Dying to Tell (20 page)

forty-five

“Let's go.” Bear stepped
in front of Karen's apartment door and pulled his handgun. Then, without warning, he drove his right foot into the door beside the doorknob. The door splintered and he went through it all in one movement. “Sheriff's Department! Show yourself!”

I was already inside. “It's clear, Bear. No one's here.”

Angel waited for Cal and a uniformed Winchester officer to follow Bear in before she appeared in the doorway behind them. When they each yelled “clear” and reappeared from the different rooms they'd searched, I waved Angel inside.

As I turned to look around again, something tickled my nose. “Bear, I smell smoke again. Do you?”

“No. Look around.”

I walked around the room and the scent was nowhere. Maybe it was in my head. “No sign of Karen, Bear,” I said. “There's a blood trail that starts in the kitchen then goes out onto the porch and down the stairs.”

Bear hooked a thumb at Cal. “Check the kitchen—get men searching the area.”

“Got it.” Cal disappeared.

Karen's apartment had a cozy
two-bedroom
layout with lots of windows and the aforementioned wraparound outside balcony. Her furnishings were few but in good taste. The living room had a
big-screen
television, matching sofa and loveseat, a wingback chair, and numerous clocks and art prints on the walls. One bedroom was used for storage and held a couple pieces of furniture, some boxes of dishes and glasses, an ironing board and iron set up in the back corner, a rack of videos and music CDs, and two mismatched lamps. The rooms were disarranged and had been searched. Karen's bedroom was the same—the mattress was askew from the box spring. What had been atop her dresser—assorted combs, brushes, and pieces of jewelry—was scattered about the floor. Her bathroom was the same, everything strewn about. There was a small
walk-in
closet with its door open. Most of the hangers were empty and there was only one pair of shoes on the floor. Spring clothes remained hung up but were pushed to the side and several items lay on the closet floor in a pile among fallen hangers.

The kitchen told the rest of the story.

Cal called out, “Bear, in the kitchen.”

I knew what was there and still, it chilled me to look. In the center of the kitchen floor, right beside an inexpensive round breakfast table, was a large smear of blood. The smear looked like someone tried to clean up but hadn't finished, leaving a residue of gooey,
dark-red
ooze. The blood trail crossed the kitchen and went out the side door onto the balcony. From there, it led to the stairs and halfway down to the parking lot, where it disappeared.

The uniformed policeman on the balcony came into the kitchen. “Detectives, the car in the parking lot is registered to Simms.”

“Oh shit,” Bear said as he contemplated the blood trail. “She never left. She's dead.”

I said, “Hold on, Bear. Remember, Poor Nic gave her a car. Maybe …”

“Maybe.” He looked around the kitchen. “But car or not, it looks like somebody got to her here. First, they erased her emails, and second, they erased her. Just like William. They were cleaning up behind themselves. Whatever she knew, it cost her.”

Angel said, “She could be still alive. You have to have hope, Bear. Call Nicholas. He'll help, I'm sure.”

Yeah, Nic … he could help. “There's no forced entry. Not even a scratch on the door frame—what's left of it after Bear's big foot.” Bear shrugged and I went on. “Somebody got in with a key or she let them in. Whoever it was overpowered her before she knew what happened. There's no sign of a struggle—just the ransacking and blood trail. They dragged her out of the apartment like a sack of potatoes. And they didn't clean up all of it afterward, so they were in a hurry. Maybe they were such in a hurry they left something outside. Her car's here. So maybe they took Nic's loaner.”

“
Maybe again—all maybes. Like, maybe she was injured and made it out on her own—
maybe
.” Bear gave orders to the Winchester policeman to begin a search of the surrounding areas. “Go three blocks in all directions. Get more officers if you need. Move.”

One officer made notes. “Detective, there's some construction going on next door. And there's a construction dumpster across the parking lot. I'll have a unit see if any of the workers were around earlier and might have seen something.”

“Good, and search the entire site.” Bear turned to Cal. “Get ahold of Nicholas Bartalotta. I want cell phone number and car information on what he gave Simms. Then get it on the air in Virginia, West Virginia, and Maryland. Put a BOLO on Simms as a possible kidnapping. Get someone checking all the hospitals, clinics, and doctor's offices. And find out if Larry Conti has surfaced—if not, find him.”

“On it.” Cal pulled out his cell phone and walked into the living room.

I said, “Simms stirred up trouble with Lee Hawkins this morning. You don't suppose …”

“No. Yes. Hell, I don't know.” Bear's voice was hollow. “Karen Simms was tight with William and had information about his secret bank account and money moving around, right? And she had issues with Marshal and Lee and Keys Hawkins, too—maybe even Thorne. We gotta figure out what she knew. Whatever it was might give us the who and the why.”

Angel said, “There are too many
who's
.”

Bear grunted something and began a more detailed search of the apartment.

Out on the porch, I looked down at the two uniformed Winchester officers
dumpster-diving
across the parking lot. It took them several minutes of moving wood, old wiring, empty bags of sand and concrete, piles of plaster board, and old wall slats. After ten minutes, one of them called out.

“Detective. We have something.”

Cal stood at the foot of the apartment stairs talking on his cell phone. He pocketed his phone, jogged over to the dumpster, and climbed up for a better look. He reached down and moved something around, then jumped back onto the ground. While he wiped his hands and dusted himself off, he gave the policemen instructions to empty the entire dumpster.

Bear emerged behind me. “What you have, Cal?”

One of the officers inside the dumpster lifted something above the edge for Bear to see. It was a dusty,
trash-covered
suitcase.

“It's full of women's clothes,” Cal yelled. “Simms's name is on the luggage tag.”

Angel closed her eyes. “Oh no. Not her, too.”

“There's more.” Cal's voice was edgy. “There's a bunch of towels and old clothes in here with blood on them.”

“Dammit.” Bear turned to go inside. “So, she ran from someone and might not have made it out of the apartment alive. If she did, she's on the run.”

I looked north up the street a little more than a block. “Bear, Karen's apartment has something very interesting. Don't you think?”

“What?” He joined me at the railing.

“A nice view of the bank's employee entrance and parking lot.”

forty-six

“Hold him there, Thorne,”
Bear said into his cell phone a few minutes later. “I'm sending Cal over. Put him in the conference room and lock the door. No one talks to him. No one goes near him. And Thorne, that includes you.”

Cal walked into the living room. “Bartalotta gave me Simms's car details—a blue Fiat
two-door
. One of those classy new ones. And I have the burner cell phone number, too. We'll start trying to trace both.”

“Larry Conti just showed up at the bank,” Bear said. “Two hours late and he's been drinking.”

I said, “Cut him some slack, Bear. He got beat up and shot at yesterday morning.”

“That's not all.” Bear shook his head. “He's got blood on his shoes.”

“I'll take him in.” Cal headed for the door. “We can question him when you get through here. I'll have him sobered up by then.” He didn't wait for an answer and left.

Bear looked around and, seeing no other officers inside, turned to me. “Do your thing, Tuck. Whatever it is you do, do it now.”

Really? “Yesterday I was a crystal ball. Now I'm what, a scent dog? A medium?”

“Christ, quit bitching and do it. You know what I mean.”

Of course I did. So as he followed me room to room, I went in search of clues he'd never find—the kind with a link to the dead or a connection to the crime that were, ah,
not of this world.
But after thirty minutes wandering the apartment, touching every personal thing I could, all I found was Karen's key ring under the edge of a kitchen cabinet beside the trash can.

“Sorry, Bear. I struck out.”

He called one of the officers standing guard on the balcony. “You guys wait for crime scene to get here. I'm going back to the office. Keep hold of anyone who shows up and call me. They don't leave unless I okay it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bear examined Karen's key ring. It was a collection of five
average-looking
keys, including her car key, with an embossed medallion that read, “BC 053” hanging off the ring. One of the keys had her apartment number, 2, on it. He mumbled something I didn't catch and tossed it into an evidence bag before going to his cruiser.

On the way back to the office, his phone rang twice—both times he looked at the number and ignored it. Both times I asked him why and he cursed and ignored me. When it rang the third time, he answered.

“Braddock—oh, hey, good morning.”

When whoever it was spoke, his eyes lit up and he smiled—not something you often see from him. But seconds later, his voice turned all business. “Sorry, I'm onto a few things right now. And we can't do lunch because I need to speak with you. No,
officially
. No, sorry. It'll have to be in my office. Yes, I'm afraid so.”

When he dropped the phone on the seat beside him, I said, “Lee Hawkins?”

His foot hit the floorboards and we made it to the office in less than ten minutes.

“How do you explain the blood?” Cal asked as he tapped the interview room table with his finger. “How do you explain it, Larry?”

“I can't.” Larry's face was pale and his eyes red and tired—a combination of alcohol and something else—what, I didn't know. He emptied his coffee cup and leaned forward into his hands. “I told you, Detective, I don't remember. I got home last night and sort of freaked, you know? I almost got killed yesterday. I drank too much.”

“When's the last time you saw Karen Simms?” Bear asked.

“Karen?” Larry sat up. “Did something happen to her?”

“What makes you think that?” Bear asked. “You feeling guilty, Larry?
Did
something happen to her? When's the last time you saw her?”

“When's the last time I saw Karen?” Larry repeated the words like he was trying to translate a foreign language. “At work when I left last night. About five, I think.”

I stood near the door and couldn't decide if Larry's angst was the booze unsettling his stomach or something else. I was about to say as much when another detective knocked on the interview room door and called Cal into the hallway. When Cal returned, he pulled out his cell phone and showed something to Bear.

Bear nodded. “Larry, a couple more questions. Let's start with your black pickup truck, shall we?”

“What about it?” He watched Cal's eyes narrow on him. “Hey, come on guys. I stopped a robbery yesterday, remember? And I saved Professor Tucker, too.”

“Maybe,” Cal said. “Unless you were in on it from the beginning. Maybe you weren't jumped like you said, Larry. Maybe you were helping them along until Angela Tucker stumbled into the robbery and things got out of control. How am I doin', man?”

“What are you trying to say? I didn't do—”

Bear snapped forward and drummed his palm onto the table. “Then why do you have Amphora Trading crates in the back of your truck? And what's all the surveillance gear in your house? You've got microphones, cameras, video … everything to bug someone's office or do surveillance on them.”

“You guys can't search my house.” Larry's voice was angry and his eyes flashed from Cal to Bear. “You need a warrant. You can't just …”

“Right you are, man,” Cal said. “All that security training is paying off for you, huh?”

Bear waved the cell phone Cal showed him in Larry's face. On the screen was a photograph of Larry's truck bed with two large wooden shipping crates identical to the ones in William's basement. “I got a warrant, dipshit, as soon as you showed up to work with blood on your shoes.”

“Blood? I got beat up yesterday, remember? It's probably blood from that guy Mr. Thorne shot—or from me, remember? Maybe I didn't clean up enough.” Larry gripped his empty coffee cup with both hands. His knuckles were white and strained. “Maybe it's mine.”

“No,” Bear said in a low,
matter-of
-fact voice.

“I must have not cleaned them or something.”

“No.”

Larry lowered his head. “Come on, this isn't what you think.”

I'd heard that before. Recently, too.

“What should we think, Larry?” Bear asked. “Look, we're gonna run that blood from your shoes against what we found at William's house and some other blood evidence. If there's something you want to say, say it.”

That was a bluff, of course. With the crime techs running between crime scenes, it would take days before the evidence got processed and came back from the lab. Maybe weeks.

Cal tossed Larry's car keys on the table in front of him. “What else are we gonna find at your place, Larry? We found your surveillance gadgets. Come on, tell us. What did you do to Karen Simms?”

“Nothing! I didn't do anything to Karen. Nothing.”

I looked at Larry's car keys and noticed several large keys on the ring. One key stood out—the number 2 was branded on the side.

I said, “Bear, he's got Karen's apartment key on his ring.”

Bear glanced back at me across the room and dug into his pocket for the folded evidence bag with Karen's ring of keys. He laid the bag on the table and took Larry's keys and compared them. The moment he did, Larry pushed back from the table and folded his arms. The key on Larry's set was a perfect match for Karen Simms's apartment key.

“Uh oh, Larry.” Bear leaned forward and forced him to meet his eyes. “What are you doing with Karen's apartment key?”

Larry's face fell. His eyes snapped shut and his mouth quivered. For a moment, I thought he was going to be sick. Then, in a
near-whisper
, he said, “We're very … close. Look, we're dating and I have her key. That's all. Can't I have—”

“No, you can't.” Bear leaned in even closer—inches from Larry's face. “Were you at Karen's house early this morning?”

“No.”

“You're lying, Larry.” Bear put his index finger against Larry's forehead and held it there. “Listen to me, if you're mixed up in something—anything in these murders—then now is the time …”

“Murders?” Larry jumped up from the table. “What the hell are you talking about? I didn't kill anyone! Karen's dead? Oh my God … no … I should have called. No … no … no!”

Cal grabbed his arms from behind. “Easy, man. Easy.”

“He knows, Bear,” I said as Larry began his meltdown. “He knows what happened to Karen.”

“Larry, what did you do?” Cal sat him back at the table. “What do you mean, you should have called? Called who? About what?”

Bloodshot eyes glistened as tears flowed down Larry's cheeks. “I want a lawyer. Now. You don't get it—you don't.” His hands shook as he buried his face in them. He quaked and mumbled, “Please, just get me a lawyer. You won't understand—you just won't.”