Dying for the Past Read online

  Spence dropped into the chair in front of the computer and pointed to the four images still watching the house. Just as I’d found them with Sassy, three of them were out of focus and dim.

  “The ghost investigators put cameras all over. Some of them are infrared and some aren’t. And they use thermal cameras and digital recorders, too. Then they either sit back and watch the video feed or they take hand-held equipment and search the house. They should be recording everything somewhere.”

  Bear watched the monitor. On the screen, one of his deputies was talking with Captain Sutter in the front hall, three floors down. “And they see ghosts?”

  “No, not really. Not like you think.” Spence tapped the screen. “The EMF meter finds electromagnetic fields which could be a ghost because they might give off energy. Most of the time it’s just bad wiring and big electrical stuff. The cameras are looking for anything out of the ordinary like blurs, images, shadows, or movement. The infrared and thermal equipment catch changes in heat caused by a spirit appearing or manifesting. The recorders—”

  “Yeah, I get it, Spence. I get it.” He looked over the devices on the table again. “Why didn’t we find the cameras and recorders when we searched earlier?”

  “I don’t know, Bear.” Spence shrugged. “They must have hidden them pretty good. And, we were looking for guns and people, not tiny cameras and electronic bugs.”

  Bear rolled his eyes and then he froze. “You said they recorded stuff. Are you sure?”

  “They should. They have to collect everything and then analyze their findings afterward. It takes hours to go over all the data.”

  “So, someone got into this house with all this equipment and has been recording everything going on tonight?”

  “Yeah, looks like it, yes.” Spence tapped on the computer keyboard and studied the screen. “Except they didn’t save the images or data on this notebook. They must have put it all on a flash drive or big external drive and taken it with them.”

  “Get a computer guy up here, Spence. I want every piece of equipment located and checked. Do whatever you have to do, but find everything these ghost-investigators left behind. Then find them.”

  “Ah, Bear.” I knew the problem before Spence got it. “We better find these guys and fast. They might have recorded the murder—and the killer.”

  Bear walked back to the center of the room with the EMF meter, turned it on, and waved it around. The lights blinked a little until he pointed it straight at the corner of the room where I stood, then they stayed on and chirped.

  “Holy crap.” He looked right at me without knowing it. “Spence, if these guys recorded the killer, then they’re in danger. The killer may go after them.”

  “So Cartier isn’t our guy?” Spence said. “I knew it.”

  “I hope not. We just have to prove it. If André killed Grecco, then what about the other body?”

  “Other body?” Spence turned around. “Bear, you’re worrying me. If you start in about another body again, the Cap is gonna commit you. We haven’t found any second body—and no signs of a second shooter either. Where are you getting the idea from?”

  “Just find this surveillance equipment and have the computer guys dig into this hard drive. I want to find these ghost-guys fast. And, I hope one of them isn’t already the other dead guy.”

  Spence stood up. “Why do you think there’s another body and another shooter?”

  Bear pointed the EMF meter toward me again. Its lights danced and the chirping bit everyone’s ears. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Spence. So don’t ask.”

  twenty-three

  Just after dawn, Captain Sutter sent Bear and Spence home for a few hours of sleep. Neither of them argued. She posted a deputy at the front door, securing the house so even the crime scene team could rest before going back over the house again. Then, she went home, too.

  Angel was already home and I’d hoped fast asleep. Her evening hadn’t gone as planned—a murder, perhaps two, and a quarter-million in donations stolen. Not the bang-up charity event of the year, although I doubted anyone in Winchester would ever forget it.

  I wouldn’t.

  As Bear drove off, I decided to head home and didn’t need a ride from him. I can move from one place to another, like across town to my house or anywhere by just “being there” in my head and “poof” I’m there. I just have to know where I want to go. So, I took the spook-train express. One second I was on the Vincent House’s veranda, and the next I was a couple blocks from Old Town Winchester on the front porch of our three-story Victorian. My first stop was my den and I sat behind my antique desk and threw my feet up for a rest.

  A man’s home may be his castle, but his den is his keep. Mine was no different.

  The room was lined with shelves of books, trinkets, photographs, and all sorts of memorabilia. It was as I’d left it last October before my untimely demise. As I walked in and looked around, heavy footfalls bounded down the stairs from Angel’s bedroom to greet me.

  Hercule P. Tucker—my best pal and companion—jumped front paws first onto my lap to say good morning. His feet fell onto my desk chair, but he wasn’t fazed. The big black Lab was used to this little anomaly in our relationship. He twisted in the chair and tried to plant his long, wet tongue on me without success. He didn’t care. Hercule was my hero. He took a bullet saving Angel’s life the night I was killed—a bullet which could have killed him. It never slowed him down and he was the first to see me back among the living. He also helped connect Angel and me; a simple game of ball led to lots of tears. Tears led to an embrace. All of it led to her connecting back to me.

  A red ball with Hercule’s perseverance—and she believed.

  “Hey, Herc, how are you doing?” I rubbed his ears and sent him to his ritual spot on my expensive leather recliner across the room. “Is Angel asleep?”

  Woof. Wag. Woof.

  “Okay, boy, where’s Doc? Is he around?”

  Hercule sat up and turned his nose to the air, searching the room as though snorting out a stash of peanut butter cookies—Herc was a dog of many talents. His tail went into overdrive and he pointed his nose at the doorway, barked a greeting, and lay back down to finish his fifteen hours of daily sleep.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man in his late fifties or early sixties stood in my doorway. He wore green surgical scrubs and had a stethoscope hung around his neck. “Oliver, I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Hello, Doc. Have I got a story for you.”

  Doc Gilley was a crotchety old surgeon who lived somewhere in the house. I say “somewhere” because like all dead people stuck on my floor, I had no idea where he was when he was not regaling me with his vast knowledge of my faults or his endless wisdom. Doc was my great-grandfather—and the only one of my relatives I’d ever met, albeit after our deaths. Like all grandfathers, he was never short on counsel when I needed it. And more so when I didn’t need it.

  “It’s about time, Oliver.” Did I mention he was crotchety? “Angela has been home for hours.” Doc’s arms were folded and he had a perpetual scowl as permanent as his decades-old scrubs. “Where have you been?”

  “Never mind. Do you know a Benjamin? Or how about a place called Quixote’s Windmill?”

  “Benjamin?” His face tightened. “Why are you asking about him?”

  “Because I need to find him and some book he has. It’s simple. You know him then, right?”

  “I have never met him.”

  Something wasn’t right. “What’s with you, Doc? Do you know Benjamin or not? And you never answered me about Quixote’s Windmill.”

  Doc walked over to Hercule’s chair and sat on the arm, petting him and ignoring me. This, too, was not unusual. “What makes you ask about Benjamin? What do you know?”

  “Nothing. I ran across something at the Vincent House and—”

  “The Vincent House? What were you doing there?” Doc got on feet—his scowl had turned more scowly if there was such a thing.
“You didn’t tell me you were going there.”

  “Ah, no. I didn’t know I was. I didn’t know the estate’s name, why?”

  Doc’s eyes, normally a deep blue, were fire engine red. “Well? Answer me, Oliver. What about Benjamin?”

  I’m sure I mentioned I hate the name Oliver. “What is it, Doc? You know something about the Vincent House? You’re acting—”

  When I was a cop, I could judge people pretty well. Well, at least well enough to know if they were going to try to kill me or something. With Angel, I could tell in seconds if I was going to get reacquainted with the couch or showered with kisses. With Bear, I could always tell when he needed a date—which was most of the time. But Doc, he’s a different story. He was as readable as braille to a seeing-man—the clues were there but you couldn’t quite read them.

  “What’s with the attitude? You must know Benjamin or you wouldn’t be acting like this.”

  He snorted. “How did you hear about him?”

  “I ran into this guy—Vincent Calaprese—who still thinks it’s nineteen thirty-something. Anyway, he and this hottie named—”

  “Sassy.”

  “Yeah, Sassy. You know her, too?”

  Doc’s eyes went far away. “My, my.”

  “Come on, Doc, tell me.”

  He nodded but he was years away.

  “Doc, who’s Benjamin? Vincent was very adamant I bring him to visit. And let me tell you, his bourbon is great. I haven’t had—”

  Doc stepped forward and threw a finger at me—a teacher about to launch a lecture. He didn’t disappoint me.

  “Listen to me, Oliver. Listen to me good. People die. Sometimes things happen to them and they stay behind like us; sometimes. But, when something happens to us—something bad—it’s like dying all over again but much, much worse. It’s messy … and very, very bad.”

  “Ghosts can die?”

  “Don’t be a smartass.” His eyes drilled holes through me. “Oliver, you have to be very careful with Vincent. Years ago—decades ago—he was a gangster who made Al Capone look timid. He was cunning and heartless. A real bastard. Someone stood up against him. But when they did, he didn’t go easily.”

  “Like this Benjamin guy? You think he stood up against him? You think he wants another crack at him?”

  “Yes.” Doc returned to Hercule as he became a haze of dust fading from the room. “Of that I am certain.”

  “So, what happens if I find Benjamin and bring him to Vincent?” I already knew the short answer. “Is it going to get, you know, ‘very messy’?”

  Doc was just a voice now. “Oliver, forget Benjamin and stay away from Vincent Calaprese and Sassy.”

  “Why? What are you—”

  “He could be the death of you.”

  The death of me?

  twenty-four

  These days, I don’t need sleep. I don’t need to eat either, and it’s a good thing—I can’t. Except that Vincent Calaprese’s bourbon was, well, to die for. Next time I visit him—and there would be a next time no matter what Doc said—I’m asking for a rare T-bone, too. That’s some of the things I miss the most—eating and drinking. That of course, and, ah, my wife’s tender loving care. Maybe next time Vincent has me over for cocktails we can double date.

  Maybe.

  I got bored watching Hercule snoozing on my pillow beside Angel about eleven a.m. After the night she’d had, I didn’t want to wake her or disturb Hercule—he was twenty toes up chasing his ball. Waking him would require a break-in by a brass band or the aroma of the aforementioned T-bone.

  I had neither.

  Halfway down the stairs a familiar tickle ran up my spine; Bear was on the move. Since this was his first murder case since mine, I figured I’d better go along to keep him out of trouble. During my case, he had a rough time of it. He was suspect numero uno. He got suspended, chased the wrong bad guy, and was accused of sleeping with my wife. The latter was the worst part. Then, he beat the crap out of Detective Mike Spence—that was fun.

  Except for Spence; it was a bad week for him.

  I did the mind-meld-thing and popped into Bear’s unmarked cruiser just as he left Three-A West of the Hunter’s Ridge Garden Apartments just outside town—Bear’s ah, den as it were. When I landed in the seat beside him, he was talking to someone on his cell phone. He repeated an address, made a U-turn, and sped away toward the county’s north end.

  “Where we going, Bear?”

  He jumped in the seat as his fingers whitened on the steering wheel. He flipped on the radio and tried to find a country station.

  “Bear, I have to tell you, we just don’t talk anymore. Is it me? Is there someone else?”

  Nothing. Nadda. Not even a smile.

  “Come on, you big dumbass. I know you can hear me. And I know you believe. So, dig deep and listen for my voice, will you?”

  He made a turn four blocks down and headed east on a side street.

  “Boo.” I leaned over to his ear. “Look out! A dog!”

  He jumped on the brakes, swerved the car across the center line, and skidded to a stop over the opposite shoulder. He cursed the entire time through tight lips and big, bulging eyes.

  Needless to say, there was no dog. Not even a hamster.

  “Oops, my bad.”

  Bear jumped out of the cruiser and stormed off cursing and spitting up a typhoon. He rambled on and on to no one as he paced back and forth in front of the car. His hands flew in the air and his faced reddened with each guttural foray spoken harsher than at a port bar after midnight.

  He needed some alone-time so I waited in the car.

  When he returned to the open driver’s door, he slipped something out of his suit coat pocket and stared at it—my detective’s shield. I’d given it to him just after solving my murder and nailing Ernie Stuart in a strange, not-of-this-world-kinda-thing. That moment, standing above Ernie’s body, was the first time he saw me—the first time he knew it had been me guiding him during the case. And it was the last time he ever acknowledged me.

  Until now.

  “Jeez, Tuck.” He slid his hulking body into the driver’s seat. “Can’t you give me a break?”

  “Sorry, pal, I had to get your attention. Can we talk?”

  “No. No. No.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the steering wheel. “Tuck, it can’t be you. Don’t you get it? You’re dead. Ernie killed you. You’re gone. It’s how it is. You just can’t be here. It has to be me—I lost it the day Ernie died. You’re not here.”

  I reached over and took hold of his hand on his leg—my badge still clutched in his powerful grip. When I did, the metal got hot—and so did he.

  He jerked upright and tossed my badge into the console between us. “Come on, Tuck. You gotta let me alone. People will talk. The Cap and some of the other cops already think I’m nuts. Spence and Clemens saw things then, too—and they won’t talk about it either. I just can’t. I can’t walk around talking to you and acting like we’re still partners. The Department will have me in for a psych and I’ll be kicked off the job.”

  “Yeah, yeah. It sucks. But you need me, Bear. We were a great team—Hope and Crosby, Holmes and Watson, the Captain and Tennille—”

  “No.”

  He looked up at the car roof for the longest time. His eyes reddened and for a second he looked like he would cry. “I miss you, Tuck. I do. But people think I’m nuts—and they are probably right. I could lose my job, and think of what it would do to Angela. No one would believe. No one would understand.”

  He was right. He couldn’t just play along and act like nothing had happened. It was hard enough with Angel to still be her husband and not have a life with her. A voice across the seat and no closer than another world.

  I cut Bear some slack.

  “Okay, Bear. I get it. So, look, you can ignore me if you need to. But we both know the truth, okay?”

  Nothing. He put the cruiser in drive and wheeled back across the road and headed east again.r />
  “Just forget I’m around. Lie if you have to. I’m all in your head.”

  Nothing.

  “So where we going, partner?”

  “Stanley Kravitz’s place. The caterer gave me his … oh, shit.” He grabbed my badge out of the console and stuffed it into his pocket. “Really, Tuck? The Captain and Tennille?”

  twenty-five

  We rode the remaining two miles in silence. Sometimes, silence is good for the indigestion. For Bear it was, and for me it was my victory dance in the end zone.

  When we pulled into a large apartment complex, Bear parked in the center of three lots and surveyed the area. He tried two numbers on his cell phone, got voicemail for both, and hung up.

  The complex had five, three-story brick buildings surrounding a cul-de-sac. Each building had a parking area in the rear. The center building had a sign citing it as the rental office with space available. The buildings were older, but in good shape, and the grounds well kept. There was a playground off to the right of one of the buildings and a pool on the other side. Judging from the cars in the lots—few older than five or six years, nothing up on blocks or looking like the loser in a demolition derby—this was a solid, respectable neighborhood.

  I followed Bear to the first building on the right and up to the second floor. It took us two times at bat before we found the right door and he knocked. Well, pounded more like, as anyone on the inside who was deaf, comatose, or dead would have heard him.

  “Easy, there, partner. Just because we’re spatting doesn’t mean the neighbors have to hear.”

  He grumbled something and pounded again.

  “Who’s there?” The voice was raspy and meek—a woman’s voice. “What do you want?”

  “Sheriff’s Department. I need to speak with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Just open the door, ma’am. I’m Detective Braddock.”

  “Prove it.”

  Bear cursed. “I will if you open the door, ma’am.”

  A dead bolt clapped open. A second one. Then a chain. The lady fiddled with the knob lock and cracked the door open two inches.