Dying for the Past (16 page)

thirty-seven

After Professor Hahn left,
Angel and I went home. I didn't tell her about my encounter with Vincent earlier. Instead, I lied and told her I hadn't found him. She had enough on her mind without wondering why he was threatening her—on top of some nut-case stalking her. I wanted to get things square with Doc first. That was impossible as Doc must have taken a vacation and disappeared for a while.

It bothered me that Doc lied. I asked him point-blank about Benjamin. Why didn't he tell me it was him? What was he hiding? And why hide it from me?

I pondered this and many mysteries of the universe—not really—until Bear arrived a little after six in the evening. He wandered in, relaxed onto our couch like he owned the place, and laid back to take a nap.

Before my death, he was my partner and best friend—more than a guest in our home. Since then, he had become a more permanent fixture. While it wasn't until today he admitted I was still around, he had been a rock for Angel for all facets of life without me.

Angel came in from the kitchen and handed him two-fingers of
my best bourbon. She slipped into the over-sized chair opposite him and curled up. “Any luck, Bear? Did you find anything on Bonnie
or Stephanos?”

“Not a darn thing.” He drained half the glass. “The FBI is blocking me every step of the way. They took the case away from me.”

“Can they do that?”

“They can and they did.” Another glug of bourbon. “But the stolen donations and your stalker are still my cases—and I'll use them to my advantage. I'm meeting Spence over at the Vincent place in a little while. We're going to stake the place out.”

“What for?”

He winked. “Coincidences.”

“I thought you didn't believe in them.”

I said, “He doesn't, Angel. That's the point.”

Bear emptied his glass and went to the bottle on the fireplace mantel and refilled it. “The money was stolen and there's another body out there somewhere, too.”

“The one Tuck saw?” she asked, gesturing at me sitting in the leather recliner beside her. “The one he says he killed—or, well, was inside someone and killed him?”

“The word is ‘
possessed
,' dear,” I said. We both love old horror movies and spook flicks. Our favorites are those when the devil and evil spirits possess people and run amuck. Now, it's not quite as fun. “You can say it.”

“Yeah, possessed.” Bear followed her gaze to my leather chair, tipped his glass toward me, and took a sip. “Whoever has the house wired up left a lot of weird surveillance gear in the attic. And the same someone is following you around—one plus one is two. They have to be connected.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes. Some of those photos of you were at the Vincent House. And they could be the key to this case.” He sat back down. “Someone had the entire house under video cameras. Our techies haven't found any recordings yet so whoever did it must have them. They might have the killer on the recordings—or—”

“He's the killer,” I said. “Even odds.”

Angel nodded. “Who do you think the killer is? That man stalking me?”

“I'm not sure—but he's dangerous.”

“How do you catch him? Your stakeout?”

“Yes, we wait at the Vincent House. He's bound to come back for his equipment. It's too expensive to leave behind. We didn't report any of that in today's paper and didn't tell anyone else­—not even the FBI or any of the guests. He hid the stuff well so I'm hoping he thinks we haven't found it. With any luck, he'll come back to get it and we'll have him.”

“What about the body I saw?” I said. “What about Kravitz and Jorge?”

“I don't think there is a Stanley Kravitz.” He looked at my leather
chair. “I don't think there's a Jorge-the-waiter either. I think it's all just one guy—your stalker. He might be our killer, too.”

Even I didn't connect those dots.

Angel eyed him. “Why do you think he's the killer?”

“There's no record of a Stanley Kravitz in this county or the surrounding counties. Petya Chernyshov is cooking his books. He's using addresses and fake names to bolster his employee roles for his boss. Then, he pays the bogus wages and pockets the money himself. When he needs the extra hands, like last night, he hires some hourly stiff to work for cut wages. He makes out all the way around.”

Clever. “And how did you come to this conclusion, Bear?”

“Well first, today the old lady and building manager never saw Kravitz—they get mail and all, but he's fictitious. Then I checked the roster of employees and surprise—a dozen fake names and socials—but they're cashing checks every two weeks. It's got to be Chernyshov. I'm going to bring him in tomorrow and find out.”

Angel asked, “Okay, so how does it all fit in with my stalker and Grecco's murderer?”

I knew the answer. “Whoever Jorge was last night is the wild card. He must have figured a way to work for the caterer to get close to Grecco. He's a surveillance-wiz, I'm betting. He's the only one unaccounted for. And it makes sense he is your stalker, too,
since the chances of two surveillance wizzes at the same time doesn't add up.”

Bear nodded. “Tuck's right—as tough as it is to say, I mean, to have
this conversation with him.”

Angel stood up and went to look out the window. “Bear, why me? Why would Grecco's killer be stalking me, too?”

“Maybe because you're the only one at the party who knew him at all before the party. Maybe because you've got something he wants. Maybe something else.”

“And André?” She didn't turn around. “If you think this Jorge or Kravitz or whomever killed Grecco, why is André still in jail?”

“He's not.” Bear stood up and placed his glass on the coffee table in front of him. “The Circuit Judge released him after lunch. Ruth-Ann Marcos pulled some strings and got André out on his own recognizance. She's really sticking her neck out on this.”

She sighed. “Thank God she is. I don't know how anyone could even think André could be involved with any of this. What would be his motive?”

Uh, oh—can a gentleman kiss and tell when it's a murder case?

“Angel, perhaps there's something I should tell you both.”

She looked at me. “What is it, Tuck?”

Here goes. “André knew Bonnie Grecco better than you think—much better.” I told them about my little escapade with André Cartier and Bonnie. I left out the juicy parts and sort-of let them think it was all innocent and nice-nice. I ended with, “He's been having an affair with her, Angel. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't, um, seen it first hand—very first hand. Anyway, during one of their trysts, she told him about her husband.”

“André had an affair with her?” Angel's eyes closed. “I can't believe it.”

Bear said, “Yeah, I know. And, that makes things worse. He's been lying to us. And if Stephanos found out, maybe the shot was
meant for her. Witnesses said a second before Stephanos was hit, Bonnie was standing in the same spot—or pretty close to the spot—on the dance floor. So were you, Angela.”

“And, Bonnie got those threatening letters.” I said. “Maybe she's broken other hearts before.”

“We can't confirm the letters.” Bear stared at the floor. “No one seems to know Stephanos or Bonnie. And if they don't know them, how could they know they were going to the gala last night?”

“Someone's lying. Maybe André.” Angel's voice was a whisper. “Oh, God, he lied about the affair. It's going to look like André wanted Stephanos out of the way. This looks like—”

“Bad news,” Bear said, reaching for his bourbon. “André Cartier has the oldest motive in the world for murder.”

thirty-eight

Bear left to meet
Spence for their stakeout of the Vincent House and Angel disappeared upstairs. I went in search of Doc again, hoping to have a few quiet words about Benjamin and this
mysterious book.

“Doc? Come on, quit hiding. Come out and talk to me.” He was starting to irritate me. “You're acting like a baby.”

Nothing.

“Doc?” I wandered the house for ten minutes and he was nowhere. Of course, for the ghost of a surgeon long dead, nowhere could be anywhere—or really
nowhere
. He could also be walking behind me and I wouldn't know. I relied on Hercule to warn me if he was. Hercule followed me on my first patrol around the house. Halfway through the second, he disappeared and I found him in my den napping.

“You avoiding me, Doc?”

Angel returned from upstairs. “Who is avoiding you? Hercule?”

“No. Doc.” I told her about my meeting with Vincent.

“He wants Doc?” she said. “What did he do to Vincent?”

“I don't know, Angel. I want to hear from Doc. He knows all about the book, too. Doc's involved up to his stethoscope with Vincent Calaprese
of the New Jersey Calapreses.”

“Maybe it's not just about Doc, but the Vincent House, too.”
Angel went into the kitchen and returned with two large photo album books and several long, rolled-up documents. “Nicholas' driver,
Bobby,
dropped these off earlier.”

“Did you offer him tea or a safe to crack?” She ignored me so I asked, “What are they?”

“Something that might help.”

She unrolled one of the documents and spread it out open on my desk, using items on my desk to hold down the corners. They were architectural drawings of a huge building and three surrounding structures. The building plans were old and worn and the legends faded and hard to read. But I didn't have to read them. I knew what the plans were on sight.

The Vincent House estate.

“Nicholas told me the estate was built back in the late 1800s.” Angel turned on the desk lamp to brighten the faded plans. “When the Calaprese families moved in and took over the block, they did a significant amount of renovations.”

“They bought the entire block?”

“Most of it.” She opened one of the large photo albums and flipped to some early twentieth-century photographs. “Remember, it's in the old section of town. Those are antebellum homes with large lots. There used to be a narrow street running between them, but it was lost when the properties were combined into one large estate compound.”

“Did Nic say why they combined them?”

“Yes, he had some ideas. They purchased two properties and combined them into the one main estate called the Vincent House.
The property spans about a half block. They also purchased two other homes
beside it to take up the majority of the remaining block.”

One of the photographs was a map of the area on which someone had sketched the placement of the Calaprese properties. There was the main Vincent House on the west side of the estate, a carriage house just to the east of it, and two other large homes farther east of the carriage house along the eastern-most estate wall. The culmination of the properties formed a virtual fortress.

“The properties are surrounded by stone walls and iron fences. It's a fort.”

“It was all about business.” She tapped her finger on the second photo album and opened it to a page she had bookmarked. It was a family photograph from 1933. There were at least twenty family members all standing around the Vincent House's front veranda. The women wore long, elegant dresses and hats. The men were in
expensive, wide-lapelled suits and fedoras. At least ten children knelt in the
front row. Everyone was centered around one man sitting in a tall-back chair in the center of the veranda.

Vincent Calaprese.

“Where did Poor Nic get these, Angel?”

She shrugged. “They've been in his library for years—passed down by family. He never explained.”

“So, this was their mob-vacation home,” I said. “Nifty.”

“Well, not a vacation home, although Vincent's family came here a few weeks a year. It became the Calaprese's main headquarters. It was out of the way but still not too far from DC. A good, rural area where they could be safe and away from the city. Nicholas told me Vincent would bring his family here a few times a year by hiring two entire Pullman cars from the railroad—one for his family and one for his men.”

I studied the photograph. “Nice, if you go in for goons and guns
.”

“Yes, a very safe hideout.” She ran her finger over the plans. “The families lived in two of the homes, Vincent and his gang used the others. When the families weren't around, they used the homes as a retreat for other mobsters.”

“Club Thug? I bet the towels and bathroom soap were stolen.”

“And it didn't come cheap. He charged big money for a night at his estate. Big money—and the guests paid. Nicholas said it was a very profitable operation.”

Vincent didn't look like the bed and breakfast kind of guy to me. “What else did Poor Nic tell you? There has to be more.”

She pointed to sections of the building plans where parts of the floor plan were void of details or architectural annotations. “See here, where there are no draftsman's marks?”

“Yes, so?”

“Nicholas says the missing information is on purpose. Vincent renovated the homes like speakeasies and didn't annotate any of the changes. He obtained the original blueprints and changed them to hide the details.”

“Speakeasies? Like the secret bars and joints from the roaring twenties?” I knew Vincent had some class. “I like it. We should do that here.”

She rolled her eyes—she must have dust in them. “Yes, hidden entrances, secret escape routes, hidden rooms. All of those.” She slid another drawing out. “The local police and FBI often watched the property. When they raided the houses—and that was rare—they were never able to find anyone they were looking for.”

Disappearing gangsters right out from under the copper's noses?
Hmmm, sounds familiar—like Stephanos Grecco's murder.

I looked over the building plans again one-by-one. The drawings of the attic and basement levels were similar to the other floors—
the standard draftsman annotations for plugs and wiring and even the doors and windows I knew to be there were missing. In fact, other than the outline of the rooms, there were no other
architectural annotations recorded. The last document was a county
planning map of the entire estate.

“Angel, who owns all the other parts of the properties today? I mean, your historical foundation bought just the Vincent House, right?”

She nodded. “Yes. The carriage house and the other two connecting properties are still held in trust.”

“The Calaprese family trust?”

“Yes, and the trust is under the control of the elderly matriarch of the family, Frannie—as in Francesca Calaprese-Masseria. She lives outside Charlottesville in a retirement community. I met with her over the sale of Vincent estate grounds and to purchase many of the original antiques for the home.”

“Antiques?”

“The house had sat empty for a very long time. She was in the process of selling off the antiques and valuables when I approached her for the Foundation. She'd had some trouble on the grounds—”

That sounded interesting. “What kind of trouble?”

“Vandalism and some break-ins,” Angel said. “A few months back
,
she had several break-ins. The last one was terrible, someone smashed
antique furniture, broke up the hardwood paneling in two of the rooms, and slashed the backs of three portraits hanging in the dining room. When I heard about it, I arranged for private security until we could complete the transfer to the Foundation.”

Vandalism? Break-ins? Someone was looking for something. “All this started around the time you were buying the estate? You stirred something up.”

“Like what? You can't think my Foundation's interest in the Vincent
House caused Grecco's murder.”

Maybe yes. Maybe no. “I think we may have to go see Frannie. But we better check with Bear first. There's something about the Vincent House that's about more than just Grecco's murder and your missing money. Vincent Calaprese is all fired-up and someone is vandalizing his home. Then, there's a murder in it. Too coincidental.”

“You think it's about the house?”

Was it? “Well, every gangster movie I ever liked had some hideout where the bad guys hid loot and secrets. And every ghost movie I ever saw had a haunted house with some secrets. This case has both.”

“Okay, Tuck, gangsters and haunted houses.” She rolled her eyes. “Just
remember, you live here. And there's no hidden treasure or secrets here.”

“How do you know?”

“Your imagination is getting carried away.” She opened one of the photo albums and began flipping through the pages. “And don't get
me started on Doc.”

I looked over her shoulder. “And Poor Nic had these lying around
for no reason?”

“Yes, he said as much.”

“He's lying.”

She shook her head. “Why do you say that?”

“Because he said they were just lying around for no reason.”

She shrugged.

In several old, scratchy black-and-white photographs, dozens of workers were posing with pickaxes and shovels. In one shot, a large, early-model bulldozer was parked beyond the estate wall almost out of camera shot.

“What kind of renovation requires so much digging and heavy equipment? The property didn't have a swimming pool and didn't add any buildings, right?”

She studied a few photographs. “None I know of. What are you thinking?”

“Look at all these workers and the layout of the properties.” I tapped the drawing which showed the positions of the Vincent House and the surrounding properties. “You don't need a lot of manpower like this to do normal renovations. And back then, using a bulldozer was still very new—and expensive.”

“Maybe you're right.”

“Poor Nic said they renovated it like a speakeasy, right? Maybe they were putting in escape tunnels. You know, in case any G-men came-a-knocking, they could scram.”

“G-men? Scram?” She flipped the page. “You sound like Elliot Ness.”

“No, not quite, Angel—Elliot Ness was after bootleggers.” I looked down at another hazy photograph of construction around the Vincent House. “Vincent says it's all about the Ruskie spies.”