Dying to Tell (4 page)

six

“Okay, Thorne, you're the
big-shot security guy around here: what do you think happened?” Bear dropped down at the conference room table across from Angel with a fresh cup of coffee. “Anything odd or out of the ordinary happen lately?”

Saying
odd
and
out of the ordinary
around me was like saying the Titanic was a boating accident. I said as much and made Bear smile for the first time all morning.

Angel, of course, rolled her eyes.

Bear asked, “Anything?”

Thorne—oblivious to my witty commentary—pursed his lips to think. He was in his
mid-thirties
or early forties. He had average weight on his
six-one
frame and he wore a
short-trimmed
, stylish beard, and had large, piercing dark eyes. He was dressed in an immaculate dark suit and starched white shirt—both expensive and well fitted. He belonged in a men's fashion magazine, not this crime scene.

“No, Detective. I'm a little puzzled by it all.”

“Murder always puzzles me.” Bear sipped his coffee. “What part in particular?”

“Everything,” Thorne said. “First, it would appear someone tried to rob the bank and came to the wrong building—they came to the annex. Why would anyone come here to rob us? They missed the bank by a hundred feet or more.”

“The secret vault is why.”

Thorne raised a finger. “My point, Detective. No one knew about the Chairman's private vault—only Marshal and me. Obviously, they did as well. That surprises me.”

“Marshal Mendelson—he's the bank President, right?”

“Yes, and now he's the bank's sole owner.”

Interesting. I said, “Now, there's a motive, Bear.”

“No shit,” he cringed a little when he answered me aloud, but once again covered it well. “I guess he would be. What else?”

Angel sat sipping coffee and threw me the
Shut up and stop causing trouble
glance. If you're a guy, you know that look. If you're a woman, you're an expert at giving it.

“I don't know what William kept in there,” Thorne said. “Some of his more valuable antique Egyptian collection, I imagine. But I didn't think anyone knew about it. Yet someone killed him there and robbed him.”

“Egyptian?” I said. “Like the big monster beside his door?”

Bear repeated me.

Thorne laughed. “I nearly shot that statue when I went into his office the first time. But, actually, it's a replica—at least that's what he told me.” Thorne glanced at Angel. “He fell in love with Egyptian history when he was over there. Seth is his favorite toy.”

“Seth is the Egyptian God of chaos and destruction—other things, too.” Angel gave Thorne a friendly smile. “I think Seth was related to my dear departed husband.”

Thorne laughed again.

Not me. “Funny—until he eats someone. No one believed in ghosts around here until I got killed. Now who's laughing?” I turned to Bear. “We need to get in the safe, partner. Enough of this chitchat with Mr. Amazing.”

“We need to open Mendelson's safe.” Bear threw a thumb toward the conference room door. “After my crime techs finish with the vault, that is.”

“Can't help you, Detective,” Thorne said and shrugged. “I don't have the combination, and I doubt Marshal does either.”

Bear cocked his head. “Doesn't anyone have it?”

“No. The Chairman was a strange, secretive old guy, Detective. As far as I know, he was the only one with the combination. And this morning was the first time I've even seen the inside of his vault.”

Bear pulled out a pen and notepad from his pocket and made some notes. Strange, since I rarely see Bear take notes. He likes to delegate that to someone. It used to be me. “Okay, we'll get back to that. Anything else seem odd to you, Thorne?”

“Well, her.” Thorne threw a chin toward Angel. “Angela's meeting is out of the ordinary. The Chairman worked all hours—sometimes all night. On what, I haven't a clue. But I've never known him to have meetings so early in the morning. And he always let security know if he did.”

“And as I said, Bear,” Angel said, “I don't know what the meeting was about. All he said was it was urgent and I should be here at seven thirty—before the bank opened.”

“See what I mean?” Thorne smiled at Angel again, as though they now had a secret no one could share. “Perhaps his death and Angela's meeting are connected.”

“You think? Gee, Bear, no wonder Captain Wonderful is a vice president. A
hush-hush
meeting before the bank opens, a robbery of a secret vault no one knows about, and the boss is murdered in that secret vault. Gosh, I wonder if they're connected …”

Bear spit coffee onto the table and almost choked. “Sorry.”

“That's all I'll say for now, Detective.” Thorne shook his head. “I'd feel better if I waited until Marshal arrives. After all, he will feel this is a family matter.”

“Yeah, about Marshal.” Bear's eyes narrowed. “Where is he? It's going on eight thirty and he isn't here yet? You got here early.”

Thorne frowned. “That's just accidental. Marshal and I were in Harrisonburg yesterday on business. I returned earlier this morning and came straight here. I wasn't supposed to be here until late this afternoon.”

Bear's pen hovered over his notes.

Thorne got the hint. “I don't know about Marshal. He was with me last night and we were supposed to meet a client for breakfast. The client canceled late last night so we stayed over. I drove back this morning.”

“With him?” I asked.

Bear repeated the question.

“No. He was there for two days and I joined him yesterday. I don't know what time he left today—he may have had more business in Harrisonburg. I left before six a.m. and drove straight here. Perhaps Marshal is still out of town. I simply don't know.”

“Find out, will you?” Bear aimed his pen at the conference room door. “I need to speak with him soon.”

“Of course.” Thorne stood and picked up a thick manila shipping envelope from the chair beside him. I hadn't noticed it before. He slid it across the table to Bear. “There is one more thing. Something odd.”

Bear picked up the envelope and read the
hand-printed
writing on the front.
“Emergency Instructions—Chairman William Mendelson's Eyes Only
.”

“I have not opened it, of course,” Thorne said. “I retrieved this from the bank's executive safety deposit box earlier with Miss Simms—she's our head teller. I went looking for the safe combination in case the Chairman placed it inside. Instead I found this in the Chairman's personal folder.”

Bear's eyes narrowed and his voice got curt. “You went into the safety deposit box and his personal folder? Don't you think you should have told me about it first, Thorne?”

“I'm telling you now. Miss Simms can vouch for my actions.”

Bear tore open the envelope and dumped the contents out. Inside was a thick file labeled “Professor Angela Tucker, University of the Shenandoah Valley.”

Angel's eyes went big. “Me? What on earth would William leave for me?”

“Let's find out.” Bear opened the file.

There were several printouts of Internet stories surrounding World War II, and in particular, Allied operations in Northern Africa and the Middle East. Someone, presumably William Mendelson, had highlighted bits and pieces of text about German activities in and around
Egypt. The phrase “Operation Salaam” was
hand-scribed
across a map of Cairo.

Thorne said, “It looks like William was doing research into the war. Mean anything to you, Angela?”

She shrugged. “I'm not familiar with any of it.”

I said, “Maybe that's what your meeting was about—helping him with research. It must be pretty important to hide in a safety deposit box, though.”

Bear repeated me, adding, “Sort of like he knew something was coming, huh?”

Thorne folded his arms. “Perhaps, but this is certainly not evidence. I'm sure Marshal will want the Chairman's papers returned—”

“It's evidence, Thorne.” Bear gathered the papers and replaced them into the file. “He'll get it all back after the investigation.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Thorne said with a forced smile. “But you have to understand. Suddenly, I find myself working for Marshal, not the Chairman. I must consider his expectations of me going forward.”

“Sure. But he's not here and you don't know where he is, right?” Bear said.

Thorne shook his head.

“Then until he shows, I'll mind his interests.” Bear noticed Thorne's empty leather holster peeking out from beneath his suit coat. “I find it odd you carry a weapon at work.”

He nodded. “Really? Why, I'm the—”

“Vice President and
ya-de
-ya. I know.”

Thorne's face tightened. “When may I expect my weapon back, Detective?”

“When ballistics is done and I clear the case—it's procedure.” Bear eyed him. “Why, you plan on using it soon?”

“You can't be too prepared for a bank robbery.” Thorne looked at Angel. “And you never know when you might have to save a brilliant, beautiful woman in distress.”

seven

A sandy-haired woman in
an expensive
Moncler coat stepped out of her Mercedes and looked across the parking lot at the glut of police cars behind the bank. She surveyed the area until she saw a familiar face—one of the bank tellers—sitting in an old Toyota across the street. The woman brushed her feathered hair from her face and walked over to the teller's car.

At the Toyota, she bent and knocked on the driver'
s-side
window, startling the young girl inside. The window rolled down and the smells of fresh coffee and cheap perfume drifted out.

“What's going on?”

“Oh, good morning, Ms.—”

“Call me Lee—everyone does. What's going on at the bank?”

“Someone tried to rob us.” The teller gestured toward the bank and her voice got low and uneasy. “I shouldn't say—but I know you are a close friend of Mr. Mendelson—well, Mr. Mendelson was murdered.”

“Murdered?” Lee leaned down to look into the teller's car window better. “Which Mendelson did the robbers kill—Marshal?”

“No, the police found the Chairman dead. But it wasn't the robber who killed him. At least, that's what I heard.”

“
Wasn't the robber?
” Lee glanced toward two policemen watching her from the bank parking lot. “Did they catch him?”

“No, but almost. Larry got shot and Mr. Thorne shot the guy, but he got away.”

“Who's Larry? A cop?”

“Nope. He's our security guard. Mr. Thorne shot the robber when he tried taking a hostage.”

“Dear God.” Lee checked her watch. She had to be back by ten, and this might change everything—especially if her
transactions
were involved. “Did the robber get much? Or did the security guard stop the robbery?”

“That's the funny thing, you know?” The teller leaned out the window. “That guy tried to rob the administration annex. You believe it? He wasn't even at the bank. I guess he knew.”

“Knew what?”

“About the Mendelson's big secret.” The teller took a long sip of coffee from her First Bank and Trust of Frederick County travel mug. “Which ain't secret.”

“Big secret?” Lee tried to sound surprised. “What secret do the Mendelsons have?”

The teller's face lit up. “He has a private stash in the annex! Everyone talks about it, but it's supposed to be a big family secret. Some kind of safe or vault or something. Stuffed with cash and some kind of treasure.”

Lee blinked several times. “Treasure? Really?”

“But I don't know—maybe it's just gossip. Anyway, bank's closed. Check back this afternoon.”

Lee thanked her and returned to her Mercedes. She started the engine, turned down the Andrews Sisters CD, and activated her Bluetooth. A moment later, an aged, tired voice answered.

“Good morning, my dear. Your lunch date hasn't changed plans, I hope?”

Lee watched a police cruiser pull out of the rear bank parking lot and drive slowly past. The policeman driving glanced over and made eye contact with her. She feigned a smile and focused on her call.

“No, Nicholas—at least, not yet. I'm at the bank and there's something you need to know.”

eight

Bear went to question
everyone at the bank annex except the water cooler, and I didn't want to tag along. Neither did I want to sit around and watch Thorne ogle Angel, so I went snooping—er, investigating—on my own.

I had just stepped into the
marble-tiled
lobby when someone called me from across the lobby. “Don't you have some investigating to do, kid?”

The man in the bomber jacket was back. He stood at the entrance to the executive suite corridor where William's office was. Like before, he leaned against the wall with his ball cap perched on the back of his head. He wore an easy, friendly smile. He gestured for me to follow him and disappeared down the corridor.

I followed—carefully, as this was the kind of trap vampires and renegade Indians were known for. I found him in the middle of William Mendelson's office, looking at some old photographs hanging on the wall.

“Look around, kid,” he said. “Following that big cop around ain't gonna solve this case. I remember following my boss out of a plane too soon and we got our chute lines all tangled and …”

“Who the hell are you, anyway?”

He winked. “My point is that some things are better done solo, you know what I mean? We'll talk later.” And with that, he was gone.

I stopped inside the door and addressed Seth. “Watch yourself, pal. You're fake—I'm real. So back off.”

William's office was like a museum. It was laden with historic trappings, most from Egypt and Greece, and memorabilia from William's WWII days. There were wall hangings resembling ancient Egyptian scrolls and paintings, Egyptian figurines, and two tall statues in the rear of the room—one a birdlike man and the other a tall, chiseled pillar. There were smaller statues and artifacts lining bookshelves and display stands around the room, each overflowing with books, relics, and years of memories. I noted a shelf where a set of leather history books were lying on their face—imprints in the dust showed that two
odd-shaped
bookends had been removed. Strange.

I looked around for more anomalies but found only dozens of framed photographs hanging on the walls and propped up on shelves, replica model war planes, military medals, and patches. And of course, there was my new pal, Seth.

The office reminded me of a Smithsonian exhibit instead of a stuffy old banker's office.

And then, there it was—waiting for me on one of the bookshelves.

A photograph of a young William Mendelson sitting with three pals at a dusty, crowded streetside café during the war. The photograph grew warm to my touch and pulled at me. When I looked back toward William's desk, there was a small figurine, perhaps a paperweight, lying on the expensive Persian carpet under the corner of his desk. I hadn't noticed it earlier, so I went for a closer look and found a stone carving of a bug.

“Hello there, why are you sitting on the floor?” Yes, I often talk to myself. It's a new habit—something of a twitch. It comes from having only two living people to talk to. And they tend to “shush” me a lot.

The figurine was not some cheap drugstore doodad. It was a heavy, expertly sculpted, ornate bug trimmed in gold inlay with tiny gemstones set into its body. Okay, not a bug like a slug or a cockroach; it was a scarab, an ancient Egyptian beetle. I know about scarabs not from my vast knowledge of Egypt, stonework, or history—I saw some scarabs eat a guy in a mummy movie a few years ago and it scared the crap out of me.

This scarab didn't appear dangerous or hungry, thank God. It lay on its back against the leg of the desk. It looked like it had fallen from the desktop and stayed where it landed. When I reached down and touched it, the room snapped to black …

The heat enveloped me like an oven. It wasn't just hot, it was oppressive, and I faltered a little and reached for the desk to support me. That was difficult because the desk was gone. Instead, there was a small square table surrounded by three tall-backed wicker fan chairs. The light ebbed around me and by the time I steadied my legs, William's office had transformed into a streetside café overlooking a dust-blown street where noise and commotion were everywhere. I was on the ground-floor terrace of a tall, four-story stone hotel. Men sat at tables similar to mine sipping small cups of some brew and tall glasses of water. Many were dressed in khaki military uniforms similar to the photographs in William's display case. A tall, dark-skinned waiter passed me, dressed in a long white Egyptian shirt—a thobe, I think it's called—that hung to his feet with a tasseled fez on his head. He carried a tray of chai glasses and pitchers of water.

Somewhere behind me, a piano played but no one listened.

The dust blew in from the street where an occasional old car drove by—and by
old
I mean 1930s old, with wide, round fenders and bulky, oversized bodies. Parked right outside the café entrance was a
horse-drawn
carriage with a bearded man, wearing a similar thobe and a turban, waiting for fares.

Where was I? And why?

I turned in a slow circle and tried to get my bearings. Around me were a couple dozen tables where men chatted and others sat alone reading newspapers or sipping drinks. I peeked at one of the newspapers and the date surprised me—1942. The chatter around me was English; the Queen's English, too, with a lot of
right-oh
, jolly good,
and
cheers
. Passing waiters took orders from the Brits, nodded with a tip of the head, and walked away calling out the orders in loud Arabic.

A tall, thin, balding man dressed in a light linen suit that looked very Charlie Chan climbed the steps from the street and walked onto the terrace. He had weathered, dark skin and looked Egyptian. He carried a newspaper under his arm and stopped at the terrace entrance to look around.

A waiter greeted him in slow but
well-mannered
English. “
Salaam
, sir, good evening. Welcome to the Shepheard Hotel. How may I be of service?”

“
Salaam, salaam
,” the thin man responded. Then he sighted someone across the terrace and walked away. He negotiated the tables and met a
heavier
-s
et
, shorter man at a rear table.

Why, I don't know, but I followed.

“Peter, thank you for seeing me,” the thin man said, now in
thick-accented
English. “I trust you have not waited long.”

“No, no.” Peter gestured to a chair. “Not at all, Hussein. But, please, could this not wait until later at the houseboat?”

“No, I'm afraid not.” Hussein ordered chai from a passing waiter and placed his newspaper on the table, took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and offered the pack to Peter. “Please, for you.”

Peter took a cigarette and placed the pack in his shirt pocket. “Have you been to the cabaret? How is Hekmet? She is treating you like royalty, I hope?”

“I could not find her. She is too busy with our British friends.”

Peter laughed and sipped at a tall glass of dark tea.

Hussein crossed his legs and looked around the terrace, studying a couple tables of uniformed military customers. “Very busy today. Are we still meeting our new young friend at the Kit Kat this evening?”

“Yes, of course.” Peter picked up the newspaper and unfurled it in front of him. “He's bringing someone new tonight—Youssif is very well known at the Ministry of Antiquities. I believe he will fascinate you.”

“Ah, very good. Then our young friend has been well received by our Western hosts?”

Peter nodded. “Very.”

“That is good.”

Peter removed something from his jacket pocket and placed it inside the newspaper, refolded the paper, and laid it back on the table. Hussein didn't wait for his chai but stood, tipped his head to Peter, picked up the newspaper, and wound his way back through the maze of café tables and back into the street.

Interesting. The old newspaper/cigarette pack switcheroo.

I followed Hussein as far as the terrace entrance. He kept going to the end of the block but twice stopped on the way and turned back toward me. But each time, he stopped again, turned, and continued on his way. Half a block down the street he climbed into a
horse-drawn
cart and waved at the driver to whisk him away. By the time I returned to look for Peter, his table was empty except for his tall glass of chai and a few coins on the tabletop.

I started toward the street to look for him, but with each step the light faded. Before I reached the end of the terrace, I succumbed to the darkness where no spoons rattled chai glasses and none of the Queen's English reached me.

Another step and the lightning flashed around me …

The sudden wash of cool air chilled me. When I opened my eyes, I was beside William's desk staring at the stone-carved scarab at my fingertips. Seth watched me from the doorway, and I'd swear he had a smirk on his wood snout.

“Okay, Seth, what was that all about?”

He didn't explain, of course, because unlike dead detectives and other spirits, carved Egyptian gods are not real.