Dying for the Past (9 page)

twenty-one

“Sassy, what is this
place?”

She stood at the top step and waved her hand around like a conductor leading her orchestra. “In the old days we'd hide our boys up here. Ya know, when the coppers came lookin'. Vincent's place is great for hidin'. Dicks never got wise.”

The room was windowless and I guessed we were somewhere in the rear, northwest corner of the mansion. The entire room was little more than ten feet square with a rickety wooden table tucked into the corner opposite the stairs. On it were several gadgets which lighted up and buzzed as we approached them.

“What's all this stuff, Sassy?”

“I dunno. Why do you think I brought you here, Tuckie? I dunno nothin' about it all. I figured you would. All this junk is from your time, not mine.”

A small notebook computer sat on the corner of the table and it was on but the screen was dark. Beside it was a small gray plastic device similar to a television remote control. It had one button in
the center and five little multicolored lights at the top. Below the lights was a scale ranging from green to red with markings annotating each color. When I reached for the device, the lights flickered and cycled up and down the light scale, whining and chirping.

“What the heck is this thing?”

“Dunno, Tuckie, but it don't like you, does it? It lit up on me earlier.” She pointed to the computer. “What's this thing?”

“It's a computer.” I touched the notebook's keyboard and it surged
energy into my fingertips, sending a jittery flutter through me like I'd just mainlined caffeine. Seconds later, the computer screen turned on.

“A what?”

“A computer, Sassy. It stores information and you can type stuff and go on the internet.”

She looked at me like I was an alien trying to make contact. “The inter-what?” This beauty had some catching up to do. “You know libraries, right?”

“Sure, don't everybody?” She folded her arms. “I ain't dumb, you know.”

“No, of course not. Well, think of this as a machine with connections all over the world inside. And it can go around the world over the telephone lines and read stuff and talk to people.” I didn't try to explain the internet, cell phones, or chat rooms. Her twisted face told me I'd reached her limit. “It connects the entire world.”

“The world?” She rolled her eyes. “Sure, sure, whatever you say. What about the other thing?”

The remote device continued to flicker and flash and chirp.

“I have no idea.”

The computer's screen was alive and it was divided into four grids. Three of the grids were fuzzy and unfocused, but the fourth was clear and showed a black and white video stream from the downstairs hallway. At the front door, I could see Bear and Angel talking.

“Holy crap, Sassy.” I tapped at the keyboard and tried to find the controls to focus the other three closed circuit cameras. “I have to get Bear. Someone's been watching us the entire evening.”

“Yeah?” Sassy jammed her hands on her curvy hips and puckered up a cat-call whistle. “Tuckie, what's this stuff gotta do with anything?”

I tugged her along down the stairs. “You better get back to Vincent, Sassy. I don't want you getting into trouble. He doesn't like me much.”

“I do, Tuckie. I like you a lot.” Outside the armoire, she turned around. “What's all the junk up there mean? Is it important?”

“Very. It means whoever was up there might be a witness to Stephanos Grecco's murder.”

“Oh, is that all? I been a witness lots of times—but I ain't no
rat.”

twenty-two

“It's for ghost hunting,”
Spence said, picking up the gray plastic remote device. Spence had arrived moments ago with Bear and was surveying the devices Sassy had shown me. “You know, for paranormal investigations. This is an EMF meter.”

Earlier, after leaving the attic room, Sassy disappeared to wher- ever she disappeared to and I sought out Angel. I told her what I'd found and showed her the way to the attic entrance through the armoire. She in turn relayed it all to Bear. Before he and Spence climbed to the attic, he sent Angel home for some sleep. She only argued ten minutes before agreeing and leaving them to their treasure hunt.

“Ghost hunting? Are you kidding me?” Bear's eyes lit up. “What the heck is an E and F thing?”

Spence waved the gray remote device around. “EMF stands for electromagnetic fields.” He pressed the center button and the device's line of five multicolored lights flickered for a moment. “If it comes into contact with any electromagnetic fields, the lights flash and it buzzes. Each one is a field frequency—”

“Whoa, Spence.” Bear held up his hands. “Why do you know so much about ghost-hunting gizmos?”

Spence moved the EMF meter around the attic in an arc, watch
ing the lights. When he turned and pointed it in my direction, all five lights went apoplectic. He looked up at Bear with eyes wide and his voice a little shaken. “Bear, there's something here.”

I walked toward Spence and his EMF device glowed and flick
ered and chirped like a ravenous bird—Spence backed up two steps
as his face paled. When I retreated, the lights slowed and stopped chattering. When only one light remained on, Spence's face went from pale white to a not-so-pale white and he breathed for the first time in minutes.

Bear just stood staring at the device. His mouth was clamped tight but he forced out, “Holy shit, Spence. Are you telling me this thing says a ghost is in here with us?”

Spence just nodded and backed up another step.

“Terrific.” Bear glanced in freeze-frame glimpses around the room. “Just terrific.”

I walked in the device's path again and sent its lights and Spence's heart racing. “Oh, this is fun.”

“And you know this how?” Bear asked, grabbing the EMF meter from him and turning it off. He shuddered a little. “You moonlighting on me?”

“I watch all the ghost shows on television. There's a lot of them.” Spence seemed happy the meter had gone dark in Bear's hand. “You wouldn't believe how popular ghost hunting is. Some of these guys travel all over the country—even the world—doing this stuff. Do you know how many celebrities have hauntings? Even the White House—”

“Yeah, right.” Bear pointed to the computer. “And they use this crap to find ghosts? What's all this stuff do?”

“Somewhere around here, we should find the IR. IR is infrared, Bear; cameras and imaging gear. I bet they have cameras and recorders hidden all over this house. We'll have to search all over again.”

“Why would they have it here?” Bear asked, looking down at the computer screen. “Explain it to me. I don't watch television.”

Spence dropped into the chair in front of the computer and pointed to the four images still watching the house. Just as I'd found them with Sassy, three of them were out of focus and dim.

“The ghost investigators put cameras all over. Some of them are infrared and some aren't. And they use thermal cameras and digital recorders, too. Then they either sit back and watch the video feed or they take hand-held equipment and search the house. They should be recording everything somewhere.”

Bear watched the monitor. On the screen, one of his deputies was talking with Captain Sutter in the front hall, three floors down. “And they see ghosts?”

“No, not really. Not like you think.” Spence tapped the screen. “The EMF meter finds electromagnetic fields which could be a ghost because they might give off energy. Most of the time it's just
bad wiring and big electrical stuff. The cameras are looking for anything out of the ordinary like blurs, images, shadows, or movement.
The infrared and thermal equipment catch changes in heat caused by a spirit appearing or manifesting. The recorders—”

“Yeah, I get it, Spence. I get it.” He looked over the devices on the table again. “Why didn't we find the cameras and recorders when we searched earlier?”

“I don't know, Bear.” Spence shrugged. “They must have hidden them pretty good. And, we were looking for guns and people, not tiny cameras and electronic bugs.”

Bear rolled his eyes and then he froze. “You said they recorded stuff. Are you sure?”

“They should. They have to collect everything and then analyze their findings afterward. It takes hours to go over all the data.”

“So, someone got into this house with all this equipment and has been recording everything going on tonight?”

“Yeah, looks like it, yes.” Spence tapped on the computer keyboard and studied the screen. “Except they didn't save the images or data on this notebook. They must have put it all on a flash drive or big external drive and taken it with them.”

“Get a computer guy up here, Spence. I want every piece of equip
ment located and checked. Do whatever you have to do, but find everything these ghost-investigators left behind. Then find them.”

“Ah, Bear.” I knew the problem before Spence got it. “We better find these guys and fast. They might have recorded the murder—and the killer.”

Bear walked back to the center of the room with the EMF meter,
turned it on, and waved it around. The lights blinked a little until he pointed it straight at the corner of the room where I stood, then they stayed on and chirped.

“Holy crap.” He looked right at me without knowing it. “Spence, if these guys recorded the killer, then they're in danger. The killer may go after them.”

“So Cartier isn't our guy?” Spence said. “I knew it.”

“I hope not. We just have to prove it. If André killed Grecco, then what about the other body?”

“Other body?” Spence turned around. “Bear, you're worrying me. If you start in about another body again, the Cap is gonna commit
you. We haven't found any second body—and no signs of a second shooter either. Where are you getting the idea from?”

“Just find this surveillance equipment and have the computer guys dig into this hard drive. I want to find these ghost-guys fast. And, I hope one of them isn't already the other dead guy.”

Spence stood up. “Why do you think there's another body and another shooter?”

Bear pointed the EMF meter toward me again. Its lights danced and the chirping bit everyone's ears. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Spence. So don't ask.”

twenty-three

Just after dawn, Captain
Sutter sent Bear and Spence home for a few hours of sleep. Neither of them argued. She posted a deputy
at the front door, securing the house so even the crime scene team could rest before going back over the house again. Then, she went home, too.

Angel was already home and I'd hoped fast asleep. Her evening hadn't gone as planned—a murder, perhaps two, and a quarter-million in donations stolen. Not the bang-up charity event of the year, although I doubted anyone in Winchester would ever forget it.

I wouldn't.

As Bear drove off, I decided to head home and didn't need a ride from him. I can move from one place to another, like across town to my house or anywhere by just “being there” in my head and “poof” I'm there. I just have to know where I want to go. So, I took the spook-train express. One second I was on the Vincent House's veranda, and the next I was a couple blocks from Old Town Winchester on the front porch of our three-story Victorian. My first
stop was my den and I sat behind my antique desk and threw my feet
up for a rest.

A man's home may be his castle, but his den is his keep. Mine was no different.

The room was lined with shelves of books, trinkets, photographs
,
and all sorts of memorabilia. It was as I'd left it last October before my
untimely demise. As I walked in and looked around, heavy footfalls bounded down the stairs from Angel's bedroom to greet me.

Hercule P. Tucker—my best pal and companion—jumped front paws first onto my lap to say good morning. His feet fell onto my desk chair, but he wasn't fazed. The big black Lab was used to this little anomaly in our relationship. He twisted in the chair and tried to plant his long, wet tongue on me without success. He didn't care. Hercule was my hero. He took a bullet saving Angel's life the night I was killed—a bullet which could have killed him. It never slowed him down and he was the first to see me back among the living. He also helped connect Angel and me; a simple game of ball led to lots of tears. Tears led to an embrace. All of it led to her connecting back to me.

A red ball with Hercule's perseverance—and she believed.

“Hey, Herc, how are you doing?” I rubbed his ears and sent him to his ritual spot on my expensive leather recliner across the room. “Is Angel asleep?”

Woof. Wag. Woof.

“Okay, boy, where's Doc? Is he around?”

Hercule sat up and turned his nose to the air, searching the room as though snorting out a stash of peanut butter cookies—Herc was a dog of many talents. His tail went into overdrive and he pointed his nose at the doorway, barked a greeting, and lay back down to finish his fifteen hours of daily sleep.

A tall, broad-shouldered man in his late fifties or early sixties
stood in my doorway. He wore green surgical scrubs and had a stethoscope hung around his neck. “Oliver, I've been waiting for you.”

“Hello, Doc. Have I got a story for you.”

Doc Gilley was a crotchety old surgeon who lived somewhere in the house. I say “somewhere” because like all dead people stuck on my floor, I had no idea where he was when he was not regaling me with his vast knowledge of my faults or his endless wisdom. Doc was my great-grandfather—and the only one of my relatives I'd ever met, albeit after our deaths. Like all grandfathers, he was
never short on counsel when I needed it. And more so when I didn't
need it.

“It's about time, Oliver.” Did I mention he was crotchety? “Angela has been home for hours.” Doc's arms were folded and he had a perpetual scowl as permanent as his decades-old scrubs. “Where have you been?”

“Never mind. Do you know a Benjamin? Or how about a place called Quixote's Windmill?”

“Benjamin?” His face tightened. “Why are you asking about him?”

“Because I need to find him and some book he has. It's simple. You know him then, right?”

“I have never met him.”

Something wasn't right. “What's with you, Doc? Do you know Benjamin or not? And you never answered me about Quixote's Windmill.”

Doc walked over to Hercule's chair and sat on the arm, petting him and ignoring me. This, too, was not unusual. “What makes you ask about Benjamin? What do you know?”

“Nothing. I ran across something at the Vincent House and—”

“The Vincent House? What were you doing there?” Doc got on feet—his scowl had turned more scowly if there was such a thing. “You didn't tell me you were going there.”

“Ah, no. I didn't know I was. I didn't know the estate's name, why?”

Doc's eyes, normally a deep blue, were fire engine red. “Well? Answer me, Oliver. What about Benjamin?”

I'm sure I mentioned I hate the name Oliver. “What is it, Doc? You know something about the Vincent House? You're acting—”

When I was a cop, I could judge people pretty well. Well, at least well enough to know if they were going to try to kill me or something. With Angel, I could tell in seconds if I was going to get reacquainted with the couch or showered with kisses. With Bear, I could always tell when he needed a date—which was most of the time. But Doc, he's a different story. He was as readable as braille to a seeing-man—the clues were there but you couldn't quite read them.

“What's with the attitude? You must know Benjamin or you wouldn't
be acting like this.”

He snorted. “How did you hear about him?”

“I ran into this guy—Vincent Calaprese—who still thinks it's nineteen thirty-something. Anyway, he and this hottie named—”

“Sassy.”

“Yeah, Sassy. You know her, too?”

Doc's eyes went far away. “My, my.”

“Come on, Doc, tell me.”

He nodded but he was years away.

“Doc, who's Benjamin? Vincent was very adamant I bring him to visit. And let me tell you, his bourbon is great. I haven't had—”

Doc stepped forward and threw a finger at me—a teacher about to launch a lecture. He didn't disappoint me.

“Listen to me, Oliver. Listen to me good. People die. Sometimes
things happen to them and they stay behind like us;
sometimes
. But, when something happens to us—something bad—it's like dying all over again but much, much worse. It's messy … and very, very bad.”

“Ghosts can die?”

“Don't be a smartass.” His eyes drilled holes through me. “Oliver, you have to be very careful with Vincent. Years ago—decades ago—he was a gangster who made Al Capone look timid. He was cunning and heartless. A real bastard. Someone stood up against him. But when they did, he didn't go easily.”

“Like this Benjamin guy? You think he stood up against him? You think he wants another crack at him?”

“Yes.” Doc returned to Hercule as he became a haze of dust fading from the room. “Of that I am certain.”

“
So, what happens if I find Benjamin and bring him to Vincent?
” I already knew the short answer. “Is it going to get, you know, ‘very messy'?”

Doc was just a voice now. “Oliver, forget Benjamin and stay away from Vincent Calaprese and Sassy.”

“Why? What are you—”

“He could be the death of you.”

The death of
me
?