Dying for the Past (28 page)

fifty-eight

When the tornado of
light dissipated, I was back in Frannie's bedroom staring at the photograph of Frannie Masseria and
OSS Captain Ollie Tucker. My head spun with a million memories of my childhood; a life growing up without family or heritage—wondering about who and where I came from. The answers poured over me like a cold shower—shocking but invigorating. My family roots began with a brilliant old curmudgeon surgeon and a rough and tumble gangster. And then there was Frannie and Ollie. Two young people trying to escape their roots and make their own way during the madness of 1944. A gangster's daughter and an OSS agent—Grandma and Grandpa.

Unbelievable.

The loud banging on the front villa door shook me out of my daydream. I ran to the door. Angel and an orderly were outside. The orderly pummeled the door, calling out for Frannie to answer. Angel prodded him to hurry and get inside.

Frannie wasn't entertaining this morning.

I slipped outside just as the orderly keyed their way in.

“Angel, it's too late. Frannie's been murdered. We have to go.”

Angel stood in the doorway as the orderly rushed in and knelt down beside Frannie's body lying on the couch. She said, “She's dead.”

“Yes, I'm afraid so,” the orderly answered, standing. “Looks like she died in her sleep. Maybe a heart attack.”

I grabbed Angel's arm and the intensity of the moment gave me the energy to connect with her. “Angel, someone smothered her—
murdered her. We have to get back to Winchester. André found the
book. He was—”

“André?”

The orderly turned around. “No, Charlie, ma'am. You better go. I have to get the facility doctor to check Mrs. Masseria. I'm sorry for your loss.”

Angel nodded and followed me out as I tugged her through the door. “The book, Angel. André has the book. I don't know what's going on, but we have to find him.”

Outside, Angel shook off the shock and walked to the Explorer. Hercule was behind the steering wheel howling out the half-open window—either nature or Frannie's death woke him from his snooze. As we walked him around the parking lot, I explained everything I'd witnessed inside Frannie's villa suite.

Fifteen minutes later, we were headed home. On the way, she called Bear and filled him in too—less my visit with my dead grandparents, of course. As she hung up with Bear, I had an idea and next had her call Poor Nic. She put it on speaker.

“Yes, I'm fine, Nicholas,” she said after explaining what had just happened. “But that's not why I'm calling. Have you ever heard the name Vasily Kishkin?”

A pause. “Yes, my dear, of course. Why do you ask?”

“Vasily killed Vincent Calaprese back in—”

“1939, yes. I am well aware of the family lore, Angela. What of it?”

Angel looked over at me and I gave her my thoughts. She said, “Nicholas, Vasily Kishkin was a Russian spy—and he had a network in Washington, right?”

“Yes, he did. He was a very dangerous man.”

“Is it possible his family continued his business all these years? Perhaps the book proves as much?”

“Yes, my dear, it will—and more. Angela, what you know is very
dangerous. Please, come to my home before you do anything rash.”

“Nicholas, I think you should keep Bonnie with you—”

“I'm afraid that is not possible.” Poor Nic sighed. “She left here this morning without explanation. I don't know where she went. But I fear the worst.”

Angel frowned. “Nicholas, you're not telling me everything.”

“There is no time.” He paused and spoke to someone in the background but we couldn't hear. To Angel, he said, “I will explain
when you arrive. It's far more complicated than you can imagine.
Know this, Angela. No one is who they pretend to be. No one. ”

Boy, the last time I heard that line, Ernie Stuart had just killed me.

fifty-nine

The trip home was
torturous as Angel shaved time off our drive. Along the way, I tried to dial into André and ghost-express to him. It didn't work. I couldn't connect to him and learn where he was and what he was doing. Whatever connection we had in the past was gone.

Angel's cell phone rang and she looked at the display. “Tuck, it's André.” She put it on speaker. “André, what the—”

“Angela, listen to me, please.” His voice was rushed and strained.
“Something terrible has happened. Where are you? I must see you at once—without Braddock.”

“What's happened?” Angel glanced over at me and said, “I went to see Frannie Masseria.”

Silence. “Then you know. There's no time to explain. We're heading
for the Vincent House. Meet me there. Hurry.”

The line went dead.

Angel slammed her foot on the accelerator and the needle closed on ninety. “I cannot believe it, Tuck. Not André. What has he gotten into? What has he done? And who is ‘we'?”

Something tickled me. “He's with Bonnie Grecco.”

The Explorer groaned under her foot. Hercule laid down in the backseat and moaned.

She said, “Then he's in bigger trouble than he knows.”

_____

Fifteen minutes later, Angel wheeled into the Vincent House drive and skidded to a stop. Hercule howled his relief as Angel got out and opened his door.

In front of us were two vehicles—André's convertible and another luxury sedan neither of us recognized.

“Angel, you better let me go in first. I'll find Sassy and—”

A gunshot cracked inside the house.

“Angel, get down!”

The Vincent House's front door flew open and a man stumbled
out. He ran toward us, looking back at the house at the same time. He tripped down the veranda stairs and stumbled forward.

W. Simon Hahn.

“Simon?” Angel called.

At a fast clip, he careened against André's Mercedes and crashed into Angel's Explorer before he landed on the ground out of breath. He lay stunned and confused.

“Simon, stop. What's wrong?” Angel took his arm and helped him
to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

His golf shirt was covered in blood. So were his hands—and in one of them was a stainless steel revolver.

“I didn't see this coming. Angel, call Bear. Simon just shot somebody.”

Angel's eyes swept from the gun to his bloody clothes. “Simon? What have you done?”

“I, I … nothing. No.” He lifted the .38 and his face paled when he saw it in his hand—he tossed it onto the ground like it burnt his fingers. “No, Angela. It's not … I didn't … I, I shot … there's a man inside. He's dead.”

I said, “I'll check it out, Angel. Just in case, get your gun.”

She retrieved the .380 Walther I'd insisted she lock in the glove box
this morning.

Simon stared at the Vincent House. His face was drained of color
and lucidity. His mouth was agape and hands hung motionless at his sides. He looked lost, frightened, and unfamiliar. Twice he glanced at Angel and twice he tried but couldn't speak.

I pointed at Simon and said to Hercule, “Watch him, boy. He's a cat person.”

Grrrrrrrrr
.

Inside the Vincent House, I found Simon's demon.

Chevy lay face down in the middle of the lounge. His arms were outstretched and his legs bent—he'd fallen where he stood. His right shoulder was bloody—he'd been shot—and he was not moving. I knelt down beside his body and touched his arm.

He was alive.

I ran back outside. “Angel, Chevy's been shot, but he's alive. Call for an ambulance.”

“André?”

“I don't see him.”

Simon was bent over beside André's Mercedes retching. When Angel connected with 9-1-1 and told them the situation, he looked up, listened, and retched again. Then he stood, leaned on the car, and wiped his mouth. “I didn't kill Chevez. You have to believe me, Angela. I was meeting him inside when Cartier showed up. He fought with Chevez and shot him. Then he ran off.”

I checked the gun lying on the ground. “It's been fired, Angel. Just now.”

Angel covered the phone. “We heard a shot, Simon. Your gun has been fired.”

“No, yes … I shot someone—you wouldn't believe me. Yes, I shot at someone, but not Chevez.”

“Are you sure you didn't shoot him?” Angel asked. “Who did you shoot?”

“I don't know … someone … appeared behind the bar watching
me. I was trying to help Chevez and this … this … mobster … He told
me
to get out of his house. He had a gun and I panicked. There
was a gun beside Chevez so I grabbed it and shot the man. He …
was …
disappeared.”

“Who, Simon?”

I already knew the answer—and more. “Simon is Chevy's client, Angel. He came here to get the book. I don't know how Chevy got it from André, but he did, and he was selling it to Simon. The question is, why?”

Angel gestured for him to sit against André's convertible. “Chevy
was working for you? To get the book?”

Simon's face fell. He looked at his blood-covered hands and began shaking. “I'm so sorry, Angela. I am. I just wanted Ernie's position at the University. The Regents think you're so perfect—brilliant­—amazing. I had no choice. The job should be mine!”

Oh crap, I got it. “Simon had Chevy following you, Angel. He was gathering everything he could to discredit you with the Regents. Chevy recorded anything to make you look bad—talking to me and visiting Poor Nic. Then, when Grecco was murdered, he saw an opportunity to sink you. He was trying to connect you to it all.”

“Connect me? He was trying to ruin me,” Angel said. She walked
over and slapped Simon across the face. “You were stalking me for a job? My job?”

Simon stared—wide-eyed—as a red mark blossomed on his cheek. He cried. “I'm sorry, Angela. It got out of hand. I wanted the job. It was mine, after all. I've been waiting years for Ernie to retire. Now they wanted you. You talk to yourself—to him—and you act like he's right there with you. The Department needs someone grounded—”

“Grounded?” She slapped him again. “Like someone stalking and
lying and trying to destroy me over a job? The Regents need someone like that?”

“No. No. You don't understand.”

“I understand everything.”

He pushed off André's car hood but Hercule suggested he sit
bac
k down
.
He did. “No, Angela. I did not shoot Chevez. He met me
to
give me my recordings and get paid. Cartier shot him. I tried to help
him but I heard someone in the house and got scared. Then I—”

I said, “What about the book?” And Angel repeated me.

“Book?” Simon's face twisted. “Chevez had videos showing you on this insane investigation. He gave me half last night and was to give me the rest this morning. The videos had you and Braddock, together, talking to your dead husband. That would keep Braddock off my back, too. What book are you talking about?”

There was something about Simon's delivery that was believable. Maybe it was the confused look on his face when Angel mentioned the book. Maybe it was the stupidity of his confession. Or maybe it was the vomit caking his shoes and slacks.

“Angel, stay here. I'm going to look for André.”

“Okay, Tuck. Bear should be here soon.”

Simon's eyes went wild and he looked around. “Tuck? You're talking to him again?”

“Yes.” Angel didn't hesitate. “He never left me, Simon. He's been here the whole time.”

His face was ashen. “Yes, I believe he has.”

W. Simon Hahn—“W” for wrong place, wrong time, bent over and retched again.

sixty

André Cartier was nowhere
in the Vincent House.

I'd searched it top to bottom and returned to the lounge, hoping to find Vincent and get his help. “Vincent? Ollie-ollie-oxen-free.”

Frankie Carle
—Oh, What It Seemed to Be
played …

“You're making a mess in my home, Oliver.” Vincent appeared behind the bar with a long Cuban and a hefty glass of bourbon. “I hope this will be over soon.” He poured me a drink. “You have my book?”

“Not yet.” I swooped up the glass and downed it before he changed
his mind. “It's here somewhere. But then, you know that already, don't you?”

He grinned and refilled my glass. “Of course I know. And I know my Frannie is gone, too. You never got to meet her.”

“No, and I'm sorry I didn't.” I sipped my drink. “Do you know who killed her?”

“No, if I did, they would be dead already. Do you?”

I considered the possibilities. “The jury's out on that one.”

“Ah, interesting phrase. Be careful, Oliver. Juries are often wrong, and they can be bought. I should know. I've owned a few in my time.”

I took a long pull on my drink and wiped the warmth from my lips. “Okay, Vincent—or should I say, Great Granddad?”

He laughed—a big, raucous belly laugh. “Yes, yes. There is so much more to tell you, too. But I'll let Doc fill you in. Hurry, you must find my book and get Frannie's killer. Avenge our family, Oliver.”

“Avenge? We'll see, Vincent. My friend André is here somewhere.”

“Did he kill my Frannie?”

“I don't know. But he found your book. Someone else has it now.”

Vincent puffed on his Cuban and watched me through the smoke. “The Cuban fella—Chevez—they're all as bad as the Reds —he had it but now he doesn't.”

“Who took it from him?”

“Your friend—and I'm displeased.”

Sassy appeared beside me. She smacked my cheek with a big kiss. “Your friend is in the carriage house, Tuckie. You better hurry. I'm not sure how long he's gonna be breathin'. He's in big trouble.”

“You mean André?” I emptied my drink. “What's happening?”

“The bimbo's with him. And he's in big trouble—”

_____

André Cartier was in big trouble.
He was in the carriage house, standing outside the old horse stall. The false wall was open to the stairs behind him. His hands were bloodied and his face was ashen. Blood stained his pants and shirt, but he seemed unaware of it all. His eyes were fixed on the gun pointed at his face.

And Bonnie Grecco held it.

I walked in and stood beside her.

“André, what have you got yourself into?”

Bonnie was shaking and waving the gun around. “You stay back, André. You stay away from me.”

“Bonnie, put the gun down. I had to do it—I had no choice.”

“Had to do what?” I asked.

“Why, André, why?” Bonnie wailed.

He didn't answer me of course but he did speak to Bonnie. “To get the book back, Bonnie. We need the book. It's the key to Stephanos's murder. It'll prove everything.”

“But you shot him, André,” Bonnie cried. “I can't believe it. Did you kill Steph, too? Tell me you didn't, André, please.”

I went to André. “Yeah, André, tell her. Tell us both. I'm not sure anymore.”

He raised his hands and took a step toward Bonnie. “Put the gun down, Bonnie. Let me explain.”

“Explain? You shot a man over this book? Did you kill Stephanos for it, too?”

“No.” André's face twisted and he stepped closer. “I didn't kill Stephanos. Agent Dobron did.”

Bonnie thrust the gun out. “Dobron? He said you—”

“Yes, of course he said it was me.” André patted the air. “I've been working with Ruth-Ann Marcos, Bonnie. She's been after Dobron for months—he works for the Russian mob.”

Bonnie's face flushed. She lowered her gun a few inches and looked over it at him. “No, no. Steph made a deal with Agent Dobron—to get us a new life—we were going into witness protection. And then we found all the money in those paintings at the Vincent House. We were—”

“No, Bonnie.” André took another step. “Dobron wanted the book for the Russian mob. He was using Stephanos to get it.”

“The mob? It was all a lie?” Bonnie shook her head and lowered the gun more. Her eyes welled up and she had trouble forming words. “What about you and me, André? It was all a lie, too? To get the book?”

“No, it wasn't a lie. I didn't know anything about the book when we met. I didn't know about you and Stephanos either. But when we got together, Ruth-Ann Marcos approached me to find the book first before the Russians got it.”

“She came to you because of me?”

He nodded.

Right. I get it. The question was, when did he know what he was doing and how deeply was he involved?

Bonnie wiped black mascara from her cheeks and choked back tears. “Everyone thought I was using you. And it was the other way around.”

“No, Bonnie. I wasn't using you. I can't explain—not here. But I'm on your side, Bonnie. You and I are real.”

“You didn't kill Stephanos? You promise?”

“Yes, I promise. I told you, Dobron killed him.” André started to move closer but Bonnie lifted the gun and he stopped. He went on. “Stephanos made a deal with Dobron for the book, but he double-crossed him and tried to sell it to someone else. Dobron found out and killed him before he could.”

“He wasn't going to get a new name and new place to live? It was for the money?”

André nodded.

“What about me?”

“Yeah, André? What about her?” I already knew the answer.

André walked forward and wrapped his arms around her. “I'm still here, Bonnie. We can try again if you want—you and me.”

Bonnie erupted in violent quakes of tears and sobs. “The book.”

Footsteps approached us from outside and Angel walked through
the side door.

“André? Bonnie? What—”

“Angel, you're not gonna believe all this,” I said, “André's been working for Marcos—and Dobron killed Stephanos.”

Angel's eyes flared and she looked from Bonnie to André and then fixed on the gun in Bonnie's hand. “André, what's going on? Agent Dobron killed Stephanos?”

“Yes, Angela. I'm afraid it's true.” André took the last step and slipped his hand over Bonnie's gun and held tight. “And there's more—terrible things. I shot that man, Chevez. I found the book and went to your house looking for you.”

“Did you kill Frannie Masseria?”

André's face tightened and his eyes went wide. “No. I found her dead. I found the book and went straight to your house. I wanted to explain everything to you. But Chevez was waiting there and jumped me. He took the book and ran straight here. Bonnie was with me, she saw it all.”

Bonnie's face went blank. “This is insane. It's all insane. You're all lying. It can't be happening. I've got to get out of here.”

“No, Bonnie,” André said. “I'm telling you the truth.”

“No. No. No. You're lying. It's the book.”

Angel watched her for a second and then turned back to André. “Did you know Chevy worked for Simon Hahn?”

André shook his head. “No. What's it all about? I followed Chevy here to get the book back before it got into Dobron's hands.”

“If you're working for Ruth-Ann, why didn't you just let her handle this?”

He looked at the ground. His face fell. “I should have. Things got out of control. When I lost the book, I called her but she was in Washington. I had to get it back fast. I went too far. When I confronted Chevez inside the house, he pulled a gun and we struggled. I shot him. It was an accident, I swear.”

“All right, André, all right.” Angel turned to Bonnie. “We'll wait for Bear and he'll figure all this out.”

“No.” Bonnie pulled the gun free from André's grip and jabbed it at him. “Both of you get back. I don't trust any of you. It's the book. It's always been the book.”

“Angel, she's losing it,” I said, watching the anger rising in Bonnie's face. “She's really gone—”

“Give me the book, André.” Bonnie cocked the revolver and leveled it at André's face. “I want it. You all killed Steph over the book. We wanted a new life. It's my turn. I'm gonna get what I want. Give it to me.”

“Do it, André,” Angel said. “Give her the book. Bear is on his way.”

“So is Agent Dobron,” Bonnie said in a strange, eerie whisper. “Then we'll see who's lying.”

André took the book out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Bonnie. “Bonnie, please. Don't do anything rash. We need this book for evidence. We need—”

“I don't care.” Bonnie backed toward the stall entrance to the tunnels. “Leave me alone. Both of you. If everyone wants this book so bad, then they can deal with me.” She turned and ran through the entrance.

“Wait, Angel.” I went to the passage door and watched her disappear into the tunnel. “We gotta find Bear. I don't know what's going on, but we have to get the book back before Bonnie does something stupid.”

Angel turned to André. “You've been working with Marcos? Why didn't you say anything when you were arrested for Grecco's murder? Why didn't you tell us?”

“I couldn't,” he said, staring after Bonnie. “Dobron was involved and I couldn't let on I was. Ruth-Ann has been trying to trap Dobron for months. This was the last chance. The book will prove who he really is.”

A car pulled up outside in the drive. I went to the door and looked out the window. “It's Dobron, Angel. If André's telling the truth, then we have to get the book before Dobron does.”

“And if he's lying?” She said, ignoring André's stare. “What then?”

“Then he's up to his neck in four murders.”