Dying for the Past (7 page)

fifteen

Detective Mike Spence closed
his cell phone and walked over to a deputy standing in the kitchen entrance talking with a young girl in a catering uniform.

“Hospital says Cal will be okay, Woods. Bullet missed the bone and went right through. They put him into surgery and they expect he'll be back to work in a few weeks.”

“Lucky man, Cal Clemens,” Woods said. “I'll pass the word.”

“Where are we on the count?”

Woods flipped through a notebook. “One hundred-eighty three guests, twenty-two catering staff—not counting us—at the shindig.”

“It's a gala, Woods. Jeez, a gala.” Spence cracked a smile and took the notebook. “How many are left?”

“Twenty-one guests and two caterers to go. Soon as you say, we'll release those we've interviewed. Just say the word.”

“Word.” Spence flipped a couple pages. “And I want you to match up every interview with the names on the list, okay?”

Woods' eyebrows rose. “Okay, but we got 'em all. They've been corralled in rooms since the killing.”

“Humor me. You know the Cap, she'll kick my butt if we miss anything. And I don't want Bear going off on me. Just do it. Then double-check and then you can release 'em.”

Woods shrugged, mumbled something, and walked off.

Spence went into the kitchen where a wide powerful man in a tuxedo was hand-chopping the air at an older man in a chef's jacket and checkered pants. “Hey, what's going on? We got a problem?”

The tuxedoed man turned around. He glared at Spence and didn't answer. He was tall and broad and filled the tuxedo like a heavyweight boxer. He smacked the chef beside the head, cursed in some language foreign to Spence, and started to walk away.

“Whoa there,
kemo sabe
.” Spence grabbed his arm. “I asked you if you had a problem.”

“
Da
.” The man yanked his arm free and spat out in a heavy gruff accent, “What you want? This my business, not police business.”

“Oh, yeah?” Spence held tight and looked him over in slow, critical snapshots. “It's my business because I say it is. So, stop slapping the staff around.”

“Mind your own business. I'm the boss.”

Spence was taken aback. “Hey, buddy, lose the attitude. I'm Detective Spence—Sheriff's Office. You are?”

“Peter. I am Festival Catering and Entertainment manager.” Peter's voice was heavy and deep, with a Ukrainian flavor. “When we be free to go? You have cost much money and enough of my time.”

“Oh, we have?” Spence let the man's arm go and jabbed a pen at his chest. “Sorry our murder investigation has caused such disruption to you and your cook. Now, Peter, let's try your full name, shall we?”

“Cook? Yanni is executive chef. How stupid to suggest—”

“Your name, mister. While I'm young.”

Peter was much taller than Spence and stared down at him with
powerful arms folded and muscles bulging at the tuxedo fabric.
7

“Stick it, Petya.” Spence jabbed the pen again, leaving blue ink marks on Petya's starched white shirt. He put the pen away. “You can leave as soon as we finish interviewing your people. We got a couple to go.”

“You stupid man.” Petya went to the sink and wet a napkin, dab
bing at his shirt. “You'll pay for shirt, yes? And interviews are all wrong.”

“Why?”

“Roster the lady professor give you is not right. Kravitz scheduled tonight—he not show. So roster is not good. I already explain to other cop.”

Spence lifted his radio, threw a finger in the air for Petya to wait, and walked to the hall. He spoke with Deputy Woods on his radio while keeping an eye on Petya Sergeyevich Chernyshov.

The conversation lasted only a moment.

“Bullshit, Petya. You had twenty-two names on your roster, counting you, and twenty-two warm bodies were checked in by my guys.
You replaced Kravitz with someone.”

Petya shrugged. “Yes, that is right. I didn't say no, did I? I say Kravitz did not come here. He sent Jorge-someone. I was—”

“Where's Jorge-someone?”

Petya looked at the chef leaning against the sink. The chef shook his head and looked away. Petya said, “We not know. He left. Maybe sick. Maybe other work. Who knows, maybe girlfriend.”

“He just left?” Spence smiled like a snake about to strike. “You lost a guy wearing a white dinner jacket and carrying the lobster bisque? How did you lose him?”

Petya stared back and shrugged.

“I need an address and phone. And I need it fast.”

“I am sorry. I do not have information you want. I told you, Kravitz send him. We were rushed and I need someone to serve. No papers. I pay cash.”

Spence lifted his radio again and spit out orders to check all the guests and grounds for the missing caterer. He peered at Petya. “I
guess since there's no paperwork you don't have a description
either, right?”

Petya shook his head. “I asked. No one saw him much, you know.
No one know him. They say he was Mexican or something. He did not speak but was doing good job. I leave him alone.”

“Sure, right. No one spoke. Paid cash. You run a tight ship here, Petya. I'll put a BOLO out for a Mexican-or-something in a white jacket doing a great job. Perfect. You're a big help.”

Petya muttered something and made the chef laugh.

“You got something else to say?” Spence stepped forward. “Listen, Petya, you and me are going to go around pretty soon. You—”

“Detective?” Deputy Woods walked into the kitchen. “A minute,
Mike?”

“What for Christ's sake,” Spence said. “Me and Petya are—”

“Detective, we're missing two guests.”

Petya spat a coarse laugh. “Oh, so Detective, it is
you
missing
someone? Important someone?”

“Shove it.” Spence whirled around at Woods. “What are you talking about?”

Woods had his notebook out. “One-hundred eighty three guests on the list. One-hundred eighty three checked off on arrival. We're doing a name-to-interview comparison, but—”

“What—one-eight-three equals one-eighty-three, right?” Spence
shrugged. “If you got 'em all—”

“We didn't.” Woods flipped to a page and handed the pad to Spence.
“There were two uninvited guests who weren't on the list. So we should have one-eighty-five. We only got one-eighty-three now.”

Spence ran over the checkmarks and comments alongside each name. “Who's missing, Woods? Did you count the stiff?”

“Yeah, I counted him. We got some big shot from DC who refused to sign the guest list and some bodyguard who came in with someone else. Both were vouched in by one of Professor Tucker's VIPs.”

“One of Angela's friends?” Spence looked up and threw a dagger-eye at Petya who smiled ear-to-ear. “Who, Woods? Who vouched for the uninvited guests?”

“Our suspect, Mike. Professor André Cartier.”

sixteen

“No worries, Professor Cartier,”
Captain Sutter said as André
was led toward a police cruiser. “If you're innocent, it'll all be okay.”

“Oh, Captain?” André snapped over his shoulder. “The innocent
go free? Does it always work so well?”

She didn't answer. She didn't have to. She walked off into the house.

Angel was crying and Bear tried consoling her with a big paw wrapped
around her shoulders. It wasn't working.

I stood there, watching and wishing it were me holding her close.
But it wasn't and it couldn't be—ever again. Well, not the same way, anyhow.

“Angel,” I said, “I'm going to look around the house some more.
Bear and I will figure this out. You know we will. André will be fine.”

She nodded, pulled away from Bear, and walked toward the street.

I hatched an idea and followed Bear to the rear sitting room that had been taken over as a makeshift command post. Captain Sutter sat at a table making notes. In front of her were three evidence bags con
taining the .22-caliber pistol, André's driving glove, and the .22-
caliber shell found in André's Mercedes.

When Bear and I walked up to the table, Captain Sutter looked up.
“Bear, don't start on me. I know he's Angela's family and all. But evidence is evidence.”

“No, I get it, Cap. But if you knew him like I do, you'd know he's not a killer.”

“Then prove it, dammit. Prove it fast.” She stood and stretched. “I'm getting coffee. I'll bring you some. You'll need it—you're not leaving until this thing is wrapped up.”

Bear slumped into a chair at the table and watched her walk off. His eyes were red and his temper short. Several times he picked up the evidence bag with the .22 pistol and looked it over, each time tossing it back onto the table as though it were on fire. Frustration was driving him and the ride was getting rougher.

“There's no way André did this. No way.”

I looked at the gun sitting in front of him. “Bear, listen to me. Listen.” I touched his hand resting on the evidence bag and willed my voice into his head. Even as thick as he was most of the time, he often heard me—especially when things were crazy. If this didn't qualify as crazy, nothing did.

“I need to touch the gun, Bear. Open the evidence bag. I need to touch the gun.”

He looked around the room. “Huh? What—Spence, is that you?”

“Open the bag, moron. I know you hear me. Quit being a pain in the ass.”

“Let's take a closer look.” He grabbed the evidence bag and tore at the corner, peeling back the plastic. The pistol slipped onto the table in front of him. Then he pulled on a crime scene glove from his pocket and held the gun up for closer inspection.

“Bear, what the heck are you doing?” Spence came into the room.
“You can't open the evidence up right now. The crime techs are going to throw a hissy fit.”

“Let them, Spence, I—”

I couldn't hear them arguing anymore. When my fingers touched the gun, lightning flashed everywhere in the room.

It was happening.

A shower of light and colors swirled around me. It ebbed and flowed, darkness mixing into a rolling sea of light. The electricity finger-walked through me until my entire being was charged and vibrating. And as fast as it began, it calmed and grew dark. Bear disappeared from the table—as did the table, the walls, and the room. Everything was sucked away. Crude stone walls took their place and the remaining light snapped dark as though a doorway closed behind me.

I was in total obscurity.

A musty, dank smell of old stone and stale air surrounded me. I reached out and felt the cold, hard surface of rocks and stones. Somewhere ahead, a faint light flickered on and I walked toward it. The floor was hard—stone or rock too,—a tunnel or cavern that disappeared into the dim light somewhere ahead.

But where?

Hot needles danced in my head like sparks from a fire. It was odd—not that death isn't—but the sparks stirred confusion as disorientation fluttered inside. My thoughts were invaded. Other thoughts raced in and took over; unfamiliar thoughts foreign to me. I was alone, isolated … alien.

I finally understood.

The .22-caliber murder weapon brought me to the killer.

No, that wasn't right. The silenced gun was in my hand—the killer's hand—and he was me.

seventeen

Me, a killer?

No—never. Yet, at the moment, there and now, the killer and I were one. Strange thoughts consumed me—someone else's thoughts controlled me and kept me focused on keeping calm and steady. I knew I was taking each step, felt the anticipation in the darkness as I moved forward. Someone was ahead. I was meeting them.

Someone I was looking for.

I held the silenced .22 pistol in one gloved hand and a penlight in the other. I followed the tunnel and each step felt comfortable and familiar. Had I been here before? The shooter had. My flashlight beam moved ahead of me and shined where the passage
turned left. I followed without hesitation—without angst or concern—knowing the way. Without controlling the body I shared, I followed the passage around another turn. Ahead was a flicker that mo
ved in a slow, upward arc.

A cigarette.

The cigarette glowed and behind it, I saw a man. My penlight bathed him until his hand rose and blocked the light.

“Point the light somewhere else, it's pissing me off.” His voice was monotone and curt.

He was in his late forties with a dark, flat face I knew was no friend. His head was shaved and he had no beard or sideburns and thin, almost vacant eyebrows. He wasn't tall but bulky and muscu
lar—no taller than five-eight, and even in the darkness his strength
was obvious. His bulk was too much for the fabric of his shirt, and it strained at the shoulders and chest. His cummerbund was crooked and ruffled as though something had been shoved into it. His jacket was slung over his shoulder and his sleeves were rolled
up—he was uncomfortable in the clothes, and the tight fit made him
edgy.

He was dressed for the evening but he was neither caterer nor guest. I knew this when the light showed the handgun held at his side.

And his gun, too, was a silenced .22 pistol.

Tattoos and prison art peeked out from beneath his rolled shirtsleeves on his left arm. On his forearm were four one-inch hash marks tattooed side by side. After tonight there would be a fifth one embroidered alongside them.

He wasn't just a murderer, either. The hash marks on his arm told me he was a hired assassin. And he'd killed at least four times before.

He turned away from me—us. “You should have come sooner. I thought I was caught.”

Without a word, I slipped a dark leather glove on my gun hand and lifted the penlight into the man's face. His hand rose to shield the light and he turned away from me a second time.

“Put the light down.” He waited for the light to shine down to the ground. “Anatoly said you were paying for this yourself. I hope you brought cash tonight; our deal was cash. Imagine,
you
payin'
me
. Who would think?”

I was incapable of stopping. Incapable of speaking. I knew what was about to happen. The plan fluttered into my thoughts; my plan.

My gun rose and my arm leveled the weapon at the assassin's ear.

There was no hesitation. No second thought. No stopping. No remorse.

I fired.

The .22-caliber round, its ballistics quieter and less powerful than other ammunition, was all but noiseless with the silencer—its sharp crack muffled to a mere mechanical cough.

The assassin was dead before he hit the stone floor.

I followed the body down, and, careful to place the muzzle over the exact entry wound, fired a second shot into the man's head.

It was almost a certainty this second shot was unnecessary.

When I stood and turned to escape back the way I'd come, my head spun. I took one step before the killer relinquished me. The whirlpool of lights and electricity took me again and spun me in a funnel cloud, twisting and loosening the killer's thoughts from my head. When it was over, I was woozy and weak—a child after a carnival ride—and it took a moment to regain my own senses.

I was back standing beside Bear, watching him rebag the .22-caliber murder weapon as Spence chided him.

“Bear,” I said, dropping into a chair at the table. “You've got another
body around here. You have to look for it. Come on, Bear, we gotta find it.”

Bear placed the evidence bag on the table. He stared at nothing, an empty expression on his face telling me my words were ringing in his head. He grunted something and rubbed his eyes.

“There are two killers, Bear—
two
. An assassin killed Grecco.
Another killer killed the assassin. The assassin was killed in a cellar or some kind of tunnel. The body has to be close. It's here some
where. It has to be.”

Bear stood. “Spence!”

Spence sat across the table and nearly fell off his chair. “Christ, I'm sitting right here. Have you heard one word about the missing people?”

“Listen to me. We have to search the house again. The houses next
door, too.”

“What are you talking about? We've been over everything twice.”

“Do it again.” Bear pounded the table. “Then do it a fourth time
if
you still don't find it.”

“Find what? What are we looking for, Bear?”

“Another body.”