Dying to Tell (15 page)

thirty-two

No, not Astaire. Thorne
was more a Patrick Swayze kinda guy—suave, rugged, dashing, and a ballroom dancer. And as he glided Angel around the dance floor, some guests stopped and looked on. Some even applauded at the end of the dance. Just great. What was next, master chef and poet?

Thorne guided Angel off the dance floor for the second time as Cal put his sax away for a
fifteen-minute
break and headed for Bear and Lee at our table. As Cal sauntered up, he undid his Eisenhower jacket and tossed it on the back of the chair. Then he slumped down into the chair with a sigh and a grin.

“Man, oh man, what a crowd, eh, Bear?”

A waiter brought Cal a tall glass of something cold.

Lee said, “Calloway, you were wonderful tonight. How about some Dorsey Brothers next?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said. “You surprised me, Bear—you and Lee were really cuttin' a rug. Never thought I'd see the day.”

Bear grumbled something, then said, “I guess you broke the news to Keys. I want to talk to him first chance, Cal.”

“Yeah, he took it hard, too.” Cal poured back half his drink and wiped his mouth. “Blowin' that sax makes me
bone-dry
. Keys knows you're here tonight. He'll be over. But he doesn't know much. They were pals and had drinks and laughs, not much more to it.”

“I still want to talk to him.”

Ollie was gone now and I was about to slip into the last chair at the table when Keys walked up and took it. He was pale and sweaty—his ninety years and extra hundred pounds were taking a toll beneath bandstand lights. The waiter followed him with a tall glass of ice water and an even taller glass of scotch.

“You must be Bear Braddock.” Keys extended a hand and a smile. He tipped back the scotch and easily swallowed half of it. The glass was barely away from his lips when he said, “Calloway and I talked—too many questions for me. But you're welcome to grill me again.”

Lee stood. “I'll leave you to it, boys. Bear, save another dance
for me. There's someone I have to meet.” And she walked off toward the bar.

“You picked a feisty one, copper,” Keys said. He slapped Bear's arm. “My girl will dance you into the floor and outdrink you, too. She's a tough one, my Lee. But you watch it, she's family.”

“I'll keep an eye out,” Bear said with a smile. He got serious. “Keys, I'll cut to the quick. Any idea who killed William Mendelson?”

“If I did, I'd kill the bastard myself. Slow, though. Real slow.” Keys finished his scotch and lifted his ice water. “Doctor tells me no booze with my pills. Why? Will it kill me?” He laughed and sipped his water. “I fought the big war as a boy soldier and lost a son not too many years ago. I've been fighting for years to put this club on the map—bankers, state liquor people, investors, even the damn zoning people. Screw 'em, all. I'm ninety years old and don't give a shit. So, I guess that makes me dangerous, right, Calloway?”

“Right, man, dangerous.” Cal leaned toward him. “But hey, now. You and Willy were tight. If anyone can help us, it's you. So think, Keys. Think hard. Bear and me want his killer. We want him fast. So think.”

He did. He sat back in his chair and looked out on the dance floor as waiters scurried about. His eyes didn't seem to see anything and he looked lost in memories none of us could guess about. He took another swallow of water and fixed his eyes on Bear as his words bristled with a dry, heavy anger.

“I don't know who killed him, Detective. Oh sure, he's a weird old codger—just like me. But being a stingy old coot doesn't make you a bad man, does it? He's got all the money he needs and all kinds of baggage, too. Maybe somebody wanted that old Egyptian junk at his place for themselves. I just don't know.”

Cal said, “Maybe, Keys. But what about the other stuff? Tell Bear what you told me earlier.”

“Everyone has faults, Cal. Everyone has demons.” Keys waved to the waiter for another drink. “I can't count or name all mine. Can you?”

Bear tapped the table. “No, I can't. But I'm not dead. So you need to tell me his so I can find out if they led to his killing.”

Keys sat back and looked hard at Bear. He cocked his head a couple times back and forth like he couldn't decide what to say. Then he sighed and held up a finger. “Sure, sure. It's not like that shit son of his will help you. Look, me and Willy liked to go to Charles Town—you know, the track and casino—to do some gamblin' now and then. But one day, Willy refused to go back. He said he had issues with the races and slots.”

I said, “Gambling debts? That could explain cleaning out his private vault, Bear. And it might explain someone killing him if he was in too deep.”

Bear said the same thing and it sent a painful darkness over Keys's face.

“Willy didn't have markers. That bastard son of his, Marshal, did. And Willy tried to unbury Marshal from the hole he'd dug. I went to him last year and wanted him to invest in this club. We go back seventy years, right? He was loaded—or so I thought. So I went to Willy. Not as a banker, no, but as a private investor. A
friend
.”

“And?” Bear asked, seeing Cal's mouth form the same word. “Did he invest?”

“Nope. Not one dime. Couldn't.” Keys's drink arrived and he took a long sip. “He said he wanted to but didn't have the capital. And then he told me not to apply at the bank because he could never get the loan through without substantial collateral, which I ain't got. He gave me the bum's rush.”

I looked over at Poor Nic sitting on the mezzanine. He watched us, too. “So, now you know how Poor Nic fits in, Bear. Nic loves the underdog. Or perhaps he loves the vig.”

The vig is the ridiculous interest a loan shark charges for money lent. The vig also can include kneecaps, ankles, arms, and legs if payments are late. I don't recall where the nickname comes from, but I can tell you it isn't from a dictionary. My guess is that if it were in any book, it would be Poor Nic's operating manual.

Bear watched Keys. “And that's how Poor Nic became your partner? Alternative financing?”

“Not a partner,” Keys said in a tight voice. “An investor. He doesn't own anything but my marker. And yeah, Nicholas has been good to me. And I'm good to him. And before you start all your cop bullshit, the interest ain't bad and he plays nice. It's all legal.”

“Whoa, now.” Bear patted the air. “Nic and I are good. Ask him. As long as he stays inside the rules, I'm a happy guy and he can invest where he wants.”

A waiter left Keys another scotch, which he tossed back and stood up. “Gotta hit the latrine, boys. Look, I ain't sayin' Marshal's gamblin' is why somebody popped Willy. I'm just sayin' that hole was deep and Willy tried to fill it. Maybe somebody killed Willy to send a message. Willy couldn't invest in my place and that bothered him—all his money went to Marshal's debts. Willy was my friend back from the days friends didn't live so long, know what I mean? The war.”

I did know what he meant. “He's holding back Bear. Nostalgia's got his tongue. And I think Nic's in this up to his vig, too. Just like always.”

Bear watched Keys walk off. Then he turned to Cal. “Tell Bartalotta I want an audience—ten minutes.”

“Sure, Bear.” Cal stood, then threw a chin toward Angel and Thorne across the room. “Good to see Angela out, too, Bear. No offense to Tuck and all, but she's too young and too much of a catch to stay off the market. No matter where he is.”

“I'm sitting right here, Cal,” I said. “And she's off the market either way.”

Bear grunted, then said, “Yeah, but Thorne?”

“Yeah, man, I hear you.” Cal watched them. “Thorne's a little stiff. She's way out of his league, but I don't think he gets that. He's pretty enough and kinda slick, but … something about that guy just doesn't sit with me, you know?”

I did. And the way he leaned close to my Angel and refilled her wineglass didn't sit at all. And there
was
something odd about him. Not just that he had his own eavesdropping equipment or that he used words like tradecraft, either. He seemed a little too confident and righteous—like he knew something we didn't. And while bankers were often like that, he wasn't a banker. He was a security guy and
ex-Army
Ranger. If you put the two together, you get a professional soldier who knows about alarms, CCTV, and eavesdropping—someone who knows how to kill and cover his tracks.

The question was, was Franklin Thorne my best suspect or just my worst nightmare?

thirty-three

Ollie had disappeared to
who-knows-where and Bear sat watching Cal and Keys on the bandstand. The way he glanced around the room looked like he hoped the steamy Lee Hawkins would return for another drink. Bored, I went to eavesdrop on Angel and Franklin Thorne—I'm sure I was the topic of conversation—I caught her looking around the room and keeping an eye on Bear. That meant she was keeping an eye
out
for me. Was she nervous about her evening without me? Should I be?

No, Angel would have to wait.

A
dark-haired
woman stood in the bar entrance and looked around the ballroom. After a third pan of the room, she turned and disappeared down the hall beside the bar.

It was the mysterious Raina—Poor Nic and Lee's lunch companion. If she were here to rekindle their conversation, I wanted get a good seat.

I followed her.

It took me a moment to check two storage rooms and an employee break room before I found a door at the end of a long,
L-shaped
hall marked “Management Only.” Since it was the last place Raina could be, I went inside.

Bingo. Or should I say, Gotcha.

The office was small, dark, and crammed to the ceiling with furniture, papers, boxes, and sundry office equipment. There was an old wooden desk with a broken
coin-counting
machine sitting on one side and a notebook computer on the other. Against a side wall was a table littered with papers and files and cases of printer paper. In the corner of the office, beside a door, were two filing cabinets. Beyond the clutter was a rear door that led to the outside employee parking area.

And there stood my Gotcha.

Raina was
elbows-deep
inside the filing cabinets and neither Lee nor Keys Hawkins were here. So unless she was recently hired as a bookkeeper or chambermaid, one might draw the conclusion that
Raina-whoever
was up to no good.

“So, Raina, we meet again.” I love cheesy quotes from old movies. She didn't blink so I moved closer and watched her fingering the files one drawer after the other. “Tell me what you're looking for and maybe I can help.”

Nothing.

“Oh, come on, what good is me snooping around if you're not going to give me a clue? Give a guy a break, will you?
BOO
already.
WOOO WOOO
and all that crap.”

Nothing.

Raina finished with the filing cabinets and went to the computer on the desk. The system was password protected, but that didn't stop her. From a pocket somewhere beneath her black evening dress—my imagination reeled—she withdrew a small USB drive and inserted it into the computer and tapped a couple keys. A tiny red light on the USB flashed on. A few seconds later, a bar appeared on the screen and began counting down from one hundred percent. When it reached zero percent, the bar disappeared and the words “System Accessed” flashed on the screen. When Raina tapped the keyboard again, the words disappeared and the computer's desktop came alive.

“Ah, Raina—and I'm saying this to be helpful—that's illegal.”

She went to work.

First, she searched through the computer directories like a pro. Here and there she clicked on folders —the email folder, accounting files, document folders—and typed in a command. The USB drive lit up again and she began copying files to it. Ten minutes later, she extracted the drive and tucked it into her dress from where it came.

“Raina, you need to tell me …”

Voices in the outside hall startled me but they didn't seem to unnerve her. She looked around the room and focused on a dusty,
broken-framed
photograph partially hidden behind a stack of files on the credenza. She picked it up and looked at it.

The photograph was very old—1944 from the
hand-scrawled
date in the lower right corner. In the photo was Keys Hawkins dressed in a
light-colored
linen suit standing on a street curb somewhere in what I could tell was Cairo. Beside him was a beautiful, young Egyptian woman and a tall, handsome Egyptian man—both wore khaki trousers and
loose-fitting
shirts. The three looked chummy, with big smiles for the camera.

Raina turned toward the door as the sound of voices grew louder. Then, without a second thought, she took the photograph and slipped out the rear office door.

As the door closed, the main office door opened and Lee Hawkins walked in speaking with Sammy from Queens.

Raina's mission was apparently complete. Whatever that was.

Was it me or was everyone I'd met since finding William Mendelson's body acting suspicious? So far, the only one who hadn't was the bank robber. At least he carried a gun and hid behind a mask—his intention was straightforward.

Everyone else seemed to be hiding secrets and lies.

thirty-four

I returned to the
ballroom just in time to see Bear stop Poor Nic and his bodyguard, Bobby, in the doorway. “Hey, Bear, I gotta tell you what I just saw in the back office…”

“Later.” He offered his hand to Poor Nic. “I need a moment, Nic.”

“Ah, Detective Braddock,” Poor Nic said and held Bear's paw in both of his. “I'm afraid I don't have time for you this evening. Something's come up.”

Bear frowned. “It's about …”

“William Mendelson's murder. Of course it is.” Poor Nic nodded toward the club entrance. “I'm tired, Detective. And I ask your understanding to let an old man go home for the evening. I'll see you first thing in the morning, I assure you.”

“Give me just a moment, Nic …”

Poor Nic raised a hand. “I wish to say good evening to Angela. Please, come see me in the morning.”

I followed Poor Nic to Angel's table just as Thorne readied for another dance. Angel gave me a those narrowed eyeballs that said
Don't say a word
when I emerged behind Nic. To Nic, though, she was all smiles and crushed into him for a kiss on the cheek.

Poor Nicholas Bartalotta was a lot of things—most of which had never been proven in court. One thing most people did not quite understand was that he was Angel's guardian—her
self-appointed
godfather. When I was murdered, Poor Nic was on the top of the suspect list. And perhaps for good reason, too, because Bear and I had been investigating him for another murder just days before. In the end, though, Poor Nic saved Angel's life. Perhaps others' lives, too.

“Ah, my dear, you look beautiful as always.” He gave her a long, familiar hug. “You should be out more. The light and music suit you well. Another time, I would welcome a dance or two.”

She blushed. “Of course, Nicholas. Let me introduce Franklin …”

“Thorne.” Poor Nic cast a brief glance at him but ignored Thorne's outstretched hand. “I am familiar with Mr. Thorne.”

“You are?” Thorne motioned to a passing waiter for his bill. “I don't know you.”

“No? Interesting,” Poor Nic said, still holding Angel's arm. “Detective Braddock looked rather awkward on the dance floor, Angela. Perhaps he had the wrong partner, no?”

She blushed again and looked across the room at Bear waiting near the ballroom entrance. “I think he and Lee looked wonderful together.”

“Perhaps.” Poor Nic leaned closer. “My dear, it's been weeks since you visited. This week—promise me.”

“I promise.” Angel looked past him to me. “I'm trying to get out more, but it's difficult.”

“I understand.” Poor Nic kissed her cheek with a curt nod to Thorne. “Walk with me, my dear.” He guided Angel toward Bear, leaving Thorne to pay their check.

Poor Nic is swell.

At the ballroom entrance, Lee Hawkins came up behind Bear and grabbed his arm. She leaned in close and gave him a hug,
cheek-to
-cheek. “Why don't you come back, Bear.” She hooked his arm and walked toward the door behind Poor Nic with him. “There are a few things you might like to hear.”

“Give me ten minutes with Nic and …”

“No, I mean later.” She slipped a business card out of her cleavage—what was with these women tonight?—and handed it to him. “Say, three a.m.?”

“Too late for me.” Bear was on uncharted ground.

Lee whispered, “The card's from some crazy lady—Raina something. She's trouble. Maybe you should check her out. Maybe send her back home, you know, or something.”

Bear read the card. “‘Egyptology and Archeological Research Group—American University, Cairo.'” On the back of the card was a scribbled, unreadable name and a telephone number.

“There's more, but like that dance, it'll cost you,” Lee said and squeezed his arm. “Let's say lunch?”

“Deal.” He pocketed the card. “I'll call you tomorrow.”

She kissed him on the cheek and slinked away.

Bear watched her go—watched her close, too—and then caught up to Poor Nic and Angel at the club entrance as Thorne helped Angel with her coat. Bobby held the door.

“Angela,” Poor Nic said, shooting a wry glance at Thorne. “I'll expect you for lunch—tomorrow? I'll be much better company.”

Angel's finger scolded him. “It's not a date, Nicholas, it's business.”

“Of course. How silly of me.” Poor Nic kissed her cheek but said to Bear, “Detective, phone tomorrow for an appointment.”

Bear and I watched Poor Nic—with Angel on his arm—pass through the double doors into the chilly night air. They stopped on the landing as Bobby continued to the car.

Angel said, “Nicholas, I want to ask you about William.”

“My dear, I—”

The first shot cracked the cold, dense air like a firecracker. The bullet struck Poor Nic, and for a second, he didn't react. Then, as he turned toward Angel, he slumped backward against the doors, paled, and collapsed on the cold stone steps.