Dying for the Past Page 7

  “One of Angela’s friends?” Spence looked up and threw a dagger-eye at Petya who smiled ear-to-ear. “Who, Woods? Who vouched for the uninvited guests?”

  “Our suspect, Mike. Professor André Cartier.”

  sixteen

  “No worries, Professor Cartier,” Captain Sutter said as André was led toward a police cruiser. “If you’re innocent, it’ll all be okay.”

  “Oh, Captain?” André snapped over his shoulder. “The innocent go free? Does it always work so well?”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. She walked off into the house.

  Angel was crying and Bear tried consoling her with a big paw wrapped around her shoulders. It wasn’t working.

  I stood there, watching and wishing it were me holding her close. But it wasn’t and it couldn’t be—ever again. Well, not the same way, anyhow.

  “Angel,” I said, “I’m going to look around the house some more. Bear and I will figure this out. You know we will. André will be fine.”

  She nodded, pulled away from Bear, and walked toward the street.

  I hatched an idea and followed Bear to the rear sitting room that had been taken over as a makeshift command post. Captain Sutter sat at a table making notes. In front of her were three evidence bags containing the .22-caliber pistol, André’s driving glove, and the .22-caliber shell found in André’s Mercedes.

  When Bear and I walked up to the table, Captain Sutter looked up. “Bear, don’t start on me. I know he’s Angela’s family and all. But evidence is evidence.”

  “No, I get it, Cap. But if you knew him like I do, you’d know he’s not a killer.”

  “Then prove it, dammit. Prove it fast.” She stood and stretched. “I’m getting coffee. I’ll bring you some. You’ll need it—you’re not leaving until this thing is wrapped up.”

  Bear slumped into a chair at the table and watched her walk off. His eyes were red and his temper short. Several times he picked up the evidence bag with the .22 pistol and looked it over, each time tossing it back onto the table as though it were on fire. Frustration was driving him and the ride was getting rougher.

  “There’s no way André did this. No way.”

  I looked at the gun sitting in front of him. “Bear, listen to me. Listen.” I touched his hand resting on the evidence bag and willed my voice into his head. Even as thick as he was most of the time, he often heard me—especially when things were crazy. If this didn’t qualify as crazy, nothing did.

  “I need to touch the gun, Bear. Open the evidence bag. I need to touch the gun.”

  He looked around the room. “Huh? What—Spence, is that you?”

  “Open the bag, moron. I know you hear me. Quit being a pain in the ass.”

  “Let’s take a closer look.” He grabbed the evidence bag and tore at the corner, peeling back the plastic. The pistol slipped onto the table in front of him. Then he pulled on a crime scene glove from his pocket and held the gun up for closer inspection.

  “Bear, what the heck are you doing?” Spence came into the room. “You can’t open the evidence up right now. The crime techs are going to throw a hissy fit.”

  “Let them, Spence, I—”

  I couldn’t hear them arguing anymore. When my fingers touched the gun, lightning flashed everywhere in the room.

  It was happening.

  A shower of light and colors swirled around me. It ebbed and flowed, darkness mixing into a rolling sea of light. The electricity finger-walked through me until my entire being was charged and vibrating. And as fast as it began, it calmed and grew dark. Bear disappeared from the table—as did the table, the walls, and the room. Everything was sucked away. Crude stone walls took their place and the remaining light snapped dark as though a doorway closed behind me.

  I was in total obscurity.

  A musty, dank smell of old stone and stale air surrounded me. I reached out and felt the cold, hard surface of rocks and stones. Somewhere ahead, a faint light flickered on and I walked toward it. The floor was hard—stone or rock too,—a tunnel or cavern that disappeared into the dim light somewhere ahead.

  But where?

  Hot needles danced in my head like sparks from a fire. It was odd—not that death isn’t—but the sparks stirred confusion as disorientation fluttered inside. My thoughts were invaded. Other thoughts raced in and took over; unfamiliar thoughts foreign to me. I was alone, isolated … alien.

  I finally understood.

  The .22-caliber murder weapon brought me to the killer.

  No, that wasn’t right. The silenced gun was in my hand—the killer’s hand—and he was me.

  seventeen

  Me, a killer?

  No—never. Yet, at the moment, there and now, the killer and I were one. Strange thoughts consumed me—someone else’s thoughts controlled me and kept me focused on keeping calm and steady. I knew I was taking each step, felt the anticipation in the darkness as I moved forward. Someone was ahead. I was meeting them.

  Someone I was looking for.

  I held the silenced .22 pistol in one gloved hand and a penlight in the other. I followed the tunnel and each step felt comfortable and familiar. Had I been here before? The shooter had. My flashlight beam moved ahead of me and shined where the passage turned left. I followed without hesitation—without angst or concern—knowing the way. Without controlling the body I shared, I followed the passage around another turn. Ahead was a flicker that moved in a slow, upward arc.

  A cigarette.

  The cigarette glowed and behind it, I saw a man. My penlight bathed him until his hand rose and blocked the light.

  “Point the light somewhere else, it’s pissing me off.” His voice was monotone and curt.

  He was in his late forties with a dark, flat face I knew was no friend. His head was shaved and he had no beard or sideburns and thin, almost vacant eyebrows. He wasn’t tall but bulky and muscular—no taller than five-eight, and even in the darkness his strength was obvious. His bulk was too much for the fabric of his shirt, and it strained at the shoulders and chest. His cummerbund was crooked and ruffled as though something had been shoved into it. His jacket was slung over his shoulder and his sleeves were rolled up—he was uncomfortable in the clothes, and the tight fit made him edgy.

  He was dressed for the evening but he was neither caterer nor guest. I knew this when the light showed the handgun held at his side.

  And his gun, too, was a silenced .22 pistol.

  Tattoos and prison art peeked out from beneath his rolled shirtsleeves on his left arm. On his forearm were four one-inch hash marks tattooed side by side. After tonight there would be a fifth one embroidered alongside them.

  He wasn’t just a murderer, either. The hash marks on his arm told me he was a hired assassin. And he’d killed at least four times before.

  He turned away from me—us. “You should have come sooner. I thought I was caught.”

  Without a word, I slipped a dark leather glove on my gun hand and lifted the penlight into the man’s face. His hand rose to shield the light and he turned away from me a second time.

  “Put the light down.” He waited for the light to shine down to the ground. “Anatoly said you were paying for this yourself. I hope you brought cash tonight; our deal was cash. Imagine, you payin’ me. Who would think?”

  I was incapable of stopping. Incapable of speaking. I knew what was about to happen. The plan fluttered into my thoughts; my plan.

  My gun rose and my arm leveled the weapon at the assassin’s ear.

  There was no hesitation. No second thought. No stopping. No remorse.

  I fired.

  The .22-caliber round, its ballistics quieter and less powerful than other ammunition, was all but noiseless with the silencer—its sharp crack muffled to a mere mechanical cough.

  The assassin was dead before he hit the stone floor.

  I followed the body down, and, careful to place the muzzle over the exact entry wound, fired a second shot into the man’s head.

>   It was almost a certainty this second shot was unnecessary.

  When I stood and turned to escape back the way I’d come, my head spun. I took one step before the killer relinquished me. The whirlpool of lights and electricity took me again and spun me in a funnel cloud, twisting and loosening the killer’s thoughts from my head. When it was over, I was woozy and weak—a child after a carnival ride—and it took a moment to regain my own senses.

  I was back standing beside Bear, watching him rebag the .22-caliber murder weapon as Spence chided him.

  “Bear,” I said, dropping into a chair at the table. “You’ve got another body around here. You have to look for it. Come on, Bear, we gotta find it.”

  Bear placed the evidence bag on the table. He stared at nothing, an empty expression on his face telling me my words were ringing in his head. He grunted something and rubbed his eyes.

  “There are two killers, Bear—two. An assassin killed Grecco. Another killer killed the assassin. The assassin was killed in a cellar or some kind of tunnel. The body has to be close. It’s here somewhere. It has to be.”

  Bear stood. “Spence!”

  Spence sat across the table and nearly fell off his chair. “Christ, I’m sitting right here. Have you heard one word about the missing people?”

  “Listen to me. We have to search the house again. The houses next door, too.”

  “What are you talking about? We’ve been over everything twice.”

  “Do it again.” Bear pounded the table. “Then do it a fourth time if you still don’t find it.”

  “Find what? What are we looking for, Bear?”

  “Another body.”

  eighteen

  “Nothing.” After two hours, the word was Spence’s mantra. “Not a damned thing.”

  Bear stood across the sitting room command post, leaning on the wall. “If Cartier isn’t the killer, then someone got past the deputies around the house. Is it possible?”

  “Maybe.” Spence rubbed his eyes. “It was rainy, dark—maybe they slipped past. But then again, we didn’t find any footprints in the yard or anything. One of our guys thought they saw someone moving around one of the estate houses next door. But, there were no signs of anyone.”

  “Spence, it was raining. There should have been tracks or a sign of something if someone got outside.” Bear was sullen again. “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.” Spence took out his notepad and checked through the pages. “The houses next door were locked up. And there were no tracks, or water, or anything inside or out. I can’t explain it. The killer has to be one of the guests or caterers in here.”

  “Maybe,” Bear said. “Then how did he get all the way from the upstairs and outside with no one seeing him and no tracks in the rain and mud? He shot Clemens on the second floor and we chased him down to the first floor before he vanished. The uniforms were right outside the kitchen door. Right?”

  “Right.” Spence closed his notepad and looked dumbfounded. “Beats me. Unless he mingled back in with the guests and no one noticed.”

  “One thing, though,” I said, “if it was André—and it wasn’t—then why return to the second floor? Rita said he came down just after the shooting, right? Then why go back up there later and shoot Clemens?”

  Bear looked at Spence with a blank expression. I think he was considering the same thing. “Doesn’t make sense. Why go back upstairs?”

  “What?”

  “Cartier, Spence. Rita saw him come down right after the shooting, right? Then why go back upstairs in time to shoot Cal?”

  Spence shrugged. “Heck, I don’t know. Maybe to hide the gun?”

  “No. He would have hidden it before coming down. And if he hid it already, he couldn’t have shot Cal.”

  I said, “I’m telling you, Bear. It wasn’t André. And you haven’t found the other body yet.”

  Bear wandered to a window on the far wall. He peered out with a troubled, angry look. “None of this makes sense. How did we miss him? Where’d he go?”

  “I don’t know,” Spence said. “But we must have—”

  “Find out.” Bear’s voice was curt. “Spence, we’re missing something—”

  “Detectives?” A voice from the hallway startled us all. It was Captain Sutter standing with a dark-skinned, short woman of about forty-five or fifty. “Detectives, this is Ruth-Ann Marcos from the US Attorney General’s Office. Unbeknownst to me, she was one of the guests tonight.”

  Bear glanced at the woman, nodded, and said, “What’s someone from the Attorney General’s Office doing here?”

  “Bear,” Spence said, “Remember the two guests who never signed in—”

  “You?” Bear looked at the woman again. “You weren’t on the guest list and Spence says you refused to sign in. What are you doing here?”

  “It’s Ruth-Ann, Detective,” she said as her eyes dissected him into little pieces—perhaps for examination later. “I assure you, Detective, I’m here as a guest only. I thought I would offer any assistance you may need.”

  “Assistance?” Bear looked from Spence to Captain Sutter. “I don’t think—”

  “Bear,” Captain Sutter said, “she was André Cartier’s guest tonight. Give her an overview—it’s okay, this is on me.” She gestured to a nearby table and everyone sat.

  Ruth-Ann took a chair opposite Spence, but her attention was on Bear. Her black, floor-length evening dress was incapable of hiding her strong, full shape. She was short, perhaps only a couple inches taller than Captain Sutter, with wavy, black hair and round, dark eyes. She was elegant in a mysterious, Latina way—simmering and spicy. The expensive jewelry she chose was flattering and her diamond necklace said she didn’t need a lot of overtime at the office.

  Jeez. When I was a breathing cop, the best I got was Ralph Barone, a dumpy, bald, middle-aged, Commonwealth’s Attorney. With me gone, Bear gets Ruth-Ann Marcos?

  “Thank you, Detective,” she said. “I was present for what happened, so just go over what you have found.”

  Bear looked at Captain Sutter, who shrugged and waved a “just tell her” hand in the air. He did. He started with the immediate search of the guests and the money found on Grecco’s body. Then, he went over his men’s search of the estate grounds. He glossed over the missing charity donations and commented he thought it had nothing to do with Grecco’s murder—a crime of opportunity. Everyone agreed. Ruth-Ann wondered about the caterers. After all, none of these guests would stoop to such unsavory conduct.

  Bear ended with André’s arrest. He left out the few tidbits I’d implanted in his brain about the assassin’s murder—the one from my vision. I’m sure he didn’t want to admit what the ghost of his former partner told him, so I said, “there are some other thoughts and theories, but I’ll keep those to myself if you don’t mind.”

  Ruth-Ann shrugged. “Not much, is it?”

  “No, it’s not, Ruth-Ann,” Bear said. “Somehow, the killer murdered Grecco and got past us. Our patrols and the Winchester City police are searching everywhere.”

  “And André is your only suspect?” Ruth-Ann’s eyes wandered between Bear and Captain Sutter. “I’m skeptical—but we’re friends, too. Any GSR or prints?”

  “We’re skeptical too, Ruth-Ann.” Spence tapped the table. “But we had no choice. André’s a friend of—”

  “You can call me Ms. Marcos, deputy. And I know André Cartier very well—he escorted me tonight. I’ve known him since I transferred to Washington, and frankly, I find him above reproach.”

  “Yes, of course,” Spence said. “The coroner will be working up the body first thing in the morning—er—later this morning, I mean.”

  “Captain, would it be possible for me to see the ME’s results as soon as they are ready?” Ruth-Ann looked to Captain Sutter. “And I’d like to see the guest list and the staff lists, if you approve.”

  Captain Sutter cocked her head. “Why? There’s no federal case here?”

  Ruth-Ann folded her hands. “Yes, Hel
en, I’m so sorry. You’re right, of course. I am just a guest tonight. But many of your guests are from the Washington circles—as am I. Perhaps I can help. I don’t want to intrude. I am very concerned for André, you understand.”

  Helen? No one ever called Captain Sutter “Helen.”

  “All right, Ruth-Ann.” Captain Sutter nodded. “Maybe you can help.”

  Spence retrieved a file from another table where notepads and evidence bags lay. He flipped it open and dug through the inch-thick stack of papers. After finding what he was looking for, he slid a three-page printout across the table. “Guests and caterers.”

  As Ruth-Ann scanned down the columns of names, Captain Sutter caught Bear’s eye and shook her head as the telegraph lines sent a clear message—there would be no more information sliding across the table.

  “Yes, I know many of these names. Some quite well, too.” Ruth-Ann didn’t look up. “And you cannot account for a caterer and two other guests?”

  Bear leaned forward. “We think the caterer left before the shooting. We’re following up. There were two people who weren’t on the guest list and didn’t sign in—you were one of them. So we’re only missing one now.”

  “Well, how very interesting.” Ruth-Ann’s head snapped up and her eyes found Captain Sutter’s. Her charm and “thank you, yes ma’am” tone was gone. In its place, was an edgy, dry tone. “André was arrested when this man is present?”

  Bear said, “ ‘This man’ who?”

  “Come now, Detective.” Ruth-Ann stood up and stabbed her finger on the guest list. “You know full well who I’m talking about. I’m shocked he’s even here. Let me see his statement.”

  Spence leaned over and followed her thin finger to the name. He rolled his eyes. “Ah, his guest is the one missing.” He looked at Bear. “Sorry, Bear, I forgot to tell you.”

  “Who’s missing, dammit?” Captain Sutter said, snatching the list from Ruth-Ann’s fingers. “If you have a point, make it.”