Dying to Know (5 page)

turned her attention to the tomcat. “I’m sorry, Ernie. I dozed off.

What were you saying?”

“I was saying that you must get some rest. It’s been a long and

trying day.”

“Yes, yes. You’re right. But, I have so much to contend with.

First …”

“No first.” Ernie set his drink on the mantel and folded his

arms like a parent about to discipline. “You get rest. Everything

else will wait until tomorrow. I’ll take care of everything—wel ,

André and me, of course.”

“Thank you, Ernie. I don’t know what I’d do without you two.”

Ernie was always near in difficult times. During her child-

hood, he was a close family friend. When tragedy took her par-

ents, he assumed the role of uncle and never ventured far. He

helped mentor her through her doctorate and secured her pro-

fessorship at the university. Since then, he’s been a fixture in our home for holidays and summer barbecues. Her choice, not mine.

But, since she made three-times my cop salary, Old Ernie could

hang around whenever he wanted. Ernie was a mixture of doting

uncle, persnickety mentor, and pain-in-the-ass houseguest.

Thankful y, he was nearby now.

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“Angel,” I said. “Are you all right?” I slid onto the couch beside her and sent the tomcat bristling from the room with hisses and

growls.

Did I do that? “Angel, it’s me. Can you hear me? I’m all right—

I’m okay.”

She looked after the cat before turning toward me. I thought

she was going to reach out and touch my face but she dropped

her chin and cried instead.

“Angel, I’m okay.”

“I hope so,” she said and the words startled both of us.

“Tuck?”

“No, Angela.” Ernie crossed the room and sat down between

us. “No, Dear. He’s gone—I’m so sorry.”

Angel blinked, rubbed her eyes, and scanned the room. Her

face paled and she leaned back onto the pillow. “No—yes, of

course. But for a moment, I swear I heard him.”

“No, I’m here.” I slid off the couch and stood, looking down at

her. “Listen for me.”

She looked at Ernie and smiled a faint, embarrassed smile.

“You’re right. He’s gone.”

“No, Angel. Focus on my voice. Listen for me. I had a

dream … a vision.”

She cocked her head and closed her eyes. Her eyebrows rose

and she bit her lower lip as she did when concentrating.

Was it working?

“Angel, listen. There were two men digging in our house—but

it wasn’t our house. They found something important. One of

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them had a cross tattoo. It must have something to do with my

murder … that’s why I saw it …” Even dead, I tended to ramble.

“Tattoo?” She sat upright. “A tattooed man? Digging?”

Ernie suddenly stood and returned to the mantel, draining

his drink. He stole a glance at her and retrieved the crystal de-

canter, pouring a healthy refil .

“Angela, you’re dreaming—confused—grieving.”

“What tattooed man?” A voice said from the doorway. André

Cartier—official y, Uncle André Cartier—walked into the living

room with a tray of sandwiches. “Someone was digging? Where

and for what?”

“She has to get to bed, André. Leave the dream alone.”

“Dreams are funny things—manifestations of our subcon-

scious. Especially at a time like this.” Dr. André Cartier was a

professor of history and anthropology and a senior director at

the Smithsonian Institute in Washington D.C. His accolades were

long, but he coveted no greater role than as the former guardian

of his sister’s only child. “Besides, she has to eat first. We all do.”

Ernie lifted his glass. “I’ll drink, thank you.”

André and Ernie could easily be brothers. André had distin-

guished gray temples and a presence of confidence and intellect.

He shared Ernie’s athletic build and ageless appearance. André,

however, wore round, wire-rimmed eyeglasses perched on his

nose, preferred to be clean-shaven, and had ten or fifteen pounds

on Ernie.

Ernie was an uncle by choice; André by birthright. Both

shared Angel’s devotion.

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“I didn’t dream, André.” Angel stood and folded her arms as

though unsure of what to do next. “I heard Tuck. He was talking

to me. He saw a tattooed man digging. It had to be a dream.

Right?”

“See, André, a digging tattooed man. This is nonsense …”

“Nonsense?” André threw Angel a wink that drew a smile.

“How would you know about digging, Ernie? In al these years,

I’ve never seen your hands dirty.”

“I’m a history professor, not a laborer.”

“And a snob.” André let a thin smile dull the jab.

“And you? You are a typical Washington Bureaucrat.”

“Perhaps.” André laughed. “But, I’ve done more historical ex-

cavations this year than you have in your life.”

“Oh, you have?”

André threw his chin. “With more hours in the field than you

have in the classroom.”

Did I mention they were competitive?

Ernie dismissed him with a huff and returned to his brandy.

The glass stopped halfway to his lips when André spoke again.

“You don’t suppose this tattooed man has anything to do with

Kel y’s Dig?”

Angel sat upright. “Kelly’s Dig? Why would that involve

Tuck?”

“Oh come now,” Ernie said, snorting. “I don’t see a connec-

tion. After al , it’s just a dream.”

André said, “Dreams are funny things—but yes, enough said.”

Ernie agreed with a nod and took a long pull on his brandy.

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“Kel y’s Dig,” Angel mused, curling her legs beneath her. “I

want to get working there immediately. It’ll be good for me.”

“Now, Angela,” Ernie said. “I think work should wait a few

weeks. I’ve arranged …”

“No. I need to work. It’ll keep my mind off … Tuck. Kelly’s

Dig is not the day-to-day at the university. That’ll help.”

André caught Ernie’s eye and nodded. “I agree with Ernie.

The university has already given you ample bereavement time. I

can handle the dig. You don’t need distractions. You need to

grieve.”

“Distractions?” Ernie sprang to the middle of the living room

and thrust an angry finger into André’s chest. “Distractions? Kel-

ly’s Dig is the key to the county’s historical future.”

“Please, Ernie,” Andre whispered. “Not now. Think of Angel.”

“If Tyler Byrd gets his way, he’ll pave over our entire legacy.

You Washington Bureaucrats only understand money.”

“Now hold on.” André met him nose-to-nose. “I work for the

court, too, Ernie. And my Washington credentials are why.”

“Ernie,” Angel said, “you know very well he’s the expert we

need. Shame on you.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry.” Ernie patted the air in surrender. “Of

course it’s your Smithsonian credentials. Kelly’s Dig frustrates

me. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure it does,” André said. “I’m not saying you’re wrong.

It’s just not the time to be discussing Civil War cemeteries and

nineteenth-century skeletons.”

“Oh, dear.” Ernie looked at Angel and his eyes softened. “No,

of course not. Forgive me.”

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“It’s al right.” Angel forced a smile. “But, Ernie, the time off

from the university will be good for me to work on Kel y’s Dig.

You understand—a new project and al . I’m not ready to face al

the faculty and students yet.”

André said, “We can talk about this in the morning—all of us.

Why don’t you run up to bed, Angela?”

“Yes, all right.”

“Do you need anything?” Ernie asked.

Angel tried to smile but failed miserably. “Bear is taking care

of Hercule. He said they’re done with the house—the crime scene

people I mean.”

“Shall I bring Hercule here?” Ernie asked. “Would you feel

better?”

“No, he’s fine—recuperating. Bear’s looking after the house.”

“All right, Dear.” Ernie hesitated before holding up his hand.

“There is one small thing.”

“What is it?”

“About Kelly’s Dig.” Ernie moved close and placed a gentle

hand on her shoulder. “I called the local medical examiner’s of-

fice about their final report on the skeletal remains. They sent it and some artifacts they unearthed to you. I was unaware the artifacts existed. I’d like to see them.”

“No, I don’t have anything,” Angel said. “Where did the M.E.

send it?”

“Where?”

“To my home or office?”

He shrugged. “I assumed your home. We agreed you wouldn’t

involve the university.”

35

“Wel , yes we did. But, the court sends papers to me there.”

“I see.” Ernie nodded. “You think it’s at the university then?”

“I don’t know.”

André said, “I’ll get it for you, Angela. I can swing by your of-

fice tomorrow. I’ll have Carmen find it.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Ernie waved his hand and gave

Angel a squeeze. “I’m in the same building. I’ll speak with Car-

men in the morning. She’ll be calling about you anyway.”

André shrugged. “Fine, I’ll be at Kelly’s Dig then. I’d like a

copy as wel , Ernie.”

“Certainly.”

André stepped between them and gave her a long, comforting

embrace. Ernie huffed and retreated to the mantel again. André

said, “Now, get some sleep. No more skeletons, Kel y’s Dig, or tattooed men.”

“Good night to both of you.”

“Dear,” Ernie said in a soft voice. “I hope you know that I was

very fond of Oliver.”

I hated that name. It reminded me of that sniveling little vag-

abond from Oliver Twist. I am more a Raymond Chandler or

Mickey Spil ane kind-of-guy. I lost the name “Oliver” in the first grade after my third playground fistfight.

“Tuck,” Angel said. “He hated being called Oliver.”

Ernie grinned. “I know.”

36

seven

I sat all night with Angel trying to talk to her, to reach her,

anything. Sometime after three in the morning, her tears suc-

cumbed to exhaustion and she fell asleep. I don’t know if I’d

reached her, but I wouldn’t stop trying until I did.

The next morning, I left her sleeping and went for a walk.

Strolling down Ernie’s half-mile gravel road, I stepped

through the looking glass back into my den. Hercule was no-

where around so I assumed he was up on our bed basking on my

pillow. That was his preferred place whenever I worked late at

night.

A disheveled blanket and pillow lay on the couch and I found

Bear sipping coffee in the kitchen. He checked his voicemail and

the Sheriff’s dispatch, then he poured more coffee. He penned

out a note to Angel telling her Hercule was okay and that Captain

Sutter released the house back to her. She could come home.

Crime scenes take time, but when a cop is killed, things move

37

faster. It also helps to have ten extra cops working the scene and being a priority at the crime lab.

For the third time in two days, he startled me.

On my front porch, he reached into his pocket and withdrew

his key ring. With a key I never knew existed, he locked my front

door. Then he walked to his cruiser outside the front gate and

drove away.

When did Bear Braddock get my front door key?

I felt the dizziness churn in my head again. Before I realized

it, I was sucked from the house onto the spook-express. I’m not

sure what happens when I’m pulled from here and sent to

there—wherever “there” ends up being. I seemed to go into time-

out. Sort of like when kids are bad. It was “time-out” and off to

their rooms. For me, it was an empty, dark place where I was

very, very alone. This time, however, it was momentary and

when the light surrounded me again, I was standing next to

Bear’s cruiser.

He was nowhere around.

I recognized the parking lot of the “Shenandoah View Fair-

ways” golf club. It was ten in the morning and a chil y fall day.

There were about five cars in the lot. Since Bear didn’t play golf, he was up to something.

What?

I found him standing beneath a rain shelter along some trees

three fairways away. He was arguing with a large man beside

him. The man seemed familiar but I couldn’t place him. His face

was round and puffy and he was built more for Greco-Roman

wrestling than golf. He had powerful, burly arms, and his bulky

38

body was stuffed into golf slacks and a sweater—his girth exceed-

ing his belt in the front. His features were tinted with a dark,

Mediterranean complexion. His hair was black and his eyes

shadowed by a thick, perpetual eyebrow. He reminded me of an

old movie thug collecting overdue debts. What a guy—part wres-

tler, part bagman.

Bear jabbed a finger at Mr. Sumo. “I told you to drop that. I

don’t want to hear that shit again.”

“Sure, sure, Bear,” Mr. Sumo said. “Whatever you say. But, lis-

ten, I’m just saying what’s on the street.”

“Forget rumors. I want your boss. I want him now.”

Mr. Sumo threw up his hands. “Fagget it. You know the rules.

I don’t give him up like that.”

“I want him. I need something to take the edge off. Funerals

make me grouchy and I got a big one coming.”

“He’s clean on that. I swear.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“No, listen. The Man ain’t gonna whack no cop. Especially

one snoopin’ around him already. You nuts?”

“Did I mention Tuck? I’m talking about the other one.”