Dying to Know (32 page)

“I’ve thought of that,” Angel said, shaking her head. “I’m not

bringing it with me—I’ll show him the sketches first. I’ll bring

Hercule for a drive. He’ll protect me.”

“All right, my dear. Be careful.”

Angel hesitated before saying, “Will you call me later and let

me know about Tyler?”

“Of course, he’s definitely very suspect in all this. Nicholas

Bartalotta, too,” Ernie said with a wink. “And you keep Detective

Braddock under your eye, too.”

“Listen to yourself. Is everyone a suspect?”

“Yes, everyone is.”

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fift y-seven

Paul Livingston Jr.’s quaint, nineteenth-century shop was a

block off Main Street in Strasburg. The brick and colonial-win-

dowed facade had a simple, wooden sign hanging over the door

that read, “Strasburg Fine Jewelry and Goldsmith, Est. 1949.”

That was a misnomer of course; Paul Junior moved to Strasburg

ten years ago after dear old dad went up the river. Junior had his father’s propensity to be a little on the loose side of the truth.

The shop was small with glass jewelry cabinets surrounding

the entrance. There was barely enough room for both of us to

enter and move around without a collision. Wel , if I were actu-

al y occupying space, that is. Beyond the showroom was an office

area, and beside that, a door leading deeper into the building.

There was no one in sight, and Angel looked for a bell or

buzzer. Before she found it beneath a newspaper on the counter,

a voice from the backroom yelled, “I’ll be right there. Please look around.”

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“All right, thank you,” Angel called back.

I pointed out the closed circuit television camera in the far

corner of the ceiling. The red light glowing on its face told me it was on. Livingston was watching our every move. “Imagine this

guy worrying about crooks.”

“Behave. I don’t want to be here long.”

“Good morning.” A somewhat rotund, bald man appeared

through the doorway in the rear. He had heavy, frosted eyebrows

and squinty, piggish eyes. His reading glasses were perched on

his nose with a second pair—probably magnifying glasses—

propped on his forehead. He was wiping his hands on a heavy

jeweler’s apron and ogling Angel.

Livingston wheezed as he approached us; his heavy girth

making the floorboards groan and the glass displays rattle. He

was sweaty—hopeful y not from the ten feet he just walked—and

his face was red. Without subtlety, he continued ogling Angel

and dropped himself on a padded wooden stool across the center

display counter from us.

“Well now, what can I do for you, sweetie?”

Did I mention that Livingston-Senior was an incorrigible

worm with the charm of a lizard? Obviously, these traits were

deeply rooted in the genes.

“Good morning.” Angel laid Liam McCorkle’s sketches down

on the counter but kept her hand resting on top. “Mr. Livings-

ton?”

“Yes. Please call me Paul.” Paul couldn’t keep his eyes off

her—not that his were on hers. He reached into his pocket and

took out several business cards. He sorted through them and

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handed one to her from the center of the stack. “My card,

sweetie—with my very private number.”

“Ah, yes, thank you.” Angel glanced at it but pressed on. “Paul,

you were referred by an antique dealer in Staunton. I want to

know if you or your father made a piece of jewelry I’ve found.”

“Wel , let’s see.” With one glance, Livingston’s face went from

sweaty-red to pasty-white. He pulled the reading glasses from his

nose. “Staunton? Who?”

“Liam McCorkle.”

Someone call nine-one-one.

Livingston tensed. His wheezing stopped in mid-breath. He

leaned back on the stool and folded his arms, eyeing Angel with

enough contempt to sear his words. “Bul shit. McCorkle’s dead.”

“Yes, I know. I was there.”

“Oh you were?” Livingston sneered. He tugged one of the

sketches from beneath Angel’s hand and held his reading glasses

above it like a magnifying glass. Without looking up, he said,

“Where did you get these?”

“From McCorkle.”

I added, “You’ve got his attention, Angel. Play him some line

and see where this takes us.”

“Lady …”

“Angela, please.”

“Okay, Angela. McCorkle gave you these?”

Angel played it cool. “Before he was killed. You see, I have a

bracelet that resembles these sketches. I’m trying to find the jeweler who made it—it’s an original piece and I’d like some infor-

mation.”

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“Show me the bracelet.”

“Are these sketches your father’s? Or did you do the artwork?”

“It’s not mine,” he waved a hand. “I never did anything like

this. I’m not even sure Dad did. I’d have to see the piece to know if he made it.”

“Why?” Angel rolled up the sketches and extended her hand

for the one Livingston was holding. “Don’t you have records?”

“Sure, some.” His tone turned ugly. “What is this real y about?

And don’t give me any shit about McCorkle, either.”

I leaned close to Angela. “Tell him there’s a reward if he can

help identify the bracelet’s owner.”

She did and Livingston’s eyebrows rose. “Wel , now. You want

to know who had the piece made? Didn’t McCorkle tell you?”

“No, he said you could,” Angel lied—damn she was good at

that. “He said your father made the piece before he was sent to

prison. He thought your records would tell me who the original

owner was.”

The word “prison” put Livingston on his feet and started him

sweating again. “That was a long time ago. But sure, I have some

of Dad’s records from back then. I computerized them for the

insurance people. I’ll see what I can find. Come back later.”

I didn’t trust Livingston and the more cooperative he became,

the less I liked. I also didn’t want Angel coming back. We needed

to get what we could and scram. “No, Angel. Tell him he gets five

hundred if he IDs the owner and an extra five hundred if he does

it right now.”

“A thousand?” Angel’s voice was higher than she planned;

that gave Livingston an unsettled twitch in his face.

315

“For a thousand, I’ll do this quick.” He took the sketches from

her and headed toward the rear office. “Come with me. I’ve got

some coffee in the back and you can relax while I check the files.”

We followed him through the rear door and down a short

hal way to a corner room on the left. “That’s the kitchen. Coffee

is on the hotplate. Help yourself. Give me some time, though.

There are a lot of files.”

We went in and Angel waited until he disappeared back into

the hal way before she let me have it. “A thousand dol ars? Are

you insane? I don’t have that kind of cash with me.”

“Relax,” I said. “Tell him Bear has the reward. If he balks, cal

Bear right in front of him. That’ll bunch his knickers up.”

“It better.”

“You can always take it out of my life insurance.”

“I will.”

After forty-five minutes, Angel was getting antsy. She pulled

out Livingston’s business card and looked it over. When she read

me the card, bel s and whistles went off.

“Hey, read me that number again.”

She did.

“We gotta get out of here. Now.”

“What’s wrong, Tuck? What is it?” She glanced at the card

again. “Is the phone number important?”

Holy shit it was. “Angel, when we were at Bear’s office the

other day, I saw him pocket some evidence. He didn’t log it into

the records like he should have.”

“Okay, so he shouldn’t have done that. What does that have to

do with …”

316

“He took a business card out of the file and it had Livingston’s

phone number. He …”

“Just stop it, Tuck.” She glanced at the card again and then to-

ward the kitchen doorway. “You’re too suspicious of Bear and I’m

tired of it.”

“No, you don’t understand …” I felt a tingle run through me.

“Forget it, let’s go. Now. I got a bad feeling.”

When we emerged in the main office, I knew my tingle was

right. The closed circuit camera watching the store entrance

wasn’t watching any longer; its red power light was off. Livings-

ton turned off his surveil ance cameras.

“Angel, get the hell out of here. Something’s wrong. Go.”

It was already too late.

Livingston’s deceit walked in the front door and blocked our

escape.

“Good morning, my dear,” Poor Nic said with a wide, wolf-

like grin. He extended his hand to her, palm up. “And I under-

stand you found my missing bracelet.”

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fift y-eig ht

“That bracelet belongs to me.” Poor Nic blocked the door-

way and still held out his hand. His eyes were cold and had lost

the grandfather-twinkle; the gangster side of him fil ed its place.

“I want it. Now.”

I said, “Stay cool. Even this bozo won’t do anything stupid in

public.”

“Nicholas, I don’t have it with me. I brought the sketches for

Livingston to look at.”

“Then you do have it.” He motioned to Tommy and Bobby

who squeezed into the room behind him. “I’m afraid we’ll have

to make sure. But use some couth, won’t you, boys?”

Tommy hesitated. “Ah, Mr. Bartalotta, are you sure?”

“That’s up to her,” Poor Nic said, eyeing Angel. “She can turn

out her pockets and empty her bag—or you can.”

“If they touch me, I’ll have you all arrested.”

Poor Nic waved at Livingston. “Get lost, Paul.”

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Livingston laughed and clomped into his office.

“Nicholas,” Angel said. “The last time we met, you seemed

genuinely pleasant—even innocent. Was I wrong and everyone

else right about you?”

He blinked a couple times as she stared daggers in him. I

knew that look—she was going to fight it out and it would take

both his goons to do his bidding. It was going to get ugly.

“No, my dear, you were not wrong. But then, you didn’t have

my bracelet and I wasn’t out millions. So much has happened

these past few days—no? Everything has changed, Professor

Tucker. Everything.”

Angel’s chin rose in a defiant arc.

“Now …” Poor Nic took a step forward. “Give me the bracelet

and you may go. No one will bother you again. You have my

word.”

“Who does it belong to—you don’t look like the musical

typ e.”

Bobby took a step forward, but a sharp hand from Nicholas

stopped him. “No, of course not. It was a gift; a very special gift.”

“For whom?”

I said, “Don’t push this guy, Angel. You were right and I was

wrong—we shouldn’t have come.”

“Who?” She demanded again. “One of the dead girls at the

farm?”

Wham-o. She couldn’t have shocked him more with a sharp

slap. His face contorted as if the life was being squeezed from

him. His fists shook at his sides and for a second, only guttural

Italian slurs cut the rawness in the air.

319

Even Tommy winced.

Final y, Nic caught his breath. He thrust an angry, lethal fin-

ger toward her. “You be very careful, Professor Tucker. You speak

to me without respect—and of things you should not. The past—

my past—is not for you or
anyone
to intrude into. What happened is for me to reconcile. Not for you. Not for the police. Me.”

What the hell was he talking about?

Angel started to speak when Bobby stepped forward and

grasped one of her arms. This time, Poor Nic did not intervene.

She tried to pull free but Bobby’s grip was too strong. She and

Poor Nic locked eyes and their wills collided. Angel was not

going to give in and that was dangerous. She swung her free fist

but Bobby deftly blocked it.

“The bracelet, Angela. Now.”

Burglar alarms are designed to stop a robbery or a break-in.

They are not designed for an escape. Either way, though, they

summon the police. I don’t think that fat lying toad, Paul Liv-

ingston, considered that when he installed his and put the panic

button under the counter. Another important fact is that they

run on electricity and as I’ve learned, electricity is my pal. So, when I found the panic button and connected with the juice, the

alarm went off. It went off very, very loud.

I can be a mischievous little bastard, can’t I?

The deafening, high-pitched siren pierced everyone to the

bone—even me. The bazillion-decibel wailing is designed to

send would-be holdup men running and the police responding

from five blocks away. I had no doubt it worked. Livingston

emerged from his office and ran for the backroom. His face was

320

on fire and sweat poured from his brow. Tommy slapped his

hands over his ears and as Bobby followed suit.

Angel was free.

Only Poor Nic stood unfazed by the ear-splitting cacophony.

Red-faced and gritting his teeth, he looked around the room for

the source of the siren. “Livingston, for Christ’s sake, turn it off.”

“I can’t,” he yelled from the backroom. “It’s the panic alarm—

the alarm company has to reset it. The police will be here soon.”

Just when I thought I understood him, Poor Nic began to

laugh. “Why Professor, somehow you have summoned rescue.

How on earth did you arrange that?”