Dying to Tell (24 page)

fifty-five

“I repeat, Detective, I
did not kill William Mendelson.” Poor Nic sat in his living room in a tall wingback chair.

Bear smiled at the Nic across the room. “I didn't say you killed anyone, now, did I?”

“Ah, not yet, Detective, but you will. Every time there's mischief about, you come calling. I'm an old man. And I make an honest living—these days at least. And killing bankers isn't on my resume.” He turned to Bobby, who stood off his right shoulder. “Please bring Detective Braddock and me some tea, won't you? And my medications. My arm is quite sore.”

“Sure, boss.” When Bobby ambled from the room, the crystal glasses on Poor Nic's corner bar rattled.

“You are the president of Nostalgia Incorporated, aren't you?”

“I am.” Poor Nic smiled a warm, friendly smile that could sell bridges. He was a master of charm—right up to the point where he inserted the knife into your heart. Or at least, that's how his reputation had it. Since he'd retired to Frederick County, Poor Nic seemed to have, well, mellowed. “What of it? I own a security guard company, a construction company, a storage firm—all of which you've already investigated at one time or another, no?”

“What's Nostalgia about, Nic?” Bear asked. “Let me guess … nightclubs.”

Poor Nic let a thin grin escape. “Nothing gets by you. But then, that was an easy one.”

“Tell me about Nostalgia Inc., Nic, and about your investment in the Kit Kat.”

“Delighted to.” Poor Nic settled himself back in his chair and rested his injured arm on the armrest. “I incorporated Nostalgia less than one year ago to facilitate my investment into the Kit Kat West. There is no physical company—no brick and mortar, if you will. It's a paper company to allow me to have legal protection as a corporation, properly pay my taxes, and have anonymity in my business dealings.”

“What else?” Bear hadn't bothered to take out his notepad and that meant he already knew the answers to his questions. Or he figured Poor Nic's answers weren't worth writing down.

“Nothing else, Detective. I assure you. Did I not cooperate with you and provide you information on the car and cell phone I loaned to Miss Simms? Has that information been helpful?”

Bear shook his head. “No, we're still looking for her. What about noncash assets?”

“A few.”

“Like what, exactly?”

Poor Nic cocked his head and thought a while. “I believe I've declared a computer or two. Maybe some office furniture. Oh, and I'm sure I've written off one of my Cadillacs as a company asset—you know, just for business trips, should there be any—and two Fiats. One of those you're looking for.”

“You have many business trips with Nostalgia?” Bear asked.

Poor Nic just smiled. “As you know, I use the cars as loaners for special friends.”

“And if you have no office, why do you need computers and furniture?” Bear watched as Bobby returned with the tea.

“Because I can legally offset some expenses. Although at present, I have very few.” Poor Nic seemed bored with the questions. “But then, Detective Braddock, the Kit Kat just caught on, hasn't it? My investment will pay off in short order.”

Bear nodded. “Any other assets?”

“Some investments. A loan, to be precise.”

Bear recited the post office box address for Nostalgia that Cal gave him. “How much do you have in that account, Nic?”

Poor Nic squinted a little and sat in deep thought. “I do not have an account with that address. I think you're mistaken.”

“No mistake, Nic. That's the address.”

“Detective, I assure you. That address is not mine.” Poor Nic leaned forward. “No matter, let's dispense with the innocuous questions, shall we? You wish to know about my business with the Mendelsons.”

Bear didn't blink.

“It's very simple. William was in financial trouble. His bank was in jeopardy. He came to me for help.”

I was confused. “Nic propped up Keys and William both? And he owns Marshal's gambling markers, too?”

Bear asked him those very questions. “They're all into you?”

“No, no, not
into
me, Detective.” Poor Nic waved in the air. “You already surmised, I see, that Marshal got into some very heavy gambling debts and as a result, William could not invest in the Kit Kat. William asked me to assist with some financing for Keys because he could not. I was delighted to invest in such an enterprise. There's nothing like it in the area.”

“We know all that. And I still don't get how you got past the state licensing board,” Bear said. “Your history, is, well, rather well known. I'm surprised they didn't balk at your being on the Kit Kat books.”

“Why, Detective, I'm simply a passive investor. I own nothing. My name is on nothing. And if it were, do not blame the victims, Detective. After all, when your police retirement account was devastated in '08, did the FBI and SEC arrive at your house to blame you? No, of course not. My record is clean. Except, of course, for those pesky false allegations of yesteryear. Allegations that were never proved in court, I might add.”

Bear cracked a smile. “Yes, pesky allegations. How silly they were.”

“Ah, you do understand.” Poor Nic waited for Bobby to serve the tea and leave the room. “It is all legitimate, Detective. I can promise you.”

“And Marshal?” Bear asked.

“Ah, yes, Marshal. After William confided in me about Marshal's gambling debts, I also interceded. I paid off the debts and acquired his marker.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart,” Bear said in a
matter-of
-fact tone. “That's
loan-sharking
, Nic.”

“No, it is not.” Poor Nic stood and went to the hall, calling for Bobby to retrieve a file from his den. A moment later, file in hand, Poor Nic returned and handed it to Bear and sat back down. “This is our loan contract—Marshal's and Nostalgia's. Nostalgia, on paper, held Marshal's gambling loans and had specific repayment terms for the amount of just over $255,000. It's all right there in the file. And you may keep that, Detective. I prepared it for you earlier.”

Bear read through the first few pages. Then he skimmed over the remainder and closed the file on his lap. “You had this ready for me?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

Poor Nic laughed. “Come now, Detective. I invited you here, did I not?”

I said, “Summoned, more like.”

“Speak with Marshal, Detective, he'll …”

“Marshal Mendelson committed suicide this morning.” Bear watched the old gangster with deadpan eyes. “Or maybe you know.”

“Suicide?” Poor Nic's jaw tightened and for a long time he sat staring at nothing across the room. Then he touched his forehead, his chest, and each shoulder, and said a silent prayer. “No, Detective, I was not aware. But, now that I am, I am not so sure it was suicide. And before you blame me, remember the old adage.”

“What adage is that, Nic?” Bear asked.

“Dead men pay no debts.” Nic lifted his narrow chin. “Tell me about Marshal, Detective. Tell me what you found.”

Bear did, finishing with, “Looks like suicide. First William was killed, now Marshal commits suicide. Things sort of all wind up on Marshal's lap, don't you think?”

“Ah, very convenient, Detective.” Poor Nic stood up and went to the doorway to summon Bobby again. When he returned, his jaw was set and determined—the grandfatherly eyes were gone and in their place was steel and fire. “Detective Braddock, I insist you place policemen at the Kit Kat Club immediately.”

“Why?” I asked and Bear repeated me, adding, “What are you worried about?”

“Marshal Mendelson did not commit suicide.” Poor Nic pointed a bony finger at Bear. “Murders—William and now Marshal. And there were two before them. That means, Detective, that there is only one left. Keys Hawkins is in danger.”

fifty-six

At Poor Nic's insistence,
Bear followed him and Bobby to the Kit Kat West. I tagged along with Bear and we had a good chat about what Poor Nic had just told us. Neither of us were sure that the former gangster wasn't holding out on us.

“The old guy knows,” a voice said behind me as we walked past the Kit Kat's bar toward the management offices in the rear. “He knows, kid.”

Ollie sat on a barstool and looked at me.

“Poor Nic knows about what?”

“He's known a lot since this thing started, kid.” He slipped off the barstool and walked over to me. “I just don't know how much he knows. You gotta find out—and fast—before this gets away from you. Now, just listen to old Keys.”

“But …”

“Zip it and listen. Let's hear what Keys and the old guy have to say. And when they're through, you and me are going for a walk.”

Poor Nic stopped at the entrance to the hallway leading to the back offices. He whispered something to Bobby that sent him back outside. To Bear, he said, “Please, follow me. Keys will be in his office this time of day.”

“Nic,” Bear said, holding him up. “Before we see Keys, I have to ask you something.”

“Yes, Detective?”

“You said Marshal didn't commit suicide.”

“I do not believe he did.”

“Why did you say that?”

Poor Nic walked to the rear door marked “Management Only” and stopped. “Detective, it's very simple. Marshal was in financial difficulties and everything seemed lost—at least, that is why he came to me. William attempted to help him and could no longer manage. I inserted myself. Marshal and I came to terms and that is that.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Don't you see?” Poor Nic's grandfatherly smile blossomed. “Marshal had my protection. His debts were gone, except those to me. No one would dare approach him. Nor would anyone allow him to gamble again. Except for dealing with his father's demise and sorting out issues at the bank, Marshal's problems were over.”

He had a point. If Marshal's money issues were solved and all he had to do was pay off Poor Nic—and the terms of the loan documents he gave Bear seemed pretty easy to me—then life was looking up.

“Bear,” I said, “when did these two make their deal?”

Bear asked him.

“Last week,” Poor Nic said. “As of then, his burdens were lessened. Our terms were rather generous, since Keys asked me to help the son of his
long-time
best friend.”

Poor Nic opened the office door and walked in. Ollie and I followed behind Bear. Inside, we found Keys behind a desk facing the doorway. On his desk were stacks of papers and files and an uneaten sandwich and a carafe of coffee.

Keys looked up. “Nicholas, what are you doing here? It's Wednesday, we're closed. I thought you …”

“I have brought Detective Braddock. He is here both as a policeman and as a friend.” Poor Nic shut the door. “Marshal has been murdered and I fear you are in danger. I can protect you, but Detective Braddock must find the killer and put this to an end.”

Keys's mouth dropped open. “I … I … are you sure? Marshal called me last night. He wanted to come by the club tonight and mend fences—other stupid shit, too, of course. You know Marshal, always wanting to be a player and worm his way in here somehow. Anyway …”

“He's dead, Keys,” Bear said flatly. “Nic says you can shed some light on it. So start shedding.”

fifty-seven

“This is about stealing
ancient junk from Cairo?” Bear said after Keys waxed and waned through memories about the war for over an hour. “You guys smuggled out a bunch of old Egyptian junk during World War II and you think somebody's killing all of you over it?”

Keys sat in his chair. His eyes were distant—memories of life stories still difficult to put into words. He looked at Poor Nic, then at Bear, and his face strained trying to conceal his emotions. “Not junk, Braddock, antiquities—ancient Egyptian antiquities. Gold, jeweled relics, artifacts worth a fortune in the right hands. In today's market, that ‘junk,' as you call it, would be priceless—tens of millions at least.”

“Priceless?” Bear glanced at Poor Nic. “You buy that?”

“I do.” Nic folded his arms. “And Detective, stolen art and antiquities are like blood to sharks—there are those who deal exclusively in such transactions. After all, who would report the theft of already stolen goods? If word of these treasures got to the wrong places, the art and antiquities thieves would be in a feeding frenzy to get to them.”

Keys stood and went to a small safe in the corner of his office, buried under a pile of papers and an overcoat. He spun the dial a few times and opened the door, pulled out a round, heavy object, and handed it to Bear.

“See kid, I told you,” Ollie said from the doorway. “Look familiar?”

It was the
stone-carved
scarab outlined in gold with tiny gemstones identical to the one in William's office. I reminded Bear of that fact.

“And you guys stole it?” Bear examined the scarab. “You're kind of vague about that part, Keys. How about filling in the details.”

Keys sat back down and took a long breath. “I'm not proud of my involvement, Braddock, but what's done is done. I told you, I was playin' at the Kit Kat in Cairo—in '44. I went over a couple years before to work the oil fields but I hated it. So, I got a gig banging the keys for the Brits in some of the clubs. Pay wasn't as good but I wasn't boiling in the sun and drinking crude all day, you know?”

Bear nodded.

“Anyway, I got in with Willy and a couple of his pals …”

“Cy Gray and Claude Holister,” Bear said.

“Yeah, yeah, that's right.” Keys nodded. “How'd you know?”

“Investigating. Go on.”

Keys took down an old
black-and
-white photograph hanging on his wall behind his desk. It was of Gray, Holister, and William Mendelson when they were young men during the war. They were sitting outside at a café—I recognized it as the Shepheard Hotel—drinking from tall glasses and smiling for the camera.

“I took this.” He handed the photo to Poor Nic. “I started pallin' around with those three. Then one day Willy tells me he's in good with some Egyptian professor. This professor planned to come to the States for that university that was over there—American U—running from the war and all that. The professor wanted to arrange to
privately
move a few crates of his personal stash of artifacts and antiquities here ahead of time. The professor didn't want the university or the Egyptian government knowing he was, well, helping himself to a few crates of the loot he'd found over the years.”

“Wait.” Bear held up a hand. “You're telling me this professor asked you to smuggle his own archeology treasures out of the country?”

“Well, yes and no.” Keys leaned forward and smiled. “The stuff wasn't really his, see. He found it all right—he was a
big-shot
archeologist. But the stuff belonged to American University and the Egyptians—mostly the Egyptians. But when the professor found out he was headin' to the States, he wanted to keep a bunch of the loot for himself.”

Bear and Poor Nic sat in silence.

Keys continued. “Look, Braddock, the old guy stole from the university and museums—all them professors did. You know, early retirement and mementos and all that. He wanted us to help get it here without the university finding out. So we did.”

“How?” Bear asked.

“Willy and them were fliers, Braddock,” Keys said. “They flew them big
C-54
Skymasters. You know how much cargo you can get on them things? And they had pals everywhere who would help. They were headed back Stateside, so they decided to bring some extra cargo back with them. The spoils of war. Everyone did it. They made the arrangements. It was easy.”

Bear looked over at Poor Nic, who caught his gaze and nodded. Bear said, “So, what happened when this professor came to claim his already stolen treasures?”

“That's the thing.” Keys played out a strange, awkward smile. “He never did. I jumped a ride out of Cairo and came back with some university types about a month after Willy and the others left. It took me forever to get passage out of that hole. Anyway, Willy had moved the stuff back here already, to Virginia, and hid it in his father's old vault …”

Bear leaned forward. “At the bank annex?”

“Yeah, that one.” Keys waited for Bear to nod before going on. “Anyway, when I got back, Willy had it all stashed. It stayed there until the war ended. Then, me, him, Claude, and Cy all got back together. Claude lived outside DC, and Cy, I think he settled somewhere south of here.”

Poor Nic raised a hand. “Keys, do get to the professor, if you please.”

“Like I said, he never showed up. Willy and I looked for him in DC—Claude helped too. Turns out that he got himself killed in Cairo and never made it out.”

Bear watched Keys with a skeptical look. “How fortunate for you guys, huh?”

“At first, yeah.” Keys's smile turned into a vacant, distant stare. “We just let the stuff sit for a while—we figured better we better not touch it and see if anyone comes looking for it. We waited years. Then, Cy decided to test the waters and took a couple small pieces—an old dagger with some jewels on it and a couple other gold pieces—I don't know much about it. Anyway, he sold them.”

I watched Keys's face go ashen. “That's what got Cy killed, Bear.”

Bear drew the same conclusion.

“You bet it did.” Keys poked a hole in the air with his finger. “Cy was found murdered outside DC. We weren't sure it was all related; you know, DC has always been a dangerous place. And old Cy had a habit of finding trouble. So we laid low again. Years later, Claude Holister did the same thing—he tried to sell some of the loot. And you know what happened to him, I guess.”

“Suicide?” Bear asked.

“That was bullshit.” Keys sat back and watched Bear for a long time.

Bear asked, “Ever heard of Amphora Trading or Nomad Air Freight?”

“Yeah, why?” Keys's face looked like he was constipated. “Nomad is the outfit that shipped all my replica Egyptian statues and art work for this club. They make the fake stuff over in Cairo—Willy put me onto them—almost identical to the real deals. My basement storage is full of that junk. He got those big ugly statues in his office from them. Why?”

“And Amphora?” Bear watched him as Keys's constipation got worse.

“Yeah, them too.”

“Would you please explain to Detective Braddock, Keys?” Poor Nic wasn't asking. “It is the key to all of this, after all.”

Keys's eyes were red and teary. “Not quite a year ago, Willy got a call from American U asking about being stationed in Cairo during the war. It spooked him so he decided to give the stuff back. We wanted it gone for good, Braddock. He got back in touch with American University and told them he had the professor's stuff. He played coy and didn't let on any of us were involved—just that he knew where the stuff was and that he would help them recover it. I know they probably figured it all out. Then all this started.”

Ollie said, “Ask him about Operation Salaam, kid.”

I relayed the question to Bear.

“Operation Salaam?” Bear's face twisted a little and Poor Nic glanced over at him. He covered with, “It was on some papers William left for Angela Tucker. What do you know about it, Keys?”

His eyes settled on nothing in the distance. “Salaam? That old German spy job from the war? Hell, I don't know anything about it, 'cept lately it's been real popular.”

“What do you mean?” Bear asked.

“You're the third one askin'. First, Willy became obsessed with researching it a while back. It had something to do with the Germans sneaking around Cairo, I think. But hell, it all happened before we were all there.”

Bear asked, “When did William start researching Operation Salaam?”

“About eight months ago. Right after he was contacted by the University.”

I asked, “And what happened next?” just as Bear asked the same question.

Keys's face flushed and his voice got dry and angry. “Then she showed up.”

“Who?” Bear asked.

“The granddaughter of that old professor from Cairo—the one that Willy knew. It was his loot, right? And she showed up. And when she did, all kinds of bad things started happening Bad things to all of us—Willy, Marshal, even Lee and me. Jesus, we knew we were in trouble. That's why we asked Nicholas to help us out.” Keys looked over at Poor Nic and his face fell, defeated. “But it was too late. That professor's granddaughter had already found us.”

“Who?” Bear asked leaning forward and demanding Key's eyes. “Give me a damn name, Keys. Who's behind all this?”

“Raina Iskandr.”