Dying to Know (2 page)

Book design and format by Donna Burch

Cover design by Lisa Novak

Cover illustrator: Jesse Reisch/Deborah Wolfe Ltd.

Editing by Connie Hill

Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data (Pending)

ISBN: 978-0-7387-3950-2

Midnight Ink

Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

2143 Wooddale Drive

Woodbury, MN 55125-2989

www.midnightinkbooks.com

Printed in the United States of America

For Irene and Oscar—you’re missed.

But mostly for Wally—mentor, critic, and my hero.

I couldn’t have gotten here without all of you.

one

Dying is so overrated. Murder, on the other hand, is not.

Trust me, after fifteen years as a detective, I know a lot about

both. Like death and murder are always complicated, but not al-

ways related. You can have death without murder, but not the

other way around. That’s what I used to think anyway. I changed

my mind after an episode of my recurring nightmare. I’d been

having it for years and it always turned out the same. While

chasing a bad guy in the dark, he turned and shot me. I was

about to die when something always pulled me from the night-

mare.

This time, it was Hercule’s hot breath.

The four-year-old black lab was standing beside my bed al-

ternating between low growls and a tongue-lashing. Both de-

manded my attention. When my eyes first opened, he lapped at

my face and nudged me with his big, wet nose. I forced my eyes

open wider and at the same time realized that Angel was not

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snuggled beside me in bed. She was standing across the room

and listening at our bedroom door.

“Angel, did you hear something again?” She always heard

things late at night and always felt compelled to share them with

me. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Tuck. Herc can hear it, too. Wake up, will you? What kind

of detective are you?”

“The asleep-kind.”

“Just get up. Please?”

Hercule froze, nose down, staring at me as we both heard

creaking floorboards in the downstairs hal . I rolled sideways and sat on the side of the bed. Hercule crept away and crouched near

the door. For the third time, something interrupted Angel’s sleep.

The first two times were just our old house’s creaks and groans

and both failed to wake Hercule out of a stone-cold sleep. Now,

after summoning me, he was poised for homeland defense.

I got to my feet and gathered my clothes littered in a strategic

path across the room. I nearly toppled over slipping on my jeans

and a black tee shirt, and did manage to trip over my running

shoes.

Angel motioned for Herc to return to the bed. To me she

whispered, “Hurry up.”

“Look, if I’m going to get killed tonight, I don’t want to be

naked.” I grabbed my 40-caliber Glock from the nightstand and

checked the chamber. Then, I retrieved a .38 revolver from our

walk-in closet and handed it to Angel. “Just in case.”

“Okay. Be careful.”

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“Keep Herc close, babe. If it’s your imagination, stay awake

and lose those pjs. If it’s trouble, give me fifteen minutes—then

lose them.”

Even in the dark, I could see her eyes rol . “Just be careful.”

At the door, I listened but heard nothing. I winked at Angel

and Hercule on the bed and whispered, “I love you—you too,

Angel.”

Hercule wagged his tail.

In the hal way, I waited for my eyes to adjust a little more to

the darkness. I shifted them to use my peripheral vision, looking

for any telltale movement. Still nothing. From the top of the

stairs, I could just make out the foyer below and did not see or

hear anything. There were no wispy shadows, no running feet,

and no creaking floorboards. Yawning, I eased down the stairs

with my automatic out in front of me. At the bottom landing, I

stopped.

Darkness and the grandfather clock greeted me—it chimed

two.

The downstairs was quiet and I checked the front door. It was

still locked and there were no signs of splintered wood, broken

glass, or other forced entry. The only sound I heard was my own

breathing. The only curious sighting was the half-dressed,

frumpy guy in the hall mirror who looked tired and irritated.

Maybe Angel would be losing those pjs sooner rather than

later.

I started with the kitchen and worked my way around the first

floor, searching room by room—all five of them—ending in my

den. Nothing. The most dangerous thing I found was Hercule’s

3

squeaky frog that scared the crap out of me when I stepped on it. I felt foolish and decided to head back to bed.

It hit me when I reached to turn off my desk lamp.

The light shouldn’t have been on. I looked around and no-

ticed my briefcase wasn’t in its ritual place on my credenza. It

was on my chair and the contents strewn over my desk. Every-

thing was dumped out—my gold detective’s badge and I.D., sev-

eral files, a notepad, tape recorder, and my .380 backup piece.

No, the Walther wasn’t there—the holster was empty.

“Angel …” I bolted to the stairs and looked up.

Floorboards groaned above me. A door opened in the dark-

ness beyond the landing. Movement—a shadow.

Somewhere above, Angel called, “Tuck.”

There was a flash at the top of the stairs … a shot.

I lunged for the third stair. A figure stepped out of the dark-

ness twelve feet above me.

Another flash.

“Angel!”

4

t wo

The next morning, I realized how much in common I had with

my heroes. They were, of course, some of the greatest detectives

in history. I’m speaking of Doyle’s Holmes, Christie’s Poirot, and Bigger’s Charlie Chan. I could add Scooby and Shaggy, but

they’re cartoons and don’t count. The others are fictional charac-

ters, too, but they’re legends nonetheless. I’m not saying I’m a

legend. I’m saying they’re all dead.

So am I.

Being dead is not intuitive, mind you. In fact, it’s downright

confusing. Disappointing even. There were no trumpets, billowy

clouds, or bright beacons of light—not yet anyway. On the bright

side, there was no horny guy with bad breath and fire everywhere

either.

No, the revelation of my fate began with me sitting at my

desk, dazed and confused. I felt as though I’d touched a bare electric cord while taking a bath. Images swirled around me. My eyes

5

didn’t focus at first, and my body felt edgy and uncontrolled. It

took a long time to realize where and who I was. The pictures on

the den wall were at first empty frames. The books and knick-

knacks were foreign and without a story. Nothing seemed famil-

iar.

Until I saw the evidence in the hal way.

A body. My body.

The lightning hit me again and I exploded in a kaleidoscope

of memories. My life hadn’t passed before me last night after

charging for the chairs. It waited until now—just now—and the

rush of forty years poured over me. All of them, every memory,

left me aching and afraid.

My house was alive with murmurs and police radios, rushing

feet, and crime scene technicians taking photographs. They vac-

uumed the carpets for evidence and dusted fingerprint powder

everywhere. Their meticulous search for clues left nothing un-

touched.

All the proof I needed was on the foyer carpet just outside my

den.

My body lay crumpled where it fell just after two this morn-

ing. I’d never made the third step before the bullet struck my

chest and ended my life. It was gone before I hit the floor. I didn’t recall any trauma, any pain, or any fear.

Just a flash.

When I opened my eyes, it was over. I watched my body

being processed for gunshot residue, fibers, and time of death. A

crime lab technician bagged my hands to protect evidence.

Someone else kept snapping photographs and took measure-

6

ments. I’d performed those procedures dozens of times over the

years. Watching, they now took on a new meaning. So did homi-

cide. It had been my job and an important one, and I tried never

to let it get personal.

Now it was personal. Very personal.

My body and I shared the same forty-year-old exterior—five-

eleven and about one hundred ninety-five pounds with short

brown hair and three day’s growth of beard. My body was bare-

foot, wearing a blood-stained tee shirt and jeans. Luckily, spirit-me had enough class to have on a blue blazer and my running

shoes—my customary detective-attire. Even my gold detective’s

badge was clipped in its customary place on my belt.

Not that wardrobe matters to the dead, but I’d hate to spend

eternity half-naked.

I looked at my body and saw the crime scene technician sig-

nal someone in the living room across the hal . A petite, dark-

haired woman wearing a sweatshirt and jeans emerged. She

stood in the doorway looking down at my body.

Helen Sutter was the Captain of the Sheriff Department’s De-

tective squad and my boss. She knelt down beside my body and

the hum of commotion from a half-dozen cops quieted. A few

tears touched her cheek and she wiped them away. She cussed a

few times, bit her lip, and waved at one of the technicians.

“Carl, no mistakes. I want everything by the numbers. Do it

al three times. The one who screws up my evidence dies a slow

death.”

Carl shrugged. “There is no evidence.”

“Don’t give me that shit. There’s always evidence. Find it.”

7

“Yes, ma’am.” Carl looked back at my body and threw his chin

at two other deputies nearby. Feet started moving again, orders

spat, cameras chattered.

Captain Sutter lifted her radio and stood up. “Spence—Sutter.

Give me an update.”

The radio chirped and sputtered. “Ah, yeah, Captain … noth-

ing. Not a damn thing. We’ve talked to everyone on both sides of

the street for two blocks …”

“Then make it four blocks. And cover the side streets—then

you can damn well do it again.”

The radio chirped again but no voice followed.

“Braddock,” Captain Sutter bellowed. “Braddock,”

My front door banged open and a mountain walked in. He

was two hundred sixty pounds of rock and muscle. His hair was

short cut and his face scruffy and stained with emotion. Powerful

muscles strained against his golf shirt matted with dark stains—

blood stains. My blood.

Detective Theodore Braddock—Bear to most—stopped in-

side the doorway. Bear Braddock was not an emotional man, not

by any means. We’d been partners since the police academy

twenty years ago. Since then, I’d seen the brute pick up body

parts after a horrific traffic accident without a twitch. He could clear out a bar fight and take a beating without losing his temper.

Not too long ago, I’d seen him at his own brother’s funeral and he never shed a tear. He wasn’t a cold man, mind you, just hard and

tough. Maybe he was really a wussie-boy underneath, but no

one—including me—ever saw that side of him. No one ever sug-

gested it was there, either.

8

Now, he raised his chin and refused to glance at my body.

“Yeah, Cap?”

“Give me what you got.”

“Nothing new.”

Captain Sutter took his arm and dragged him into my den,

stopping beside the desk where I was still rooted. As she did,

Bear sidestepped my body like a child afraid to step on the

cracks. “Then give it to me one more time.”

“Yeah, right, again.” Bear went to my brown leather chair in

the corner and dropped into it. He leaned forward, burying his

face into his meaty hands. “Got the call from Angel at two-o-

five—I know ’cause that’s the time on my cel . She was upstairs,

locked in her bedroom. She said Tuck got shot—maybe dead—

someone was in the house. Tuck went to see and …”

She was nodding. “And you?”

“I arrived about two-thirtyish. Came straight in and found

him—he was already …”

“Got it.” She looked back into the foyer. “You two were sup-

posed to be on surveil ance all night, right?”

“Yeah.” Bear cleared his throat. His eyes were red and his face

puffy from an onslaught of emotions. “It was going nowhere.

Nothing happening at the warehouse so I cal ed it an early night.”

“How early?”

He thought, then said, “Eleven I guess. Maybe a little after.”

“So …”

“I went straight home. He said he was going to do some pa-

perwork at the office for a few hours. Angel didn’t expect him

9

home, so he was going to catch up.” Bear’s face angered. “I al-

ready went through this, Cap. Give me a break.”

Sutter gave him a moment. “Okay, after you found him and

called it in, then what?”

“I searched the place. Outside, too. Nothing. Uniforms ar-

rived five minutes later.”