Dying for the Past Read online

  Before Bear answered, Angel walked up and stood opposite Grecco’s body. She was pale—murder can do that. “Bear, the guests want to leave.”

  “Not until we’ve taken their statements. It’ll be a few hours.”

  After Grecco’s shooting, Bear’s men secured the ballroom, closed all the mansion’s doors, and refused to allow the guests to leave. Deputies guarded the outside of the house while Bear, Spence, and Clemens searched the guests, trying to find the killer among them. No one saw the killer and none of the guests seemed suspicious. Bear called for reinforcements. That was thirty minutes ago.

  “A few hours?”

  Bear nodded. “Sorry, Angela. But we have to get statements first. And I have to check something Spence found. Can you help our deputies corral everyone into a couple rooms so we can interview? This mansion is big enough that we should be able to handle them all elsewhere without disrupting the crime scene.”

  “Yes, of course.” She stole a glance at the corpse who used to be Stephanos Grecco. “He just donated a hundred thousand to my foundation.”

  A hundred thousand? “Holy crap, Angel. I hope it was cash.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” The words slipped out before she realized Spence was still there. “I mean, how awful. I’ll see to the guests.”

  “Yeah, okay. Let me know if you have problems with them.” Bear leaned close and whispered, “And take him with you.”

  I whispered back. “Fat chance, Bear.” Even ghosts have feelings. “It’s a homicide. You and me. Just like the old days. I’ll do the thinking and you do the doing.”

  My voice was often just a buzz in his ear—he told Angel it was, anyway. But, buzz or not, the words got through. He wasn’t fooling me at all.

  Outside, the May evening thunderstorm was no more than a fine mist. The sky was overcast but a few stars poked through, giving Bear and Spence a little natural light to see by.

  Spence led us around the side of the house. We were west of Old Town Winchester where money and antebellum history were guarded by giant oak trees and antique iron fences. The Vincent House was named—I just recalled—for an old gangland hood who hid out here when the atmosphere in New York and Washington DC got too warm. The Vincent House was a three-story brick and stone mansion consuming a half-block. The Vincent House reminded me of a castle, with two four-story towers on each side and a brooding, stalwart façade suggesting an impregnable fortress to any passersby. Two other homes on the estate—mansions in their own right—consumed the other half-block. Together, the compound sat far back from the surrounding streets and was protected by a tall stone wall and wrought-iron gates.

  Stephanos Grecco wouldn’t think it was so impregnable. Obviously, the way to penetrate the Vincent House’s armor was to be on the guest list of a highbrow party. No stealth required—just your checkbook.

  Spence stopped at the rear corner of the Vincent House where the grand oaks and walnut trees blocked the moonlight. He flipped on a flashlight and shined the beam at a secluded basement door made of tin and wood.

  “Someone forced the lock. The one down on the inner door, too.” He toed the hasp. It was bent back and open; its metal frame was gouged and scraped. “We checked this place two hours before Angela’s bash. Everything was okay.”

  “Then we missed something.” Bear yanked open the bulkhead doors and took Spence’s light. Then he pulled his handgun from beneath his dinner jacket and stared down the timber stairs into the darkness. “Wait here.”

  “Bear,” Spence said. “Wait. I wanna ask you something.”

  “What? You afraid of the dark, Spence?”

  “Listen, this is the first murder we’ve worked since, well, since—”

  “Yeah, I know. Since Tuck’s. What of it?”

  Spence looked around, uneasy. “I gotta ask. The day, you know, when we got Ernie Stuart at the farm. After he killed Tuck and all those folks. Ah, you know what I mean.”

  I did. Spence wanted the answer to the question plaguing Bear. Was I back?

  Yep. Ernie thought he got rid of me. But like gum on his shoe, I wouldn’t let go. I came back and stopped him. Oh, I had help, of course—Angel and Bear. They did the tough stuff; the breathing stuff like running and chasing and shooting and fighting. And there were a couple spirits of murders past and an old coot named Doc. They all helped, too. Even Spence and Clemens played a role.

  But without me, Ernie would still be killing.

  I couldn’t let him, so I called his elevator, and it dropped him off in hell.

  “Get to the point, Spence, or you can search the basement alone.”

  “Come on, Bear, you know what I want to know. Did you see him? I mean, did you see them all? When Clemens and I caught up to Ernie, he was going nuts. Shooting at nothing and screaming he’d already killed them. After, and I hate saying this, but after, didn’t you see them all—the two girls and … the others?”

  “Them all” haunted Spence these past few months. Old Ernie had been on a rampage for decades. He’d killed five people we knew of, and we guessed there were more. When we caught up to him—we being me, Amy, and Caroline, who were two of Ernie’s earlier victims—he died. No bullet took Ernie; guilt and terror did. He had a heart attack right in front of Spence and Clemens. In the moments afterward—how, I don’t pretend to understand—Angel, Bear, Spence, and Clemens saw us—me, Amy, and Caroline. There were others there, too, but I don’t know if anyone noticed. Since then, it was the one fact of my case that no one—not even Bear Braddock—ever talked about.

  If you don’t admit it, it ain’t real. Right?

  “Okay.” Bear shined his light into Spence’s face. “What do you want to know?”

  “Bear, none of us talk about it, ever—” Spence turned away. “Did you see him? Tuck, I mean. And those two girls? You did, right? You saw them standing over Stuart’s body. Didn’t you?”

  “I don’t have time for this, Spence.” Bear started down the basement stairs, and a second before he disappeared into the dark, he said, “Did you see them, Spence?”

  “Ah, heck, I don’t know. But if you didn’t, I didn’t. I just figured after Ernie died, Tuck would go. But sometimes—a lot of times—I think he’s still here. Not that I see anything, you know.”

  “Spence, you sure remember pretty well what you never saw. Just keep your eyes open and don’t miss what you should be seeing.” Bear disappeared into the basement darkness.

  Spence is right. After Ernie died, no light came for me. I don’t even know if there is a light, or maybe I haven’t paid the bill yet. I didn’t leave and there was one reason—one much bigger than my own unfinished business, if you believe in that sort of thing. I do. You see, while trying to solve my murder, other spirits sought me to solve theirs. Because I can do what the other victims can’t—I can work with the living and be their detective.

  I’m back to work for the dead and stop the living from creating more unfinished business.

  I waited with Spence in the pitch black. Just for fun, I whispered in his ear a couple times. Nothing important, just a few silly hi theres and boos. Each time he swatted at the buzzing. Each time he cursed and asked me to stop—me.

  Deep down, Spence knew I was here. He just refused to admit it.

  Ignorance is bliss.

  Three loud, heavy bangs on the lower basement door startled both of us. Spence stumbled down the stairs and opened the door. Bear stood inside. “It locked behind me.”

  “I should have warned you,” Spence said, “It locks automatically. You need a key to open it from the inside.”

  “You think the killer wasn’t a guest?” Bear found a switch on the wall and flipped on the basement light. “Maybe he came in this way and got locked inside?”

  “Yeah, maybe—that means he’s still here.” Spence was thoughtful. “When Grecco was shot, I radioed the deputies outside to lock the house down—it took a few seconds at best. They were posted all around the perimeter. No one came out—some of the guests tri
ed. So, if—”

  “If the killer did get in this way,” Bear said, “he’s still locked inside.”

  Spence nodded. “I got four deputies on the outside. And a patrol cruising the area.”

  “Bear,” I said as a hot, sharp fingernail etched my spine. “You gotta move fast—the killer’s upstairs.”

  His eyes darted around, listening.

  “Angel and the guests, Bear.” I touched his arm. “You gotta get back upstairs.”

  He grabbed Spence’s shoulder. “Yeah, okay. Spence, brief Clemens. Put two deputies in each room of guests. No one leaves. The four of us will search the house again from the top down.”

  “We did that already, but—” Spence started for the inside cellar stairs but stopped and turned around. “Which four of us?”

  “You, me, and Clemens. Three—I meant three.”

  “Sure you did, Bear.”

  “Just go,” Bear snapped. “Clemens takes the second floor. You take the first. I’ll take the third. Move.”

  Spence relayed the orders on his radio and led Bear to the inside cellar stairs and up into the mansion. The hall between the kitchen and the mansion’s smaller rear dining room led to a narrow servant’s stairwell to the upper floors. At the first landing, Spence nodded to Bear and headed down the hall. We continued up to the third floor.

  Three steps from the top landing, Bear jolted to a stop.

  “Shush. Did you hear something?”

  Shush? Did he shush me?

  Overhead, attic floorboards creaked under unseen weight. Bear wasn’t carrying a radio, and he cursed about it as we headed farther down the hall searching for the attic entrance. We’d passed three closed doors—he checked each and found bedrooms—before we found the right one.

  He reached for the knob.

  I said, “Be careful, Bear. You don’t know—”

  A shot cracked from behind us. Wood splintered the doorframe just beside Bear’s head. He dove for the floor and rolled up behind an antique grandfather clock. I followed him down, but for the death of me I didn’t know why.

  Bullets can’t hurt the dead.

  Two more cracks split the air—one whistled past and the other smacked the grandfather clock and started Westminster Quarters chiming. Footsteps ran from one of the rooms we’d passed and down the servant stairs behind us. Bear jumped up and started back, adrenaline pushing him faster—experience slowing his progress.

  One floor down—stomping feet.

  Clemens shouted, “Freeze!”

  Another shot followed by a louder, deeper retort. Another.

  Someone cried out. A heavy thump.

  Man down.

  four

  “The perp shot me!” Clemens lay on his back halfway down the second-floor hall. Blood oozed from his shoulder as he tried getting up. “Hurry. He went down the stairs.”

  “Stay down, Cal. Who shot you?” Bear jammed a handkerchief under Clemens’ shirt and pressed Clemens’ hand over the wound. “Any description?”

  “No. I heard movement and then wham, I’m down. I got one shot off but I don’t know if I hit anything.”

  “Stay put. I’ll send help.”

  We were off.

  Taking the stairs three at a time, we reached the first floor and ran into two uniformed deputies on their way up. Bear ordered an ambulance and more backup. One of the deputies radioed the instructions as he dashed up the stairs to Clemens. The other followed. Bear started for the front of the house but hesitated, looking down the hall to the many rooms ahead. Each had a deputy guarding the doors so he turned back and headed for the kitchen.

  The rear kitchen door to the back yard was open. Standing just beyond the door light, a deputy—Hoskins—called out to Bear.

  “No one has come out this way, Detective. We’ve got deputies around the front, back, and other side, too. No one came through. The shooter must still be inside.”

  “Dammit.” Bear jammed a finger toward Hoskins. “Stay here. No one goes in or out. Get a canine unit here to search the grounds. I want them here in five.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Something finger-walked up my spine—the kind of something normal breathing folk would call paranoia. Me, I call it a signal.

  “Bear, I don’t think the perp is here. We should—”

  Too late.

  Bear ran back inside.

  “Okay, good idea,” I said, following. “Let’s go back inside.”

  On the way to the ballroom, he checked with the deputies in each of the rooms. Everyone had the same story—after the shots, no one was in the halls and all the guests stayed put in the rooms. The house was locked down.

  “Dammit.” Bear stood in the ballroom entrance. His face was tight with frustration; his eyes darted everywhere, searching for an answer evading us both. “There’s nowhere left to hide.”

  “Ah, Bear,” I said as the strange, cold tingling started up my spine again. “Come with me. I think I know where the shooter is. Back to the basement.”

  He blinked a few times and looked around. Then, without a word to the deputies standing in the hall watching him, he returned to the basement door. He probably thought it was his idea, but I was three steps ahead of him.

  I led him around the cavernous basement into the far corner room where there were old wine shelves and storage racks cluttered with junk. The junk was cobwebbed and gritty and the few bottles of wine were long ago forgotten. The small room was sectioned off from the rest of the basement and lit by only two overhead lights.

  “He’s here, Bear. Somewhere.” Something pulled me to the wine rack closest to the corner of the room. It took hold of me—what, I don’t know—and pulled me into the rack. I knew not to resist and stepped through the wine racks, passing into darkness …

  _____

  The darkness consumed me. No, it didn’t scare me or leave me feeling alone. I mean it consumed me. The stone floor fell away beneath my feet. The brick walls and wine racks withered into nothing, leaving a dull, black void. Darkness enveloped me and I was lost—nowhere—gone from the basement and standing helpless and abandoned in empty, inky nothing.

  Except for the 1932 Packard barreling toward me down the street.

  I dodged the old four-door—old was wrong, this one looked brand-new—and jumped onto the sidewalk. I stood in front of a soda shop where a mother and two children emerged. They were eating ice cream. The children—two chattering girls in bright, frilly sundresses—were giggling over their sweets as the mom shooed them to a nearby bench. The mother wore a dark, below-the-knee skirt, long-sleeved blouse, and a wide-brimmed hat perched on her head.

  A hat? A Packard? Ice cream shop?

  1930-something was everywhere. Round-fender Chevys and Fords drove past. Businessmen in their pinstriped, double-breasted suits and fedoras stood smoking on the street corners and reading newspapers. A paperboy hawked his news across the street. Somewhere a radio blared swing music.

  Everywhere was an era long gone in some Dashiell Hammett novel. And I was its newest character.

  Across the street at a storefront—my eyes were pulled there like steel to a magnet—was a strange building lost between a clothing store and stationery shop. The front windows were papered over with posters and billboards chiding some politician and calling for interested people to join a meeting inside on American patriotism. The glass-paned front door opened, and a short man with dark features and thick, slicked-back black hair emerged. He was in a business suit of the day—double-breasted, wide lapels, wingtips, and a hat in one hand. He stopped at the sidewalk and looked around as though expecting someone. No passersby greeted him.

  He tightened his hat on his head and walked with brisk determination down the street and around the corner out of sight.

  Before I knew why, my feet were carrying me in his wake.

  I followed him four blocks and after just two realized we were in Washington DC heading east toward the Mall. Three times, the man stopped and double-backed, crossed st
reets only to cross back a block farther down. He purchased a Washington Star from a young paperboy hustling folded papers to anyone with a nickel. When he reached the mall, he went to a row of park benches. He sat, unfolded his paper, and pretended to read.

  I say pretended because his attention was above the paper—not the fold, mind you, the paper.

  I tried to approach him but something kept me at bay. Each time I tried to move closer, my feet became mired and my legs refused to obey. An unseen force kept hold and refused to let me get closer than fifty yards. What, I have no idea, but it walled me to a patch of sidewalk opposite the Washington Monument where I stared across the grass at the dark-skinned man and his news-

  paper.

  There were perhaps twenty other people on the mall nearby. A mother with a carriage and child. Two lovers holding hands and strolling nowhere. Businessmen striding here and there on their way to important meetings. Even a uniformed beat cop ambled down the sidewalk, taking little notice of cars and pedestrians. And each of these people caused a ruffle in the man’s newspaper and a peek over its edge. Twice, when someone neared him, he turned on the bench, re-crossed his legs, and continued “reading.”

  Just as I tired from boredom, he did a curious thing.

  After the cop passed him and headed north along 15th Street and the Ellipse, the man slipped something from his inside suit coat pocket and tucked it into his newspaper. Then he stood, folded the paper with care, and walked back to Independence Avenue. At the corner of 15th, he jammed the newspaper down into a trash can and hastened across the street. He continued farther down Independence, hailed a passing cab, and disappeared before I could make chase.

  And it was a good thing I did not.

  Whatever restrained me before held tight—a force telling me my visit to 1935 was not over. The fun was just beginning.

  A tall, thin woman beneath a floppy hat and wearing a matronly, long-hemmed dress appeared down Independence. She ambled toward me and crossed the street at 15th, stopping at the corner. She went to the trash can, dug around inside, and retrieved the folded newspaper. Then she recrossed Independence and waited.