Dying for the Past (21 page)

forty-six

Agent Dobron paced the
bullpen with the intensity of a caged bull. He stopped just long enough to curse and shout orders into the cell phone before taking up his patrol again. When he clicked off the phone and turned to Bear, his face was stone.

“No sign of Bonnie Grecco. Every badge in two states is hunting for her. So far, nothing. She's gone.”

I asked, “Any signs she was injured? How'd they take her?”

“Your man see anything?” Bear asked. “How could she have just vanished?”

“My man went down to the front desk for more coffee. When he got back, someone was waiting for him. They took him from behind and it was over before he knew.”

“And Bonnie?”

“He didn't see her. He opened the door, walked in, and wham—down he went. He came to when my other agents arrived twenty minutes later. She was gone.”

Bear looked across the bullpen at the interview room where Chevy was. “I'm going to follow up on Chevy's story. I'm taking him to his office to see what recordings he has.”

“You are, huh?” Agent Dobron stopped pacing. “Don't you mean
you're requesting permission to go?”

“I don't need your permission.”

“Yes, you do. You're assigned to me, remember?” Agent Dobron looked over at the other FBI man who shrugged. Then, Agent Dobron nodded to Bear. “Okay, Braddock. Permission granted. But first, who do you have at the Vincent House?”

“Mike Spence. He's a pain in the ass, but not a bad cop. He's there
with my crime techs. They're looking over the body dump in the tunnels and trying to find any more passages or rooms in the houses we missed.”

“Good. My men are there, too.”

Something wasn't sitting well with me. “Bear, does this sound right to you about Bonnie? I mean, if someone intended on killing her, why abduct her first?”

“Dobron,” Bear said, taking it all in. “Abducting Bonnie doesn't make sense.”

“No, it doesn't,” he said. “Unless it doesn't have anything to do with Stephanos's murder.”

Bear had never told him about André's affair but he did now. “André Cartier was—”

“He was involved with her. We've known for a week.”

Bear cocked his head. “A week? Before Stephanos's murder?”

“Oh, did my boys one-up you?” Agent Dobron waved in the air. “We've been investigating the Greccos for weeks. Cartier's involvement doesn't change anything. As bad as he looks, I think someone is trying to frame him.”

I sighed. “They've done a good job.”

Bear agreed, said so, and added, “Chevy is picking up payment at a dead drop tonight in Old Town.”

“You and your people handle him.” Dobron started pacing again. “But r
emember, Braddock, this is my operation—you share everything.”

“Sure.” Bear smiled a big, broad, plastic smile. “I'm just a dumb local cop trying to help you big-Feebies out.”

A uniformed deputy walked into the bullpen and handed Bear a file. “Detective,” the deputy said. “BCI in Richmond just sent this over. It's the IDs on the two bodies you found last night.”

“Great, let me—”

Agent Dobron snatched the file from his hand. “Let me have that.” He opened the file and read. “How did this happen?” He handed the file to Bear. “One of the corpses is Petya Sergeyevich Chernyshov—”

“We know about him. Who's the other?” Bear's eyes flared as he glanced down at the header, which read, “Department of Justice.”

“Petya isn't any caterer.” Bear's voice went cold. “He's an outlier for the Russian mob in DC. But you knew, right, Dobron?”

“No, I didn't.”

Neither did I, but I knew the next part. I remembered it from the man's tattoos on his arm. “Look at the other one, Bear.”

He did. “The other slug—Viktor the knuckle-dragger—I can't even pronounce his name—is a Russian mob enforcer. And he shouldn't be in the Vincent House's basement at all.”

“No, he shouldn't. He's supposed to be in Lee County, Virginia.” Agent Dobron cursed again and punched the side of a filing cabinet sitting innocently against the wall. “At the federal prison where he was two weeks ago.”

forty-seven

“I missed you at
the
party, Bonnie. Soon you'll be dead, too.”
It was a man's voice—hushed and disguised.

Angel leaned across the truck stop table, took Bonnie Grecco's phone, and replayed the voicemail. “Bonnie, we have to get this to Bear.”

“No. I don't want the police involved anymore.”

“Then why did you call me? What can I do?”

“They're gonna kill me. I received this message just after Dobron left the hotel room where they were keeping me. Then someone broke in and I ran.”

“You're not telling me everything, Bonnie. No more lies.”

Bonnie's face was pale and her hands trembled. Every movement nearby—every customer who walked into the truck stop café—sent her closer to the edge of her seat.

“Angela,” Bonnie's voice cracked as she spoke. “I am so sorry to drag you into this, but I have no choice. I don't trust any of them. No one. I had no one else to call and I knew you had the right friends to help me.”

“The right friends?” Angel watched a trucker drop into a booth three down from them. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I don't trust the cops. Not that bitch Marcos. Not the FBI. No one. I need protection, Angela. I need your friend's protection.”

Angel lifted her cup and watched the steam rise, taking the time to try to sort fear from fiction. So far, Bonnie had lied about almost everything she thought to be important—her relationship with André Cartier at the top of the list, and her revelation a few moments ago about Stephanos Grecco's life.

“Bonnie, why did you run away from the FBI? They were protecting you.”

“I don't trust them. You have to understand—”

The café door opened and Bonnie's head snapped around. When a
short, round man dressed in dirty jeans and work boots ambled in and sat at the counter, she closed her eyes and sighed, dropping her head to her hands.

“Angela, Steph was not a good man. He was, well, a crook. And hey, I'm not up for sainthood either, but Steph was a real beaut. He was always running scams and wheeling and dealing. He'd get rich people to put up money for some scheme and he'd skim it off before anyone knew. Sometimes—like last year down in Florida—he had to run because he cheated the wrong people.”

“And you met him after he ran?”

“Uh, huh. And I figured out real fast what he was all about.”

“And you stayed?”

“Yeah, I did.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “It was too late. I was in love with him. And we moved up here and I met André. I thought he could get me out of it all and away from Steph.”

“The FBI, Bonnie.” Angela tapped the table. “Why did you run from them?”

“After Steph and I met, these guys started coming around all the time
and he made me leave. I thought they were the mob or something, but they weren't. They were the Feds. Steph was working with them all along—he told me so—but I wasn't supposed to know. He said he was on their team and they were looking out for him. After he got killed, why should I trust them?”

Angel's eyes flared. “Stephanos worked with the government? He was an informant?”

Bonnie shrugged. “He said he was an ‘asset,' yeah, an asset. We kept moving. Every time he got into trouble with a scam, these guys would show, there would be a big fuss, and we'd be moving again. It's been the same way for six months. I've moved six times.”

“Bonnie, just because he was somehow working with the FBI doesn't mean they're responsible for his murder.”

“It doesn't mean they're not.”

“Be reasonable.”

“He's dead, isn't he? Dobron and his guys had me in the hotel. Never once did Dobron tell me he was working with Steph. Not once. Why not? I'm his widow, for Christ's sake. Steph was about to make a lot of money—enough to get away for good—and then
he's dead.” Bonnie's eyes followed the waitress around the room with
the coffee pot again. “So you tell me, Angela. They're protecting me and still somebody leaves me a threatening message and tries to grab me? Why should I trust any of them?”

Angel knew no matter what she said, Bonnie wouldn't buy into it. Instead, she changed the topic. “Tell me about this book.”

“The book?” Bonnie's face paled. “You too? Great.”

“André is my uncle,” Angela reached across the table and took one of her hands, pulling it to the center and holding it tight. “He's been a father to me. You told him about it, and now, he's a murder suspect. So, tell me about the book.”

Bonnie looked out the window and her eyes fixed on a large, black SUV pulled up to the gas pumps yards from the café win
dow. “Later. Get me out of here, Angela. Get me to your
friends and I'll tell you whatever you want. But get me out of here.”

Angel followed her eyes to the SUV. The driver gassed up and two other men—both in dark jeans and leather jackets—stood nearby talking on cell phones. A fourth was headed for the café door.

“What friends, Bonnie? Who do you think can get you out of this mess?”

Bonnie stood. “I'm going out the back. If you want to know about Stephanos's book, pick me up there.”

forty-eight

Chevy's office alarm was
flash
ing when Bear nudged the rear door open and led Chevy inside. The red light on the alarm panel
blinked every ten seconds and the screen read “Alarm Acti
vated—0846.” Another tiny red light on the side of the panel flickered —the system was o
n battery backup.

I looked at Bear's watch. “The batteries kicked in three hours and
ten minutes ago.”

Bear dialed the Sheriff's dispatch and spoke to an emergency operator. When he tapped the call closed, he looked at Chevy. “Why didn't the alarm company call our office? Didn't you pay your bill?”

“Too many false alarms,” Chevy said, looking around his three-room office. “The past couple weeks I've had so many false alarms the cops said they'd fine me over the next one. I told the alarm company to contact me instead.”

“Did they?”

Chevy slipped his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and nodded. “Yep, I had two texts at eight-forty-seven and one ten minutes later. You guys had my phone and turned it off, man. If I'd had my phone—”

“You would have if you hadn't broken a dozen laws.” Bear flipped the wall light switch but the lights didn't come on. “Power's out.” He crossed the office to a small, imitation-wood desk and picked up the telephone. “Phone, too.”

“
Muy bien,”
Chevy said, “someone must have shut the power off in the electrical closet down the hall. Maybe they thought it would stop the alarm. The alarm panel is on battery backup.”

“Or maybe you didn't pay your electric bill either.” Bear opened the plastic window blinds for more light. “We'll check the electric boxes after you find the evidence you promised.”

I surveyed the dreary office. “Remind me never to be a PI in this town. And I think being dead is sometimes depressing.”

The office of “Victor & Associates” was unimpressive—to be polite
. The main office had Chevy's cheap desk, a beat-up filing cabinet, equipment cabinet, a small, dilapidated couch against the far wall, and a coffee pot sitting with three mismatched coffee mugs on a rickety table in the corner. Adjacent to the coffee maker was a tiny bathroom with a shower. Off the rear wall was a short hall leading to a back door and a second office used as a bedroom. Inside were an unmade twin bed covered in a ragged blanket and pair of old blue jeans, a dresser against the far wall, and a narrow folding table covered with photo equipment and assorted electronic devices similar to what we'd found at the Vincent House.

“Very homey, Chevy.” Bear watched Chevy settle behind his desk, then went over to a small bulletin board beside the bathroom door and read the business license. “Victor and Associates? Do you have any associates?”

“Nope—unless you count the landlord's cat who comes around for scraps.”

“You're Victor?”

Chevy nodded. “Right again, Detective. Nothing gets past you.”

“Watch it, smartass.” Bear never liked my snappy comebacks either. “Isn't your name Victorio Chevez? That's false advertisement.”

“Who's gonna call a Latino PI around here?” Chevy slammed the top drawer and went to his filing cabinet. “I gotta get them in the door first, you know, 'cause once I get them face to face, I can talk my way into any job. It's all about confidence. And people like me, Bear. They like me a lot.”

“I'm starting to like him, too,” I said, “when he's not stalking my wife, of course. Other than his bad habits, he's a good guy.”

\
a little and he went into the bathroom. There, he tried to close the bathroom door but Bear jammed his size thirteen in the way.

“No secrets, Chevy. If you want to walk on the stalking charges, I get to see you with your pants down.”

“Okay, Detective.” Chevy gripped the medicine cabinet door atop the bathroom sink and pulled. The cabinet swung open revealing a storage area behind it. The cavity was about eighteen inches square and eight inches deep with three shelves lining it.

I said, “Does everyone have secret passages and hiding places these days?” I peered over Chevy's shoulder as he dug around inside. “I gotta get one of these.”

“They got one here, too.” Chevy turned to Bear. “Ah, you aren't gonna believe this, but—”

“But what?” Bear said from the doorway. “And don't give me any lies about being robbed either.”

Chevy lifted a manila folder from the bottom shelf and beneath it was a .38 snub-nosed revolver.

“Gun!” I yelled.

Bear's hand snapped to his handgun beneath his sport coat as he lunged into the small bathroom. He grabbed Chevy's shoulder in a powerful grip. “Don't even think about it.”

“Relax—it's for emergencies.” Chevy held up his hands and stepped back from the cabinet. “How'd they know my stash was in here?”

Bear nudged Chevy out of the bathroom and looked into the cabinet. He withdrew the .38 revolver and tucked it into his belt.
“Let me guess. All your supposed-evidence is gone, right? Your super
-secret hiding place is empty? And only you knew it was in there. How am I doing?”

“It was here, Detective. I swear, man. You gotta believe me. Give me a polygraph, man.”

Bear took Chevy by the arm and shoved him toward the front door. “I don't need a polygraph. My bullshit-meter is pegged. Let's go back to the office so you can file a police report on this alleged break-in while I book you on a dozen felonies.”

Chevy turned around and threw up his hands. “No, no, man. I got proof. I do. Take me to the Vincent place. I got more evidence there, man.”

“No. Let's go, Chevy.” Bear pointed at the door. “Don't make me handcuff you,
man.
We're just starting to like you.”

“We?” Chevy glanced over his shoulder. “Ah, come on. Just one fast trip to the Vincent place. It'll prove me righteous. I swear.”

I said, “Bear, let's do it. I think he's telling the truth. Besides, if we go and you're a good boy in the car, I'll introduce you to Sassy. It'll be worth it.”

“Let's go, Chevy. Move.” Bear reached behind his back for his handcuffs. “Turn around, Chevy. I didn't want to do this but—”

“No. You're not takin' me in yet.”

Bear grabbed his shoulder. “Chevez, turn around and get against
the wall.” He stepped in close.

Neither of us saw it coming.

As Bear reached for his handcuffs behind his back, Chevy pivoted to his right. He grabbed Bear's arm, twisted and jerked it up, stressing his shoulder, elbow, and wrist all at once. “You gotta listen to me, Detective.”

Bear growled in pain but couldn't get free—his size and power couldn't overcome Chevy's arm lock. “Chevez, you're going down for murder and I'm adding assaulting a cop.” Bear tried to turn and snapped a punch at him.

Chevy blocked the punch, drove his leg behind Bear's knee and swept his leg out from under him. He followed the leg-sweep with a hard elbow into Bear's back, driving him down to the floor as Bear fell off balance. As he fell, Chevy threw a leg over him and bronco-rode him onto the carpet.

“Don't fight me, man, I don't want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” Bear raged. “I'm going to break you in half, you little
turd.”

“You just don't listen, man.” Chevy tugged Bear's handgun from
its holster and tossed it away, then grabbed his own .38 from Bear's belt. Next, he took Bear's handcuffs and snapped one cuff around Bear's wrist and the other onto the old radiator beside them.

“Sorry, Detective.” He fished around Bear's jacket pocket and pulled out his key ring with the handcuff key dangling off. “I'm outta here, man. I gotta take care of myself.”

Bear lay on his side, struggling to get to his knees, glaring a death wish at Chevy. “You just racked up three more felonies. Unlock these cuffs and I promise not to shoot you right here.”

“Later, man.” Chevy found Bear's gun and unloaded it, dumping the weapon and the full magazine into the toilet. Then he went to the back door and looked outside. “This is your fault, man.” He slipped out the door and was gone.

I sat in Chevy's wobbly office chair watching Bear struggling to sit up. “Holy crap on a peanut butter sandwich, Bear. I wish I had a camera. Angel won't believe this. And wait until Spence hears—”

“Get me out of this,” he yelled, kicking at the radiator. “He took my keys, Tuck. Do something.”

“Tuck?” Twice in one day Bear spoke to me. “You've been ignoring me for months and now it's ‘Tuck, do something?'”

“Dammit, cut the lip and get me out of this.”

I walked over to him. “Sorry, can't help you. I'm not good with handcuffs unless I'm all juiced up. And you said yourself, there's no power in here. I can't do anything to help you. So, I'm going to the Vincent House. I'll fill you in later if I find anything.”

“What?” His face was on fire. “You nag and nag and drive me insane. I pretended you weren't around, but no, you just had to hound me. Now I need you, and you're running off?”

“Sorry, Bear.” At the back door I watched Chevy drive off in Bear's unmarked cruiser. “I need a good stiff drink.”