Dying for the Past (23 page)

“Ah, yes, Anatoly,” Poor Nic said, frowning. “He and I are very dear, very old friends, Angela. Very dear friends.”

fifty

I searched the Vincent
House from top to bottom. I also searched
all the tunnels I could find. Chevy was nowhere; and nowhere was bad. Oh, not that Chevy's absence was unexpected—he could have lied to Bear when he said he had more evidence. It's just going to be worse on Chevy when Bear catches him. I'd seen Bear bested one or two times. Once, it took three bikers and a half-dressed barmaid to take him down in a bar fight. Had it not been for the bosomy, half-naked barmaid, Bear wouldn't have lost his concentration and would have taken the bikers. Another time, a drunk driver stumbled out of his pickup, forgot to set the brake, and the truck knocked Bear over and broke his leg.

This time, Victorio Chevez rodeo-hogtied him in three seconds
flat. And with his own handcuffs, too. Also, Chevy stole his car. How much humiliation can he take?

I was checking in the large dining room when I noticed the
room's walls were adorned with paintings of stalwart figures—
Calapreses' no doubt—all portrayed in various rooms in the Vincent House. Their images were a timeline that began with a robust Michael Calaprese—who was the spitting image of Vincent—in a
double-breasted, wide-lapeled pinstripe suit standing in the lounge
. Several paintings later, there was a young man in a decorated military uniform standing in front of the den fireplace—he looked familiar in a strange,
deja vu
way. I moved from painting to painting trying to piece together the bloodline from father to son and daughter and so on until I found myself gazing at the last portrait in the room.

The painting was of a young woman standing in the library in front of Vincent's bookcases. One hand extended to the desk beside her, resting atop a stack of books, the other clutched a Bible. The image was life-like—alluring and warm. The woman had dark hair flowing around her shoulders and a classy, elegant figure. She was smiling the faintest of smiles—a guileful, taunting smile. Her black evening dress clung to her and even though it was just paint and canvas, she teased sensuality. The woman was happy—eyes wide and radiant, staring out at life beyond the canvas.

I was lost in those eyes when Coleman Hawkins
began
Body and Soul
.

“Isn't she a tootie-bear?”

Sassy stood in the dining room doorway. She was wearing a cotton, above-the-knee dress that for her time was rather risqué. It fit her just right and the white cotton accentuated all her feminine
parts to make me blush a little—very little. In her time or mine, she was a hottie. I can only imagine what men of her time thought—
or the women.

“Hello, Sassy. Is this Frannie?”

“Yep, sure is. Francesca Calaprese-Masseria, back in her heyday. What a dish, huh?”

“Yes she was. Why didn't she stay here? Angel said she retired somewhere else?”

“She got too old to take care of the place herself, so she got rid of a lot of the good stuff and left. Then some creep broke in and messed up the place. The creep ripped up some of these paintins' good, too.”

I remembered Angel telling me about the vandalism. “It looks like they fixed up the portraits like new.”

“Well, not like new—no way—but they fixed them up.” She gigg
led again. “Frannie had already taken some other paintings, books,
and stuff. Stuff I wouldn't take but she wanted.”

“What kind of stuff?” I made a mental note.

“Just stuff.”

I changed the subject. “Sassy, you haven't seen a short, stocky Hispanic guy who looks like a bulldog, have you?”

“Maybe.” She batted her eyes and lit the room with her smile. “What'll you give me if I tell you?”

“What do you want?” I was screwed the moment the words left my lips.

She wiggled across the room like a puppy coming to play. “You know … I got a bottle of hooch hidin' upstairs in the attic. The fella you were askin' about was up there earlier. So were all the others.”

“The others?”

“Yeah, the others.” She batted her eyes again, this time leaning into me and letting her finger glide across my face, over my lips, and down to my chest where it lingered. “And Tuckie, it's real dark up there and we could—”

“Oh, no, Sassy, we couldn't. I'm a married man.”

“To a breather. What about ‘till death do us'?”

She had a point. But, “I just can't, Sassy. Special as you are.”

“
No kiddin'?” She put on a pout. “You know you can't do nothing
with her, right?”

“I know. Believe me, I've thought long and hard about it.”

“We can, Tuckie. You ever make it with a hundred-year-old doll-baby like me?”

Gulp. “No. What would Vincent think?”

“Yes,” a voice boomed from the doorway, “what would Vincent think?”

It was, of course, Vincent.

“Hey, Vincent. I was admiring your portraits.” I hoped he hadn't
heard
too much.

“I see what you've been admiring.” He had. He strode in and pulled
Sassy away from me. “You've been a welcome guest, Oliver. But, any man who takes advantage of another man's hospitality becomes unwelcome.”

Geez, he sounded like Doc.

“It isn't like you think, Vincent. I was just—”

“Yes,
just
.” Vincent puffed on a big cigar and burned holes through
me. “It's not bad enough the coppers were in here all last night and today. They turned the joint upside down again. When does it stop? When do they leave us alone?”

“I'm sorry, Vincent.” I meant it, too. “But someone killed two more people and I have to find out who.”

“You have to? You mean they do, right Oliver—the coppers?” He turned and glanced up at Frannie's portrait. “Over the years, my things have been stolen and destroyed. My home is becoming a museum. And I cannot even protect my family because someone has the book. You want to know who is killing all these people, Oliver?”

Dumb question. “Yes, Vincent. I do.”

“Find my book.”

“Ah, so if I find this book for you, you'll tell me who killed Grec
co and the others?”

“No.”

“No?”

Vincent tapped ash from his cigar and dismissed Sassy with a wave. He watched her march out of the room huffing and mumbling under her breath. Then he turned to me with eyes shooting daggers.

“You find the book and you find your killer. It's that simple. But you bring the book to me, you understand? No side trips. No peeking. Bring me the book and I'll tell you what you want.”

“So, you know who killed Grecco? Is it the same person who killed Petya Chernyshov and Grecco's killer?”

“One and the same.”

“And you're not going to tell me?”

“No.”

For a dead guy, he was irritating. “Come on, Vincent. Have you considered the killer already has the book? Tell me who it is and I'll end all this and get it back.”

He threw a chin up at Frannie's portrait. “Go to my daughter, Oliver. She's the last of us. She will know how to help.”

“Your daughter?”

“Didn't Sassy tell you?”

“No, she left the ‘your daughter' part out.”

“Ah, yes, she was jealous of my Frannie. Still is. Go to her, Oliver. She can help with the book.”

So Frannie was Vincent's daughter. “Why can't you, Vincent?”

“It don't work that way.” He walked to the dining room doorway and turned back around. He was fading; just a silhouette and a stream of Cuban smoke. “If I did, what would motivate you to find my book?”

I started after him. “Wait, I need to know about Frannie—”

“Ask Doc. After all, he owes me—he owes me big.”

“Why? What did you ever do for him?”

He laughed and faded to nothing as the rich scent of his Cuban lingered. “It's not what I did for him, it's what he did to me.”

“What did he do?”

“You mean you don't know?”

Damn, he was irritating. “No.”

His laughter echoed. “Why, Oliver, Doc Gilley killed me.”

fifty-one

“Wait, what? Doc killed
you?”

I started down the hall after him when Sassy slinked in behind me and wrapped her arms around me. “Tuckie, the Cuban guy is back. He's upstairs looking for something. But I hid it on him—'cause I knew it was important. I grabbed it, see, and hid it good.”

“Sassy, do you want Vincent to kill us both?”

She giggled. “That would be a trick, wouldn't it?”

“You know what I mean.” It struck me what she said. “What did you hide?”

“The little lipstick-thingy. The thingy the Latin guy is looking for. He was here last week putting up these funny gadgets all over the joint. Vincent was in a tizzy I tell you.”

Victorio Chevez. “You mean Chevy?”

“I don't know what he drives, Tuckie, but yeah, the Cuban fella. He's upstairs going nuts 'cause I hid his doohickey.”

“Tell me what it looks like and what he was doing with it.”

She did. She described a computer USB flash drive. “Show me.”

We went to the northwest attic room—Chevy's secret room—where she'd shown me the ghost hunting paraphernalia yesterday. The equipment was long gone—seized first by Bear's men and then by the FBI. All that remained were an old wobbly wood table
and some shelving. Outside the room, someone banged and smashe
d things around the attic.

“It's him, Tuckie. That's the guy who drives the Chevy.”

“No, Sassy, his name is Chevy.”

“Why would someone name their kid after a car?”

It was no use. Sassy was still back in 1939 with the mind of a sexy,
wild party girl whose chair at Mensa would be forever vacant. But alas, she was a bubbly, good-natured gal, even for a dead one.

We followed the sounds of breaking glass and crashing furniture and found Chevy in a panic. He dumped packing boxes on the floor, kicked over old furniture, and careened around the attic like a drunken tornado. He'd worked up a sweat and stood panting and cursing beneath the attic eaves.

“Hi ya, Chevy, what are you looking for?” I asked, and when I did, I saw his EMF meter hanging on his belt flashing like a plane about to crash. “Did you lose something?”

Chevy grabbed the meter off his belt and turned in a slow circle until the row of multi-colored lights stayed on—a high-pitched whine erupted when it settled on Sassy and me. “Oh, man, not you again. Go away,
fantasma
, leave me alone.”

“Tuckie, his thingy is telling on us again.”

“Relax, Sassy. Where's Chevy's flash drive?”

She looked at me like I'd just asked a 1930s girl about, well, a flash drive.

I tried again. “The lipstick-thingy?”

“Oh, yeah, it's downstairs behind the bar. I hid it in the wine closet in an empty champagne bottle.” She threw her hands on her hips. “Didn't I have a great idea?”

“A champagne bottle?”

“Yeah, it wouldn't fit in a wine bottle, silly.”

“Of course not. Good girl.”

Chevy waved the EMF meter around again, each time it flickered and chirped until he pointed it back at us. Then it shrieked a steady cry and stayed lit.

“No. No. No. Shit. You a ghost, man?”

“Yep.”

“You a ghost man? Talk to me, man. Don't hurt me but talk to me.” His face paled and he slid something out of his pocket. “This is a recorder, ghost … okay? Don't get mad.”

I moved closer to him, touching the thin, silver digital recorder and watched the lights light up as it turned on. “I know, Chevy. I had one just like it when I was alive.”

Chevy's eyes exploded as the signal strength meter—a tiny string of red indicator lights on the top of the recorder—flashed full-power every time I spoke.

“Boo, Chevy. You looking for your flash drive?”

The signal strength meter spiked.

“Oh, man. You are here.” He looked around the attic and back at
the recorder. “Tell me what you want, ghost.”

“Tell 'em, Tuckie.” Sassy said, hooking her arm in mine. “Tell him where his thingy is. I want to see his face.”

I did. “And Chevy, you better get the flash drive to Bear when you're done. He's pissed enough for handcuffing him to a radiator and stealing his car. Having the evidence you promised might keep you from getting your butt kicked.”

When the signal meter weakened, Chevy clicked a couple buttons on the recorder and held it up to listen. The sounds were faint and he turned up the volume. I didn't have to listen to know when it played. His eyes erupted and his mouth dropped.

“
Boo, Chevy. You looking for your flash drive?”

“¡Hijo de puta!
” He jumped back and dropped the EMF meter on the ground. He spun in a circle as his face contorted and sweat
broke out on his forehead. “No way, ghost. No way.” He took a deep
breath and listened to the remainder of the recording.

“
Tell 'em, Tuckie. Tell him where his thingy is. I want to see his face
…
And Chevy, you better get the flash drive back to Bear when you're done. He's pissed enough for handcuffing him to a radiator and stealing his car. Having the evidence you promised might keep you from getting your butt kicked
.”

I said, “Sassy, we better give him a minute. He's about to—”

Chevy's face flushed and he ran for the corner of the attic, pushed open the round window, and tried to stick his head out. When he couldn't gulp in enough air, he bent over and heaved bile and fear onto the floor. After a few moments, he stood up, turned around, and stared into the attic. Then, he flipped the recorder back on and waited.

“Easy, Chevy. We aren't here to hurt you. I'm Oliver Tucker. Bear and Angel know all about me. And this is Sassy—she's, ah, well, she's not from here. Oh, she's from the Vincent House, just not from the here and now like you and me. Long story. Trust me.”

When the strength meter lowered, Chevy replayed the recording and fell back against the wall. His eyes were closed and sweat poured down his face. “
Madre de Dios, fantasmas.”
When he got his nerve, he retrieved his EMF meter and waved it around until the lights and squealing showed him where we were standing.

“You … You're … Detective Tucker?” He looked down at his recorder as I answered, waited for the meter to slow, and listened to my reply. “How?”

We found a rhythm. He asked, I spoke, he replayed the recording. For ten minutes we went through his questions and my answers.
With each question, he laughed a little more, almost cried twice, and settled into a calm, disbelief-but-it's-happening mindset.

“Why are you hanging here?”

Talk—record—listen.

“Sorry, Chevy, but I don't have a lot of answers. I was murdered and I'm back. I think I'm back to help solve cases like mine. You know, I can connect with Angel and Bear and help others like me.”

Talk—record—listen.

“Like you?” He didn't wait for the reply. “Oh, dead guys.”

“And gals,” Sassy added. “Us girls can get whacked, too, Chevrolet.”

“Chevy. It's Chevy, short for—”

“Yeah, I tried to explain,” I said, “but forget it. Let's go get your evidence and find Bear.”

Downstairs, Sassy led us to the bar's wine closet and pointed out the dusty champagne bottle where she'd hidden the flash drive. It took a minute or two for Chevy to rattle and shake the small device free.

Sassy sat on a bar stool twirling in circles. “Come on, let's have some fun, boys. Vincent will be back soon.”

Talk—record—listen.

“Who is this Vincent guy?” Chevy waved his EMF meter around the bar. “Should I worry? Will he hurt me or is he like you?”

Good questions. I didn't know the answers. “He's a gangster before gangsters were in the music business. He's from the thirties. And Chevy, he isn't like me. He doesn't have a sense of humor.”

“Great. What could be worse than an angry gangster ghost?”

That was an easy one. “Bear Braddock.”

“Uh-oh. I forgot about him. He's coming here, isn't he?”

Another softball. “Yeah, but relax. This flash drive will make him all happy. If it has the evidence on it you promised, anyway.”

“It does. It's my get-out-of-jail-free card.” Chevy stood in the open
wine closet doorway. “But I need it first, Tuck. Are you stuck in this house or at home or something? Or can you guys—and gals—like, you know, go anywhere and follow people? Like on TV?”

Good question. “Well, Sassy and Vincent are pretty much here I think. I don't know why. But I can go where I want. But I can't just poof in and out and find people—not yet. And I can't do the movie stuff like know everything and do spirit tricks. So if I don't see something happen or hear it for myself, I'm no better off than you.”

Talk—record—listen.

“So you just can't dial me up or something? You gotta find me like if you were alive?”

“Yes. Unless I have something personal of yours. Sometimes I can find Angel or Bear by using their personal things. Cool, huh? Why?”

Click—listen.

“'Cause I'm outta here before Braddock gets here.” He stepped into the wine closet and opened the secret passage. “Sorry, man, but I got things to do.” He disappeared.

“Tuckie, what is he doing? Chevy's a funny guy, ain't he?”

The front door slammed and heavy footsteps came down the hall toward us.

The stomping would be Bear Braddock—an unhappy Bear Braddock.

“Yeah, Sassy, he's a real card. He thinks he's going to hide from me. But he can't.”

“No? I thought you said you can't find him with a snap? You know, like Houdini or something?” She twirled on the bar stool again and began fading as Bear walked into the room.

“Tuck? You in here?”

“Nothing like Houdini, Sassy. But I don't need to be. I know where he'll be later tonight.”