Dying to Know Read online

  “Bear, did you hear me?”

  Nothing. No nod. No eyebrows rose. Nothing.

  I leaned forward in my office chair and found myself staring at a photograph of Angel and me. We were dancing at last year’s police ball. My Angel was beautiful. She has flowing, auburn hair, green eyes, and a curvy, sexy figure that, at thirty-five, puts most twenty-year-olds to shame. Her short, black evening dress showed off her wonderful curves and her smile stole all the attention around us. Taped to the side of the frame was her black lace garter belt that had my full attention later that night.

  I reached out and touched the garter.

  Lightning.

  Firecrackers ignited inside me. Every nerve exploded all at once. A rush of emotions poured over and through me. I was crying, laughing, aching—depression collided with exhilaration—every emotion I ever felt grabbed me all at once and twisted.

  A blur swept before me.

  It happened again. The cascade of memories swirled around me like a tornado. They were fleeting wisps of faces and feelings—loves, friends, and strangers. My life’s story whirled by like a train at a crossing—glimpses of the past, people I knew, places and things. Life.

  My memory was a child’s—immature and vague.

  Then it stopped just as it had earlier. I was crying. The photograph held my eyes while Bear stood across the room filling his boxes in total oblivion. Whatever had happened to me had done nothing more than show me what I’d lost and how I’d ended.

  It was abrupt and violent.

  I felt woozy but stood and went to the doorway. I gripped the knob and tried to open the door but nothing happened. My fingers didn’t feel the cool brass knob or the hard oak doorway as I pounded on it. There was nothing. The simple task of opening my door was as impossible as my being in that room at all. I was trapped in my own den, in my own three-story Victorian.

  Returning to the desk, I tried to pick up the photograph that had taken my breath away but my fingers closed on nothing. I couldn’t open the desk drawer or lift a pen to write. Nothing moved for me, nothing lifted in my fingers. Nothing would obey my commands. Nothing.

  Something tingled inside me and I felt myself aching for my life back. Earlier, as an onlooker to my own crime scene investigation, I felt nothing—no emotion, no fear, no despair. Now, all those feelings were welling up inside me and heaviness began to consume me.

  I stood in the middle of the floor and took in all the photographs, knickknacks, and bric-a-brac. Flashes of memory congealed and formed my past. I closed my eyes, trying to recapture every second of my elusive life.

  The whirl of light and pictures began again.

  I let myself go—let myself drift along in the feelings that were sweeping over me. There was the smell of coffee and the aroma of a thousand dinners I’d never taste again. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed and I remembered Angel’s thirtieth birthday—that was … five years ago. Our home was awash with emotions that made me ache and laugh at the same time. The smoky scent of smoldering fireplace logs surrounded me and the rich, sweet taste of expensive wine wet my lips. Angel’s laughter tickled my ears and her passion took me.

  When I opened my eyes, I was alone and staring at our wedding photograph on the bookshelf. Twenty years of memories roared into me—one after the other, churning and twisting, all of them jumbled and slamming into one another—into me. The visions were dizzying. I felt lifted and euphoric. Colors swirled and pictures coalesced—flashing images of my life. College, the police academy, Angel—the beautiful doctoral candidate who traded me a speeding ticket for a date. Passion, love, darkness. Handcuffs on my bookshelf showed me a foot chase through Old Town and my first felony arrest. A plaque on the wall—Bear and me getting our gold detective shields—laughter, bourbon, hangovers. Long nights on stakeouts. Long nights with Angel. Aching for sleep, praying it never came.

  The memories settled into their rightful places inside me and I calmed again. I was standing outside the den door where my body had been lying. It was gone now and so were the army of cops and crime scene technicians. It was still afternoon, but darkness enveloped me—and so did the rush of questions that thrust into me like needles.

  The first answer spun me around and made me dizzy.

  I looked up to the second floor balcony as I’d done a million times. This time, something was different. Strange fingers grabbed me and drew me backward and off balance. A dull ache overcame me. Something sharp thrust into my chest and my breath exploded. Above me, there was fading light and below, black ooze that should have been oak hardwood. I heard Hercule barking wildly before collapsing onto the floor.

  It should be near four in the afternoon, but the grandfather clock chimed two. It was happening again …

  _____

  … Angel was standing over me and in her hand was a gun—the .38 I’d given her. She dropped to her knees beside me and pressed two fingers against my throat. Her eyes went wide and the gun slipped from her grasp. Tears welled in her eyes and she brushed them away as I heard a low, painful moan from the top of the stairs. Her hand slid over my eyes and closed them. Without a word, she jumped to her feet and ran up the stairs.

  Somewhere in the distance, voices yelled and a siren grew louder.

  Before I slipped away, Angel’s voice cried out, “Oh, my God, Bear.”

  … light.

  _____

  I understood. It was clear now, painfully clear.

  Someone killed me—murdered me in my own home. I shouldn’t be, but I was still here among the living but not one of them. There could be only one reason.

  Detective, solve thyself.

  four

  The grandfather clock chimed four and I was back.

  So was Hercule. He grumbled at me from his perch on my recliner in the corner. When I went to him, he churned in the chair. His tail was in overdrive and as he started to get down, he groaned painfully and stopped half in, half out of the chair. There was a swath of torn hair across the top of his head and a bandage adorned parts of his scalp. I bent down and calmed his gyrations long enough to examine him. His hair was … singed?

  Someone shot Hercule. The bastard didn’t just kill me—he shot my dog.

  “Herc, I’m so sorry. You saved Angel. Good boy. It’s steak tonight.”

  Woof. Wag. Double-woof. Hercule was not modest.

  I heard the front door open and someone came in. The crime scene boys and everyone from the department were already gone. Were they returning? Hercule barked and his tail returned to happy mode. He meandered around the room, found his favorite hard-rubber ball, and positioned himself at the ready.

  Bear walked in.

  “Hey, boy, how you feeling? You look okay. You saved the day, Herc. At least part of it.”

  Hercule moaned and flipped the ball from his mouth, letting it bounce across the floor to Bear’s feet. It was good to know the big Lab wasn’t going to let my murder spoil his day.

  “Later, boy,” Bear said. He looked around the den with a long, slow sweep of his eyes.

  Then he did a more curious thing than hiding the folder in my bookcase.

  Instead of heading for the bookcase liquor stash and a taste of my best Kentucky bourbon—that’s what I’d have done—he went out into the hall and climbed the stairs. I followed him to the second floor. There, he began a systematic search of my home, room by room.

  “Ah, partner? Didn’t you already search the house? The crime boys left.”

  He started with the spare bedroom at the far end of the hall. I stood in the open doorway and watched him explore every square inch. He went through everything—the dresser, closet, bookshelves, even under and between the mattress and box spring. It took him twenty minutes, and when he was done, he started on the other spare room next door. I knew every move he was making and had done so myself a thousand times at crime scenes. This time
, though, this crime scene was mine.

  Whatever he was looking for, he was a hound on a hunt—no offense Hercule.

  By the time we were done, it was two hours later and he had exhausted two spare bedrooms, our storage room, two bathrooms, and a large walk-in hall closet. When he emerged from the latter, his hands were still empty. The last place he vanished into was our bedroom. This time, he closed our door behind him.

  I was locked out. “Dammit, open it.”

  Nothing.

  Thirty minutes later, he emerged, empty-handed. Whatever he was looking for, he had not found it. He went back downstairs to the kitchen.

  Hercule and I followed him out the back door that he left ajar. Bear went straight to the garage. There, however, he stopped Hercule and bade him sit and stay in the yard. He entered through the side door, closing it behind him.

  “Well, Herc, we’re stuck. I wonder what he’s looking for. He sure is acting weird. First the file, now this.”

  Woof.

  Bear was taking his time inside the garage so Hercule and I returned to the kitchen. Just inside the door, Hercule froze. He lowered to a spring-loaded crouch—hair up, tail straight, and teeth bared. He inched across the kitchen toward the hallway and stopped. He looked back at me waiting for orders.

  “Easy, boy. Easy. It could be neighbors with cookies and meatloaf. Let’s go see.”

  We reached the hallway. Faint footsteps descended the stairs and went into my den. Hercule raised his nose and lowered himself again, taking two slow, deliberate steps—it was not Angel.

  There were two low voices in my den. We heard desk drawers open and close, books being pulled off shelves, and my filing cabinet open. Someone, like Bear, was looking for something.

  Hercule crept down the hall beside me and we peered into the den. Across the room was a tall, thin African American in a dark suit. He was rooting through files that Bear had packed in boxes and set on the floor. The other man, a short, wiry, white man of about thirty, was rummaging through my desk. This man was going bald, and what blond hair he had was short. His narrow face and dull eyes always made me think of a snake waiting for prey.

  I knew them—all too well—and they were both nemeses.

  The African American was Calvin Clemens from my detective squad down at the county sheriff’s office. He wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box, but not a bad guy overall. His Achilles’ heel was his partner, Mikey Spence. Spence’s mouth and limited commonsense were often at odds. I was professional with both men, but not friends, and we worked together when required. Bear and I always made a point to stay as far from their caseload as possible—crap tends to stick to you even when it’s not yours.

  Spence and Clemens always seemed to be involved in crap.

  I watched Clemens continue his foray into my files. Spence moved to my bookshelf and began pulling books off the shelf and breezing through them. A strange nagging touched me—I felt like I knew what they were looking for. It was there, just out of reach of my thoughts. It nagged at me, but I couldn’t get it to focus into a readable script in my head. Confusion, it seems, is a byproduct of death; it was like goo stuck to my shoe. Memories swirled around me and some were taking their time landing. It was starting to piss me off.

  I knew what they were looking for—yet I didn’t know what it was.

  Spence stopped fanning through books and noticed a picture sitting on my bookshelf. It was of Angel and me at her doctoral commencement. She was wearing an alluring knee-length black dress that showed off her legs and other lovely parts.

  Truly, though, her mind attracted me. I swear.

  “Spence, I may be dead, but that’s still my wife.” I put my hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Paws off.”

  “What?” His eyes peered around and settled on Clemens. “What’d you say?”

  “Nothing, why?”

  The two exchanged dumb glances. Spence said, “I thought I heard something.”

  Grrrr—Hercule pounced in and posted in the center of the room. He let out a low growl that sent both men against the wall.

  “Easy, boy,” Clemens said. “Easy, Hercule. It’s your pal, Cal. Calm down.”

  Hercule was crouched in launch mode and growled again.

  “What in the hell are you doing here?” Bear’s voice boomed from the doorway. “Crime scene’s done.”

  “Oh, hey Bear,” Clemens said. “We thought we’d give it another go. You know, looking for anything missed.”

  “Bullshit.” Bear was edgy. “Crime guys worked this place all night and most of the day.”

  “Sure, yeah,” Spence said, pointing at Hercule. “No offense. How about having him back off? I don’t think he remembers me.”

  “He remembers you.” Bear leaned down and patted Hercule. “It’s all right, boy. If they act up, I’ll shoot them.”

  Herc walked over to me and lay down. He kept his eyes fixed on Spence.

  Clemens asked, “Where’s Angel?”

  “That’s Angela to you. Or better yet, ‘Doctor Tucker.’ ”

  “She home?”

  Bear ignored him. “What are you looking for?”

  “Nothing.” Spence patted the air. “Just checking around.”

  “We’re done here. Captain Sutter says so. Angela’s over at Professor Stuart’s place for the night. You two leave her alone. She needs rest.”

  “Sure, sure.” Clemens went to the file cabinet and shut the open drawer. “How are you doing, Bear? You okay?”

  “Cut the crap, Clemens. This is my case.”

  “It was,” Spence said. “The captain pulled you this afternoon. You can’t run the case since you were Tuck’s partner and Angel’s … friend.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  I knew exactly what that meant. So did Bear.

  “Gee, I wonder,” Spence said, winking. “You’re here, aren’t you? Keeping the pretty widow company?”

  “You little shit.” Bear took a dangerous step toward him. “She’s not here. You better watch yourself, Spence.”

  “Yeah, well you better, too.” Spence waved the photograph of Angel that he was admiring. “We’re on this case, pal. We need to question Angela again. But, sure, we’ll wait until tomorrow.”

  “Angel had nothing to do with this.”

  “Yeah?” Spence tapped a finger on the photo. “Ninety-five percent of all homicides are committed by the spouse.”

  I said, “No, you moron, that’s not right.”

  Bear rolled his eyes.

  “Ah, Mikey,” Clemens said, “you sure of that?”

  Bear grabbed the photo from Spence. “You two hit the road. I’ll straighten this out with the captain.”

  “You do that, Bear. Cal and I are through—for now. I can’t wait to chat it up with Angela. Funny, you don’t look all that upset, Bear. If my partner here was killed, I’d …”

  Detective Mike Spence may have been a little dense sometimes, but he didn’t lack survival instincts. Before Bear could reach him, he and Clemens made a tactical withdrawal through the front door and down the walk. From the safety of the outer gate, Spence turned and threw a wave back to Bear, now standing on the front porch.

  “Hey, Bear, we gotta take care of Tuck’s case. We’ll let you get back to taking care of his missus.”

  five

  While Bear washed down his bad attitude with my fifty-year-old Kentucky bourbon, I went wandering around the house. He’d left the doors open and I moved from room to room uninhibited. This was handy since my current state of existence seemed to limit my physical abilities like opening doors.

  Hercule strolled with me. He dropped his ball on the hardwood floor and watched it bounce here and there whenever I stopped to reflect on some photograph or knickknack. We were on the second floor balcony overlooking the foyer when Hercule got bored and heade
d down the stairs. He stopped three stairs down, withdrew two. He let out a low, mournful growl that was half warning, half fear.

  He had good reason.

  Below us, the foyer had disappeared. In its place was a murky darkness that congealed as we watched. A strange breeze rustled through autumn trees. The scent of musty, freshly turned dirt grew heavy as shovels sliced into the earth. Then I heard the rumble of two men’s voices, but could not understand them.

  “Holy crap, Herc. Stay here. I gotta see what this is all about.”

  Hercule liked my plan.

  I crept down the stairs but did not land on oak hardwood. Instead, I was standing in tall field grass above an earthen pit surrounded by crumbled stones and mounds of freshly piled dirt. The breeze brought a crisp taste to the air that reminded me of autumn’s changing leaves.

  The two men dug in weary, slow-motion effort. A lantern that sat on the side of the pit above their heads cast a dim light that battled with their shadows. I couldn’t make out their faces, but their features were dark and hard, and their work clothes grubby and sweaty. The mound of earth told me they had been working for a long time. Grumbles said they were unhappy with the labor.

  One of them threw himself against the edge of the pit and dropped his shovel. “¿Qué? Madre de Dios, mira.”

  The other man looked on but didn’t move nor speak.

  The first lowered his head and ran a solemn finger from forehead to chest and shoulder to shoulder, muttering a prayer that I didn’t need translated. Then he bent down and retrieved something from the dirt, holding it in the light for inspection. When the light touched his left arm, something just below his rolled sleeves caught my attention. It was a dark tattoo in the shape of a cross with a halo atop it.

  “¡El hombre será feliz. Apúrate!” The tattooed man whispered. “Date prisa. Cavar más rápido.”

  With a fever, the two attacked the pit again. After several moments, the tattooed man used the lantern to survey their work.