Dying to Tell (8 page)

fifteen

“I don't like him
either, kid,” a voice said from behind me. “And I think he's got the hots for your girl, too.”

The bomber jacket man was back. He stood beside the employee entrance door watching us. No one noticed him but me.

I walked over to him. “Okay, who are you?”

“Come on, kid,” he said, tipping the ball cap off his forehead. “Doc said you were a little slow sometimes. I'm disappointed.”

“Doc sent you?”

“I didn't say that. I said he said …”

“How do you know Doc?”

“How do you think? You're a detective—detect already.”

This guy definitely knew my
great-grandfather
Doc Gilley. He even played the same word games … no, wait … no … could it be?

The jacketed man's eyes had a familiar friendliness that reminded me of someone I'd seen more than a year ago. Well, actually more than seven decades ago. During my last big case—one involving the Russian mob, 1939 gangsters, and a few dead relatives of mine—one of my bizarre, unexplainable trips had taken me back to 1944. I was an unseen guest while two lovers said their wartime
good-byes
on the front porch of an old gangster's house. The beautiful young girl was pregnant and the dashing,
off-to
-war soldier was …

“You're my grandfather—Ollie Tucker.”

He feigned a bow. “Captain Oliver Tucker—I guess the First, right? At your service. I wondered how long it would take.”

“You were in the Office of Strategic Services—the OSS. You were a spy.”

Ollie shook his head. “Not really a spy, kid. We were more, well, saboteurs. Maybe a little spying stuff, sure. I liked to blow stuff up and go after Kraut officers. And hey, I was good at it, too.”

“OSS?” I said, looking at his penny loafers, bomber jacket, and baseball cap. “I thought all you spies wore fedoras,
double-breasted
suits, and trench coats.”

He laughed. “Yeah, we did—in the forties. I checked out a little later and was more a fifties man. I was undercover a lot. This old jacket was a gift from Donovan himself after I landed a broken plane outside DC.”

“You were a pilot?”

“Nope.” He grinned. “I was with some other OSS fellas bringing in some important scientists at the end of the war. Pilot got sick and somebody had to land us. I got lucky and brought her down. That's why Wild Bill gave me the jacket.”

“Wild Bill?”

He nodded. “General William Donovan—he ran the OSS.”

Of course he did. “Why didn't you just tell me who you were before?”

“Tell you?” He laughed and patted my shoulder. “Doc said you always look for shortcuts.”

Doc again—that would be his father and my
great-grandfather
. And boy, were they alike. “Give me a break, I've been a little busy with this murder.”

“Too busy for family? Yeah, okay, I'll cut you some slack, kid. I know what it's like to get crap from Doc all the time, too.”

I looked him over for the first time. He was about
five-eleven
and no more than
one-seventy
. He was thin and wiry, like many of the soldiers who returned home from the war. More than a year ago, I'd seen him as a young soldier heading off to war. He'd aged since that scene. His hair was short and his face
clean-shaven
. But it was his eyes that gave him away; he had friendly eyes—Doc's eyes—dark blue, mischievous, and inquisitive.

“Does he give you a hard time all the time?” he asked.

“Of course he does.”

Ollie nodded with a smile. “There were times I wasn't sure who was tougher—him or the Krauts. But old Doc is a smart guy—maybe smarter than me, even if he is my pops.”

Doc was my mentor. He was a crusty, feisty old surgeon who'd lived in my den since forever. He was my
great-grandfather
by birth and my
spirit-mentor
by necessity. Of course, his idea of mentoring was torturing me with insults and chidings while I floundered my way through life as a dead guy. I always got the impression Doc knew far more than he let on and enjoyed toying with me. Now, talking with Doc's dead OSS agent son—my namesake—sort of proved my point. How long had Ollie been around and Doc never said? Doc had been close by for years, yet it took my murder to bring him out of the closet. Had Ollie been hiding in there, too?

“So, Granddad—”

“Oh no … nope, no way.” Ollie raised a hand. “Cut that crap right now, kid. It's Ollie to you. Much as I don't like that name, it's better than Oliver or Granddad. I ain't old enough to be your granddad.”

He wasn't wrong, of course. He didn't look more than
mid-thirties
. “So, how old are you, Gran—ah, Ollie?”

“
Thirty-four
, kid. Old enough to have had your dad and a few good years with him.” He made a muscle with his right arm. “Not bad for
ninety-five
, eh?”

I did the math in my head. Yup,
ninety-five
. “What happened to you?”

“I dunno, kid.” His face darkened. “Somebody hit me. Didn't see it coming, either.”

“A car accident?”

He snorted. “No. Jeez, Doc was right about you. They killed me. Whacked, rubbed out, six feet under. You know—they
hit
me.”

I recalled the case last year with the dead mobster, Vincent Calaprese. His old book hid the secrets of the Russian mob in Washington DC and corruption that spread like peanut butter—sticky and gooey. Back in the thirties, the Russians killed Vincent and his girlfriend trying to get that book. Through the years, that book cost a lot of lives—lives that mattered.

Maybe it cost Ollie his, too. Maybe not.

I glanced around and saw that Bear, Cal, and Angel had left. “Was it the Russians, Ollie? Could they have killed you? Doc told me …”

“Maybe.” He thought about that. “But that would have been the Soviets, kid. Yeah, maybe them. Maybe old Nazis, too. Maybe somebody else. I rang a lot of bells in the OSS. And after, too—a
lot
of bells.”

“What did you do after the OSS?”

Ollie straightened his ball cap. “That's for another time. For now, you got a big problem on your hands.”

I do? Oh, yeah, William Mendelson. “Do you know who killed him?”

“No, do you?” Ollie faded—just a sliver of mist in the cold December air. “You think all you have is a dead banker?”

“And what do you think I have?”

“Well, the Egyptians would call it a
museeba
.”

A museeba?
“What would you call it?”

He was gone now, just a voice—a monotone, troubled voice. “A bloody disaster.”

sixteen

Yep, he was Doc's
son all right. Drop a few hints, get me interested, and disappear. I wonder what they call
that
in Egypt?

I should have gone with Bear to search William's house but went instead to find someone who could give me some answers about my grandfather, Ollie Tucker. That meant finding Doc. I walked the few blocks from Old Town to our
three-story
Victorian. It was chilly and snowing off and on, but cold doesn't bother the dead. As I went around the back to the sun porch and passed through our
wrought-iron
gate, voices reached me from inside. One was Angel, of course, but the other surprised me.

Franklin Thorne.

I thought he went to the gym?

In the kitchen, I was met by my
hundred-plus
-pound black Lab, Hercule—named after the
second-best
detective in the world. Second after me, of course. Hercule bounded down the hall from the living room to the rear kitchen door with a few woofs and moans. When he reached me, he tried to plop his paws on my chest but found only the wall instead. You'd think after two years he'd know it was pointless. But he didn't care and it was the thought that counted. Hercule was nothing if not loyal and persistent. That's why he cocked his head toward the hall and gave me a low, unhappy moan.

“What's he doing here, Herc?”

Moan. Grumble. Moan.

“That's what I thought. Let's go say hello.”

Woof.

Hercule stopped at the living room. He moaned, looked back over his shoulder at me—that caught Angel's attention—and then glared straight at Thorne, who sat in my good leather recliner sipping a cup of tea. Hercule took one step toward him and growled a steady, even warning.

“Stop it, Herc,” Angel said, pointing toward the door. “Go.”

Oh
hell
no.

“Hi honey, I'm home.” I walked into the room. “What's he doing here? And in my chair, too? Well, at least he's not got my slippers on yet. That's good.”

Hercule moaned again.

“Stop it. Go into the den,” Angel said to Hercule, but it was meant for me. “Franklin was nice enough to drive me home because of the bad weather—don't start with me.” The latter was also for my benefit. Hercule didn't care about the weather.

“I thought he said he went to the gym.” I walked over and stood beside his chair. “Or was he thinking of working out some other way?”

Angel refused to look at me and said to Thorne, “Forgive Hercule, I'm the only one in this house with any manners—or common sense, for that matter.”

Ouch.

Thorne set his teacup—one of Angel's “the Dean is visiting” fine porcelain teacups—on the coffee table in front of him. “Angela, I wanted some time to speak with you in, well, privacy. You understand—so the others wouldn't see us.”

“Privacy?” Angel shot a glance at me, then at Hercule as he took another step and glared
squirrel-death
at Thorne. “That's enough, Herc.”

Hercule is my hero.

“Well,” Thorne said, trying to avoid eye contact with Hercule, “I know you're very close with Detective Braddock. And I hoped you might help me with a problem I have at the bank—a very delicate problem.”

“It's a homicide case; he needs to go to Bear, Angel.”

She said as much.

“Well, if I did, it would have to be official. And I'm not ready to do that yet. It concerns Marshal, who is now my boss. If he learned that what I have to say came from me, well, that would be unfortunate and I could lose my position.”

I said, “Angel, this guy is playing you. He's going to do the
tit-for
-tat
thing. You know, give you a little info and hope you keep him informed on Bear's case …”

“You want me to be a
go-between
with Bear?” Angel sipped her tea. “I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that. Tell me what's wrong and I'll help if I can. But if it's important to this case, you'll have to speak with Bear.”

He nodded. “All right, but please consider the delicacy of what I'm telling you. Last night, Marshal and I were in Harrisonburg on business. We had dinner with the local branch manager and staff. Later, we met for drinks with some other business people at our hotel.”

“Dinner, drinks, swanky hotels. Life's hard for you, isn't it, pal?” I didn't like Franklin Thorne—not from the beginning and even less with him sitting in my good leather recliner sipping tea with my beautiful wife. “What do you think, Herc?”

Moan. Growl. Moan.

Thorne looked at Hercule. “I thought Labs were supposed to be lovable dogs.”

“Oh, he is. But you're in Tuck's favorite chair.” Angel shook her finger at Hercule. “He should learn to let some things go. And even though he's gone, he should have some manners.”

“The dog?” Thorne asked. “Ah, I'm so sorry. I suppose my being here is making you both uncomfortable.”

“Oh no. Not me.” Angel gave him a big, warm smile. “Herc maybe, but he'll get over it.”

I said, “That was for me, buddy. Not you.” I patted Hercule on the head and took a seat on the couch opposite Thorne. “Okay, honey. I'll behave.”

“Please go on, Franklin.”

Thorne did. “So, this morning we were supposed to meet a client for breakfast but the client never showed. I called Marshal's room and he wasn't in. The front desk said he'd left very late last night and had not yet returned.”

“Perhaps he met someone else for a meeting.” Angel knew what Thorne was suggesting and so did I. “Or the front desk was wrong.”

He shook his head. “No, I think not. I called the breakfast client. He told me Marshal had canceled the meeting last night—I was never told.”

Interesting. “Harrisonburg is just over an hour from here, Angel. Marshal had—”

“Marshal had enough time to drive back last night,” Angel said, setting her teacup down. “Are you saying he could be involved in William's murder?”

Thorne nodded. “Yes, I'm afraid so. I checked out of my room and called his room but there was no answer. He was nowhere around. So I drove back here.”

“Are you're suggesting he returned here last night?” Angel chanced a glance at me when Thorne reached for his tea. “And killed William?”

I wasn't
suggesting
anything. “Hell yeah, he could have.”

Thorne shrugged. “I think Detective Braddock should know about this. But, as you can see, Marshal will know it came from me once he returns. And remember, he could really be on business in Harrisonburg. It could be very awkward for me.”

“What would you have Bear do?” Angel asked. “He'll have to confront him.”

Thorne already had a plan. “Detective Braddock could speak with the hotel clerk—you know, checking our alibis—and get the clerk to tell him that Marshal was out all night. Then it wouldn't have come from me. And if he presses me for confirmation about the meetings, I won't have any choice but to answer his questions. Surely Marshal would understand.”

Wow. Franklin Thorne was not just a
chair-stealing
,
tea-slurping
little bastard; he was a
sneaky
chair-stealing
,
tea-slurping
bastard. But he might be a smart one after all.

I said, “Angel, if Marshal's involved in William's murder, why
is Thorne so worried about what the guy will think if he tells Bear
all this?”

She asked him.

“What if he isn't involved? I find it difficult to think he is.” Thorne's mouth tightened. “What if it's all very innocent? I'd be fired before the end of the day. Security men are supposed to protect their companies, not cause them damage.”

Good point—weasely, but still a good point.

“I'll speak with Bear,” Angel said. “Is there anything else?”

Thorne stood and straightened his silk tie, closed his suit coat, and buttoned one button—very
GQ
. It struck me once again that he looked like the centerfold for a men's fashion magazine and it irritated me no end.

He said, “Yes, but I need to do some checking myself, first. I need to ensure I've got all the facts straight before I discuss them with you. I would hate to look the fool with you, Angela. Not after just having met you. And it'll give me a wonderful excuse to call on you again.”

“Oh, I see.” Angel stood too. “I …”

“Angela, may I be forward with you?”

“No,” I said, “you may not.”

She said, “That depends, Franklin.”

Thorne walked the long way around Hercule—who stood and followed him—and retrieved his overcoat from our antique coat rack near the door. “I'm new to Winchester and don't have many social opportunities. I work a lot, and, well, I'm not very good at social connections.”

“Oh right,
Joe-rich
-
and-perfect
has a problem with women.” Saying it made it sound so much sillier.

“I find that hard to believe,” she said.

“It's true.” He went into the foyer and stood at the front door.

Angel, Hercule, and I followed.

Thorne said, “What I mean is, well, would you have dinner with me tonight? That will give me time to sort out the concerns I have at the bank, and perhaps we can discuss them over dinner.”

“Dinner?” Angel shouldn't have been surprised but was. “I'm not sure that's appropriate.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” His tone was low, perhaps a little … defeated. “Your husband—I just thought that it's been so long and …”

“I mean the case.” Angel smiled. “I am a witness, after all. And you're …” She gestured vaguely.

“Standing on the very spot where her loving,
gun-carrying
husband was murdered,” I said and moved closer to him. “Back off, pal.”

Hercule barked.

“Ah, I'm a suspect?” I swear Thorne had a twinkle in his eye. “But I saved you this morning.”

“Yes, you did. Still, I'm not sure it would be wise to date.”

Thorne's eyes brightened and he smiled a big,
perfect-teeth
smile. “All right, not a date. A business meeting. You were going to consult with the Chairman, and up until this morning, he was my boss. I think it wise that we discuss what you could have helped the Chairman with so that you can help me.”

Was he kidding? “Oh, bullshit. Angel, this guy's—”

“All right, yes. Perhaps we could discuss the case.” Angel opened the front door. “Seven?”

“Seven.” Thorne's voice couldn't hide his surprise—and glee. “Wonderful.”

Oh, puke. “Where are you taking
us
?”

Angel tried to hide a wicked smile but failed.

“I'll pick you up.” He went outside onto the porch and turned around. “I have a table always reserved at a new place just outside town. You'll love it. And wear your dancing shoes.”

“Dancing shoes?” I looked at Angel. “Since when do evidence consultants require dancing shoes?”

Angel bade Franklin Thorne
good-bye
and shut the door.

“I don't like him,” I said. Hercule moaned an agreement.

“Well, I do. And you're just jealous you can't go dancing.”

“Thorne's not my type.” Then I added, “And he's not your type either. You know, the dashing French movie star type?”

“
He's close.” Angel went to clean up the teacups in the living room.
Halfway across the room she stopped and turned to me. Her eyes were
serious. “Tuck, you need to understand. We—you and me—we can't go out to dinner or dancing or even a movie. I need to do those things sometimes. Nothing romantic, just dinner and fun—in public with a live, breathing person. And I need this town to understand I'm not a nutty,
Ghost and Mrs. Muir
crazy person.”

“The movie or the television series?”

She rolled her eyes.

I did my best imitation of her. “
A live, breathing person
.” Okay, I got it. I did. So I added, “Okay, I know it's been tough on you. But no romantic stuff, right?”

She scooped up the teacups and headed for the kitchen. “No. I'm not ready yet.”

“
Yet
?”