Dying to Tell (13 page)

twenty-seven

I followed Bear and
Cal past the uniformed Winchester policeman and into the bank annex shortly after three p.m. There, Bear received an update from the crime scene team and noticed that the locksmith was ready to drill the railroad safe in William's vault. No one wanted to touch the safe until Bear was in front of it. Now, all the hand wringing was a moot point since we had the combination.

One of the detectives on Bear's team—Cheryl something—called Bear over to a desk in the back of the administrator's office area. “Hey, Bear, you know that Thorne guy?”

“What of him?”

S
he gestured toward the executive corridor. “He and that head teller, Simms, got into an argument and she went flying out of here an hour and a half ago. He followed her. Just a couple minutes ago, Thorne came back wearing running clothes, all sweaty and in a shitty mood. I tried to speak with him and he blew me off. I figured I'd wait to confront him until you got here.”

Cal said, “Dark running clothes?”

“Yeah, I think black or dark blue,” she said. “Mean something?”

Hell
, y
eah it could mean something. Deputy Stark's description of the tall, fast figure overrunning them outside William Mendelson's house popped to mind.

Bear headed for the executive offices.

I said, “Bear, let's not jump to conclusions. This could be anything.” What was I saying? “Forget that, Bear, he probably kicked your ass in William's basement. Go kick his.”

Bear didn't stop to knock as he stormed into Thorne's office.

Thorne stood in doorway of a small bathroom at the rear of his office. He toweled off wet hair and he was still wearing the bottoms of a black running suit.

“Detective, don't you knock?” Thorne asked, surprised when Bear and Cal walked in. “You could give me a little respect in my own office.”

“Knock, knock,” Bear snorted. “Where were you just now, Thorne?”

“Excuse me?”

Cal said, “Easy question, Mr. Thorne. Where have you been? You're all sweaty and jumpy like you just ran ten miles. Where you been?”

“Five miles.” Thorne looked from Cal to Bear before leaning back into the bathroom to retrieve a clean, dry tee shirt off a towel rack. “I burned off some stress. I told you earlier I was going to the gym.”

I said, “But he was at my house wooing Angel.”

“Can anyone vouch for you?” Bear asked.

“I don't know.” Thorne walked over to his office sofa and sat down. “Do I need someone to vouch for me?”

“It might help, yeah.” Cal went to bathroom where Thorne had hung a fresh change of clothes. On the floor was a pair of dark blue running shoes. He picked them up and examined the tread. “Some dirt and mud in here, Bear.”

“Dirt and mud, huh?” Bear eyed him.

Thorne nodded. “You got me. I ran outside. That's why I'm not sure who may or may not have seen me. I saw plenty of people, but I don't know if they noticed me. Why? What's happened now?”

Cal lifted a roll of bandages off Thorne's bathroom sink. “Bear—bandages.”

Bear caught the bandages Cal tossed him. “You hurt, Thorne?”

“Detective, what's this about?”

“Are you hurt?”

Thorne pointed to his left knee. “Yes, I am. I slipped on some ice after a car nearly ran me over in an intersection. I cut my knee.” He lifted his leg and showed a narrow tear in the outside of his running pants beside his knee. “I bandaged it when I returned a few moments ago.”

Cal said, “We might have to have a doctor look at that for us, Mr. Thorne.”

“A doctor? What the hell is going on?”

Bear sat on the corner of Thorne's desk and stared at him. “We were at William's place. Someone broke in and ransacked it. Then that somebody jumped us and ran through my men like they weren't there. Somebody strong, too, and well trained. You know any martial arts, Thorne?”

Thorne blinked several times and leaned back on the sofa. He returned Bear's stare with a crooked smile. “Yes, of course I do. I work in security. I'm a second degree black belt in tae kwon do. I'm also very proficient with knives and firearms. I'm mean with a crossbow and can run
twenty-five
miles if I have to. I've done three decathlons and finished in the top ten each time.”

Of course he had. In between, he graduated with honors from the Cordon Bleu and accepted the Nobel. Shithead.

“William was killed very neatly and somebody almost took our heads off a couple hours ago, Mr. Thorne,” Cal said. “And one of
our guys got a shot off at the perp. Hit him, too. Maybe just a graze, but he hit him.”

Thorne glanced at his knee. “And you think this cut is a bullet wound?”

Cal didn't answer.

“It's from a very sharp curb and a very bad driver. I assure you.”

Cal smiled. “Then you won't mind giving me those running pants for examination, right? I mean, all this reads like an expert to me. Are you an expert, Mr. Thorne?”

“In some things, I am.”

“Then that sort of makes you a good suspect, don't you think?” Cal's smile broadened.

“No, I don't.” Thorne laughed—something strange for a man just accused of murder. “That
does
make me an Army Ranger, though. Nice try, Detectives.”

I said, “Maybe they're one and the same.”

Bear thought the same thing and said as much. “You know, Thorne, every time I turn around you're surprising me. What were you and Karen Simms arguing about earlier?”

“None of your business.”

“It is my business. This is a homicide investigation.”

Thorne stood and snatched his change of clothes from the bathroom door. “Perhaps it is, but not everything in this bank is part of
your investigation. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to change. I'll bring my running clothes to you afterward. So if you don't mind …”

“I do mind.” Bear walked across the office and stopped nose to nose with Thorne.

The two men were roughly the same height, but Bear had fifty pounds on him. Given Thorne's Army Ranger training, that might balance the scale in a good fight. Not that I hoped that would happen … but I'd pay good money to watch.

Bear's voice was low and cool. “You're going to pen out the route you took on your little run this afternoon, Thorne. Then, you're going to rethink your stance on Simms and everything you've told us to date. When you're done with all that, come see me in the vault. And I suggest you have more than ‘none of your business' on your mind.”

And with that, Bear turned and left the office with Cal in tow.

But not me. I wanted to see just what Mr. Franklin Thorne would to do next.

He didn't disappoint me.

After changing into his suit, he returned to his desk and picked up his phone and dialed. “This is Franklin Thorne—please confirm for seven thirty tonight. And have everything prepared as I requested.”

But it wasn't the odd telephone call that got my
spirit-blood
pumping. It was when he took out a small,
nickel-plated
semiautomatic in a pancake holster from his desk and tucked it into the small of his back. Bear had confiscated the weapon he used to shoot the robber earlier this morning. Now he had another.

That had my attention.

twenty-eight

Downstairs in William's not-so-secret-anymore
vault, Bear and Cal stood facing the old railroad safe with two other crime scene technicians standing nearby. Bear held the combination he'd transcribed onto a piece of paper from William's business journal.

Cal stood in front of the safe. “Read
'e
m off, Butch, and let ol' Sundance crack this bad boy open.”

I watched as Bear read off the three numbers and Cal dialed them in. It only took two tries before the lock clicked and Cal turned the large brass lever to open the safe door.

“Here we go,” Cal said. “I bet it's diamonds and gold. What are you bettin', Bear?”

Bear grabbed the door and pulled. “I bet it's …”

“Empty,” I said as the door pivoted open. “Not so much as a crumb.”

The safe had two distinct sections—a large, top cavity with three shelves, and a bottom cavity with three drawers.

Cal pulled out each drawer.

The safe was completely empty.

Cal stood up and stuck his hands on his hips. Bear pulled out his penlight and ran it over the entire empty cavity of the safe—first once, then twice, and even a third time. The crime technicians stood watching. As Bear shined his light on the bottom of the safe, I noticed something dark splattered on the lower part of the doorframe near the hinges.

“Bear, look there. I think it's blood.”

“I think that's blood, Cal,” Bear said, holding his penlight on two small blotches each no bigger than a dime. “Get a test kit.”

One of the techs stepped forward and took several photographs of the spots on the safe door. The other retrieved a kit from their equipment outside the vault. He swabbed one of the splatters with a swab stick and then placed the swab in a thin glass vial, then left the vault. A moment later, he came back in.

“It's blood, Detective. We should collect the remainder as evidence. I'm assuming it's from the deceased.”

Bear knelt down and scanned the entire lower half of the safe with his flashlight a fourth time. “Okay, there are a few small shards of glass inside, too. Maybe a match for what we found on the floor by the table. You guys process the entire safe. Take the damn thing with you if you have to.”

One tech gathered their equipment while the other continued snapping photographs.

Cal said, “So, all this for nothing?”

“No,” I said. “The blood is on the inside of the doorframe, right? The safe door was open when William was killed. The blood splatter proves that. Whoever killed him most likely got whatever was in this safe.”

“Right,” Bear said, but when Cal gave him that
Who you talking to?
look again, he added, “Stains inside the door, Cal. It was open when William was killed and the killer must have taken whatever was in here.”

Cal agreed. “So we're still at square one. We have no idea what was in here. No idea why it caused William's murder. No idea who the murderer is. Nada.”

I wasn't so sure. “Bear, I told you about my trip to Cairo, remember? And it happened when I touched that scarab carving in William's office. This has something to do with William and Cairo.”

“Cal, I think we're further along than you think.” Bear went out into the anteroom with Cal behind him. “This has something to do with those crates at William's place and all his Egyptian junk upstairs. It has to. Some of the crates were from some Greek or Egyptian shipping firm named Amphora, and two were from a company called Nomad something. The ME found that piece of papyrus in his fingers, right?”

Cal nodded. “Right, man. Good thinkin'. Maybe it's about a mummy's curse or grave robbin'. Hey, maybe old Willy was an Egyptian tomb robber during the war, right? Maybe—”

“No, Cal, that's not what I meant.” Bear cracked a smile. “Remember when I said you got smarter without Mike Spence? Forget I said that.”

Cal folded his arms. “Oh, yeah? You think mummies and curses are weird, huh? Well, do I need to ask who came up with that idea about the Cairo connection or William's office full of antiques?”

Was he just pulling Bear's leg or was Calvin Clemens, alias Calloway Clemens, listening to our conversations?

twenty-nine

“You are responsible for
this!” Marshal Mendelson's voice boomed down the executive corridor to Bear and me even before we reached the top of the stairs from the vault anteroom. “Explain yourself!”

Thorne's response was muffled—not quiet, mind you, just muffled. But I could tell by the few syllables that escaped through his office door that he was angry and fighting back.

When Bear opened Thorne's office door without knocking we caught both men standing
toe-to
-toe ready to jab each other's eyes out with
finger-daggers
.

“Whoa there, boys,” Bear said, walking in. “Everybody take two steps back and relax.”

Thorne's face was tight with angry eyes narrowed on Marshal. But when he saw Bear, he stepped back and lowered his hand. “Of course, Detective. I'm embarrassed at having lost my temper. But Marshal is losing his mind.”

Marshal wasn't as compliant. He lunged at Thorne again and threw something into his face that hit his cheek and dropped to the floor. “Explain it. Go ahead, explain it.”

Bear leaned down and picked the small
button-sized
object off the floor. He looked it over and held it up away from Thorne for me to see. It was a tiny electronic device the size of a quarter with a short, thin wire protruding from it. “A bug? What's this about, Marshal?”

Thorne answered. “Marshal insists I tapped his phone. I believe all the anxiety is too much for him. Now …”

“Then explain it,” Marshal yelled. “The Chairman put you up to this, didn't he? He hired you and still pulls your strings. Admit it. Come on, Thorne, admit it.”

“I admit nothing.”

Bear held up a hand. “Relax, Marshal. Seems you're the one around here who likes to do surveillance. Isn't that right?”

Marshal stood, blinking several times. Then he retreated from Thorne and straightened himself by the office window. “What are you talking about? I don't understand.”

I did. “Liar.”

“You were having your father followed,” Bear said, setting the electronic listening device onto Thorne's desk. “Isn't that true?”

“No.” Marshal's voice was edgy. “Whoever told you that is lying. Someone trying to stir up trouble. As though we don't have enough now.”

“Detective,” Thorne said, glancing at Marshal, “perhaps you could tell us what you know.”

“That's not how it works,” Bear said in a flat voice. “Now, where'd you find this bug, Marshal?”

“In my office. It was stuck under my desk lamp beside my telephone.”

Bear looked at Thorne. “And you're sure you don't know anything about it?”

“Really? Bug my own superiors? To what end?”

He had a point. Doing it might be interesting; getting caught could be professionally fatal.

“Okay, gentlemen, I'll have my tech boys sweep the entire executive suite.” Bear pointed a finger at Marshal. “And you don't know anything about surveillance on your father?”

Marshal snapped his arms folded. “I assure you, no.”

Thorne took out a small ring of keys from his pants pocket and opened one of his desk drawers. He retrieved a small,
hand-held
electronic device the size of a large television remote control and turned it on. On its face was a digital readout and several buttons. When he waved the device over the electronic bug Bear had placed on his desk, the lights on the device lit up and it made a
high-pitched
whine. The readout began flashing numbers higher and higher.

“It's active, Detective,” Thorne said, holding the device up. “This is an RF detector for doing TSCM sweeps. I'll need to bring in the rest of my equipment so I can check the offices myself.”

Marshal looked at the device. “T … T … CM what?”

I said, “Technical Security
Counter-Measures
—TSCM. Jeez, everyone knows that.”

Bear repeated me, and added, “It's for sweeping for electronic eavesdropping devices. Thorne's RF detector is a small portable device for radio frequencies—transmitters.” Bear walked to his desk and watched Thorne move the device over the bug. “You have all the equipment?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Why?” Bear asked. “It's pretty expensive and takes a lot of training. You don't look like a gadget guy to me.”

Thorne lifted his chin. “I don't? Well, perhaps that's more a compliment than you intended, Detective. But the truth is, I'm well versed in TSCM and espionage—industrial espionage. I've spent the past fifteen years using this tradecraft. Quite successfully, too.”

“
Tradecraft?
” I sat on the corner of Thorne's desk. “Now there's a word you don't hear very often.”

“No, you don't—ah, you don't hear that term every day.” Bear turned back to Thorne, who looked at him with a strange, awkward raise of the eyebrows. “Tradecraft, I mean. About that …”

The RF detector chirped again and Thorne moved it over the listening device until the chirp became a steady tone. He handed Bear the listening device and began waving the RF device like a wand around
his desk. The chirping started again, increasing in rapidity each time
he neared a rectangular wooden box sitting on his desk. When he held the detector directly above the box, the chirping turned into a steady tone and the digital readout began flashing numbers again.

“Detective,” Thorne said, opening the box. “Care for a fine cigar? They were a gift from the Venezuelan Ambassador. I save them for the most important occasions.” When the box cover was lifted, three cigars were missing from the top row. “And I see someone has helped themselves, too.”

Bear stepped closer. “Cuban?”

“Of course,” Thorne said. “It's now perfectly legal.” He smiled. “Unlike this.” He gently closed the box and turned it over, careful not to allow the cigars to spill out. The bottom of the box was covered in dark felt and he ran the RF detector over it several times. Its steady tone and flashing readout continued. When he was done, he set the detector down, took a small folding knife from his desk drawer, and peeled the felt back from one corner of the box.

“Son of a bitch,” Bear said.

I moved closer. “What do you have, Bear?”

Concealed beneath the felt, affixed to the underside of the cigar box, was a second listening device even smaller than the one from Marshal's office.

“Don't touch it,” Bear said, “there could be prints.”

“No, I think not.” Thorne handed the wooden cigar box to Bear. “Anyone sophisticated enough to use this series of transmitter would have used gloves. But, by all means, have it processed.”

“You're probably right, but humor me.” Bear lifted the box up and showed the underside and listening device to Marshal. “So, Marshal, you still want to blame Thorne for all this?”

“No, of course not.” Marshal's face reddened. “I apologize, Franklin. Of course you understand …”

“Accepted.” Thorne began moving his RF detector around his desk again. When he ran it over his credenza behind him, the chirping started again. “Detective, perhaps we should sweep the entire bank and annex. I think we have an infestation.”