Dying to Tell (28 page)

sixty-six

“Yes, I am Albrecht
Klaus Falke,” Keys Hawkins whispered with a faint German accent—his words mixed with spittle of blood and saliva. “And yes, you bitch, I killed Youssif Iskandr. I had no choice.”

Keys lay on the hardwood floor, still taped to the wooden chair by his left arm, beaten and bloodied. His eyes were swollen nearly shut and Lee knelt beside him, holding his head on her lap. Her face was unbruised—unblemished by any assault—but it showed the pain and agony Keys had endured.

“Well, I'll be damned,” I whispered to Ollie beside me at the bar entrance where I'd arrived. “Keys Hawkins was your German spy.”

“And a murderer.” Ollie slid his ball cap onto the back of his head. “I figured it out a little while ago. It only took me seventy years. I thought it was William. Damn, I'm getting slow in my death.”

Lee looked up at Raina across the room and defiantly ripped the final piece of tape off her grandfather's arm. “What now? He's an old man. That was over seventy years ago. What's the point? He's been here most of his life. He was a boy back then. A boy, dammit.”

Raina sat on a barstool watching. She seemed removed from it all—distant and unfeeling. Her eyes held no regret, no emotion, for the pain she was causing.

Beside her, B.C. leaned against the bar and drained a tall glass of booze he'd helped himself to. Perhaps he was getting drunk. Perhaps he was waiting for his final orders and readying his resolve.

B.C. said to Raina, “Okay, I did what you wanted. Now give me the cash. I'm done with this shit, lady.”

“I think not.” Raina turned to face him. “I want my grandfather's possessions. Bring me those to me and I shall deliver your money.”

B.C. slid away from the bar. “And I told you, lady. I ain't got that junk. Never had it. How many times—”

“Lies.” Raina gestured to Keys. “Just like him. A liar, a traitor, and a murderer.”

“It was war,” Keys grunted. He pulled himself to a sitting position beside Lee. “Damn you to hell. It was war.” His German accent was gone and he was a Virginian again. “Your grandfather pulled a gun on me. I never intended to kill him.”

Raina thrust her gun at him. “Lies! And for what did you kill him? Treasure? War profit? It was not for your country—you abandoned Germany, did you not?”

“Please.” Lee's voice was gravel. “You're just like William. He wanted to dredge it all up just for the truth. Why? What difference does it all make now? The truth won't bring anyone back and it won't change anything.”

“Raina, it was a hard time—for everyone,” Keys said and coughed blood. “The Abwehr recruited me as a
boy-soldier
and sneaked me into Cairo. Who would think a young musician was a spy? The Yanks and Brits couldn't hold their tongues when beautiful dancers and booze were around. I thought Youssif wanted to help us against the Allies, like so many Egyptians did. Lots of them helped, you know. But when I met Youssif that night, he pulled a gun. I had to kill him.”

“You murdered him.” Raina's eyes drilled through Keys.

“No.” He shook his head. “Yes, I took his trunks of treasures to create the illusion it was a robbery. But in the end, that loot was my ticket out of Cairo and away from those Nazi fanatics. I am sorry. I am truly sorry.”

Raina walked back over to Keys and pressed her pistol to his forehead. “You murdered my grandfather. How … when … it does not matter.”

“It was war,” he grunted again. “I was a boy and realized too late that the Germany I went to war for was not what I'd thought.” He coughed and took a heavy breath. “It wasn't what many of us thought. It was an accident with Youssif, I swear.” Keys took several more breaths and steadied himself. “I couldn't return to Germany. Hell, I knew I'd never leave Cairo alive if I didn't find a way out. When Willy and the boys headed back here to the States, well … I used the loot as a way to hop a ride.” Another long pause and several breaths. “The rest you know.”

Raina's eyes hardened. “A spy and a murderer.”

“You're a murderer, too,” Lee yelled. “Claude Holister and Cy Gray were innocent men. Your family murdered them. William knew you were coming for him and wanted to make things right. I tried to convince him there was another way, I tried to keep him from going through with it. But he had to tell and he died trying to.”

Raina flashed dead eyes at her. “Justice is better.”

“Justice?” Lee stood up between Keys and Raina. “Gray and Holister had nothing to do with your grandfather's death. They didn't steal anything. They thought they were helping your grandfather come to the States. But you still killed them—your family did. You're worse than my grandfather ever was. You killed for no reason at all. Where is their justice?”

Keys looked at B.C. “Did you kill Marshal and Karen Simms, too?”

“I didn't kill anyone, mister—yet,” B.C. said with an evil, dark grin. “But I'm up for it.”

“Not yet.” Raina turned the pistol on B.C. “Now, give me my possessions.”

“And I told you, I ain't got them.” B.C. walked away from Raina as she cocked her handgun. “Screw you, lady. I never found that damn vault. I never got past the lobby.”

“Liar.” Quick as a flash, Raina shot B.C. in the leg. He went down in a surprised squeal of agony. “I've dealt with others who got in my way. I was promised you would cooperate. I was promised you would assist in finding my grandfather's killer and that afterward, you would deliver my possessions. You failed me.”

Dealt with others?
My blood—if I'd had any—ran cold. “Ollie, did Raina kill Angel? Did she run Angel off the road to stop her from getting back to warn Keys?”

“Slow down, kid.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Let this play out. You'll get your answers—and if we're lucky, so will I.”

“Please,” Lee yelled as tears flooded her face. “If you're using us as hostages …”

“Hostages?” Raina laughed a strange, crazy laugh. “You are prisoners. Now move away from your grandfather. My family has waited
seventy-two
years and I will not wait any longer.”

“Shit, Ollie,” I said, “what now? Time for one of those unplanned plans of yours. Like, right now.”

He bit his lip. “Why? Keys—
Albrecht
—deserves it. He killed Youssif—he killed my friend. I'm not worried about your murder, kid, I'm worried about mine. And maybe this crazy bitch is right. Maybe it's justice.”

No, it wasn't. “Murdering Keys isn't any better, is it? Are you that sure she's right?”

He looked at me and then at Keys and Lee. “Oh, crap. Come on.” He walked over and knelt down beside Keys. When I joined him, he took hold of Keys's shoulder. He said, “A Jerry spy is a Jerry spy to me. But I'll give you one chance …”

The Egyptian heat washed over me like a wave and when my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I was inside Youssif Iskandr's home in 1944. Shelves of pottery and artifacts lined the walls. Two long tables were stacked with papers, books, and more stonework. Beside the tables were two heavy trunks. Their tops were open, displaying trays of bundles wrapped in cloth and paper. I recognized the chests—they held Youssif Iskandr's Egyptian treasures, and soon they would be loaded onto a rickety cart drawn by the old mare outside.

Ollie stood beside me. “We're back again, kid. This is—”

“I know.”

Two voices rose from the other room—men's voices. They argued in broken English. One had a German accent and the other a thick Egyptian one.

“What have you done, Youssif?” the German demanded. “You play these games with me? Who? Who is behind this?”

“No one. I don't know what you say. Stop it now. Let me make some tea—”

Youssif crashed through the door across the room from us and landed against one of the chests. The German—a stout, hefty man dressed in khaki pants and a loosely
tucked
-i
n
cotton shirt—
followed. He was a very young Albrecht Klaus Falke—Albert “Keys” Hawkins. He was perhaps nineteen or twenty and much stronger than the aged Youssif Iskandr.

Keys grabbed Youssif by the arm and dragged him back to his feet. “Answers. I want to know, Youssif, who is behind you? What have you done?”

Youssif broke free and lunged for a nearby bookshelf, but Keys was on him. The two struggled and knocked the table over. Several pieces of pottery and statues shattered on the floor. They crashed into the second table and continued the battle. Youssif knocked Keys backward into a shelf, and books and papers cascaded down. Then Youssif dashed to the first shelf, took something from behind a large, wide volume of work, and jutted it at Keys. A gun.

Ollie grabbed my arm. “Oh, shit. I forgot about the gun I gave …”

Keys dove onto Youssif and they grappled for control of the gun.

Youssif yelled, “Swine! Get out! Out of my house!”

A shot.

They fought for the revolver—twisting and pulling—grunting and sweating. Youssif kicked him hard in the groin and Keys faltered. But as he did, Keys wrenched the pistol sideways.

Another shot.

Youssif slipped to the floor and lay unmoving. He was facedown, his life flowing out onto the stone floor around him.

Keys fell to his knees, the pistol still in his grasp, his face twisted with fear and uncertainty.

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” Spirit Ollie's chin dropped to his chest. “It was my fault. I gave Youssif the gun just in case. I was supposed to be upstairs but Keys got here too early. He must have been testing Youssif. Damn, I gave Youssif the gun, kid. It was me.”

The room spun and the darkness ebbed and flowed around us. The air cooled and the desert turned to barroom hardwood.

The ceiling fan settled into a soothing rhythm above me. I stood beside Ollie and looked over at Keys and Lee as though we'd never left. Ollie's face was defeated and dark—the pain of the history he now found himself responsible for welled inside him. “Dammit, kid. This was my fault. I gave Youssif the gun. If I'd only been earlier …”

“I'd put that down, Raina,” a voice said from behind us. “I've got a gun on you. If you move, I'll shoot.”

Raina whirled around, fired off two quick shots toward the bar entrance, then bolted down the hall beside the bar. A second later, a door banged—first open, then closed. Two more shots rang out.

She'd made her escape.

“Ah, one less to worry about.” Franklin Thorne eased into the bar behind us. He brushed the snow off his head with one hand and leveled a semiautomatic at B.C. with the other. “If you kindly do not move, you might live the night.”

“Thorne?” Lee said. “What are you doing here?”

He glanced at her and Keys. “I trust you are both all right?”

Lee shook her head and took Keys by the arm, helped him stand, and walked him to a barstool nearby. “He needs an ambulance. What are you doing here? I don't understand.”

Neither did I.

“Thorne ain't Thorne, kid.” Ollie laughed. “And he ain't no bank man, either.”

My head spun. “So, Raina is a whacko
revenge-seeker
. Keys is a World War II German spy. And Thorne …”

“Thorne came here for William's loot.”

sixty-seven

“Tuck?” Angel walked into
the Kit Kat's bar behind Thorne. She was dazed, confused—her face was pale and her eyes darted around the room trying to find familiarity, but she couldn't. Her voice trembled and the words stuck in her throat when she said, “Tuck? I don't understand. One minute I'm with you and then … nowhere. What's happening to me?”

I didn't know. “You're here now, with us—Ollie and me. It's all right.”

She looked at Ollie with eyes more uneasy than friendly. “Ollie? You're his … grandfather, the OSS man? Oh, Tuck …” She ran to me and threw her arms around me. She kissed me long and hard. When she pulled back, she smiled as though it all suddenly made sense. “It's over. The hard part, right?”

“Yes, I think so.” Hell, I didn't know. I glanced at Ollie. “Is it, Ollie?”

“No, kid. Be patient. This one's new to me, too.”

There was a crash of wood splintering outside the bar and Bear and Cal burst in, weapons drawn.

Bear yelled, “Everyone freeze, Frederick County Sheriff's Department.”

Thorne lowered his handgun. “Ah, Detective Braddock, good. I was worried I would have to entertain this one myself.” He pointed to B.C., who lay bleeding on the floor. “And dear Mr. Hawkins needs an ambulance as well.”

I pulled Angel close. “It's okay, babe. It's over.”

“Ah, no, kid,” Ollie said. “Keys was a German spy who killed my friend. Raina's family killed Claude and Cy. And if I'd not given Youssif that gun, maybe none of it would have happened. But it still isn't over. Not yet.”

Angel whispered, “Tuck, we can be together now. It's all right, isn't it? No … Tuck!” Her voice trailed off and she was gone.

“What happened to her, Ollie?” I looked around but she was nowhere again—just gone. “Where'd she go? Is she coming back?”

“I don't know, kid. I'm a spook—I mean, a CIA man—not a spirit master. Remember what Doc told you.”

I wanted answers and that wasn't one of them. “Bear, Raina Iskandr might have killed Angel. I'm not sure …”

“Angela's in a coma,” Bear said to no one in particular. “The cold saved her life. She went into hypothermia and it kept her from bleeding out—maybe.”

Relief flooded my
not-quite
-there body.

“Angela?” Thorne turned to Bear and his face paled. “Will she live?”

Bear shrugged. “Where's Iskandr?”

“She ran out the back,” Lee said. “She's gone.”

“Raina?” Thorne asked. “But why?”

It struck me that Thorne had called Raina by name. “Bear, Thorne shouldn't know Raina unless he was working with her somehow, right?”

Bear looked over at Cal tending to Keys. “Cal?”

“He's in rough shape, Bear. He needs a doc.” He pointed to B.C. just as his radio squealed and he listened. “This one will live. One of our deputies was hit out back trying to stop Raina from escaping. She's gone. I've got ambulances on the way.”

“Get them here faster.” Bear looked back at Thorne. “What are you doing here, Thorne?”

“Saving the day—again.” He didn't skip a beat. “You recall Marshal's ire at me over the eavesdropping devices in his office?”

“I do. You said it wasn't you.”

“Actually, no, Detective.” Thorne walked to the bar, reached over it, and retrieved a glass. He poured himself a drink from the bourbon bottle B.C. had been emptying. “I never actually denied it.”

Bear watched him.

Thorne took a long, deep pull on his drink. “I have been working this case right along with you. You were not aware, I know. I've had listening devices in this club, just like the bank, for months. It seems someone—an accomplice of this man, B.C.—dispatched him here to assist Raina as part of a grand bargain for William Mendelson's treasure and the identity of her grandfather's murderer. An hour ago, B.C. and Raina arrived and begin interrogating the Hawkinses. They were in serious danger, thus I decided to end my charade and intercede. I regret Raina escaped. I'd hoped your young deputy in the parking lot would have stopped her.”

“The charade?” Bear didn't lower his weapon.

I said, “Bear, Thorne's not Thorne.”

“Thorne's not Thorne?” Bear didn't seem surprised, nor was he worried about the odd looks he got from everyone. “Okay, pal, let's have the gun. Then you can explain your charade.”

“Yes, of course.” He handed the gun to Bear and returned to his drink. “I'll want it back later. You understand.”

Bear turned to Lee. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine—shaken, but all right.” She put a hand on Keys's shoulder as Cal worked on his wounds. “He's got busted ribs, I'm sure. But I think he'll be okay.”

I said, “Keys's real name is Albrecht Falke, not Albert Hawkins. He was a Nazi spy in Cairo in 1944. He killed a man named Youssif Iskandr—Raina's grandfather. Afterward, he and William and some others smuggled Iskandr's Egyptian antiquities back here. Keys started all this back in the war.”

I gave him the condensed version of everything Ollie and I knew. The entire time, Bear stood there and absorbed the details—oblivious to the others in the room who looked at each other with raised eyebrows and smirks. Everyone but Cal, that is. He nodded right along with Bear.

“Albrecht Falke—Albert ‘Keys' Hawkins? A Nazi spy?” Bear's face twisted when he looked from Lee to Keys.

“That was 1944, Bear.” Lee went to him and took his arm in both hands. “He's been an American ever since. He never did anything in this country but be a good man. Surely you'll understand.”

“Dammit, I wish we had normal murders around here.” Bear bit his lip and grumbled for a long time. Then he said, “Last time it was Russian mobsters and now it's German spies. What's next?”

I knew. “Zombie apocalypse.”

He didn't think that was funny. Ollie did.

Bear said, “Okay, so we know about Keys. But who robbed and killed William? And what about Karen and Marshal? Someone is behind all three murders.”

Damn good questions. “I don't know yet, Bear. We haven't worked that out.”

Cal handcuffed B.C., wrapping a bar towel around his leg wound all the while reading him his rights. After he searched him, Cal dumped the contents of B.C.'s pockets into a ceramic bowl on the bar that had hieroglyphs and Egyptian drawings on it. Then he sat him on the floor.

Bear walked over to Thorne. “Who are you, pal? You're no bank man, that's for sure.”

“No, I am not.” Thorne laughed and emptied his drink. “Interpol. I've been on William's trail for a year. I was sent under cooperation with the Egyptian government after some of the stolen antiquities surfaced. I was to identify the thieves and return the antiquities. I'm part of an international smuggling unit.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ollie raised his eyebrows. “A smuggling unit?”

Bear said, “Prove it.”

“Of course.” Thorne reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a black leather credential case and tossed it to Bear. “I have a contact number for you to call, too. But perhaps we should try and catch up to Raina Iskandr first. I believe I know where she is headed.”

Bear studied the credentials and handed them to Cal. “You could have identified yourself sooner, Thorne.”

“Perhaps. I didn't want you locals screwing up my investigation. I've been on it too long.” Thorne hooked a thumb toward the door. “Raina won't get far, gentlemen. But I insist you allow me to apprehend her. I have more jurisdiction over her than you.”

“Go with him, Cal,” Bear said, handing Thorne back his handgun. “I'll stay with this bunch.”

“Right, I'll call you on the way—jurisdiction or not.” Cal holstered his gun and looked at Thorne. “Let's go, Interpol Man.”

Thorne marched out of the bar with Cal close behind.

Bear looked down at Keys for several minutes. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

“That depends, Detective Braddock.” Keys tried to smile but winced in pain. “Is forgetting the past out of the question?”

“Please, Bear, for me.” Lee put a hand on Bear's shoulder and kissed his cheek. “He's ninety. How long can he last?”

“Bear!” Cal staggered back into the bar holding his head—blood streamed between his fingers. In his other hand was a
small-framed
revolver.

“Cal?” Bear helped him to a chair. “What happened?”

“Son of a bitch.” Cal looked at his
blood-covered
hand and felt the gash in the side of his temple. “He was yakking about being an Interpol cop. He just stopped and came at me—about took my head off. He took my piece and drove off. I didn't find my legs or my backup gun until he was already gone.”

Bear shook his head. “Interpol my ass.”

“When I was on the ground, he gave me a message for you.” Cal balanced himself on the barstool. “He said, ‘Tell Angela I'm sorry.' ”

“He's sorry?” Bear looked at me.

“International thief,” Ollie said. “I tried to warn you.”

He did? “No, Ollie, you said Thorne wasn't Thorne. You kept saying …”

“Details, details,” Ollie said.

“I need some ice, man.” Cal found the ceramic Egyptian bowl on the bar that held B.C.'s pocket contents. He fumbled with it using only one hand and it dropped on the floor and shattered.

“Easy, Calloway.” Lee went over and scooped up the pieces. “It's all right. We got tons of this junk in the basement. Let me get you some ice.”

Ollie looked down at B.C.'s key ring amidst the ceramic pieces on the floor. “Hey, kid, you thinkin' what I am?”

I was. “Yes, and it's been in front of our faces the whole time.”