The Crypt Trilogy Bundle

by Bill Thompson

  “Please don’t hang up,” she pleaded. “Take down this number. It’s the police officer’s phone number.” She also gave him the officer’s name. “He can confirm what I’ve told you. Once you know it’s true, please call me back. Someone has to come. I don’t know what to do with his things…” She began to cry.

  Maybe this is true, he thought. She isn’t asking for money. At least not yet.

  “All right. I’ll make the call. What’s your number?” He hung up and searched the Internet for the number of the main Bucharest police station. He didn’t use the number the woman had given him – that could be part of the scam.

  The person who answered the phone at the police station transferred him immediately to the officer’s line, and within minutes he’d heard the story. His aging grandfather Nicu Lepescu had indeed fired three shots, killing a known drug dealer, Denis Ilie. The murder had happened in a third-floor room of a seedy hotel in the Ferentari. When the police arrived at the scene, Nicu handed over the murder weapon and confessed to the crime.

  Milosh rummaged through his desk for the numbers of his siblings, Philippe and Christina. Philippe had lived in Lucerne the last time Milosh spoke with him, and she had been in Vienna. But that was long ago and both numbers were out of service. He’d try to find them later; now he needed to get to Nicu’s house.

  Once Mrs. Radu gave him the address it took less than thirty minutes to drive there. Ironic, he thought, that his grandfather lived half an hour away, right here in Bucharest, and he hadn’t seen him in maybe fifteen years. There certainly had been no love lost among any of his family.

  He and the housekeeper sat at the kitchen table in Nicu’s comfortable flat. She sipped tea as he slowly drank a beer. She’d been the daily housekeeper for ten years, she explained, and until Adriana Creed appeared, he had only rarely left the house. He had no friends, no callers, no interaction with anyone else until the gypsy girl showed up. She said that Adriana, a young fortune-teller turned constant companion, had come into the old man’s life three years ago.

  “She sits with him for hours, they go for walks, she pats his arm … It’s … I hate it!” She began to cry and Milosh began to understand.

  “She’s taken your place.”

  “Not really,” Mrs. Radu answered quickly. “I was never a ‘companion’ in that sense of the word. I was always around in the daytime and we would talk. I would attend to his needs and make sure he had everything he wanted. Now she does all that. She’s just taken over.”

  She’s jealous.

  Through intermittent tears she told him about Adriana, where she lived and how often she came here. They went out a lot, she explained, and her getting the day off yesterday wasn’t unusual. Sometimes Adriana took him away for the day and Nicu gave Mrs. Radu time off. She appreciated it, actually.

  She said the police had interrogated her for hours. She went home exhausted, returned this morning, searched Nicu’s papers and found Milosh’s name and number. She’d never met Nicu’s grandson, although she’d worked here ten years.

  “What do the police say Grandfather did? It all sounds crazy! I wanted to look on the web, but I decided to come here first.”

  “I agree it’s unbelievable, especially if you had seen your grandfather the past few years. He’s old – really old – and frail. He gets around, but he can’t do much without my help. Well, since Adriana came, it’s her help too, I suppose. She went with him to the ghetto, you know. The desk clerk saw them both go upstairs. She never came back down.”

  “What? The desk clerk saw her, but when the police got there, it was just him – right? The officer didn’t tell me anything about another person.”

  “He told me Nicu said she was there, but she left before he killed that man. The desk clerk heard three gunshots from upstairs. There were only two occupied rooms; he went to the other room first and heard the people inside having sex. That seems to be what that hotel was used for. When he got to the room on the third floor, the door was open. The old man was sitting in a chair next to a body lying on the floor. Apparently the dead man had rented the room earlier. The desk clerk said the girl was nowhere in sight, and he asked the old man – your grandfather – what happened.”

  “Mr. Lepescu…” She began to sob. “He told the clerk to call the police. ‘I’ve killed this man,’ he said. How could he have done that? And why? The policeman said the dead man was a drug dealer. Why would Mr. Lepescu go to the ghetto and kill a drug dealer? He wasn’t involved in drugs.”

  “Sometimes people hide it…”

  “You don’t understand. There was no hiding anything. Before that girl came into his life, he didn’t leave this place for weeks on end. Whatever he got, I brought to him. He wasn’t strong enough to go out on his own. Did she get him hooked on drugs? As much as I dislike her, I can’t believe that. It’s as bizarre as the murder itself.”

  Mrs. Radu’s immediate concern was what to do about Nicu’s everyday affairs. Should she come every day with no one here? Should she start going through his things? Was she going to have a job?

  Milosh asked her to sit tight for a few days, perhaps a week, while he tried to contact his siblings. “We’re his only relatives, unless you know something I don’t,” he said.

  She confirmed she knew of none either. Milosh’s father, Ciprian, had died long ago, and the three grandchildren were the last of the Lepescu line.

  He assured her she’d be paid. “I’ll call you when we need your help. Grandfather’s merely in jail – he’s not dead – and chances are he will be released at some point, either because this is all a huge mistake or we will get him out on bail. We still need you. Come once a week, tidy up, and stay in touch if you hear anything.”

  He went to the police station and spent an hour with the officer who’d interviewed Mrs. Radu yesterday. Given his grandfather’s advanced age, Nicu was being held in a hospital ward with other sick inmates. Milosh was told it could be weeks before anyone could visit him.

  Adriana Creed hadn’t been charged because no one could place her at the scene when the crime occurred. Nicu said she had left down the back stairs and he had acted alone to murder the drug dealer, although he had offered no motive or explanation how he knew Denis Ilie. For now Adriana was considered a person of interest, but no warrant had been issued. The police wanted to question her, but she had disappeared. Since cross-border movements within the EU weren’t recorded, he thought it was possible she was no longer in Romania.

  Milosh gave the officer his phone number and went home to try to contact his brother and sister. After a couple of hours checking public records on the Internet, he found Christina. Lepescu, it turned out, was a fairly common name in Romania, but not so much so in Austria, where she apparently still lived. Christina Lepescu had applied for a work permit to be a waitress in an upscale restaurant in Vienna. He called the place and learned when she’d arrive for her shift. When he knew she’d be there, he called back.

  She was surprised to hear from Milosh after all these years, and astonished at the news about their grandfather. She asked him what to do, and he said to stay put for now. If anything changed, he’d call her.

  Doubtful that she’d know, he asked if she had any idea how to contact Philippe.

  “Our criminal brother?” she’d responded. “I have a cell number somewhere. It’s so old that it may not work.” She found the number and gave it to him, explaining that the last time she spoke with Philippe he was in hiding, having been fired from his high-paying job as an investment manager for a wealthy man. “He was looking for the name of a lawyer he’d used once before, but I couldn’t remember it. I asked him what was going on and he said he was in trouble. I think he stuck his hand in the till once too often.” She laughed. “But isn’t that just like him!”

  Milosh spoke with Philippe. As he had left things with Christina, he told Philippe he’d call when he had news. The Romanian jail system still operated much as it had under the Communists. Inmates charged with c
apital offenses weren’t allowed visitors. Not even an inmate who was 105 years old could see his family.

  It was two months before Milosh spoke with his siblings again. The superintendent of the prison had called him early that morning.

  “Your grandfather was beaten by another inmate last night,” the man had advised. “He’s in a coma and they’ve moved him to a private hospital cell. You may visit but you should come quickly. He’s in bad shape, not expected to live.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The three sat in a bar a few streets over from the prison where their grandfather had died two hours ago. When the assistant warden had asked them who was going to pick up the body, none had an answer. He pulled out a list of morticians the institution kept for just this situation, and Milosh picked the first one. A barrage of paperwork followed; then they had to wait an hour for the prison doctor to examine Nicu’s body and officially declare him deceased.

  Milosh and Philippe ordered wine, but in typical fashion Christina ordered champagne and declared, “It’s time for a toast!”

  “Why are you so cruel?” Milosh asked her. “What did he ever do to you?”

  “He was a damned Nazi. He let thousands die…”

  “And exactly why are you suddenly such a bleeding heart? You care about something other than yourself? I’ve never seen this side of you.”

  “You don’t know anything about me! I haven’t laid eyes on either of you in years. You, Milosh – from what you’ve told me the past couple of days, I figure you’re as broke as I am, so you’re happy he’s dead. As far as the Nazi thing, you’re right. Who cares? It’s like ancient history. It’s something I read about in school, like it never really happened. And Grandfather himself? I never knew him. I heard the stories about prison time for war crimes like we all did, but he wasn’t a real grandfather to any of us. He didn’t give a shit about us or our father. Now he’s gone. Good riddance, I say. Let’s find his stuff and divide it up.”

  Philippe smiled. “What a touching memoir. Remind me to have you give the eulogy at my funeral.”

  “I can only hope it’s soon, my dear brother. I know you love me as much as Grandfather did.”

  While they sparred, Milosh sat quiet and withdrawn.

  “You’re a barrel of laughs today,” Christina hissed at him. “Speaking of Grandfather, I wanted to say something. You killed him, Milosh.”

  “Are you crazy?” he shouted – his usual calm demeanor gone. A few customers turned their heads to look.

  He lowered his voice. “I killed him? What the hell are you talking about, you crazy bitch?”

  “Ooh! A little on edge, are we? Do you have something to hide? What did you whisper to him there at the end? Those words that got him so agitated, he died! You did a great job moving things along by the way, but I want to know what you said. And what he said back. When he grabbed your coat, I saw him whisper something to you.”

  For what seemed like forever, Milosh stared at her in silence. He knew exactly what the old man had said. He had whispered the word Apostol. But what did it mean?

  Philippe leaned in close and spoke softly. “Do you have something to hide? She asked you a simple question.” His words became harsh. “Tell us what he said. Do it now.”

  He’d intended to keep this to himself until he could find out what the word meant, but Milosh had never been able to stand up to his younger brother.

  “If you must know, I asked him where the book was. He said a word. Maybe he was trying to answer me or maybe he was delirious. He said something like apostle. Are you satisfied now that you’ve learned such an important secret?”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Christina, I don’t give a shit. What you think, who you are, what you’re all about – none of it means anything at all to me. I could care less about you or Philippe. We’re in this boat together, trying to figure out Grandfather’s assets. We already know he had accounts and property. We need to work in harmony just long enough to see what and where our inheritances are. Then both of you can go straight to hell. And say hello to Grandfather when you get there.”

  Philippe believed Milosh. He knew his grandfather hadn’t said apostle. The word was Apostol.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After Nicu died, his housekeeper told the grandchildren about Adriana. The old man was 105, but in her heart Mrs. Radu firmly believed the girl was doing something sexually with Nicu. She simply was too reserved and old-school to discuss it. Instead she talked about the daily visits, the hours behind the locked bedroom door, and how Adriana had called the old man “darling.”

  “I don’t know what the girl was doing to … I mean with him,” she concluded with a snort. She’d said more than she intended to.

  Christina laughed hysterically. “Do you think she was getting Grandfather off? Seriously? He was a hundred and five goddamn years old, for God’s sake. An erection would have killed him. I don’t know what the hell she was doing, but I want to see the will. Her name had better not be in it. That’s all I have to say.”

  The housekeeper turned red, embarrassed at Christina’s words and disgusted that these three seemed interested only in what they were going to inherit.

  The grandchildren went to work. They scoured the apartment, looking for anything that could help them determine what his estate looked like. None of them had contacted him for fifteen years or more, so they had no idea about his financial situation. Did he have a will? Debts? Assets? They hoped to find written records.

  As they searched through his papers, they also looked for a legendary book. When they were teenagers, their mother had disclosed a dark family secret, a rumor that their paternal grandfather was an extremely wealthy man. Somehow during World War II the high-ranking Nazi had managed to amass vast assets that he had hidden away. He went to prison for twenty years for the crimes he’d committed, but he never told where the fortune was hidden. There was a diary, their mother whispered, that would reveal everything. No one had ever seen it, but if it existed, it would literally hold the key to hidden treasure.

  “Where is it, Grandfather? Where is the book?” Although the others didn’t know it, those were the questions Milosh had whispered to his grandfather a dozen times in the days before his death. And at the end he had answered.

  Apostol.

  Although finding the diary would have been ideal, none of them really believed such an important book, if it even existed, would just be sitting around in Nicu’s house. And it wasn’t, although Christina found a box full of his papers in the closet. There were bank documents, some keys, his last will and testament, and various keepsakes, including his commission as an SS officer in the Army of the Third Reich. She pawed through things, found a simple two-page will and scanned it. Then she tossed it to Milosh.

  “It’s just us. Now we have to find out what the old bastard had.”

  Nicu’s will couldn’t have been simpler. Everything went to the three of them in equal portions. There was no provision for Mrs. Radu and none for Adriana Creed. And there was no mention of a diary.

  Milosh and Christina cleaned out drawers and closets. They offered many of his things to Mrs. Radu, who made a feeble attempt to appear grateful for the handouts while inside she seethed with rage. She had been the old man’s helpmate for a decade, yet he left her nothing. Now his grandchildren were offering her his castoffs – the things they didn’t want.

  He truly was a bastard, the housekeeper thought to herself. He’d left everything to his grandchildren, none of whom she’d ever laid eyes on in the ten years she’d worked here.

  Philippe was the only one of the three who had a financial background. They handed him the box of documents; he sat at the kitchen table and began to sort things out while the others emptied the attic. Nicu’s bank statements were all from the National Bank of Romania’s branch just two blocks from where he sat. They were mailed quarterly; the most recent indicated a balance of well over two million Romanian lei, around six hundred thousand US dol
lars. He hadn’t touched the principal for thirty years; there were quarterly interest deposits plus a deposit each month from Waddell’s, an international real estate firm with offices in Bucharest. He wondered about that but soon figured it out.

  The statements revealed that occasionally a small amount would be moved into a checking account, which had a current balance of a few thousand lei. He asked Mrs. Radu about it, and she said that was the household account. She could sign checks and used it to pay Nicu’s utility and household bills. Every time the account got low, money appeared from some place she didn’t know about. From the statements Philippe learned that there was an automatic sweep from the savings account every time the household account needed replenishing.

  There were yellowed papers dating back to the 1950s, savings account statements from banks in Germany. These may have long since been closed, Philippe told his siblings as they looked over the documents. He set them aside to investigate later.

  One surprising thing Philippe found in his grandfather’s box was a deed. He called the housekeeper over and asked if she had ever paid rent or a mortgage payment. She said she hadn’t, and he informed his siblings that their grandfather owned not only the flat in which they were sitting, but the entire seven-story building. And it appeared to be debt-free.

  “There’s a monthly deposit into his savings account from Waddell’s,” Philippe told the others. “It’s significant – over ten thousand US dollars a month.”

  “Waddell’s – isn’t that a real estate company? Why are they paying him?”

  “Give them a call, Milosh,” Philippe replied. “I imagine you’ll find they’re managing this property for Grandfather, and that money is rental income.” Ten minutes later Philippe’s hunch had been proven correct. Per Nicu’s instructions, the firm deposited net rental income after repairs and expenses, but no statements were mailed. The agent promised to email the past twelve months of statements so they could see where things stood.