Dying to Tell

Copyright Information

Dying to Tell: A Gumshoe Ghost Mystery
© 2016 by TJ O'Connor.

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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.

First e-book edition © 2016

E-book ISBN: 9780738746630

Book format by Teresa Pojar

Cover design by Lisa Novak

Cover Illustration by Jesse Reisch/Deborah Wolfe Ltd.

Editing by Nicole Nugent

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Dedication

For Sean, Ryan, and Shane

Chasing dreams is a long road

It takes courage, stamina, and patience

Don't give up—ever.

Acknowledgments

Writing is not a team sport—not until you reach the “The End” and your agent, personal publicist, publisher, and publisher's editors jump in. Then it's all hands on deck. This novel is no different. And to all of you who joined the fray to put this one on the shelf, so many thanks I cannot begin to list them all.

The usual suspects—Jean, Nic, Natalia, Gina, Toby, and Maggie
…
even Duke—are constant support. Mosby, my best pal, whom I lost during the completion of this book, inspires me still for his gentleness, kindness, and devotion.

Also, never-ending thanks to Kimberley Cameron for support and wisdom, and above all, confidence in my work as we charge ahead toward new projects.

A huge thanks to Maryglenn McCombs—publicist extraordinaire—for all the great reviews, ideas, and energy she has given my books. Her enthusiasm and drive to help get my name out is so much appreciated, and I couldn't do it without her.

In memory of my best friend, mentor, hero, and best critic—Wally F. who would “one more edit” me to oblivion if he could have. “Good Enough is not Good Enough” is his mantra. It's that quest that drives me still; oh, and his puns.

It goes without saying that without Terri at Midnight Ink, I would not be here. Her support, friendship, and willingness to give me a chance inspires me and it's something I try to pass along whenever I can.

To all I haven't mentioned in this post—and there are many: thank you. Writing may not be a team sport, but I have a great one nonetheless.

Thank you to all.

one

Dying is as perilous
as secrets and lies. Depending, of course, on who is keeping the secrets and who is telling the lies. Trust me, I'm in the secrets and lies business—I'm a homicide cop. Well, I was. Secrets and lies can lead to big problems—like murder—although it's not in the secrets or the lies themselves. It's that someone always wants to tell. The urge is like an addict needing a fix. You need to tell—you cannot help it—you have to tell. Sometimes it's out of guilt. Sometimes it's for revenge. Sometimes it's just spite. No matter, in the end, someone is always
dying to tell
.

And then bad things happen.

An
auburn-haired
beauty with green eyes—eyes that could hypnotize vampires—walked down the outdoor Old Town Winchester mall through a dusting of blowing December snow. She stopped momentarily to adjust her long wool overcoat over her athletic legs and curvaceous, bumpy body—a good bumpy. She looked around the mall, twice back from where she'd come, and turned down the sidewalk to the annex behind the First Bank and Trust of Frederick County. When she caught sight of me, her smile—one that normally could charm snakes—looked more like that of a cobra ready to strike.

I ran to catch up.

No, not because I'm obsessed with vampires or snake charmers. And no, I wasn't stalking this classy university professor on her way to some mysterious early morning appointment. She was my wife, but she
was
on her way to a mysterious appointment—and I didn't know where or why. So, being the former detective I was, I followed her.

“Angel, where you going?”

“To the bank.” She reached the employee entrance door and stopped.
“Why are you following me?”

Silly question. “Because you're going to the bank at seven in the morning. It's closed.”

She checked her watch. “And it's almost seven thirty.”

“Haven't you ever heard of banker's hours? Who do you think is here this early?”

She rolled her eyes—a signal that my wit or charm had disarmed her. “I'll explain later at home.”

“I'll wait. We can get pancakes.”

“You hate pancakes. What's wrong with you lately? Are you spying on me?”

I did hate pancakes, but watching her eat steak and eggs—my favorite breakfast—was much more painful. “Spying, no. Me?”

“I didn't think the dead could be so frustrating.”

Oh, did I mention I'm dead? No? I'm Tuck, formerly Detective Oliver Tucker of the Frederick County Sheriff's office. Now I'm just Tuck to my friends—those living and dead. I was a hotshot homicide detective before I went investigating noises in my house late one night. Those noises led someone to put a bullet in my heart.
That was nearly two years ago. And it's taken me that long to come to terms with it. Sort of. It helped to catch the bastard who shot me and put an end to his killing spree. And it helps to have my wife, Angel, and Hercule, my black Lab, around, too.
Dead
and
gone
are two totally different things. I'm dead, but as Angel and Hercule will tell you—well, maybe not Hercule, he's a dog—I'm just not gone.

“Angel, listen, I …”

The steel security door at the employee entrance door burst open and banged against the brick annex wall. A masked gunman—a tall,
strong-looking
figure dressed in dark clothes and the traditional bank robber's balaclava—ran from the annex, turned, and fired a shot from a small revolver. He slipped on the sidewalk, freshly adorned with an inch of snow, and crashed to the ground. He cursed, jumped to his feet, and locked eyes on Angel.

“Run, Angel. Run!” I yelled.

Too late.

The gunman scrambled the three yards to us and grabbed Angel by the arm. “Come here!” He spun her around, pulled her to him like a shield, and faced the annex doorway.

A bank security guard emerged through the door, gun first. “Freeze! Let her go!”

The gunman fired two shots in rapid succession. One hit the security guard and the other slammed safely into the wall two feet beside him. The guard grunted, staggered back, and went down, striking his head on a stone flower planter beside the entrance.

“Angel, stay calm,” I said. “I'll get you out of this.”

“Tuck, help me!”

I dove for the gunman and took two vicious swings trying to free her. Both blows struck him in the face and neither caused him to flinch. I struck again—lashed a kick to his knee, a jab to the rib cage. Two more body blows.

Nothing.

“Angel, fight. You have to fight. I can't help.”

Angel was not a timid or slight woman and she erupted like a wildcat, taking the gunman by surprise. She twisted and fought against his grip and nearly broke free.

“Dammit, lady, stop!” He jammed the revolved to her cheek. “Or else.”

“Tuck,” she cried out, “help me! Tuck …”

Rage boiled over and the explosion started inside me everywhere. A second later, my fingers tingled and my body burned from the inside. Seconds were all I had. I lunged forward and struck the gunman in the throat with the heel of my hand. He staggered back, relaxing his grip around Angel. I struck two more vicious punches to his face and followed with a kick to his midsection.

“What the f—” He released her and turned in a circle, his eyes darting around.

I struck two kidney punches and a sharp kick to the inside of one leg. He
umphed
and crumpled sideways down onto one knee. I crushed him with a
two-fisted
hammer punch to the back of his neck.

“Run, Angel—go!”

She was only four or five strides from the gunman when he lifted his revolver and took aim.

A gunshot split the air from behind us, searing a lightning bolt through me on its way to the bank robber. It struck him in the upper arm and spun him sideways. A second shot followed but missed him by mere inches. The gunman was stunned but regained his footing—his injury wasn't stopping him. He staggered back, lifted his revolver, and pulled off a shot before he ran around the rear of the bank annex and disappeared.

“Angel?” I spun around. “Are you all right?”

Apparently, she was fine.

A tall,
square-jawed
, distinguished man in a heavy wool overcoat stood beside her now. He had one arm around her, speaking slowly to her—consoling her—and his other arm hung to his side, a black, compact .45 semiautomatic handgun in his grasp. He looked like a younger Clooney, but perhaps better looking. I instantly distrusted him.

“I'm fine, Mr. Thorne, really.” Angel slipped from his arm and went to the security guard lying on the snowy ground beside the annex door. She moved over him, checked his wounds, and tried to wake him. “Call an ambulance. He's been shot and is unconscious.”

Thorne—a man I'd never seen before—pulled a cell phone from his overcoat pocket. “Right, and the police. Is Conti all right?”

“I'm not sure.” She investigated a small, thin hole over the guard's left breast through his blue suit coat. From inside the coat, she pulled out a paperback book and held it up. “Agatha Christie saved his life—
Murder on the Orient Express.
The bullet hit this and didn't go through.”

I put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her—or perhaps, to comfort me. The rage had passed, and with it, the last of my connection to the physical world. “Are you okay, babe? I …”

“I'm fine. Go see if anyone else is hurt inside.” She caught Thorne eyeing her. “There may be more employees inside, right?”

“Not at this hour, no. Let's wait on the police.”

No, I wasn't waiting.

A voice beckoned me into the bank and I followed. It wasn't a voice—not really—it was more like someone telegraphing words into my head: “It isn't over, kid, follow me.”

The bank annex was dark. The faint morning light was barely enough to cast more than a dull haze through the lobby windows. I went through the grand lobby, down a long, dark corridor into the executive wing. At the end of the corridor were three offices. I stopped at the suite of William H. Mendelson, Chairman of the Board, First Bank and Trust of Frederick County—or so said the brass plaque below the oversized portrait of a
silver-haired
titan.

The voice from nowhere whispered, “Hurry up, kid. Inside.”

I followed the voice into the
pitch-black
office and through a second doorway in the corner of the room—a closet, I thought—but it was the entrance to a stairwell leading down into more darkness. Two floors below, in a
sub-basement
, the stairwell opened to a wide landing at a heavy steel security gate that looked like a prison cell door. Beyond the gate was a small anteroom lit by a dim fluorescent light overhead. The gate was unlocked and open and the anteroom beyond was empty except for a small metal work table and two
battleship-gray
chairs. In the rear of the room was a monstrous,
turn-of
-
the-century
steel vault door—the
nineteenth
century. To my surprise, the door was cracked open, and a sliver of eerie light from inside the vault etched the anteroom wall.

“Inside, Oliver.” The voice was all around me now. “Go inside.”

Oliver?
“Who the hell are you?”

“Just go. Quit stalling.”

I turned and found a strange man—a fellow wraith—leaning against the anteroom wall watching me—not in a casual way, but trying to
appear
casual. He had one hand in a pocket of his leather bomber jacket and he tipped a baseball cap that had a big “W” on it off his brow with the other.

“Trust me, kid. This isn't the way it looks.” He threw a chin toward the vault. “Go on in. I've done my part. Now it's your turn.”

Inside I found the Chairman of the First Bank and Trust of Frederick County.

William H. Mendelson always reminded me of Lionel Barrymore's Mr. Potter from
It's a Wonderful Life.
He was a starchy, arrogant old banker who made rare appearances around town. When he did, he never spoke, didn't wave, and never, ever smiled. And to those who knew him, he was never William or Bill—God, never Billy, either. He was Mr. Mendelson—or more often, the Chairman.

Like he was Frank Sinatra or something, right?

William sat behind a square steel counting table in the middle of the vault, facing the door. He was dressed in the same blue double-
breasted suit he must have worn yesterday—from the smell, he'd been here a while. A dark blood stain ruined his starched white shirt and expensive silk tie—the result of a
small-caliber
bullet hole in his heart. Both hands rested on the tabletop like he was waiting for a sandwich—or pancakes—and they were stuck to the blackish gooey remains of his life.

And hanging in the vault air was the heavy, pungent odor of smoke.

The
bomber-jacketed
man—strangely familiar—said, “Remember, kid, it's not what you think.”

“Hello, William,” I said, looking at the murdered chairman. “I'm Tuck and I'll be investigating your murder. Perhaps you can tell me—what
should
I think?”