Dying to Tell (11 page)

twenty-two

Karen Simms flipped on
her turn signal to make the right onto
William's street. She saw the line of police cruisers two blocks down and changed her mind. She made a left instead, went farther down, and U-turned back toward the bank. One block away, she pulled into a parking lot behind a local attorney's office and maneuvered into her
private parking space. There, she picked up her cell phone and dialed a
number from memory.

“It's me. I didn't get there in time. It'll take me more time for …”

Curses. A pause. The voice on the line was monotone and low—one question.

“No, the cops were already there. I thought they'd still be digging around the bank but they're at his place.”

Another short, angry question.

“I'm not lying. I know what would happen. They're there. I can't get close at all. You'll have to …”

More questions—jumbled, irritated, fast.

“It'll be pointless, but fine. I'll try back later tonight. I don't see what good it'll do.”

Silence. Then, harsh words. A threat.

“I'm doing the best I can and so should you. Look, you don't get it, do you? You have to give me more time. I promise—”

The call went dead.

twenty-three

William's Colonial home was
built sometime in the mid-
nineteenth century—or so the framed photograph and local newspaper article smashed on the fireplace hearth reported. His tastes had been true to the era, too, with hardwood antiques and replicas throughout the home that, before it had been searched and trashed, would have been charming and rich. The walls were expensively papered above pristine hardwood floors. The ceilings were tastefully inlaid and framed in handcrafted crown moldings. Even the stonework around the fireplace was original and its wear spoke to the years it had provided warmth and light over the decades. All of it, like the outside of his home, showed signs of neglect.

Now the home also showed the consequence of a frantic search with no regard for discovery.

I stood in the middle of William's den and looked around. At my feet were piles of mail, books, and
bric-a
-brac from bookshelves now half empty. William's cherry desk was piled with the contents from drawers and more files—mostly household bills, banking communiques,
and miscellaneous papers. All around the room, anything that had been hung on a wall—several paintings, framed photographs, even two wall lamps—was strewn and broken across the furniture and Persian carpet. William's CD player was pulled from the shelf and lay toppled over the credenza. Even the burnt remains of logs were pulled from the fireplace and scattered across the hearth.

“William needs a new cleaning lady,” I said, kneeling to inspect a pile of papers. “Marshal is going to have to tell us what's missing—whenever he shows up.”

Cal said, “William's computer is missing.” He held up a long power cord in one hand. “Keyboard and mouse are here, but the computer is gone. And I didn't see it at his office earlier.”

“Call our folks at the annex. Have them search for it again to be sure,” Bear said. “And ask if Marshal has shown up.”

Cal pulled out his cell and made the call.

“Any ideas what they were looking for?” I asked.

Bear shook his head.

“My guess is a safe or something.” I walked over to the long, plush sofa on the far wall and looked at a painting smashed over the corner. “They pulled everything off the walls. They must have been looking for a safe. Or something hidden behind the paintings.”

Bear turned in a slow, deliberate circle and mentally noted everything around the room. “But what? He's dead in his own private vault. If they were inside that, then they know whatever secrets he has, right?”

No, not exactly. “Maybe they didn't have any more luck with that railroad safe than we had. Could they have been looking for a combination?”

Bear snapped his fingers. “Yeah, right. Or a diary or journal or something with information on what was in the vault. If they emp
tied the vault, they'd want to cover their tracks. If we don't know what was in there, we might never figure out who wanted it bad enough
to kill him.”

I said, “Do you think they found what they came for?”

Bear saw Cal watching him and repeated my question.

Cal closed his phone. “No way, man. If they did find what they wanted, why were they still digging around the basement when we got here? I mean, if you just killed a dude, and you came here to get some evidence, why hang around after you find it?”

Bear took a long breath and squinted at Cal. He said what I thought. “You know, Cal, you get smarter when Mike Spence isn't around.”

“Ah, hey, now.” He waved in the air. “You leave my man Mikey out of this. He's not as bad as you think.” He took a step over a stack of broken picture frames and turned back to Bear with a smile. “At least he doesn't discuss crime scenes and cases with his dead partner.”

Touché.

“You know,” Bear said as he looked over the desk contents littered around the desk, “William was really scared, right? He had alarms and locks and all kinds of security sensors. Whoever jumped us got in and relocked the doors to slow down anyone coming in behind them, right?”

Cal nodded. “Probably the second floor. Nobody ever alarms the second floor.”

“And your point?” I asked.

Bear went on. “So, if you were a scared old man hiding your whatevers, you wouldn't put it in the obvious place like a wall safe, right? You'd put it somewhere no one would expect.”

“And where's that?” Cal asked, looking around. “I've already checked the bathrooms—and there are five of them, by the way—and the kitchen, including the fridge and the freezer. Nothing.”

I didn't see anything the perp had missed. If there was something hidden in this room, it was either gone or hidden very, very well. In the living room, I found the same slaughter of good taste and expensive trappings. Even William's collection of
33-speed
vinyl records was dashed across the floor. Glenn Miller lay facedown on the hardwood near the side window, accompanied by the Dorsey Brothers and the Andrews Sisters. Across the room were three torn album covers from big bands I'd never heard of, the black vinyl shattered by a collision with the wall. Even the record player—a 1950s Victrola—was pulled away from the wall and its mesh speaker covers slashed for access to any possible hiding space.

“Bear, do you think …” Vinyl records. Holy shit.

Bear glanced over his shoulder to see where Cal was. He was out of earshot, so he said, “What's wrong with you?”

“33 records, Bear. William was an old guy who still played 33s.”

“So?”

I went into William's den where Cal sat on the floor going through the pile of books and papers. “Do you see any CDs anywhere
around here?”

He looked. “No, I don't. Cal, do you see any CDs?”

Cal cocked his head and looked around. “No, man. But, this talking to Tuck thing is getting creepy.”

I went to the CD player on the credenza. It was a metal and
wood
-f
ramed
player about a foot long and eight inches tall and wide. The player appeared normal—its knobs were intact and the digital readout was blank—its cord had been pulled from the wall. But I doubted it had ever been turned on.

I said to Bear, “He doesn't own any CDs, Bear. Check inside. See if there's a compartment or something.”

“You're nuts.” Bear ignored Cal's headshake, picked up the CD player, and shook it. Something weighty was inside. His big fingers struggled with the side panels and he dropped it twice trying to find a latch or opening to pry free. All he succeeded in doing was to break a fingernail and curse like a drunken pirate. Finally, having cut another finger trying to lever open the back panel, he reared back and smashed the player on the floor, then stomped it with his size 14.

The player's frame surrendered and a side panel popped open on hinges.

“Voil
à
,” I said.

Wires and computer circuit boards didn't tumble out. Neither did any CDs long left behind in the player. Instead, a black leather book the size of a paperback novel lay amidst the broken metal frame and plastic tuning knobs.

Bear picked it up and opened it to the first few pages.

I said, “Phew, I'm glad you found something. When you stomped on it, it dawned on me that he could have used the CD player just for its radio. Boy, that would have been embarrassing.”

Bear mumbled something and read through the book.

“Good call, Bear.” Cal stood up from his pile of books and mail. “How'd you think to look in there?”

“Just a hunch.”

“A hunch? Sure, sure.” Cal moved closer to look at the book. “What you find?”

“William's business journal.” Bear held up the leather book. “And on page two is a list of passwords and combinations. One's gotta be for the railroad safe in his vault.”

twenty-four

“What on earth is
going on here?” An older, unassuming man—perhaps in his late-sixties—stood in the doorway beside a sheriff's deputy. It was Marshal Mendelson. I knew him on sight.

“Detective, he came to the door and gave me attitude,” the deputy said. “This is Marshal Mendelson.”

“Marshal? Where the hell have you been?” Bear asked and dismissed the deputy with a nod. “We've been looking for you all day.”

“I am aware of that … now.” Marshal was about
five-eight
and at least two hundred and fifty pounds. But what Marshal lacked in physique, he compensated for with swagger. His wrist was adorned with a Rolex and gold,
diamond
-s
tudded
cuff links. If I were a betting man, his suit looked like Savile Row and his shirt French silk. I'm not one on shoes—I wear old tattered running shoes 24/7 now—but his were definitely Stefano Bemer. I know this not because I read
GQ
or the Washington gossip pages but because I heard gossip about him at the local diner last week while I watched Angel eat pancakes. Marshal Mendelson believed himself a prince with the ladies. The ladies think he's a toad in an expensive suit.

“I sincerely hope you policemen haven't done this damage.”

“Where have you been, Marshal?” Bear repeated. “I'm sorry to tell you, but …”

“Dear old dad is dead.” He waved dismissively in the air. “The Chairman is dead, long live the Chairman.”

“The question was …”

Marshal snapped a cold glare at Bear. “In Harrisonburg on business. I arrived back just now.”

“Just now?” Bear asked, eyeing him. “Or last night?”

“I said, ‘just now.'” Marshal's face tightened. “I had a breakfast meeting that was canceled so I took on other appointments. But then, I'm sure Franklin Thorne informed you. Have you no leads? Do you have any idea what is going on, who is responsible?”

I said, “You know, your name has been brought up, Marshal.”

Bear looked over at him. “I have leads and I have theories. Let's start with you, though, Marshal.”

“Me? Whatever do you mean?”

“Do you have any idea who would kill your father?” Bear cocked his head. “Do you know what he did in his vault all night? And above all, what was in his vault? And why—”

Marshal did something neither of us expected. He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, come now, Detective, surely you know by now.”

“What now?”

“The Chairman was not well.” He kicked at a broken knickknack on the floor. “Surely someone has mentioned that? No?”

Bear walked up to Marshal and stopped just a foot from him. He leaned in close and consumed his private space with one mouthful. “No, they didn't. In fact, the only weird vibes anyone gave me were about you.”

Marshal's fleshy face scrunched up a little. He had dark, pudgy eyes with a perpetual eyebrow reigning over them—all of which were partially obscured by heavy,
black-framed
glasses too small for his round face. Now his eyes were darting around the room.

“Really? No matter.” He backed away from Bear and breathed a heavy sigh. “The Chairman has been acting very odd of late. He's been babbling that someone was stalking him. He kept saying, ‘They've come back for me. It's my turn.' I thought he was senile—or paranoid and delusional, at least.”

“Senile, huh? An old man afraid of something doesn't always mean he's senile.” Bear waved a hand around the room. “Especially when he ends up dead. Who did he think came for him?”

Marshal shook his head. “I have no idea.”

“Do you know why he was in his vault last night? Or if he had anyone visiting him for any reason?”

“He took to some very bizarre behavior these past months.”

“Bizarre like staying at work all night?” Bear chanced a glance at me and then added, “Or bizarre like talking to space aliens?”

“You have no idea how close you are.” Marshal walked to one of the overturned chairs, righted it, and sat down. “Detective, the Chairman lost his faculties. He'd been that way for some time. He even thought he was being haunted.”

“Hunted?” I asked and Bear repeated me.

“No, Detective,
haunted
.”

“Haunted” sounded silly when Marshal said it. But it really wasn't silly at all. Not to me.

“Like, ‘boo' haunted?” Bear asked.

“Yes.” Marshal cringed, embarrassed. “The Chairman was nuts, insane. All right, I've said it. He saw and heard things and was completely paranoid.”

“Well, maybe he wasn't after all, right?” Bear eyed him with a nasty
I don't like you
look. “Why did he think he was being haunted?”

“Good question—age, stupidity, maybe his obsession with Egyptian relics.” Marshal shook his head. “He claims someone has been rooting though his office and the vault at night—moving things around and misplacing things on him, you know. But we have the entire building under
closed-circuit
television cameras and no one has been doing anything of the sort. He heard things, too. He even thinks something was following him. He was afraid to stay at home some nights. And …”

“Some
thing
following him?” I asked, and again, Bear repeated me.

Marshal's eyebrows raised. “Yes, some
thing
. He thought his life was in danger but he couldn't—or wouldn't—explain why or how. I tried putting a security officer with him but he wouldn't have it, either. He said there was nothing anyone could do.”

“And now he's dead.” Bear walked around the room and turned back to Marshal, grabbing Marshal's eyes in the Braddock
death-stare
. “Any idea who killed him?”

“No.” Marshal looked away. “And frankly, as crazy as he's been, anything is possible. Are you certain it was murder?”

I laughed. “Well, William could have shot himself through the heart from the back, then ditched the gun and returned to the vault to bleed out. But I'm skeptical.”