Dying to Know

by TJ O'Connor

  He frowned. “Well, I cannot go with you this morning. Tyler Byrd called. He wants to discuss Kelly’s Dig and he’s adamant I see him at ten this morning. He says all the tragedies are ruining him. He wants my help, of all people.”

  “That’s all right, Ernie. I’ll be fine.” She put the coins and bracelet back into the bag.

  “Perhaps you should wait for Braddock.” When Angel shook her head, he smiled and stood up to go. “Then be careful, Angela. You shouldn’t be going to see this Livingston fellow alone. But I know you; I’ll never talk you out of it. If that bracelet is the cause of these murders, you could be in danger.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” Angel said, shaking her head. “I’m not bringing it with me—I’ll show him the sketches first. I’ll bring Hercule for a drive. He’ll protect me.”

  “All right, my dear. Be careful.”

  Angel hesitated before saying, “Will you call me later and let me know about Tyler?”

  “Of course, he’s definitely very suspect in all this. Nicholas Bartalotta, too,” Ernie said with a wink. “And you keep Detective Braddock under your eye, too.”

  “Listen to yourself. Is everyone a suspect?”

  “Yes, everyone is.”

  fifty-seven

  Paul Livingston Jr.’s quaint, nineteenth-century shop was a block off Main Street in Strasburg. The brick and colonial-windowed façade had a simple, wooden sign hanging over the door that read, “Strasburg Fine Jewelry and Goldsmith, Est. 1949.” That was a misnomer of course; Paul Junior moved to Strasburg ten years ago after dear old dad went up the river. Junior had his father’s propensity to be a little on the loose side of the truth.

  The shop was small with glass jewelry cabinets surrounding the entrance. There was barely enough room for both of us to enter and move around without a collision. Well, if I were actually occupying space, that is. Beyond the showroom was an office area, and beside that, a door leading deeper into the building.

  There was no one in sight, and Angel looked for a bell or buzzer. Before she found it beneath a newspaper on the counter, a voice from the backroom yelled, “I’ll be right there. Please look around.”

  “All right, thank you,” Angel called back.

  I pointed out the closed-circuit television camera in the far corner of the ceiling. The red light glowing on its face told me it was on. Livingston was watching our every move. “Imagine this guy worrying about crooks.”

  “Behave. I don’t want to be here long.”

  “Good morning.” A somewhat rotund, bald man appeared through the doorway in the rear. He had heavy, frosted eyebrows and squinty, piggish eyes. His reading glasses were perched on his nose with a second pair—probably magnifying glasses—propped on his forehead. He was wiping his hands on a heavy jeweler’s apron and ogling Angel.

  Livingston wheezed as he approached us, his heavy girth making the floorboards groan and the glass displays rattle. He was sweaty—hopefully not from the ten feet he just walked—and his face was red. Without subtlety, he continued ogling Angel and dropped himself on a padded wooden stool across the center display counter from us.

  “Well now, what can I do for you, sweetie?”

  Did I mention that Livingston Senior was an incorrigible worm with the charm of a lizard? Obviously, these traits were deeply rooted in the genes.

  “Good morning.” Angel laid Liam McCorkle’s sketches down on the counter but kept her hand resting on top. “Mr. Livingston?”

  “Yes. Please call me Paul.” Paul couldn’t keep his eyes off her—not that his were on hers. He reached into his pocket and took out several business cards. He sorted through them and handed one to her from the center of the stack. “My card, sweetie—with my very private number.”

  “Ah, yes, thank you.” Angel glanced at it but pressed on. “Paul, you were referred by an antique dealer in Staunton. I want to know if you or your father made a piece of jewelry I’ve found.”

  “Well, let’s see.” With one glance, Livingston’s face went from sweaty-red to pasty-white. He pulled the reading glasses from his nose. “Staunton? Who?”

  “Liam McCorkle.”

  Someone call nine-one-one.

  Livingston tensed. His wheezing stopped in mid-breath. He leaned back on the stool and folded his arms, eyeing Angel with enough contempt to sear his words. “Bullshit. McCorkle’s dead.”

  “Yes, I know. I was there.”

  “Oh you were?” Livingston sneered. He tugged one of the sketches from beneath Angel’s hand and held his reading glasses above it like a magnifying glass. Without looking up, he said, “Where did you get these?”

  “From McCorkle.”

  I added, “You’ve got his attention, Angel. Play him some line and see where this takes us.”

  “Lady …”

  “Angela, please.”

  “Okay, Angela. McCorkle gave you these?”

  Angel played it cool. “Before he was killed. You see, I have a bracelet that resembles these sketches. I’m trying to find the jeweler who made it—it’s an original piece and I’d like some information.”

  “Show me the bracelet.”

  “Are these sketches your father’s? Or did you do the artwork?”

  “It’s not mine,” he waved a hand. “I never did anything like this. I’m not even sure Dad did. I’d have to see the piece to know if he made it.”

  “Why?” Angel rolled up the sketches and extended her hand for the one Livingston was holding. “Don’t you have records?”

  “Sure, some.” His tone turned ugly. “What is this really about? And don’t give me any shit about McCorkle, either.”

  I leaned close to Angela. “Tell him there’s a reward if he can help identify the bracelet’s owner.”

  She did and Livingston’s eyebrows rose. “Well, now. You want to know who had the piece made? Didn’t McCorkle tell you?”

  “No, he said you could,” Angel lied—damn she was good at that. “He said your father made the piece before he was sent to prison. He thought your records would tell me who the original owner was.”

  The word “prison” put Livingston on his feet and started him sweating again. “That was a long time ago. But sure, I have some of Dad’s records from back then. I computerized them for the insurance people. I’ll see what I can find. Come back later.”

  I didn’t trust Livingston and the more cooperative he became, the less I liked. I also didn’t want Angel coming back. We needed to get what we could and scram. “No, Angel. Tell him he gets five hundred if he IDs the owner and an extra five hundred if he does it right now.”

  “A thousand?” Angel’s voice was higher than she planned; that gave Livingston an unsettled twitch in his face.

  “For a thousand, I’ll do this quick.” He took the sketches from her and headed toward the rear office. “Come with me. I’ve got some coffee in the back and you can relax while I check the files.”

  We followed him through the rear door and down a short hallway to a corner room on the left. “That’s the kitchen. Coffee is on the hotplate. Help yourself. Give me some time, though. There are

  a lot of files.”

  We went in and Angel waited until he disappeared back into the hallway before she let me have it. “A thousand dollars? Are you insane? I don’t have that kind of cash with me.”

  “Relax,” I said. “Tell him Bear has the reward. If he balks, call Bear right in front of him. That’ll bunch his knickers up.”

  “It better.”

  “You can always take it out of my life insurance.”

  “I will.”

  After forty-five minutes, Angel was getting antsy. She pulled out Livingston’s business card and looked it over. When she read me the card, bells and whistles went off.

  “Hey, read me that number again.”

  She did.

 
“We gotta get out of here. Now.”

  “What’s wrong, Tuck? What is it?” She glanced at the card again. “Is the phone number important?”

  Holy shit it was. “Angel, when we were at Bear’s office the other day, I saw him pocket some evidence. He didn’t log it into the records like he should have.”

  “Okay, so he shouldn’t have done that. What does that have to do with …”

  “He took a business card out of the file and it had Livingston’s phone number. He …”

  “Just stop it, Tuck.” She glanced at the card again and then toward the kitchen doorway. “You’re too suspicious of Bear and I’m tired of it.”

  “No, you don’t understand …” I felt a tingle run through me. “Forget it, let’s go. Now. I got a bad feeling.”

  When we emerged in the main office, I knew my tingle was right. The closed-circuit camera watching the store entrance wasn’t watching any longer; its red power light was off. Livingston had turned off his surveillance cameras.

  “Angel, get the hell out of here. Something’s wrong. Go.”

  It was already too late.

  Livingston’s deceit walked in the front door and blocked our escape.

  “Good morning, my dear,” Poor Nic said with a wide, wolf-like grin. He extended his hand to her, palm up. “And I understand you found my missing bracelet.”

  fifty-eight

  “That bracelet belongs to me.” Poor Nic blocked the doorway and still held out his hand. His eyes were cold and had lost the grandfather twinkle; the gangster side of him filled its place. “I want it. Now.”

  I said, “Stay cool. Even this bozo won’t do anything stupid in public.”

  “Nicholas, I don’t have it with me. I brought the sketches for Livingston to look at.”

  “Then you do have it.” He motioned to Tommy and Bobby who squeezed into the room behind him. “I’m afraid we’ll have to make sure. But use some couth, won’t you, boys?”

  Tommy hesitated. “Ah, Mr. Bartalotta, are you sure?”

  “That’s up to her,” Poor Nic said, eyeing Angel. “She can turn out her pockets and empty her bag—or you can.”

  “If they touch me, I’ll have you all arrested.”

  Poor Nic waved at Livingston. “Get lost, Paul.”

  Livingston laughed and clomped into his office.

  “Nicholas,” Angel said. “The last time we met, you seemed genuinely pleasant—even innocent. Was I wrong and everyone else right about you?”

  He blinked a couple times as she stared daggers at him. I knew that look—she was going to fight it out and it would take both his men to do his bidding. It was going to get ugly.

  “No, my dear, you were not wrong. But then, you didn’t have my bracelet and I wasn’t out millions. So much has happened these past few days—no? Everything has changed, Professor Tucker. Everything.”

  Angel’s chin rose in a defiant arc.

  “Now …” Poor Nic took a step forward. “Give me the bracelet and you may go. No one will bother you again. You have my word.”

  “Who does it belong to—you don’t look like the musical type.”

  Bobby took a step forward, but a sharp hand from Nicholas stopped him. “No, of course not. It was a gift; a very special gift.”

  “For whom?”

  I said, “Don’t push this guy, Angel. You were right and I was wrong—we shouldn’t have come.”

  “Who?” She demanded again. “One of the dead girls at the farm?”

  Wham-o. She couldn’t have shocked him more with a sharp slap. His face contorted as if the life was being squeezed from him. His fists shook at his sides and for a second, only guttural Italian slurs cut the rawness in the air.

  Even Tommy winced.

  Finally, Nic caught his breath. He thrust an angry, lethal finger toward her. “You be very careful, Professor Tucker. You speak to me without respect—and of things you should not. The past—my past—is not for you or anyone to intrude into. What happened is for me to reconcile. Not for you. Not for the police. Me.”

  What the hell was he talking about?

  Angel started to speak when Bobby stepped forward and grasped one of her arms. This time, Poor Nic did not intervene. She tried to pull free, but Bobby’s grip was too strong. She and Poor Nic locked eyes and their wills collided. Angel was not going to give in and that was dangerous. She swung her free fist, but Bobby deftly blocked it.

  “The bracelet, Angela. Now.”

  Burglar alarms are designed to stop a robbery or a break-in. They are not designed for an escape. Either way, though, they summon the police. I don’t think that fat, lying toad Paul Livingston considered that when he installed his and put the panic button under the counter. Another important fact is that they run on electricity and as I’ve learned, electricity is my pal. So, when I found the panic button and connected with the juice, the alarm went off. It went off very, very loud.

  I can be a mischievous little bastard, can’t I?

  The deafening, high-pitched siren pierced everyone to the bone—even me. The bazillion-decibel wailing is designed to send would-be holdup men running and the police responding from five blocks away. I had no doubt it worked. Livingston emerged from his office and ran for the backroom. His face was on fire and sweat poured from his brow. Tommy slapped his hands over his ears and Bobby followed suit.

  Angel was free.

  Only Poor Nic stood unfazed by the ear-splitting cacophony. Red-faced and gritting his teeth, he looked around the room for the source of the siren. “Livingston, for Christ’s sake, turn it off.”

  “I can’t,” he yelled from the backroom. “It’s the panic alarm—the alarm company has to reset it. The police will be here soon.”

  Just when I thought I understood him, Poor Nic began to laugh. “Why Professor, somehow you have summoned rescue. How on earth did you arrange that?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Nicholas.” Angel brushed past Bobby and Tommy. “Tuck sends his regards.”

  Poor Nic signaled them to let her pass. “Professor, this isn’t over. Your luck is. It has been for a while. The bracelet is mine. I’ve paid for it a thousand times over the years. It’s mine and I must have it.”

  As the door shut behind us, the last thing he said chilled me.

  “Please, Angela, don’t let it cost you more than it already has.”

  fifty-nine

  “Dammit, Bear, answer the phone.” After the third unanswered call, Angel’s frustration was mounting, but mine was days ahead of her.

  “So, the bracelet is Poor Nic’s. He’s behind all of this, Angel.”

  “I can’t believe it. He was so convincing the other day in my office.”

  “Yeah he was.” A lot of people were fooling me. “Like Bear.”

  “Tuck, please—Hercule?”

  Hercule had slept in the backseat the entire trip back from Livingston’s shop. Now, he was awake and agitated. As we pulled into our driveway, he jumped to his feet and jammed his head out the partially opened rear window. He growled and barked, pawing at the door to get out. When Angel stopped the car and opened his door, he made a dash for the front porch and jumped up to peer into the front window, barking a warning.

  “Angel, stay here. I’ll check the house. Keep Herc with you—let him go if anyone comes out.” You can’t argue with a ghost, so off I went. Hercule begrudgingly obeyed Angel’s summons and he stayed beside her on the porch, hair ridging up on his back.

  Inside, Hercule’s angst became clear before I left the foyer. The entire house was trashed. My den took the brunt of someone’s anger. My books were off their shelves and thrown throughout the room. Desk drawers hung open and some were smashed on the floor with their contents littered everywhere. My filing cabinet lay on its side and someone took their temper out on it; all that was left was a pile
of crushed wood and metal. The entire room was destroyed.

  The rest of the house received the same razing, although our bedroom was perhaps worst. Someone took the time to gut our king-sized mattress into shreds. The contents of our dressers and closets were in debris piles in the middle of the room. The carnage continued through the entire upstairs. Years of our memories lay in piles on the floor. If they found what they were looking for, I couldn’t tell. Nothing was left untouched by their search.

  The bastards.

  When Angel came into the house, I warned her to stay back. The warning fell on deaf ears—two sets. She and Hercule went room to room—she to view the destruction and Hercule to hunt our guest. Neither was happy with the result. Angel returned to the kitchen and tried the light switch. No power. Next she tried the phone—it too was not working.

  “Tuck, there’s no electricity and the phone’s out.”

  “They probably tripped a breaker trashing the place. The phone’s another problem.”

  Angel righted one of the kitchen chairs to sit on. She dropped her keys and cell phone on the table amidst broken crystal and china. “Tuck, who did this? Why?”

  “It’s that damned bracelet. Poor Nic’s boys, no doubt. You told them you didn’t have the piece with you—they came to find it.”

  “I should have just given it to him.” She dug into her jeans pocket and pulled it out. “I had it all the time. Maybe I could have stopped this.”

  “No,” I touched her cheek and for a moment, her hand touched mine. I wasn’t sure if she felt me or not, but comfort warmed her face. “I’m sure it was already too late.”

  Angel’s eyes widened and panic whitened her face. “Tuck, what if they come back?”

  She was right.

  “Do you still have Bear’s spare gun he gave you at Iggi’s?”

  She looked at the open kitchen cabinets and went to inspect the drawers. “It’s gone. I left it in this drawer—they took it. I’ll try Bear again.” She did, but held up her phone. “Battery’s dead. I forgot to charge it in the car.”