Dying for the Past (26 page)

fifty-four

It was close to
midnight and Old Town Winchester still had a few pockets of sound and light. Several bars and restaurants along the walking mall remained open and their nightlife reached us from all directions. An occasional couple strolled down the brick streets beneath the nineteenth-century streetlights. Small groups of people sat at sidewalk tables enjoying the warm spring night. Music and laughter fluttered in the air everywhere.

Bear and I sat on the second floor of a Civil War era shop. The brick building was under renovation—a good many of the historic Old Town buildings were. This one was located at the center of Old Town. From the second floor windows, we could see anyone or anything moving up or down the Old Town Mall.

We were in perfect position.

The Old Town Mall was not a mall at all—not by any teenager's
standards, anyway. It was a two-block area in the heart of Winchester
where vehicles were prohibited and the shops and buildings were reminiscent of
nineteenth-c
entury Americana. Loudoun Street, which runs north-south through town, intersects Cork Street to the south and Piccadilly Street to the north. To the east and west are Cameron and Braddock Streets, respectively, and within these confines are restaurants, antique shops, and miscellaneous retail and businesses alike. Close to the center of the Mall is the historic courthouse—perhaps the most prominent landmark in Winchester—surrounded by dozens of historical buildings dating back to the mid-1700s. While Winchester has a long and proud Civil War heritage, its roots predate the American Revolution.

Tonight, though, Bear wasn't expecting any historic battles. He just wanted to catch one solitary killer. Just one.

He picked up a small walkie-talkie. “Spence, are you set up?”

Spence and several uniformed Winchester officers were covering the Mall at the north and south entrances. Other officers were
posted at along Braddockand Cameron streets and at strategic points within the Mall.

“Yeah, Bear. We're ready,” Spence radioed back. “Nothing is getting
out of the mall tonight. I promise you.”

“It better not.”

I said, “Bear, Chevy knows you'll be looking for him. What makes
you think he's stupid enough to come here anyway? He could just call his client and change the venue.”

“He needs money. And he said his mysterious client wouldn't answer his calls—only one-way communication. His phone records proved it. So he can't change the meeting.”

“So if he wants money he has to show.”

Bear nodded and peered out into the darkness. “Besides, he thinks
he's smarter than me. He'll want to show everyone he can make a fool out of me twice.”

“How do you know?”

Bear leaned back from the window. “Because the stupid bastard is walking this way.”

Ambling down Boscawen Street from the east, a single figure turned north up Loudoun Street heading toward the old courthouse square. He hesitated at the intersection, looked around—for us I'm sure—before increasing his pace.

“Are you sure it's him?”

“Yes. Come on.” Bear headed for the stairs as he radioed Spence.
“I want to be the one who grabs him.”

On the Mall, Bear stayed close to the shop walls where the darkness hid his big frame. The figure stopped at the base of the Confederate War Memorial fifty yards ahead of us and faced the courthouse. As the figure looked around, the nearby street lamps cast enough hazy light to make his identification easy.

It was Victorio Chevez.

Bear waited across the square, secreted in the dark entrance to an old antique shop. “What is he doing?”

“Waiting.”

“Here? Out in the open? They've been playing I-spy games and tonight they meet in the center of the square?”

Good point.

Just as Bear picked up his radio, Chevy lifted his cell phone to his ear. We couldn't make out what he said, but he tapped off the call, stood up, and walked toward the courthouse steps. He made it halfway and stopped.

A strange, whirling noise—faint at first, then louder—sounded overhead. The sound grew louder and circled us just above the treetops.

“What the hell?” Bear stepped out of the entranceway to get a better view. “Tuck, do you hear a whining noise?”

“You mean, other than yours? I do. Look.”

In a descending spiral, a dark object whirled above the square spiraling moving down toward Chevy. I turned to him and stood watching a radio-controlled model helicopter finish its descent and stop to hover six feet above the ground an arm's length from us.

“I hope this isn't your ride, Chevy. What are you doing?”

No, it wasn't taking him anywhere. It wasn't intended to.

Chevy took something out of his jeans pocket and slipped it over the helicopter's landing skid. He stepped back and waved his arm in the air. Then he jumped and looked around.

Running feet approached us from both sides of the courthouse.

“FBI, freeze! Don't move!” someone yelled as two men ran out of the shadows toward Chevy. “Stay where you are. FBI.”

The helicopter lifted airborne. It climbed to the rooftops with a high-pitched whine and darted south down Loudoun Street.

Chevy turned toward Bear, flipped him the bird, and took off at a dead run north up the Mall away from him and the FBI men. He was laughing.

The FBI made chase. “FBI, stop!”

“Bear,” I yelled, “the flash drive's on the helicopter.”

Bear was already moving. “Dobron, you bastard.” He bolted afte
r the toy helicopter shouting orders into his radio. “Spence, Chevy's northbound toward you. Cut him off. There's a model helicopter above the trees. It's heading toward Cork Street—everyone else go after it.”

I followed Bear.

A hudred yards ahead of us, the helicopter rose in a sharp arc disappeared west over the rooftops. Bear turned into a parking lot entrance farther up and continued after it. At a dead run he crossed the parking lot to Braddock Street just in time to see the helicopter swoop down and crash-land into the rear of a pickup truck driving away from him. The truck make a turn west up a side street and disappeared.

He bellowed the description of the truck into the radio as he stopped, staring after it. “Unbelievable. We lost it.”

“What about Chevy,” I asked. “We better go help Spence.”

“I'm gonna kill him.”

Bear jogged back toward the square calling Spence on his radio.

“He's gone, Bear,” Spence radioed. “He ducked down the alley to the parking garage. None of the units saw him come out but we can't find him. Agent Dobron is pitching a hissy-fit at me. What should I tell him?”

“Tell him to screw off,” Bear yelled. “Any motorcycles around?”

Spence did a radio roll call of the other officers on the stakeout. “Negative, Bear. No one saw him drive in or out and there's no bike around here.”

“Unbelievable.” Bear slowed his pace. “Keep looking.”

Back at the intersection of Loudoun and Boscawen, just below the window where we'd watched the square fifteen minutes earlier, Bear stopped and looked around. “What now? Where do we look for him?”

“Beats me,” I said. “Ask Dobron. He's coming this way.”

Agent Dobron and another FBI man jogged up. Agent Dobron's face was flush with exhaustion and anger. “Braddock, how did you let this get away from you?”

“Me? You bastard—” Bear jumped forward and drove an angry finger into Agent Dobron's chest. “You told me to handle this. You spooked him by charging out of the alley. I could have had him. What are you doing here, anyway?”

The second FBI man stepped forward and shoved Bear. He tried to grapple for Bear's arm when Agent Dobron interceded.

“Let him alone, Stevens. Take another look around. And get with Detective Spence and organize a sweep of the area. I want Chevez found—tonight.” He turned to Bear. “How'd he get past your men, Detective?”

Bear cursed. “Me? You chased him. I went after the helicopter —you know, the one with the evidence on it. I would have gone for him but you two were already pursuing him. I figured the FBI could handle that much.”

“You should have had more men.”

“You should have told me you were here.”

“I don't report to you. You report to me.”

“So I guess you're still responsible then.”

“You're in big trouble, Detective.”

Bear jammed a gun-finger at him again. “Listen to me, Dobron. I've had it with you. You screwed up my stakeout. Because of you we lost the evidence and our suspect. Don't blame this on me. And you never answered me. Why are you here?”

Agent Dobron's mouth clamped tight and he turned away, looking around the Mall at nothing. I don't know if he was thinking of an answer or trying to decide if he could take a cheap shot at Bear's jaw and survive.

He chose right. “What did you learn from Ruth-Ann Marcos tonight?”

“Ruth-Ann?” Bear's eyes narrowed and he smiled a silly, “oh you fool” smile. “You were staking out Angela's house.”

Agent Dobron didn't answer.

“You jerk. I'm off your team, Dobron. I quit. You're an asshole.”

“And you're looking at a suspension. All I have to do is call Captain Sutter and—”

“And what?” Bear stepped forward again. “She'll tell you to piss-off when she hears what I got on you.”

“What does that mean?” Bear ignored him. His face darkened and his voice grew tense. “I asked you a question, Detective. What are you suggesting?”

“Screw you.”

Agent Dobron's face twisted. Then, after a long moment, he stepped back and held up his hands. “All right, this is out of hand. You're right, I should have informed you I joined your surveillance. But I didn't know if I could trust you after I saw Marcos leaving Tucker's house tonight.”

“Trust him? Are you kidding?” I said and Bear repeated me.

“Truce, Detective.” Agent Dobron patted the air again. “But I have to know—what did she tell you?”

Bear shook his head. “Sorry, it's classified. You understand.”

Agent Dobron cursed. “Let me guess. She told you my team and I are under investigation. Right? Corruption? Maybe I'm a Soviet spy or something. Maybe I killed Grecco, too.”

“Did you?” Bear didn't so much as raise an eyebrow. “Are you confessing?”

“No. You have to understand, Detective,” Agent Dobron said. “She's running for the Senate and she needs to play hardball. Some of her cases have gone bad and she wants a scapegoat—me. But it's all politics. We're clean. I'd vouch for every one of my men. The Bureau—”

“Screw the Bureau,” Bear snapped. “I don't give a damn about your politics—with either of you. I want to find a killer. Period.”

Agent Dobron nodded. “Right. I get you. And I want to find two missing Federal witnesses. Okay, we'll leave you out of the politics. But I need you to trust me.”

Bear didn't answer.

“I can prove my men are solid. First, tomorrow morning, we have to go see Angela Tucker. It's urgent.”

“Why?” I asked.

Bear asked the same thing, adding, “She's going to see Francesca
Masseria—she—”

“Masseria?” Agent Dobron's voice grew loud. “How does she know Frannie Masseria?”

“Angela met with her when Frannie sold the Vincent House to Angela's historical foundation. She also bought a lot of old family heirlooms for the museum.”

“So you two think Frannie Masseria may have this mysterious book.” Agent Dobron smiled a strange, thin smile. “She's wasting her time. Stephanos Grecco found it and stashed it somewhere. Bonnie Grecco is the key, not Frannie Masseria. Tell her I want to see her at your office in the morning. Forget going to Charlottesville.”

“Why?” Bear asked.

“I have some questions about André Cartier I want answered.”

I said, “Remember, Bear, we saw him at Vincent's last night and he went straight home. Angel hasn't heard from him since.”

“Cartier?” Bear said. “What's wrong now?”

“That's what I want to find out.” Agent Dobron started down the Mall, saying over his shoulder, “My boys were waiting for him at his place in DC last night. He never showed up. Cartier's missing, too.”

fifty-five

Chevy leaned back from
the window overlooking the two men talking below him. He watched the arrogant FBI Agent walk away and
leave Detective Braddock standing alone talking to himself—something he noticed Braddock do a lot. And if what he'd heard in his voice recorder wasn't his imagination, Braddock wasn't talking to himself at all. Chevy went to the other side of the room—the same room Detective Braddock used to watch for him earlier—and waite
d for his cell phone to buzz.

He didn't have to wait long.

“Yeah, yeah, it went as planned. You ready to pay me for this other thing?”

The voice on the other end was cryptic and out of breath.

“All right. You better not be lying to me. And the price just went up. It's gonna cost you ten-large.”

The voice hesitated and grew excited.

“Easy. Everybody in town is all jacked up over this book. Somebody will pay. I just heard the lady professor is going after it tomorrow morning. Some old broad named Francesca something. Professor Tucker thinks she has it.”

The voice slow—interested but cautious.

“No way, man. Ten-large if you want a copy. Twenty if you want the original with no copies made. But when you pay me, we meet face-to-face. None of this cloak and dagger crap. You know? I gotta protect myself.”

Silence. An answer.

“Okay, I'll let you know if she finds it. Then, after I grab it, you gotta give me my money—face to face. If not, I sell to the highest bidder.
¿Comprende?
”