Dying to Tell (3 page)

four

“Are you sure?” Bear
said. “You think he knew his killer by just peeking into this vault? Or did you do that hocus pocus crap again?”

I don't do hocus pocus—crap or not. “The killer stood behind him and shot him close up.” I went into the vault and stood beside William's body and pointed to a spot on his back that Bear couldn't see. “The shot enters here—just to the right of the heart—and exits through the front. It probably clipped his heart and he bled out pretty fast.”

“Right, the perp had to be standing behind him.”

I nodded. “This vault isn't that big. William knew his killer or he never would have let him get behind him—maybe if he were forced, but I don't think so. And there's no sign of a struggle. It's like he and the killer were looking at something on the desk.” I pointed to the large, dark blood stain in the middle of the counting table in front of Mendelson. “And look at the blood stain. Something's been removed from that spot. Whatever they were looking at is gone. It was taken after the shooting.”

“I saw that,” Bear peered in at the table. “A file, I think—or a big book or something.”

Blood covered a large portion of the counting table, along with William's hands, arms, and most of his shirt. Just beneath his fingers, however, was a rectangular bare spot that was virtually clean and blood free. When William Mendelson was killed, he bled out over himself and the table and everything on it. Whatever he and his killer had been looking at was taken afterward, leaving the void behind.

“Maybe a bank employee?” Bear said. “A
big-shot
customer or close friend?”

“Yeah, someone close to him.” I threw a thumb toward the open vault door. “And I don't see that bank robber killing him and emptying the vault alone, do you?
He ran out a half hour ago—
empty-handed
. Mendelson's body is cold and looks like he's been dead for hours. The timeline doesn't make sense.”

Bear's mouth tightened as it did when he didn't like the news. “Not unless the robber was here for a while. Maybe he loaded up the stuff—whatever it was—and was making a dash for it when the guard arrived.”

No, that didn't work either. “So this robber—someone Mendelson knows—shows up to rob the bank annex in a ski mask and gun? Mendelson shows him something just before he gets killed? Then he runs off and collides with Conti? I don't think so.”

Bear thought about that. “Conti arrived for work and found the employee door unlocked. When he came in to check, the robber jumped him, beat him up, and demanded to know where the vault was with the gold and stones. But yet, this vault is as empty as my refrigerator.” He threw a chin at the tall, wide railroad safe in the corner. “Unless everything's still in there.”

“Could be. But I don't think that guy robbed this place. Why beat up Conti asking where the vault was if he'd already emptied it?”

“Right. Doesn't fit.” Bear looked around for the hundredth time as his face soured more and his jaw muscles twitched. “Another thing—what the hell was William doing in the bank at this hour? He's ninety and probably just a figurehead chairman, right?”

“Bankers don't work these kind of hours, figureheads or not.”

Bear knelt down and shined his penlight at an angle across the floor, scanning in all directions for any telltale sign of evidence. “You getting anything yet?” he asked.

Getting anything?
“No, I'm not ‘getting anything.' I'm a cop, not a gypsy fortune teller.”

“You know what I mean.”

Yeah, unfortunately, I did. Sometimes, the strangest things draw me in at a crime scene. It could be a piece of jewelry, a photograph, something personal to connect the dots in a crime and show me their secrets. Often those secrets are a piece of history behind the crime—or a piece of history from the object's owner. The secrets tell themselves to me, but they're not always clear. It's like watching a movie from the cheap seats. I can see but I can't participate, and too often, I don't get the whole show—just a small episode here or there. Once, when I was investigating my own murder, some stolen gold coins gave me a vision of the murderer at his first kill. I didn't know who it was and wouldn't for days—and only after more killing. It was confusing and without meaning till another clue put it all together.

Sometimes the little episode I watched was a big piece of the case.

And sometimes it was nothing at all.

I spent a few minutes poking and probing William's body—something Bear couldn't do without violating the crime scene. He couldn't
touch anything; the crime team needed to photograph and process the scene before any detailed examination of the body or vault could be done. For now, a simple examination of the wound, a peek in a pocket here and there, and a check of the vault for any obvious evidence was the limit of his effort.

“Sorry, Bear. I got nothing. Unless you count the guy in the bomber jacket and Washington Senators ball cap.”

“The what?”

I told Bear how I'd found William—after I reassured him I wasn't crazy. After all, telling him about a baseball cap–wearing ghost who led me to William's body would have sounded crazy … except that a dead guy was the one telling the story.

“Here we go again with your dead pals,” Bear said, and when someone coughed just outside the vault door, he whirled around and found Cal Clemens watching him. “What, Cal?”

“Crime boys will be down in a flash.” Cal grinned. “You guys okay in there?”

“We're fine—I'm fine.” Bear cursed. “
I'm
fine.”

Cal hid a smile and did a bad job of it. “Willy Mendelson was an okay guy. It broke my heart when I saw it was him.”

“Willy?” I said.

“You knew Mendelson, Cal?” Bear's eyebrows raised. “I didn't know you ran with the banking crowd.”

“Hah, no, I don't, man.” Cal flashed a smile made crooked by an arrested suspect a month ago. “One of my crew goes way back with Willy, though. And I see him around the club.”

“Your crew? The club?” I gave Bear a
Where's the real Cal Clemens?
look. “Spence is out of town a few days and suddenly Cal has a crew and hangs with rich bankers at a club. And you think me hanging around is weird?”

Bear ignored me. “Make believe you lost me when you called him Willy, Cal.”

Cal made the sign of the cross between his forehead, chest, and shoulders. “Yeah, sorry. I got this pal—Keys Hawkins—who owns a night club outside town. Keys and Willy go way back—all the way to the war.”

“World War II,” I said.

Bear nodded. “No shit.”

Cal went on. “Willy and Keys are tight—real tight. Willy fought in Northern Africa and Europe. He met Keys in Egypt. They been pals since the forties. Keys is the only blues man; Willy can't play the spoons, but he's got a table there every weekend.”

Bear's gears were grinding. “Mendelson hung out in some club with you guys?”

“Yeah, you should try it, too, Bear. It might loosen you up a little.”

“Sure. Soon. Tell me about Mendelson.”

Cal thought a moment. “I don't know him well. He comes in and chats us up sometimes. But mostly he and Keys go off and talk alone—you know,
old-guy
stuff. But Willy's cool. Him and Keys both. Keys is gonna take this hard. I'll tell him.”

“Okay, and interview him, too.” Bear eyed him. “Got it?”

“Yeah, no problem. Good thing Mikey is out for this one. Keys doesn't like Mikey.”

I laughed. “No? I'm shocked.”

Mike Spence was Cal's partner. Spence had a reputation as a, well, an irritant—like a piece of gravel up your ass. He didn't intend to be a jerk. Well, that's not true, he often did—but most of the time it just came natural. Cal was the quiet,
kind-hearted
,
easy-to
-
get-along
-with partner; Mike was the other one.

“Okay, Cal, but when we're through here today, get with your pal Keys. Let's grab some coffee and we can talk through it. This one's a little weird.”

Cal looked at William's body. “Weird like you talking to Tuck all the time? Or weird like we don't have any evidence?”

Bear eyed him. “I don't talk to Tuck.”

“You were a bit ago, man.” Cal smiled, patted Bear on the shoulder, and added, “But that's cool, man, that's cool. I get it. When I got shot last year, I was prayin' Tuck was still around. 'Cause, you know, if I had died, I'd come back and work with you, too.”

Bear rolled his eyes. “Great. Just what I need—two of you.”

five

Karen Simms burst into
the annex break room and went straight to Larry Conti and threw her arms around his shoulders. “Thank God you're all right. I just got here. I heard you got shot—almost killed. Someone robbed us? You stopped—”

“The Chairman's dead.”

She leaned back from him as her face froze. “What?”

“He's dead.” Larry sat at a small round dinette table sipping a cup of coffee and adjusting a bandage on his head. “Someone murdered him.” Larry was perhaps thirty, with dark eyes that gave away his Mediterranean heritage. He stood and slipped his dark blue blazer off—pushing his finger through the bullet hole with a smile—and hung it on the back of his chair. “The robber jumped me and got my gun, but the Chairman was already dead.”

“Are you sure?” Karen's lips didn't seem to move. “It wasn't …”

“No. It was him. They found him this morning.”

She took a couple slow, shaky steps back and leaned against the kitchen counter. “The robber killed William? Oh my God.”

“I guess so. Maybe. I don't know.” Larry rubbed his jaw and rolled his head trying to loosen tense muscles. “That's the weird thing. When I got here this morning, I found the side door open. I went in and he jumped me. He kept asking where the vault and gold and stones were.”

Karen slipped down into a chair across the table from him. “Gold and stones? And you didn't tell him where it was?”

“Nope. But he sure knew about the Chairman, right?” He sipped his coffee. “Anyway, the cops found him dead down in his vault. They don't think the robber did it, though. And some lady was almost kidnapped, but Mr. Thorne stopped it all.”

“The robber didn't kill William?”

“No.”

“Who did?”

“Somebody here, maybe. Who else?”

Karen stood, went to the counter. She took her time and poured a cup of coffee, spooned in some sugar and a drop or two of cream. She stood facing the cabinet for a long time. She was tall, with a curvaceous, busty frame, and toned, tight muscles from hours each night at the gym. Right then she wished she could retreat to the gym for a run and workout. William murdered but not by the robber? Larry beaten—shot—but he kept the vault a secret? And Franklin Thorne was involved, too. He was supposed to be out of town. What was happening?

When she turned around, it struck her that Larry seemed calm and unfazed by the robbery. Was he that steely? Had she misjudged him all this time? Or was there another reason?

“Poor William.” She tried to stay calm but she could hear the fear in her voice cracking her words. “Larry, are you sure you're okay? I'm worried about you.” She brushed back her long blond hair and slipped her ski jacket off. When she gave Larry another warm embrace, she lingered a bit longer than she needed. She was
thirty-one
, just a year older than Larry. He had a soft spot for her. All the men at the bank did—well, almost all. But with Larry, it was different.

And it was important now.

“What happened, Larry? Did the robber get anything? The cops wouldn't tell me anything and told me to come in here and wait. I'm frightened.”

“It'll be okay.” He reached out and touched her arm, guiding her back into a chair beside him. “I'm not supposed to talk about it, Karen. You understand? But don't be afraid. It'll be all right—I'll make sure.”

“I'm not a cop or someone like you, so I don't understand. It's just us, Larry, come on.” She gripped his hand. “I'm afraid. You know William liked us—both of us. Not Marshal—he hates me. He'll fire me first chance he gets. And what if someone here killed William? What if …”

“It'll be all right, Karen. I promise. No one will hurt you. You're not going to get fired. And that guy won't be back, either. After he beat me up, he ran out and tried to take Professor Tucker hostage. Mr. Thorne shot the guy …”

“Who?”

“Tucker—she's from the university.”

“Oh, yes, I took a class of hers last year.” Karen's mouth went dry and she sipped her coffee. “Her husband was a cop—he was killed a couple years ago, right? What was she doing here before opening?”

He shrugged. “Beats me. When the robber ran outside, he grabbed her and tried to run. I tried to stop him, but he shot me.” He stuck his finger through the hole in his uniform blazer again. “Thorne came out of nowhere and shot the guy. He just wounded him, though, and he got away.”

“My God, Larry. Why didn't you tell him about the vault?”

He shook his head. “I tried to tell him the vault was at the bank—to get him out of the annex—but he knew all about William's secret vault. And he kept asking about gold and stones.”

“Does William have those down there?”

“I don't know.” He shrugged again. “The Chairman had a lot of stuff down there. Everyone knows—even though Thorne and Marshal think it's a big secret.”

Karen leaned back and contemplated her coffee cup. In all the years she'd worked at the bank, no one ever spoke of William's secret vault, but everyone seemed to know—a whisper here, a sly comment there. No one had ever seen it, let alone been inside. Then, several months ago, William took her into his confidence. Since then, he'd relied on her for so many things—uncertain things. In time, his reliance on her grew until last week, when his last, biggest secret passed his lips. After hearing his story and seeing the proof of his past, William didn't seem so odd any more—just scared. And that secret was to be feared.

And Larry knew as much as she did. Maybe
more
.

“Larry, has William shown you inside the vault?”

“Has he shown you?”

“He told me about it in case there was an emergency. But I've never seen inside.”

“Me neither.” Larry stood and refilled his coffee cup. “They asked about it, you know—the cops. They want to talk to me again later.”

Franklin Thorne walked in, halting the conversation. “Karen, I need to speak with you.”

“What's wrong, Mr. Thorne?”

“I can't say. Would you meet me in the main office in ten minutes, please? I need to access the safety deposit vault and I need your key.”

“Yes, sir.” When Thorne left, she looked at Larry. “This scares me to death. It could ruin everything.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because with the robbery and William's murder, they'll be poking and probing around at everything, right?”

“So? Karen, you're okay. You haven't done anything wrong.”

She stood and went to the sink and put her coffee cup down. “Maybe we should tell the cops everything. You know, what we've seen.”

“I don't know what we saw, Karen.” Larry shook his head. “And neither do you. So, no. Don't do anything until we talk again. We should meet later, after you get away from Thorne and after I speak with the police again, okay?”

“Okay, meet me in the basement file room. Say an hour? And we don't say anything until then—to anyone—right?”

Larry nodded.

“I'm trusting you.”

Larry tried to smile. “With your pal Thorne involved, I'm worried, too.”

“There is no ‘my pal.' It's you and me, Larry—you and me.” She kissed his cheek and left the break room.

Thorne wanted to see her in six or seven minutes. She quickened her step and before she reached the lobby, she dug into her purse, found a key secreted in her makeup case, and turned right at a narrow corridor. As she did, someone ahead of her unlocked the steel door at the end of the corridor, marked “Security Room—Authorized Personnel Only.” The person slipped inside and closed the door.

Franklin Thorne.