Gumshoe Ghost Mystery: Dying for the Past Part 13

Bear tapped the table. "What can you tell me about Festival Catering?"

The question sent Poor Nic's eyebrows up. "The caterer? I own a security guard company, part of a construction company, and some other business a.s.sets. I don't believe a caterer is on the list. Why?"

"How about Stanley Kravitz or Petya Cherna ... Chernykov ... No, Petya Chernyshov?"

"I'm sorry, Detective, no. I have never heard of any of them." Nic threw a chin at the French doors and they opened. The maid headed for the table. "More coffee? We're through here."

"No, I don't think so." Bear snapped forward. "And we're done when I say we're done."

"Bear, please," Angel said, touching his arm. "What more is there to ask? Nicholas doesn't know anyone, he left before it happened, and can't offer anything."

"As Angela said, Detective, I've told you all I can-nothing."

Bear looked at Angel and his eyes narrowed a little. Then he sat back and sipped his coffee, looking out beyond the patio.

I said, "Angel, ask him about Vincent Calaprese."

She glanced over at me-just for an instant-and picked up her coffee cup. "Nicholas, the Vincent House is spectacular. You lived in Winchester when you were younger. Do you know its history?"

Poor Nic threw his head back and laughed. "My dear, Angela. Quite the detective you're becoming, yes? Your question is about Vincent Calaprese, is it not?"

She grinned and nodded.

"I'm an old man, but not too old, my dear. And I can honestly say I have never met the man."

"Not the question I asked, Angel," I said. "Ask him-"

"Come now." Poor Nic held up a hand. "You cannot believe that I commune with one-hundred and twenty year-old wise guys, can you? We don't all know one-another either."

She laughed. "No, Nicholas, but-"

"Angela," Bear said. "Can I have a moment with Nicholas?"

"Yes, of course." She smiled at Nic, stood, and went into the house.

Bear tapped a finger on the table, vibrating the spoons off the coffee saucers. "Okay, Nic. Let's put the cards on the table, shall we?"

"Yes, Detective, please do."

"You've got the attention of the Attorney General's office-"

"Ah yes, Ruth-Ann. Lovely woman-if you like spiders who eat their young."

I said, "That's harsh, Nic."

"Your leaving last night looks bad. Andre vouching for you is worse. But I get it, I do. And I get you and Angela being friends. But I don't like it much. Just so you know."

"Of course, I understand." Poor Nic patted the air. "Detective, as one of Angela's friends to another, my intentions are honorable. Her husband-the smart-aleck Oliver-was a good man. And despite circ.u.mstances, I am sorry I could not have stopped his killer before his death."

"Yeah, circ.u.mstances," Bear said, crooking his eye at him. "Whatever. Anyway, here's the deal. You stay 'honorable' or I'll send you to see Tuck, got it? And if you know anything about this Grecco thing, you'd be wise to tell me. The faster Marcos lets go, the better."

Poor Nic nodded and his grandfather smile returned. "I could not agree more. So, in both our best interests, let me give you some advice about these matters." He waited for Bear to nod. "Murder can be a simple magic trick, Detective. If you manipulate your audience, you can make anyone believe in magic. It's all about misdirection. Isn't it?"

"What the heck does that mean?" Bear asked. "If you know something-"

"Do feel free to come see me anytime, Detective-but call ahead. And now, show yourself out, won't you?"

twenty-seven.

Bear walked to his unmarked cruiser under the scrutiny of one of Poor Nic's thugs-er, security guards. Before he reached his door, a large black four-door SUV careened through the gate entrance and almost ran over the guard attempting to stop it. The vehicle caused quite a stir. Two other guards drew their weapons and charged as it rolled to a stop behind Bear's cruiser.

"No one move," one guard shouted. "Driver, turn off the ignition."

Bear rested a hand on his semi-automatic in its holster. "What's this all about?"

What an entrance. I said, "Bear, it's our new best friend from the Attorney General's office."

"Oh, please. Tell me it isn't." He held his badge up in the air and yelled at the security guards aiming at the SUV. "Put your guns down. Everything is all right. Just relax and back off."

The driver's door opened and a man's arm poked out with a badge and credential in his hand. The voice wasn't happy. "Federal Agents. Lower your weapons. Get away from our vehicle."

One of the guards snapped a glance at Bear, then walked to the SUV and leaned forward to check the driver's credentials. Before he could read the "U" in United States, they were s.n.a.t.c.hed back and the door flung open.

"I said put the guns down," the driver ordered. "And step back."

The guard complied and ordered the other to holster his weapon, too. "You can't just bust in here, mister. You almost hit me."

"I told you-Federal Agents."

"I don't care who you are." The guard held up a hand. "You got a warrant?"

"Step back. Now."

I said, "As much as I don't like some of Nic's entourage, this doesn't look right."

"Everyone just settle down," Bear called, striding over to the SUV. "What's this about, Agent. I'm-"

"Detective Braddock," the voice from the open pa.s.senger door said, "what are you doing here?" Ruth-Ann Marcos stepped out. "Is Bartalotta now a suspect in Mr. Grecco's murder?"

"I'm following leads. What are you doing here?"

"Introducing myself, Detective."

I watched Ruth-Ann a.s.sess Poor Nic's estate. "Mob retirement seems to suit him, don't you think?"

Two dark-suited men climbed out of the SUV from the back seat and stood behind her.

"One of you stay here and watch these men," she ordered. "No one leaves-except for Detective Braddock."

Bear feigned a smile. "Maybe I should stick around and hear what's happening. After all, Ruth-Ann, this is my homicide investigation. The Feds have no jurisdiction."

"On your case, no, not yet." She headed for Poor Nic's door, flanked by two FBI men. "My visit has nothing to do with your investigation."

I said, "Bear, I'll hang around and snoop. It'll be okay. Trust me."

"Right. Okay, I'll leave you to it." He returned to his car and gave Ruth-Ann a curt nod. "Remember, if you get anything-"

"Of course, Detective," she said with the hiss of a cobra. "I'll be sure to call."

"Bear, give her a ticket for public-b.i.t.c.hiness. She's got a thing about Poor Nic, doesn't she?"

He cursed and slipped into his cruiser, started it, and left black streaks of frustration on Poor Nic's driveway. He, too, almost hit a security guard, but the guard was smart enough to jump out of the way again.

Inside, I missed the opening salutations between Betty-Law and Johnny-Evil. But I knew Poor Nic well enough to know he was taking it all in stride and enjoying the t.i.t-for-tat. Ruth-Ann, however, didn't seem to be. She stood in front of him-he was still seated at the patio table beside Angel-with a scowl on her face hinting she was overdue for a tax audit.

"Please, please," Poor Nic said, gesturing to a seat at his table. "Let us be civil. Sit. Coffee for your men? Tea perhaps for you? Angela and I were just-"

"No. I'm here to ask about a federal matter." She turned to Angel. "I'd like to speak in private, Professor Tucker. Please don't leave the premises. I am curious to know why you're here."

Oh, c.r.a.p. "Angel, don't-"

Too late.

"I'll wait inside, Nicholas, we'll finish our catching-up afterward." She stood with a glare at Ruth-Ann that could freeze fire. "Ruth-Ann, you can make an appointment with my secretary on campus. I'll make myself available for any pertinent questions."

"Angel, go easy. She's a fed, for G.o.d's sake."

Ruth-Ann sighed. "Yes, of course, Professor. I'm sorry. Forgive me. But this is a sensitive matter and I'm concerned for the safety of one of our a.s.sets. I'll have my office call you tomorrow. If tomorrow is convenient."

"Yes, you do that."

"Professor Tucker," Ruth-Ann began with a faint smile, "perhaps you can answer just one question."

"Perhaps."

Ruth-Ann c.o.c.ked her head. "How is it you chose the Vincent House for your Foundation work? Is it the Calaprese history? You seem to gravitate to those types, don't you?"

"No, Ruth-Ann, I don't gravitate toward anyone except those interested in helping my foundation-as Nicholas is. You might consider checking your facts before you make accusations."

"You still didn't answer my question."

"Andre Cartier." Angel folded her arms. "Andre did some government research not long ago about organized crime during the second world war. Vincent Calaprese was a gangster, yes, but he also provided valuable a.s.sistance to the government in tracking n.a.z.i, j.a.panese, and Soviet spy rings. Andre knew about the Vincent properties and suggested I contact the family to see about transferring the estate into my foundation's charity."

"Andre?" Ruth-Ann smiled again and I wondered if it were a nervous habit. "I see. Yes, Andre told me about his research when I first met him. A remarkable man. How convenient for your charity."

"And this will be the end of your interrogation until you make an appointment."

"Yes, of course." Ruth-Ann nodded to one of her agents who opened the patio door. "Please do forgive me for being so rude and-"

"A b.i.t.c.h." Angel just had to say it. She glanced at Poor Nic. "Don't be long, Nicholas." And without another word, Angel walked off into the house.

Did I mention my wife was more than just a university professor and a beautiful woman? She's also a cage fighter. Well, she would be but the compet.i.tion barred her.

Ruth-Ann pounced. "All right, Bartalotta, tell me what you know about Anatoly Nikolaevich Konstantinova."

Holy Russian mafia, what a name.

Poor Nic lifted his coffee cup and sipped it, looking over the rim at her. "Ms. Marcos, I am not personally familiar with him. But I am, as you are aware, familiar with his reputation."

"His reputation? Come on, Bartalotta, give me-"

"Please, Ms. Marcos, perhaps we can keep a less-hostile tone, no? After all, you arrived here uninvited. You may call me Nicholas. Or you may call me Mr. Bartalotta. Now, I cannot tell you much about Anatoly. But I will tell you what I can."

"Anatoly? I thought you didn't know him." Ruth-Ann's mouth tightened into a prune, and when Poor Nic didn't offer any further comment, she said, "He's making moves in Washington and it seems he's interested in real estate out here, too. What do you know about that?"

"Nothing."

"He hasn't been in contact with you?"

"No."

"Oh, come now, Bart ... Nicholas. You mean to tell me he's not reached out to you at all?"

"Yes, of course he has." Poor Nic sat his cup down. "However, you did not ask such a question. I said I have not been in contact with him. He has reached out to me but I am not interested in his kind."

"His kind?" Ruth-Ann c.o.c.ked her head. "You mean your kind, don't you? The thug-mobster kind?"

Ouch, Ruth-Ann is as subtle as a bullet in the heart. And I should know, I have one.

"Why Ms. Marcos, even the Attorney General's office is aware of the significant difference between my family roots and Anatoly's. And even more aware of the ethics of our two-businesses."

She laughed. "Oh come on, Nicholas. Apples and oranges, really?"

I said, "Nic, she's got a point. Gangsters are gangsters. Even if you're retired."

"Ms. Marcos, you must admit the Russian organizations have a different perspective on life, no? I mean they tend not to honor it at all. They are ruthless. Barbaric at times. And not just to their own either. They solve with bullets and brutality what we Europeans tend to solve with negotiation and-"

"Yeah, you're just a real amba.s.sador, aren't you?" Ruth-Ann looked around at his estate again. "Let me get to the point."

"I wish you would," I said. "You're boring both of us, Ruth-Ann."

Nicholas laughed. "Please do. And did you say 'no' to coffee for your men? Or to at least sit at my table to talk?"