. and went upstairs to our bedroom to try and talk with Angel. When I went in, I found her fast asleep with my replacement lying beneath her arm on my pillow. My heart stopped for a beat—not really, of course—and I went in for a closer look at the betrayal.

It was worse than what I'd suspected. Much worse.

Hercule was cuddled with her, his big furry face snoring and drooling on my pillow. He should have been in my den, waiting in my good leather chair for me to return from a long and difficult night. He was supposed to be there to greet me and show his love and affection. But no. He betrayed me. He was my last rock of devotion and camaraderie. And here he was on my pillow.

“Traitor.”

He opened his eyes, wagged a couple times, and returned to the land of steak tartare and adoring women.

“Angel?”

Nothing.

“Angel?”

She stirred and pushed Hercule's nose from her cheek. “I'm sleeping, Tuck. So, unless you're that dashing French movie star, it'll have to wait until morning.”

What is it about this French movie star? “But I'm—”

“
Au revoir
.” She rolled over and pulled the covers tighter.

Hercule moaned.

“Sure, okay. In the morning.”

Our old Victorian was large, dark, and empty at that hour, and above all, it was lonely. I wasn't ready yet to go to the “time out” place I went to shut off my former life—it's just a dark, empty, nothing place. When I'm there though, it recharges me like I was plugged into a battery charger all night.

But not tonight. There was too much to do.

I remembered Doc griping about his missing photo album, so I popped into the attic to look for it. I hadn't been in the attic for years. And with good reason. When I'd first inherited the house, I found it fully furnished with antiques, shelves of books, and a basement and attic crammed with junk. Back then, I was a young man right out of high school struggling to pay for community college. I had no money and no family to fall back on. All I had was the few dollars I'd earned on weekends while I'd lived with an elder foster family. So I sold as much of the antiques and old junk as I could and moved the rest into the attic.

Living in the house among those possessions was at first a trauma—an inheritance from a family I never knew—and I had sold part of it to make a living. And now, knowing what I did about Doc, Ollie, and the
rest of my bizarre family, I felt worse. At first, walking around the house, I'd sworn I was not alone. The week after signing
the inheritance papers, I'd gone into the attic to explore. Voices called my name. Shadows moved around me. I swore I saw an old coot in a mirror watching me. So, I did what any young cop wannabe would do in that situation: I ran back down the attic stairs, slammed the door, and locked it. Other than to move the extra furnishings and clutter up there with some college pals, I hadn't been back since.

Tonight, after all these years, the eaves and creaky wood floor seemed at peace with me. The voices and shadows were gone—one, at least, lived in my den. Others visited me from time to time as Vincent, Sassy, and Ollie Tucker. Now, it all made sense—in a macabre, unbelievable kind of way.

I rooted around the attic boxes and old shelves looking for Doc's missing photo album. I found only dust and spiders. On my way downstairs to wake Angel, I remembered an old wooden filing cabinet—the mate to the one in my den—whose drawers were locked and unable to be opened. The filing cabinet was buried in the rear of the attic behind several crates loaded with dishes, figurines, and other miscellaneous junk. I should have gotten rid of it years ago and Angel had implored me to. But I couldn't part with any more of my family's past, junk or not.

I popped back to the cabinet and considered my options. I could wake Angel and antagonize her into helping me open the drawers, or I could seek out some electricity somewhere and do it myself. The answer was easy—I took the route of least retribution. I went to the overhead light dangling on an old, worn wire, and took hold.

The euphoria was instant.

The current surged through me as screaming stabs of energy invaded my fingers, flashed up my arms, and exploded through my body in waves of power and light. I held on, quenching a thirst I didn't feel, until I could consume no more.

When I let go of the wire, my body tingled and pulsated and I felt almost alive.

At the filing cabinet, I grabbed the drawer and pulled. Nothing. I pulled again. Nothing. Frustrated, I found a dulled butter knife in a box of junk, pried the lock, and popped open the drawers. It wasn't exactly the spirited trickery one would expect of me, but it worked.

Inside, I found rows of files and papers in tattered brown folders marked with all sorts of numbers and letters. Many of the folders contained photographs, maps, and pages and pages of handwritten notes. In the rear of the top drawer, I found Doc's photo album. Behind it, I found another dark brown folder stuffed with notes, faded photographs, and typewritten reports. The pockmarked pages and irregular, fuzzy typeface told me they were prepared on an ancient manual typewriter.

“What in the world?”

I took my booty to a dusty wooden table near the stairs and spread it out. When I opened the photo album, a hand gripped me and held me firm. A flood of childhood memories—lost decades ago as a
five-year
-old thrust into foster care—flowed over me.

Faces. Ollie's face, no … my father's face, was everywhere. This house. The backyard. Picnics and a birthday—my birthday party. Sounds rose all around. Voices. My father talking to someone … Doc? Ollie? The voices were mere whispers and the words not quite clear. But something told me what they meant—stories of my life as a child and before. The cloud of the past swirled, the images and voices dissipated and were gone. The photographs painted this house a different color and filled it with the old furniture I'd sold years ago. There was an old car in the garage—a
fifty-something
Chevy with big fins and
white-wall
tires. A woman, beautiful and happy, sat atop the hood flashing a leg and feigning surprise.

My mother?

Tears washed away the clarity and I moved on to other photos. There was Ollie in his Army uniform just back from the war. Doc stood beside his son, one arm wrapped around his shoulders and a finger pointing to his chest of medals. And among those was the bronze star. The bronze star?

“Holy shit, Ollie, you were a war hero.”

The album was a treasure trove of forgotten memories and some I'd never had. I spent an hour looking at my family and embroidering their faces onto my brain. And in every photo of my father and mother—most with Ollie, too—was a large, bulky chocolate Lab.

Hercule was not the first. Boy, was I
not
gonna let him live that down.

I put the album down and opened a brown folder. Black marker labeled the file “Oliver Tucker, Captain, US Army—1945.” I opened it and spilled its contents onto the table. Either fate or luck left three ragged
black-and
-white prints faceup before me. The photos were grainy and faded but I could still see the images clearly. Four men sat around a table littered with glasses and bottles. The walls were stark, dull stone. A beautiful veiled belly dancer sat on one of the men's laps. The other men were toasting her and laughing. On the back of the photo, the men's names were scrawled in shaky handwriting.

For Cy Gray, Claude Holister, Keys Hawkins, and Willy Mendelson, times seemed good in Egypt in 1944.

Finding this photograph wasn't any real surprise to me. What was a surprise was that it was in Ollie's folder in my parents' attic—and across the faces of two of the men sitting in the center of the photograph were black X's.