by TJ O'Connor
“Holy shit, Angel, Ernie’s a crook.”
She asked, “What on earth are you talking about?”
“It’s simple. Perhaps too simple.” Ernie cleared his throat and drained his wineglass. “You see, I trade online and received word from a dealer I know about some rare items for sale. He put me in touch with an anonymous seller offering rare currency and numerous Civil War pieces. I purchased all of them.”
Angel cocked her head. “And this person sold you the coins?”
“Yes, about a week before the skeletons were discovered at Kelly’s Dig. The pieces I purchased came from there. I suspect that’s why he insisted on anonymity.”
“Did you recognize the person who sold them to you?”
He shook his head. “No, they were stolen property and all. I never met the person and did everything via the computer and the mail.”
Angel contemplated her glass. I knew that look on her face—she was mentally chasing a theory. She found it somewhere in the Merlot. “André is onto something big at Kelly’s Dig and he’ll need to see those coins. We need to know if your coins, Sarah’s, and Poor Nic’s all match the one from André’s clay sample.”
“And if they do?” Ernie looked confused. “What of it?”
“If they do,” she said before sipping her wine, “then they could be connected to the murders.”
“My dear, please.” Ernie gave a dismissive wave. “Buying and selling antique coins doesn’t equate to murder.”
“I’m not so sure.”
He asked, “What has André found?”
“He mentioned a discrepancy in the medical examiner’s skeletal findings. He hasn’t told me the details except that he feels strongly there are three or four sets of remains—not two.”
“Really? That might mean …” Ernie jumped to his feet. “Angela, stay here. Someone’s outside my window.”
“Oh, no—not again.”
“Someone just walked past.” He went behind his bar and returned with a revolver, checked the cylinder, and swung it closed. “Wait here, I’ll check outside. Stay away from the windows.” He bolted into the hallway and disappeared toward the rear of the house.
“I’ll go with him,” I said, heading for the hall.
I had not taken two steps when the sound of breaking glass from somewhere in the rear of the house stopped me. There was splintering wood, a heavy crash, and more glass shattering. A shot—Ernie barked “stop” and then another shot.
“Tuck,” Angel cried. “Where are you?”
Before I could answer, the room went black.
thirty-five
Angel was standing in the middle of the room fighting panic.
“Easy, Angel, I’m right here. Don’t move.”
“Ernie?” she called. She got no response “Tuck, he could be hurt. Go see.”
Two more loud crashes came from the rear of the house. Ernie called, “It’s all right, Angela. I’m trying to get to the electric panel. I’ve scared him away.”
“Hurry,” she called. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, stay where you are.”
After several long, anxious moments, the lights came on. Ernie limped into the living room holding his head. “It’s all right. He’s gone.”
“Who’s gone?” Angel helped him to the sofa. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure. When I reached the back room, someone was at the rear door—a man trying to force it in. He smashed in the door and attacked me.”
Angel found napkins and water on the bar. With slow, gingerly care, she began washing a small contusion just above Ernie’s left ear. Without thinking, she said, “Tuck, go check.”
“Okay—on it.”
“Dear, who are you talking to?” Ernie’s voice was thick with doubt.
I could not hear her response—but it must have been something.
At the rear of the house, just past the kitchen, was a sitting room. A small antique desk stood against one wall and there was a large round table in the center of the room There were books and work papers strewn everywhere. The rear door was ajar and one of its glass panes was shattered. The doorframe and wall casing were splintered and badly damaged. A broken lamp dangled off the desk by its cord. Another lamp lay on the floor amid the broken door glass, along with Ernie’s revolver. Ernie’s revolver lay amongst it all in the center of the room.
Not finding any real clues, I went outside.
I searched around the house and the old barn in the rear. There was no sign of anyone lurking around. I made two patrols and found nothing. Next, I searched every room in Ernie’s house but came up empty. Once again, the attacker had struck. Once again, he got away.
I returned to Angel, who was still playing nurse. “There’s no one around. But the back room is a mess.”
“Oh, my.” Ernie held a wet cloth to his head and lay back on the sofa. “He hit me harder than I thought.”
“Pretty brazen to break in while we’re here,” Angel said, closing her phone. “Bear’s on his way.” She touched Ernie’s shoulder. “You didn’t believe me the morning someone was in your house. Now you have to.”
“I do.” He blotted his head. “It happened so fast. He crashed through the door and hit me. My gun went off—it was an accident. I don’t think I hit anything. The next thing I knew I was on the floor in the dark.”
I said, “The desk lamp’s broken. So is the one near the table. One of them tripped a breaker.”
“Let’s check your office.” Angel took his arm. “Did you get a look at him?”
Ernie’s description sent chills up my spine. “He was tall. Big, you know, broad-shouldered, and he had dark features.” I was betting he was the same man who had attacked Angel and Carmen. I was also betting his name was Lucca.
In the rear sitting room Ernie sat at the table and immediately pointed to an empty, felt blotter on his desk. “Oh, no. Angela, they’re all gone. The papers, the letters, even the coins I was cleaning. Everything from Kelly’s Dig is gone.”
I said, “Typical smash and grab. They knew what they were looking for and where to find it.”
Angel asked, “Who knew you had these things?”
“Let me think.” Ernie dabbed the side of his head and examined the bloodied cloth. “Some of my colleagues at the Historical Society. Of course, Tyler Byrd knows.”
“Anyone else?”
His eyes lit up. “Yes. When I was discussing them with Byrd—checking to see if what I’d bought matched anything his work crew found—Bartalotta was in his office. I always suspected Byrd had connections to that sort.”
Poor Nic again. What a coincidence. He was the common denominator every time the lights went out.
We heard cars pulling up outside and a moment later, flashlights raced through the backyard. Two sheriff’s deputies jogged around the yard and began a search. Then a voice barked from the front door and footsteps entered the hall.
“Angela, honey are you okay?” Bear emerged with a pissed-off expression on his face that he wasn’t trying to hide. “Every time I leave you alone, someone gets beat up, shot at, or worse.”
By “worse,” I assumed he was referring to me.
thirty-six
“So, do you think he’s in there?” Angel asked, sipping her coffee beside Bear in the front seat of his unmarked cruiser. “How long are we waiting?”
We sat fifty yards from the front door of a rundown, doublewide trailer parked in a grove of pines around the bend. There was a green, two-door coupe tucked beneath a fiberglass carport in the front yard. The trailer windows were shaded and there were no signs of life. This was the only home—if that’s what you could call it—for a mile, and the dusty road ended abruptly out front. We were fifteen miles south of Winchester in an enclave of trailer parks, decrepit townhouses, and farm country all mixed together like a
billboard for community planning. I think all the slumlords in the county chipped in to build this little community.
Bear checked his watch. “It’s near nine a.m. and his car is out front.”
“How’d you find him?”
“Phone trace on Sarah Salazar. She called here two nights ago and again last night. It’s a rental and the owner says Iggi’s the only tenant.”
We’d left Ernie’s last night after the crime lab finished—again. The perp, whoever it was, was batting a thousand—no prints, no tracks, and no trace. Later at home, Bear and Angel sat in my living room draining a pot of coffee and discussing Angel’s meeting with Sarah Salazar and Ernie’s break-in. After three hours, they reached two conclusions. First, Winchester never had a crime wave before, but was having a big one now. Second, Bear was pissed off, and he said so again.
“Angela, you can’t play detective alone anymore. You’re with me this morning so I can keep an eye on you.”
“I did find out about Iggi and Salazar, didn’t I? I’m the one who found out about their other job.”
“Sure, but …”
“And you said we might be able to link Salazar’s murderer to Tuck’s, right? And that’s good if we do.”
Bear threw up his hands. “Okay, okay. Yes.”
“And I found the coins …”
“No, I found the coins,” I said, but knew I wouldn’t get the credit. I didn’t, and decided instead to move our morning along. “I’m going inside to find Iggi.”
Angel said, “Pull up front, Bear. Iggi’s about to wake up.”
“Don’t start that again.” Bear took a precautionary glance into the back seat before he opened the console between the seats and took out a small, compact semi-automatic. He handed it to her. “I’m not expecting trouble, but I don’t want you unarmed if there
is any.”
“All right.” Angel took the handgun.
I said, “Angel, give me five minutes, then send Bear in.” Then I focused on ‘being there’ and went in search of Ignacio Suarez.
Iggi lay passed out on a dilapidated sofa amidst a dozen empty beer cans and the remnants of a pizza. The trailer was strewn with trash and broken furniture. But that didn’t bother me; it was the 12-gauge pump shotgun nearby. It lay beneath the pizza box on the coffee table in front of him.
Iggi was spooked—and he wasn’t taking chances.
The blinds were drawn and the trailer was quiet. A table lamp beside him dimly lighted the room. The only other light was a single, dangling light bulb at the far end of the hall above the rear door. That door was locked and a piece of cardboard covered its window. The other two rooms were stark and empty.
Iggi had locked himself alone in a dark, lifeless hiding place. Either he was terrified of someone or he was a vampire. Both were possible. After all, last month I didn’t believe in ghosts.
“Iggi, oh, Iggi … it’s time to wake up.”
I stood in front of the couch watching the snoring man. Iggi was a short, stout man of about thirty. He had shaggy black hair, and his face showed scars from a war lost to teenage acne. He reeked of beer and dirty clothes. He wore soiled blue jeans and a dark sweatshirt. His cutoff sleeves revealed powerful arms and leathery skin from hard labor in all manner of weather. Those powerful arms also revealed something that startled me. On his left forearm was a tattoo of a cross with a halo above it.
“So, we meet again, Iggi. Been doing any nighttime digging?” He didn’t move. “Well, cell phones give me a little pep—let’s see what else does.”
I grabbed the lamp cord beside Iggi and held tight. A surge bristled through me and exhilarated me. The light flickered and the bulb flashed out. I let go. The tingling continued inside me and I was energized—pardon the pun—and euphoric. It took all my concentration to fight the high trying to get out.
Now I know why some people get hooked on cocaine.
I grabbed the shotgun and hefted it. It felt fully loaded. This wouldn’t do.
“Sheriff’s Department.” Bear was outside pounding on the front door “Iggi Suarez, come out. Frederick County Sheriff.”
Iggi’s eyes flashed open. When Bear pounded again, he deftly rolled off the couch and grabbed for the shotgun all in one movement.
Fortunately, he didn’t find it.
Panic contorted his face. He slid his bare feet into old running shoes beside the couch and glanced around. He saw the shotgun lying in the chair across the room, took it, and crept to the rear of the trailer.
“Iggi, come out.”
He flipped open the rear door lock, grabbed the knob, and pulled. The door didn’t budge. He tried again. Nothing—I held it tight to keep him from escaping. He double-checked the lock and tugged it again. Panic spread. He jerked the lock back and forth, yanked the knob, and tried over and over. The door didn’t budge. He kicked at it. Drove his shoulder into it. Kicked again.
Nothing worked.
He stepped back and readied another kick. I opened the door a foot. When he reached for it, I slammed it closed again. I opened and closed the door twice more.
“Madre de Dios, fantasmas.”
I could guess what that meant.
The front door crashed open and Bear charged in. “Police!”
Iggi lifted the shotgun and headed down the hall. When he reached the living room, he flattened himself against the wall and pointed the shotgun toward Bear.
“Get out. I not do nothin’. Get out.”
Bear froze. His weapon was out in front of him, but he was looking away from Iggi. “Okay, Iggi, okay. Put the gun down. No one needs to get shot—especially me.”
Iggi slid into the living room just as Angel walked in the front door. Her eyes locked onto the shotgun and she stopped half inside the door. She held Bear’s .380 down at her side.
No one spoke. No one moved.
I said, “Angel, relax. It’s okay.”
Bear broke the standoff. “Easy, Iggi. I want to talk.” He eased around and faced him, pointing his gun at the ceiling. “Easy, pal. Go easy. You don’t want to shoot a cop.”
“What you want?”
“Just to talk.”
“No, man, no.” Iggi shifted the shotgun back and forth between Angel and Bear. His eyes darted between them as sweat glistened on his face. “I did nothin’. Nothin’ man.”
“Okay,” Angel said, trying to appear calm. “I’m Angela. Sarah told you about me.”
“Sarah?” Iggi aimed the shotgun at Angel. “How you know that, lady?”
“I …” Angel never finished her sentence.
Bear stepped toward Iggi but the shotgun thrust into his face, stopping him.
“I shoot you, man. Get back.”
Enough. “Angel, the shotgun is empty. The shells are in the pizza box.”
“The gun’s empty, Bear.” Angel’s shoulders slumped. “The shells are in the pizza.”
Bear glanced down at the 12-gauge cartridges lying among two cold slices of pepperoni and mushroom. When his eyes rose and met Iggi’s, I saw it coming before Iggi’s brain registered the extra pizza toppings.
When Iggi glanced down, Bear grabbed the shotgun barrel and twisted. Iggi flinched, squeezing the trigger. The barely audible “click” sealed his fate. Bear snatched the gun away as his other powerful, ham-sized fist smashed into Iggi’s face and set him crashing backward over the table into a heap on the floor. Blood spurted from his nose and his eyes shuttered closed.
“You son of a bitch.” Bear descended on him like a vulture on prey. “You have the right to remain silent … but you’re not gonna.”
Iggi’s swelling eyes cracked open and all he could say was, “I talk, I talk. ¡Madre de Dios, fantasmas! I give back everythin.’”
thirty-seven
“Deal first,” Iggi said with a mixture of nerves and defiance. “I say noth
in’ unless you protect me.”
“Protect you from who?” Bear stood across the living room. “Help me and I’ll help you.”
“No, way, man. Deal first.”
“Let’s see, Iggi. There’s resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer—add attempted murder because I heard you pull the trigger.”
Iggi bit his lip but never looked up. He sat balanced on the edge of the couch with his hands handcuffed behind him. He stared at the floor, pale and scared. Sweat stained his shirt and he was trying hard not to look around, perhaps fearful he might see me.
“Iggi, please help us.” Angel was leaning against the dish-cluttered counter in the adjoining kitchen. “You have information about Raymundo. Help find his killer. That’s all we want—Raymundo’s killer.”
“If I talk,” he muttered, “you have to find mine.”
“Yours?” she asked. “What did you and Raymundo do?”
“Deal—and you gotta swear.”
“Deal, huh?” Bear sneered. “Talk or it’s gonna get worse.”
“You not scarin’ me, Braddock. I know ’bout you. You partner got it and maybe you soon.”
Maybe I could help get Iggi talking. I whispered to Angel and a smile etched across her face. “Do you believe in ghosts? ‘Madre de Dios, fantasmas.’ Isn’t that what you said when Tuck wouldn’t let you out the back door?”
He froze and the muscles in his arms flexed. “No.”
Angel continued, “Tuck came back, Iggi—he’s sitting right beside you. He wouldn’t let you out the back door, would he?”
“Madre.” Iggi’s eyes flashed wide. “You don’t scare me.”
I touched the lamp for a re-charge and leaned into Iggi, blowing a long, hot breath into his ear. “Start talking, you shit-bird, or I’ll ram that shotgun up your ass.”
“Ah.” Iggi slapped his ear and bolted upright. “No, Dios.”
Bear grabbed his arm. “Talk, smart guy.”
“Iggi, didn’t you load your shotgun last night?” Angel asked. “Wasn’t it on the coffee table?”
“Si, Madre de Dios, fantasmas.”
