Dying for the Past (4 page)

six

The bourbon burned all
the way down but it tasted like heaven. Among the many downsides of being dead were food and drink. They were not only unnecessary, they were disappointing. You see, the dead cannot enjoy a double-bacon cheeseburger with extra fries and a beer. If I'd known that before my death, I would have asked for a mistrial. But then again, nobody can punch me in the nose or stick a sharp stick in my eye either. Still, I miss rare, sizzling steak, cold Saturday morning pizza, and Angel's cherry pie. There was a lot I missed. Not just her cherry pie.

I sipped the oaky bourbon again and let the fire soothe my aroused taste buds. I could get used to this again. But how was this possible? If the dead run the still, do the rules change?

“Damn, that was good.” I set my glass on the bar and Vincent Calaprese refilled it. “Now, Mr.—”

“Vincent, please.”

“Okay, Vincent. I guess you know what I am going to ask you next.”

He refilled his glass and raised it. “To your health.”

Not wanting to be rude, I followed suit. Both glasses were emptied and set up for another round.

When you're dead and meeting new friends, manners are important.

“Vincent?” A silky, low voice said from behind me. “Who's the new fella? He's a cutie.”

I turned as a sultry, red-headed siren slinked into the room. She
was curvy and voluptuous and belonged pinned to someone's wall for nighttime ogling. Her face was soft and young and her eyes were lit with the fire of youth—fire dancing right at me.

Being dead might have some perks.

Vincent waved at her. “Sassy, go back upstairs. We got business.” When she didn't retreat, he added, “You heard me—scram. This ain't no place for a dame right now.”

Sassy sauntered over in time to Wayne King's
Dream a Little Dream.
She eyed me and smiled a faint, almost invisible smile more intoxicating than the bourbon in my glass. Her hair was short—
the style of the more vivacious ladies of the thirties—and her saucy, floor-length red satin dress sizzled with each step. Regret at having missed my great-grandfather's era began tickling my … spine. The satin struggled to conceal her bosom and lost all control over her curves gliding through the room. She stopped at the bar. Then she reached out, took my drink, and emptied it in one long swallow, watching me above the glass as the bourbon warmed her lips and dried mine at the same time.

She licked her lips and giggled, handing me the empty glass. “Hi ya, Tuckie. Thanks for the sauce.”

I swallowed a bowling ball.

“Sassy!” Vincent snapped. “Out, damn you. We got business.”

She winked and giggled again, then left as she arrived—slow and swishy—knowing I was watching her taillights leave the room. As she went, the tantalizing, unmistakable scent of Chanel No. 5 lingered longer than the mist into which she evaporated.

I turned to Vincent. “I'm beginning to like it here.”

“Don't like it too much, Oliver.” He tapped a finger on the bar.
“You'll be welcome so long as you mind your manners. Got it? And
so you know, Sassy ain't one for no dick.”

“Excuse me?”

He smiled. “You know, dicks—coppers, detectives, gumshoes. You, right? I mean, you're a dick?”

Oh, yeah. I'm a dick. “Vincent, how about telling me what this is about?”

“I been watching you, Oliver.” The gangster leaned on the bar. “Ever since the old guy drilled you.”

I assume the old guy was Ernie Stuart. “Yeah? If you see him, tell him I said—”

“No, no.” Vincent held up both hands in surrender. “Champ, trust me, he's one bruno you don't want to run into. He gives me the heebie-jeebies. Too bad you couldn't have repaid the favor on him.”

I felt the same way. “What do you want, Vincent? This is twice you came to see me tonight.”

“It's real simple.” Vincent's face faded and the bottle of bourbon on the bar faded with him. “You bring me Benjamin. If you do, then you and me are square.”

“Who's Benjamin? I don't know anyone named Benjamin. But I'll trade you. You tell me what you know about a restaurant named Quixote's Windmill and I'll find you Benjamin. Deal?”

Vincent was just a shadow but his voice was unmistakable. “
Don't play with me, Oliver. This is a game you cannot win. Just bring
Benjamin.”

“So you heard of the place? Catchy name, don't you think?”

The music was gone and so were the bottles of booze and Vincent Calaprese. The sounds of Angel's guests rumbled in the next room and feet paraded up and down the stairs. There was no sign of my host or his sexy companion. The smoky taste of bourbon was gone from my lips and no Chanel No. 5 lingered.

As I turned to leave the lounge, Vincent's voice reached me again.

“Don't hustle me, Oliver. Bring me Benjamin. Bring him soon. Tell him I want my book. No double-crosses, Oliver. If you can taste my bourbon, you can taste my anger, too.”

seven

“Who is Benjamin? Sassy,
come back—do you know Benjamin?” No one answered. “Oh, come on. A little help?”

“Tuck?” Angel asked from the doorway. “Is that you?” She walked into the lounge, glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone followed, and closed the doors. “Who are you talking to?”

“Angel, everything okay?” What a stupid question. One of her biggest philanthropists was dead in the ballroom. “I mean, other than—”

“I know what you mean. What are you doing in here? Who's Benjamin?”

Angel and I have a very unusual relationship—yeah, a lot of marriages do. But no one could top ours. Ever since we bridged the chasm of life and death after my murder, she can hear and see me. In rare moments, she can feel my touch. Other times, when emotions are intense—fear mostly—others can see me, too. Moving things takes a little more out of me. Often, I need a jolt of electricity for a jump start. Electricity to the dead is like speed—the drug, not a car. And, as interesting as it is, it doesn't last long.

“Tuck? Who were you talking to?”

I explained about Vincent. Common sense caused amnesia about Sassy. “This is Vincent's house. I don't know if he's haunting it or me, or if he's here for something more important.”

“Like Benjamin? Do you know who he means?”

“No.”

“A guest maybe? I don't remember anyone named Benjamin.” Angel sat at the bar. “Could it be like last time, Tuck—like Carolyn and Amy? Could he need your help?”

Yes, it might be that simple. Carolyn and Amy were two young wraiths who came to me after my murder. They popped in and out for days, begging for my help—though what they needed wasn't clear until it was over. When I realized my killer was their killer, it all made sense. His demise was the key to it all.

I was the conduit—the link between the living and the dead—
able to shake things up, work with the living, and help Bear and Angel
unravel a serial killer. In the process, it unraveled Amy and Caroline and freed them, too. So, I'm sort of a private detective—or private dick, as Vincent called me—for the dead. A dead detective, spirit sleuth, a ghostly … you get it. I just don't charge for my services. What would they pay me in, dead presidents?

I said, “With gangsters, there's no telling what happened back in their day or what they want now.”

“Gangsters? Like violin cases and fedoras?”

“Exactly. Hey, we got any fedoras in the attic at home? I'd look great in one. And you used to play the violin, right?”

“I played the piano.”

“Too hard to carry. How about a fedora?”

“No.” Angel turned on her stool to keep an eye on the door, making
sure no one walked in on our conversation and branded her crazy. She got serious. “Tuck, do you sense anything? Anything at all on Stephanos Grecco? Bear thinks the killer escaped.”

“Maybe.” I moved onto a bar stool beside her. “Just before Grecco
was shot, Vincent popped in for some champagne and caviar. He left a second before Grecco was killed. I have no idea who killed Grecco or how they got away—if they did. This place was locked up tight.”

“There's more.” Angel lowered her voice. “The lights went out when Stephanos was shot and someone stole the donations. They're gone.”

“Spence and Clemens were guarding them. Cap said you had the money.”

“No, Bear asked me, too. When Stephanos went down, everyone ran to him. Spence and Clemens, too. Someone took advantage of the chaos and grabbed the money from the punchbowl.”

Terrific. “How much was taken?”

“I'm not sure. Most of it—about a quarter million dollars—was in checks. A few patrons put some cash in for show. The cash can't be more than a few thousand.”

I thought about that. “Okay, so either someone took advantage of the murder or we have one really stupid crook.”

“What do you mean?”

“Checks, Angel. They can be cancelled and reissued. Only the cash
is gone, and there wasn't much.”

She brightened. “You're right. I'll contact everyone about their donations. Everyone signed the donation book so I'll know the
details. I can speak with each of them tomorrow.” She looked down.
“Tuck, the money isn't important. This is so horrible.”

Murder is horrible.

“Yes, it is, but look at it this way—I got a couple good bourbons out, of it.” She didn't laugh so I touched her hand. She smiled and I said, “Check with Bear, Angel. There is some benefit to keeping this quiet for a few days. Let's see who gets curious about the money.”

She agreed before her faced darkened. “Poor Bonnie—she's Stephanos's wife. They were only married a little while ago. I met them last week, but they seemed like wonderful people. You have to find his killer.”

Of course I did.

She went to the doors and hesitated, turned around, and looked at me. “Oh, one more thing, Tuck.”

“Yeah?” The look on her face reminded me that women, like private dicks and coppers, have a sixth sense about all things dangerous.

“Later, you will explain about Sassy,” she said, and smiled the smile I knew meant trouble.

eight

Jorge the waiter pulled
his motorcycle into a parking space
two lots west of the John S. Mosby Center for American Studies and turned off the engine. It was well after midnight and the security patrols were all at the campus security office having coffee. He'd have about forty-five minutes to get in and get out before the patrols made their next rounds through the University of the Shenandoah Valley campus. While he might fit in on campus during the day—he was twenty-seven, average height and build, shaggy dark hair, with three days worth of straggly, untrimmed growth on his face—explaining why he was roaming campus at this hour might be tricky. They might ask for a campus ID. In particular, if things went bad, he didn't want to explain the short-barreled semi-automatic on his ankle or the package inside his leather motorcycle jacket.

Forty-five minutes had to be enough.

The campus was empty and dark. He dodged the ornate street-
lamps winding along the roads and courtyards, staying in the shadows. The campus was empty—not even a late-night jogger or strolling couple broke the cones of light. There were no sounds but an occasional night bird. No car engines. No town noises. Nothing but silence.

Jorge made his way across campus to the three-story brick history center where he stood beneath a tall oak watching the building's windows. Satisfied there were no faculty lingering and no teaching assistants cramming extra-credit, he took the long way around to the rear of the building where no streetlamp shined and both of the building's corner floodlights were off.

The double-security lock on the rear door was no hazard—Jorge had a master key—and he was inside and slipping onto the third floor five minutes ahead of schedule. Using only a small, red-beamed flashlight, he maneuvered down the main hall, past the conference room and reception desk, to the senior staff hall. There, he found the corner office door and master-keyed his way inside.

Once the door was relocked, he took out his cell phone and sent a simple one-word message: “Inside.”

Jorge moved faster. First, he slipped a small, vinyl case from inside his black leather motorcycle jacket and opened it on the large oak desk. There were three electronic devices, none larger than a bottle cap, which he secreted around the room in strategic places he'd planned out earlier from diagrams. He placed one inside the desk phone and one in the extension on the small conference table across the room. He slipped the larger one behind a framed photograph of a handsome, fortyish man roughhousing with a large black Labrador retriever—the dog was getting the best of his master. The photograph was selected, not by random, but because it had more dust accumulated on its frame than the others sitting on the credenza behind the desk.

Next, Jorge sat in the plush leather chair behind the antique desk and began a systematic and careful search of its drawers. Then
came the files atop the desk. The outbox. Credenza, bookshelf, and filing cabinet. No space was left untouched.

There was no frustration when his search failed to yield trophies. He hadn't expected any and yet he'd hoped for something to justify a late night report and perhaps a few more days on the job. Six-hundred a day went a long way.

Often, small failures meant bigger retainers.

Before he slipped out of the professor's office, he sent one more simple message. This time, it was two words. “Complete. Nothing.”

Then, Jorge—who was neither a college student nor named Jorge—checked the outer office area, slipped into the hall, and relocked Professor Angela Hill-Tucker's office door.