Dying for the Past (6 page)

twelve

Bear and I were
standing in the main hall when I spotted Angel arguing with a balding man in a tuxedo. I recognized the blowhard without introduction.

Professor W. Simon Hahn—“W” for weird, whiner, and worrywart.

Professor Hahn was a Senior Fellow—and senior pain-in-the-ass—at the University of the Shenandoah Valley, a muckety-muck in the University's College of History. Unfortunately, he was also a colleague of Angel's at the Mosby Center for American Studies. W. Simon Hahn was a historian by training and a bureaucrat and politician mixed with snake and earthworm on the evolutionary scale. When Angel's old boss, Ernie Stuart—the prior history department chair—took the heart attack train to hell, W. Simon Hahn was measuring his office before the crime scene was finished. Much to his irritation, the job was filled, albeit on a tempo
rary basis, by Angel. The Board of Regents felt she was the most qual
i
fied and deserving, despite W. Simon Hahn's pending orders for new paint and furniture.

Since then, W. Simon Hahn was an ever-present lump on our backsides—no explanation of what I mean is necessary here.

He was having an animated conversation with Angel near a table just inside the ballroom and it didn't sit well with me. Arms flailed, chins jutted, and steam rose from his ears. Bear saw it too and made a beeline for their table.

Professor Hahn whirled around when Bear walked up. “I am speaking with Tucker—”

“Professor Tucker,” Bear said in a stiff tone. “And you are?”

“Professor and Senior Fellow W. Simon Hahn. And who is addressing me?”

“‘W' for whacko, Bear.” I couldn't resist.

Bear stepped closer and let his shadow push Professor Hahn
back from Angel. “Braddock. I'm a senior detective and senior dep
uty of the Frederick County Sheriff's Department and Major Crimes Task Force. I'm in charge here.”

“How wonderful for you.” Professor Hahn turned away and glared
at Angel. “My business is with
Professor
Tucker. Not you, officer.”

“Detective,” Bear repeated.

I said, “Punt this little twerp, Bear. Angel's got enough troubles right now.”

“Professor,” Bear said, “this is a homicide investigation. If there's
another issue, it'll have to wait.”

“It cannot wait.”

Angel shook her head. “Just tell me what you need, Simon. So far, all you've done is complain about the gala. And while I'm truly sorry about the way it ended, it is not my fault.”

“Oh?” Professor Hahn straightened with an audible humph and took out a small, leather notepad from his tuxedo pocket. “I'm surprised to hear you say that. I would like the donations turned over to me for safe keeping at once. You have too many other duties at present to concern yourself with those. I think it appropriate as I am—”

“Sorry, Professor.” Bear held up a hand. “Sometime during the
murder, the donations were stolen. We're looking into it, but the mur
der has priority.”

When Professor Hahn smiled, Dr. Jekyll turned into Mr. Hyde. “Uh-oh, Angel, Simon's happy. Nothing good happens when he's happy.”

“Stolen? Right in front of everyone?” Professor Hahn took out a pen and scribbled something in his notepad. “Professor Tucker, you
are responsible for the safety and security of our guests and the donations. I believe the Board of Regents—”

“Whoa, there, Professor,” Bear said, stepping closer again. “Angela was not responsible for the safety and security of the guests and donations. Nor is she responsible for the theft or murder. I had two detectives on guard in the ballroom. Stephanos Grecco's murder was used to someone's advantage and the monies stolen. We'll get them back.”

“You had better. This is going to look very bad with the Board of Regents. And in their final selection for the History Chair, too. Now—”

Bear held up a hand. “Did you see or hear anything relevant to this homicide investigation?”

Hahn blinked several times and looked from Angel to Bear. “Well,
yes, I did. I tried to tell the other deputy but he thought I was drunk or something.”

“What then? Tell me.”

“Ah, yes, let me recall a moment. Yes, yes, let me think.”

Did I mention W. Simon Hahn was a drama queen?

“Yes, a few moments after the shot, I saw someone emerge from nowhere at the end of the hall and go into the lounge. I went to the lounge door and heard someone talking inside. Just before I went in, I heard a bang—like a door slamming or something.”

Bear asked, “And? Did you see who was in there?”

“No one was in there, Detective. I'm trying to explain to you. I went
into the lounge and there was no one there. Empty. And I know no one
came out—I was at the door.”

I said, “How much champagne did he have?”

Angel covered a smile with her hand. “Are you sure, Simon? Are you sure you saw and heard someone inside?”

“Of course I'm sure. I'm not the one talking to myself all the time.” He raised his chin and shot Angel a look more sniping than his tone. “Now am I?”

“Just what are you saying, Simon?”

Bear asked, “Why was it unusual for someone to be in the lounge
talking? I mean, why do you think it's important?”

“I am not saying it's important, Detective.” Professor Hahn jammed
his fists on his hips. “I'm saying it was odd. Everyone ran toward the ballroom, except one person who went inside the lounge. Then, poof, no one was inside.”

“Poof?” Bear said. “Poof? You're sure?”

“I am not in the habit of telling stories, Detective.”

Bear went to a deputy standing in the hall, spoke with him, and returned to us with the deputy in tow. “Professor, go with this deputy. He'll take another statement.”

“Now, see here. I have more to discuss with Professor Tucker. After all, with all the complaints I'm receiving—”

Bear pointed to the deputy. “He'll take the complaints, too.”

The deputy rolled his eyes and led Professor W. Simon Hahn to the lounge.

Angel said, “Do you think he's telling the truth? About someone disappearing in the lounge, I mean?”

“No,” Bear said. “People don't disappear into thin air.”

“They don't?” I said. “I can.”

thirteen

Angel went off to
calm the guests and I followed Bear to Captain Sutter who was inside the sitting room. When we walked in, she waved at Bear. “Bonnie Grecco's resting in a back room. Get her out of here as soon as you can break Spence free, Bear.”

“Yeah, okay. It'll be another hour or so—”

The tall oak door creaked open and a deputy ran straight for Captain Sutter. “We have a witness.”

“Who?” Captain Sutter asked.

“One of the caterers saw a guest coming down the rear servant's stairway right after Grecco was shot.”

Bear asked, “Are they sure?”

“Yep.” The deputy explained, “A young gal—Rita-something—is in the kitchen. She remembered because someone yelled into the kitchen something about a guest being shot. Everyone ran to the ballroom to see what was going on. When Rita got to the hall, a guy ran up behind her from the rear servant's stairwell. He almost ran into her. He was upstairs. He could be the shooter.”

“Maybe we got a break.” Captain Sutter issued orders on her radio. Then she motioned for Bear to follow her. “Let's go speak with Rita.”

I followed Bear and the captain to the kitchen. Another deputy stood at a large table cluttered with steaming chafing dishes of food. A young Hispanic girl wearing a white catering jacket was seated at the table. Her dark eyes went big and round when we walked up. She was young—like she should have been studying for high school exams. She was pretty, too, innocent and scared to death. Her eyes darted between Captain Sutter and Bear and her hands trembled on the table.

“Hello, Rita,” Captain Sutter said, dismissing the deputy with a nod. “I'm Captain Sutter. This is Detective Braddock. Please tell us again what you saw?”

Rita's voice quivered as she replayed the events—adding a few scattered details from what the deputy had told us in the sitting room. Her voice was low and shy—her heavy Spanish accent and tattered nerves made it difficult to follow at times. She ended with, “
Si
, this man was a big man. Older but not old, you know? He wear round glasses and look very important, very smart, you know? He very nice. Very handsome, too.” She blushed and looked down at the table. “He smile when we serve him. He say thank you. Not many do here tonight.”

Bear asked, “Do you know his name?”

“No, but the important lady—Professor Tucker, I think—does. He danced with her. She knows.”

Every red-blooded man at the gala had danced with my Angel. Beauty was a curse. I had the same problem when I was alive—it was difficult, really.

“Okay, but, can you point him out to us?” Bear asked. “I promise you won't be in any danger. We'll walk around the rooms—you and me. When you see him, tell me. I'll take it from there.”

Rita looked down and started shaking her head. “No, no. I can
not. The deputy say he might be the killer. I no want him to see me.”

I lay my hand on Rita's and whispered, “Rita, it'll be all right. You can trust Bear. He's a good man.”

She didn't budge—not even to pull her hand away. Her face softened as she stared at her hand. A faint, uncertain smile blossomed.

“Rita, I promise.” I gave her hand a squeeze. “Trust him.”

Her head stopped shaking and she looked up at Bear. “
Si
, I will go with you.”

“Good girl, Rita. I promise, you'll—”

“We found it!” Spence ran into the room and held up a clear plastic evidence bag with a heavy object inside. “Got it, Cap.”

The murder weapon.

“Cap, we found this upstairs.” Spence pointed to the light-framed, .22-caliber pistol inside the evidence bag. He turned the bag over and tapped the over-sized barrel through the plastic. “It's got a homemade silencer and it's been fired—several rounds missing from the mag.”

“Good.” Bear examined the gun through the plastic. “Where did you find this? In one of the rooms?”

“Yes,” Spence said. “The first room at the top of the stairs—just where we thought the shooter had shot Grecco from. It was tucked between the mattress and box spring; jammed inside real good.”

Captain said, “Show me, Spence. Bear, take Rita for a stroll.”

“Okay, Cap.” Bear held his hand out for Rita's. “You ready?”

Rita closed her eyes and I squeezed her hand again. “It's all right, Rita.”

“
Si
, Detective Bear.” The thin smile widened and she looked up at him, taking his hand. “I not afraid anymore.”

Five minutes later, we finished looking over the guests in the sittin
g room, den, dining room, and two other large rooms off the main hall. Rita was shy and timid, but Bear eased her along with a soft voice and gentle words. When we stopped at the lounge—I expected to find Vincent Calaprese and the delectable Sassy—but only one guest was inside, sitting at the far end of the bar talking on a cell phone.

At the doorway, Rita tensed and withdrew behind Bear.

“Rita?” Bear turned and put his hand on her shoulder. “Is it him?”

She didn't respond. She didn't have to. The man speaking on
the cell phone looked up and gave Bear a quick wave. When he did,
Rita crushed tighter against Bear.

“Dear God, no,” Bear whispered. “Are you sure, Rita?”

Her face paled and her eyes grew big. She was sure.

The man sitting across the room from us was tall with an athletic build and silver temples. He wore round, wireframe eyeglasses and his appearance was, as Rita had described, older but not old—most called him
distinguished
.

Distinguished. Yes, distinguished is the right word. In fact, I had called him that on many occasions when describing Angel's mentor, former guardian, and uncle.

I groaned and bit my lip. “Bear, there's a rational explanation—you know there is. We've known him for years. He just about raised Angel, for Christ's sake. He's no killer. No way.”

Without a word, Bear motioned for a deputy in the hall and sent Rita back to the kitchen. Then he cursed and went to have a chat with Professor André Cartier.

fourteen

“This is absurd—absolutely absurd.”
André Cartier jumped up
from his bar stool. “Angela will vouch for me. And of all people, Bear, you cannot believe I killed anyone?”

“Just relax, André. It's my job.” He pointed at the bar stool and waited for André to sit back down. “Funny, a few months ago you thought I was a killer. Remember?”

“Touché,” I said.

André sat brooding.

After my murder, vile rumors swirled about Bear and Angel—the kind of rumors that always get stirred up when a dead guy leaves behind a best friend and a beautiful wife. The kind of rumors that hurt. And when the whispers started, André Cartier had his doubts, too.

Funny how indignation has no memory.

“Bear, you know me,” he said. “You've got it all wrong.”

“I hope so, André,” Bear said, sliding onto a bar stool beside him. “A witness saw you come downstairs just after the shooting.”

“And tell us what you know of Stephanos Grecco.” Captain Sutter said, standing beside Bear with the evidence bag containing the .22 pistol. “Take your time and get it right.”

“I didn't kill anyone.” André exchanged looks—glares—with Bear and Captain Sutter. “Ask Angela, she can vouch for me.”

“All night?” Captain Sutter asked. “She can attest to where you were every moment, Professor Cartier?”

“No, but certainly you remember me, Captain, and—”

“Yes, I do remember you. I know quite a lot about you. But it doesn't change the fact a witness saw you coming downstairs after the shooting.”

“No, of course not, I'm sorry.” André closed his eyes and took a deep, forced breath. “And of course Angela cannot say where I was all night. I doubt any of the guests—including myself—can restate our exact whereabouts after seeing Steph murdered. After all—”

“Steph?” Bear's eyebrows rose. “Are you two friends?”

“He introduced himself to me as ‘Steph.'” André's face fell. “Come on, Bear. You've known me for years. I'm no murderer.”

Captain Sutter set the evidence bag on the bar between them. “Then explain this.”

“It's not mine. I went upstairs to look around. I've been here once before—helping Angela prepare for this gala. The house intrigues me. A lot of the guests were upstairs during the night. For God's sake, I saw Angel up there, too.”

“But not at the moment Grecco was shot.” Captain Sutter wasn't asking a question.

“Bad timing, I guess.”

“You think?” Bear glanced at Captain Sutter but said to André, “Did you see anyone up there?”

André thought for a moment. He frowned. “No, but I heard someone at the other end of the main hallway. I was in the east wing looking at some antiques in the hall. When I heard the commotion downstairs, I ran down the servant's stairs.”

“Why use the servant stairs?” Bear asked.

“They were closer.”

I said, “Makes sense.”

“And you didn't see anyone?” Captain Sutter asked. “And you claim to have heard someone?”

“Claim?” André started to rise again but Captain Sutter's eyes
stopped him. His face tightened and his chin rose. “I did hear some
thing, Captain. A door closed, I think, and someone was walking in the hall.”

I said, “Bear, Rita may have seen him but it doesn't prove anything. There's two hundred people here. A lot of them weren't in the ballroom when Grecco was killed.”

The lounge doors swung open and Angel pushed her way past the uniformed deputy at the door. She strode up to us and confronted Captain Sutter.

“You've got to be kidding me! André had nothing to do with
this.”

“Angela, please.” Bear patted the air. “Go back to your guests and let us do our jobs.”

“Then do them. Go find the killer because he's not in this room.”

Bear glanced at Captain Sutter and the telegraph starting tapping away between them again. His mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed—Captain Sutter's temples did the rumba.

“So, Professor Cartier,” Captain Sutter leaned forward with an edge to her voice. “Anything we need to know? Anything at all?”

I always had a hard time reading the good Captain. Maybe it was because she played her cards close or because she was a chameleon. Or, maybe it was because she was a woman who could out-cop any of us on the detective squad. Right now, though, it was easy to read her—she was not convinced—guilt or innocence—about André Cartier. None of us were.

None but Angel.

I said to Angel, “It'll be all right, Angel. I'll look after André. I promise.”

“You can't keep that promise,” she said. When Captain Sutter glanced at her, she said to André. “Tell them, André. Tell them everything.”

“I don't know anything, Captain, nothing at all.”

“All right then,” Captain Sutter tapped the bar. “Tell us about Stephanos and Bonnie Grecco.”

“I just met the Greccos tonight. I've never heard of them, although Stephanos claims to be from the Washington circuit.”

“DC is a big city.” Captain Sutter's voice was curt and direct. “Do you know everyone?”

André bristled. “Of course not, Captain. But I do know most in the philanthropic circuit. He claims to be an antique aficionado. I do many fundraisers throughout the year, and I've never come across him.”

“What about Bonnie Grecco?”

André looked at Angel. “I was just introduced to Bonnie Grecco
tonight.”

“Oh, come now, Captain. Please.” Angel stepped forward. “You cannot think he had anything to do with all this. I was up on the second floor tonight, too. Does being there make me a suspect?”

“I don't know, does it?” Their eyes met and Captain Sutter shrugged. “I'm sorry. But, you weren't up near the balcony room seconds before the shot was fired. He was.”

“No, I wasn't,” André said. “I was on the other end of the house.”

“You see? He wasn't there. And, you don't know who else might have been up there. Do you?”

“A murderer won't admit to being there, now will he?”

I said, “Easy, Angel. I'm with you on André, but the captain is just—”

“Doing her job.” Angel folded her arms and stared daggers at the floor. “I understand.”

André Cartier was a lot of things. He was a professor of history with two doctorates—American History and Anthropology. He was a big shot with the Washington Smithsonian. More importantly, though, he was Angel's uncle and he'd raised her since she was very young. A tragic accident took both her parents when she was a teenager. He'd helped her through the loss of her mom and dad, and then twenty-one years later, the loss of her husband—me. Now, after more than two decades of mentoring, the roles were reversed.

“Bear, Captain, listen to me.” André held up his hands. “I have never
seen this gun before. I assure you it is not mine. I did not kill Stephanos Grecco. I have not killed anyone in years.”

“What?” Captain Sutter cocked her head. “Excuse me?”

“Viet Nam, Captain.” André frowned. “I was in the war.”

“So you can handle a weapon?” she asked.

“Of course I can. But it's been years.”

“Interesting.”

“And Bonnie?” Bear asked. “You never heard of her either, right?”

“No, Detective. I have not heard of Bonnie Grecco before this evening.”

I reached out and touched André's shoulder, trying to get inside his head. Sometimes, touching objects or people gave me a kind of clairvoyance. Sometimes, a touch showed me what the living couldn't—lost memories, lost lives, even secreted truths buried deep. Often, the simple touch showed me things they didn't want others to know, too.

And sometimes, touching didn't give diddly.

This was one of those times.

André was full of irritation and angst and it started bubbling out. His eyes were tired; his face taunt and defensive. His posture recoiled and was ready for flight. But, I guess if the roles were reversed and the cops suspected me a killer, I'd be worried, too.

Yet, André's gruffness wasn't quite it. It was something else. Something … hidden. He said he'd just met Bonnie and Stephanos tonight. Yet, when he said her name, he seemed, well, odd, perhaps evasive, maybe even worried. When Bear mentioned her name to
him for the first time, André's emotions pegged my spookmeter
into the danger-danger zone. Can a dance and champagne do all that in one night?

Yes, of course it could. How else could anyone explain how the gorgeous and talented Dr. Angela Hill-Tucker was married to me? She once used champagne and dancing to lure me in. Then, I allowed her to fall in love with me.

“Angel, there's something about Bonnie troubling André. Troubling him bad,” I said. “But I still think André is innocent.”

“Of course he's innocent.” She glanced at Bear. “You believe he is, Bear, right?”

He nodded. “We still have to follow the evidence, Angela.”

I said, “Anyone could have put the gun under the bedroom mattress. We have to finish interviewing all the guests and see who else was upstairs at the time of the shooting.”

She repeated me and added, “I'll speak with my guests and try to calm them a little longer. But they need to go home.”

“Yeah, okay Angela.” Captain Sutter looked at André. “Professor, mind if we run a gunshot residue test on you?”

“Not at all. Please go right ahead. Do whatever you must.”

“Good. And we'd like to check your car, too.” Captain Sutter threw a thumb over her shoulder at a deputy standing there. “Right now.”

“Of course. Since I don't think ‘no' will stop you.”

“It won't.” She put her hand out. “Your car keys please.”

“One moment.” André dug into his tuxedo pocket and handed her
a slip of paper. “Here is my coat check. The keys are in the inside pocket of my raincoat.”

Captain Sutter went to a deputy in the doorway, handed him the coat check, and gave him instructions. A moment later, the deputy returned with a long black raincoat and handed it to André.

As André slipped his arm into the coat, something fell out onto the floor.

“You dropped something.' Captain Sutter bent down and retrieved a black driving glove.

“No, I don't think so.” André looked at it. “It's not mine. I didn't bring gloves.”

Captain Sutter turned the glove over, then handed it to the deputy. She rubbed her fingers together and smelled them. “Deputy, have the techs check this.”

The deputy walked off.

“Captain?” André asked. “Check for what?”

“Later,” she said, gesturing toward the door. “After you.”

We followed André to a new Mercedes convertible parked inside the mansion entrance in a long row of other expensive automobiles. Captain Sutter issued orders to the deputies waiting there and turned to André. “Very nice car, Professor. I didn't know academia paid so well.”

“It doesn't,” André sneered. “But being the leading authority on Civil War studies and a historical adviser to the White House does. I've written three books in the past two years alone. If you must know.”

“She didn't mean anything, André,” Angel said. “Captain, please,
can we—”

“Captain Sutter,” one of the deputies called, shining his flashlight
toward us. “We've got something.”

They do?

On the passenger side of the car, a deputy knelt down, searching the front seats and floor. Captain Sutter leaned inside over his shoulder, looking at what the deputy pointed out between the seats.

“Bear, what is it?” Angel called. “What did they find?”

He held up a hand and moved in closer.

I said, “Relax, Angel. It can't be anything important.”

Bear stood back and turned toward us. His face was stone.

Captain Sutter stood up, too, slipped on a rubber crime scene glove, and took something from the deputy kneeling at the open car door. She looked at Bear and they both walked back to Angel, André, and me.

“Professor Cartier,” her voice was ice. “We found this under your seat. Can you explain it?”

She held a .22 caliber cartridge.

“No, no. Bullets in my car? Don't be absurd,” André said in a low voice. “This is all a mistake. Someone—”

“Bear, stop this.” Angel took hold of André's arm. “This is all wrong. You know this is all wrong. Someone is framing him. It has to be someone else.”

Captain Sutter's radio squawked and she stepped away to talk. When she returned, she was grim and cold. “Professor Cartier, our crime techs found preliminary results of gunshot residue on your driving glove. You do own driving gloves, don't you?”

“Yes, I do. But I told you,” he said, shaking his head, “it is not my
glove. Mine are in my car.” He turned and looked over at Angel. “Angela, I cannot explain this. Not now.”

“What are you talking about, André?”

Captain Sutter threw a chin at one of the deputies who burrowed back into the Mercedes. When he emerged, he shook his head.

“No gloves, Captain.”

Bear's voice was grave. “André, if you can explain any of this, now would be a good time.”

“I cannot. Someone is trying to frame me. You must see it too, right?”

“Maybe.” Captain Sutter glanced at Bear and nodded once.

Bear moved around behind André, took a set of handcuffs from
one of the deputies, and clasped them around his wrists.

“I'm sorry, Angela. I am.” Captain Sutter's voice was all business.
“Professor André Cartier, you're under arrest for the murder of Steph-
anos Grecco.”