Dying to Tell (12 page)

twenty-five

Larry Conti slid back
from the steering wheel of his old blue pickup and waited to start the engine. Karen was a block down the street, parked along the curb around the corner from William's house. She said she was going out for lunch. But the closest restaurant or her apartment was five blocks away.

What was she doing? And why hadn't she included him in on whatever it was?

He started the truck just as Karen's coupe pulled from the curb and made an immediate right down a side street. He pulled out so fast he nearly sideswiped a school bus dropping off kindergartners after morning classes. The bus driver swerved, gave him a long, angry horn and a few silent expletives through the bus door window, and continued to the corner.

“Dammit, move.”

The bus's emergency lights were on and four small children stumbled down the bus stairs to waiting parents on the corner. The entire departure took three minutes—the driver waited while one little girl returned to the bus for some forgotten refrigerator art. Finally, after more hugs and more waves, the bus lights turned off and it moved down the street.

It was too late.

Larry stomped on the gas and slid around the corner trying to find Karen. Had there been dry streets instead of slush, he could have squealed his tires. Instead, he slid halfway across the road, recovered poorly, and fishtailed another half a block to a stop sign.

She was nowhere to be seen.

“Dammit. Stupid kids.” He stomped on the gas again and kept straight, hoping to catch her ahead. Three blocks later, he cursed louder and banged his fist on the steering wheel. “Jesus, Karen, you better not be doing something with Thorne.”

He dialed her cell number but she didn't pick up. Stranger yet, it didn't go to voicemail.

What was she up to?

Larry slammed his cell phone down into the console between the front seats and cursed to himself. His temper blinded him from anything around him. Had he simply looked in the rearview mirror, he might have caught the gaze of the tall,
dark-haired
woman behind him. She hadn't done anything unusual—not for the five blocks she'd been following him since leaving William Mendelson's neighborhood. But he might have noticed that she'd also been watching Karen Simms. He might have also noticed her pull out to the intersection and wait until he'd made the right and fishtailed down the street trying to catch up to Karen—she stayed back three car lengths and easily kept him in her sights.

But he hadn't noticed her. And during his entire trip to Karen Simms's apartment, he failed to notice that the woman remained faithfully behind him, following his every move. Had Larry simply realized that while he followed Karen, someone was following him, the fear William had shared with him might not have seemed like just the paranoia of an old man.

It would have made him afraid, too.

twenty-six

“What about the gold
and stones in the vault, Marshal?” Bear watched Marshal over his notepad. Marshal seemed disinterested in his father's murder, but the mention of gold and stones got his attention.

“Gold and stones? All he had in that vault—as far as I know—was that silly collection of worthless Egyptian junk he brought back from the war.”

Bear narrowed his eyes on him. “And what in particular was in there?”

“I don't know.”

“Why is that, Marshal?”

Marshal snapped to his feet and walked to the door. “Detective, my father and I did not get along. He'd always been a little difficult to live with, but lately, he's been impossible. He was always distant, always focused on anything but what he should have been. You've obviously been to the bank, to his office. He has tens of thousands' worth of Egyptian junk and old photos and memorabilia from his past. But, did you see one photograph of his family? His wife? Me?”

Damn. No, I hadn't. “This guy has daddy issues, Bear. He's on my list—him and Seth.”

“Seth?” Bear asked before he could stop himself. Then to Marshal, he added, “I was thinking out loud. What about staff at the bank? Any issues with them?”

Marshal shook his head. “The bank has its problems, sure, but none that I would think anyone would want to kill him over. No, you'll have to look elsewhere. What about the robbery?”

Bear watched him for a long time and didn't answer. He wanted to rattle him a little and see if he showed any signs of stress or anxiety in the silence. Guilty people often did. Marshal did not. So either he was innocent, or he was a pathological psycho. There were other possibilities, of course, but those were my two favorites.

“The robber didn't kill William,” Bear said. “At least I don't think so. I'm looking at other possibilities.”

“Like what?”

“Other possibilities.” Bear walked to a window and looked out. “Let's talk about the vault.”

“It's been there for years. My family has owned that building and the bank property for generations. Apparently, unbeknownst to me, the vault was in the annex since before World War II, perhaps longer.”

“
Unbeknownst to you
?” Bear asked. “What's that mean?”

Marshal cleared his throat. “My mother told me he was fine for a few years after he returned home. Then one day he became, well, different. Odd. He was often paranoid and secretive. Other times he was reclusive. It grew worse over the years until they eventually divorced. She died a few years ago.”

“Okay, but what does that have to do with the vault?”

“I'm explaining.”

“Explain faster.”

“You're an impatient man.” Marshal meandered through the room,
stepping on broken items without care. “When he returned from the war, my father entered the family business—banking. This bank, to be precise. He apparently used the vault for his private collection since the war but kept its existence a secret from everyone, including me after I was born. It was some big family secret.”

I said, “Why was that vault such a secret? What was he hiding?”

Bear asked those questions.

“I truly don't know, Detective.” Marshal returned to his chair and sat. “I learned of the existence of the vault—as did some of our bank staff—in 1988 when a fire in the annex led to its discovery.”

“A fire?” Bear said.

Marshal nodded. “The Chairman's cigar started some books and papers on fire and damn near killed him. He was in that vault at the time and the fire department had to rescue him. The fool. A fireman was seriously injured and it embarrassed my family to no end. What a disaster.”

My vision. “Bear, remember what I told you about the fire in the vault?”

Bear nodded. “And everyone learned of the vault back then?”

“No, not everyone. It happened late at night. While everyone knew about the fire of course, only a couple staff learned of the vault. I never understood what was so significant about that vault, but he was obsessed with its secrecy. It wasn't until a few months after the fire that I was allowed inside at all.”

“And you don't think that's a little nuts?” Bear asked.

“That is my point.” Marshal allowed a short laugh. “I have only been in that vault three or four times since the fire, and I cannot recall the last time.”

I said, “What was in it?”

Bear repeated me, adding, “And who knew about it besides you?”

“The only people who knew about the vault and safe were Thorne and myself—although I suspect Larry Conti and Karen Simms might also. The couple who learned of it after the fire retired years ago. As for the contents a few years ago, he had a collection of old books and paintings—those I recall. He had a variety of junk from Egypt but nothing valuable, I'm sure. I think those items were in the safe, but I can't swear to it.”

Bear changed tack. “Tell me about Franklin Thorne.”

“He works for me.”

Bear nodded. “Any problems between you two?”

“Has he said something? Is that it, Detective?”

Bear smiled. “Maybe.”

“That bastard. What has he said?”

Bear cracked a thin smile. “I'm just asking, Marshal—hypothetically.”

“Yes,
hypothetically
, there are issues.” Marshal's face reddened.
“I've had to warn him about taking too much authority. He made many changes and spent a lot of money that I did not approve of. He overstepped his authority. We've not seen
eye-to
-eye for a while now.”

Bear said, “And then there's that other thing.”

My guess was that Bear had no “other thing,” but he baited Marshal anyway.

Some
bottom-feeders
will bite at anything.

“Oh, yes, you've heard,” Marshal said in a low voice. “Yes. Several weeks back, I had to reprimand him for becoming too familiar with office staff—namely, Karen Simms. Rumors were going around they were seeing each other—and by seeing, I mean sleeping together. That is inappropriate given their positions. Especially Thorne's. I put an end to it.”

“And what did Thorne and William say about that?” Bear asked.

Marshal shrugged. “The Chairman stayed out of it for the most part. Oh, he thought I was petty—poor Franklin was new to town and didn't have friends, that sort of thing. But the Chairman allowed me to exercise my own judgment.”

“And Thorne?” Bear eyed him. “I bet he was pissed, huh?”

“He denied any involvement.” Marshal raised his chin a little too high. “Yet, I saw them having lunch several times in Old Town. I think now he will have a better appreciation for my authority.”

What a jerk. I said, “Imagine that, Bear, having lunch in Old Town—the swine.”

Bear ignored me. “Any reason he'd question your Harrisonburg trip?”

“He questioned me?” Marshal jumped to his feet. “What did he say? Tell me what he said.”

“Relax, we're being hypothetical, remember?” Bear couldn't conceal a wry smile. “And I advise you
not
to discuss it with him, either.”

“I cannot confront him with his false allegations?”

“No,” Bear said. “If you do, you and I will have a problem, Marshal. You understand that, right?”

“Fine—yes. But I suggest you look into his past, too, Detectives.” Marshal looked from Cal to Bear. “The Chairman hired him without my knowledge. And when I objected, I looked into his background. I have to say, I was dismayed.”

“Why?” Bear asked.

“I suggest you find out for yourself.”

Bear eyed him. “All right, Marshal. We'll play your way for now. We'll be through here soon as we can. For now, I'd like you to go through the house and make a list of anything you find is missing—and anything you recall being in the vault.”

“How would I know what is missing?” Marshal looked around with a wary, vacant stare. “I am rarely in this house.”

“Try.” Bear watched him. “And Marshal, what can you tell me about William's secret account at the bank?”

Someone call an ambulance.

Marshal's face tightened like a sphincter, and I could only image what that muscle was doing about now. “Secret account? What are you talking about?”

As if he didn't know.

“The secret account, Marshal. You know the one,” Bear said, letting Marshal see the journal in his hand. “Or is there more than one? I can't remember.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“He's lying, Bear,” I said.

“You're lying, Marshal.”

Marshal's eyes went wide and he turned and feigned interest in the broken
bric-a
-brac on the floor. “I am not lying, Detective. I'm not in the habit of that. If the Chairman had some accounts he was handling
personally
, I'm not aware. Nor would I imagine they were secret. But in any event, if this account does exist, it is bank business. I demand you—”

“So, you didn't know about them?” Bear pressed him. “Or you did? Pick one.”

“I've said I did not.”

“Then I guess they were secret—and that means we better take a good, hard look at them. Right?”

Marshal turned around and lifted his chin. “I don't know every account at the bank. I also am not privy to everything—every account—the Chairman dabbled in.”

I said, “Oh, and here I thought you were the bank President.”

Bear repeated me word for word.

Marshal's eyes went cold. “I'm sure I don't know in this case.”

“
In this case?
” Bear lifted the business journal. “Then maybe I'll find the answer in your father's business journal.”

Marshal reached for the book, but Bear held it firm. “If there is bank information in that book, I insist you release it to me. I will see you get a copy. It is bank property.”

Marshal was a stiff, unfeeling guy in the wake of his father's murder. He was completely disinterested. Yet, mention the bank accounts and he turned into Mr. Hyde—and he didn't conceal it very well, either.

“It's evidence, Marshal,” Bear said in a flat voice. “Evidence in a homicide.”

Marshal didn't budge. “May I at least examine the book? With you present?”

“No. You understand—police procedure and all.”

Marshal's face reddened even more. “All right. Have it your way.” He turned to leave but only made it to the den doors. He turned back around and his eyes were sad and damp. His voice was distant, distraught. “I know what you must think of me, Detective. I know what everyone thinks of me—I'm cold and distant from my father and that somehow makes me a bad person. But being in his shadow has been difficult, especially since I hate this bank. I hate everything about it. And just when I think I have my way out—he ups and dies and traps me all over again.”

“Murdered,” Bear said.

Marshal blinked several times.

“William didn't ‘up and die,' Marshal. He was murdered.” Bear locked his eyes on Marshal's and the air rumbled between them. “You get that, right?”

“How could I not?” Marshal turned around to leave. “I simply don't care. You get that, right, Detective?”