Gumshoe Ghost Mystery: Dying for the Past Part 11

Doc Gilley was a crotchety old surgeon who lived somewhere in the house. I say "somewhere" because like all dead people stuck on my floor, I had no idea where he was when he was not regaling me with his vast knowledge of my faults or his endless wisdom. Doc was my great-grandfather-and the only one of my relatives I'd ever met, albeit after our deaths. Like all grandfathers, he was never short on counsel when I needed it. And more so when I didn't need it.

"It's about time, Oliver." Did I mention he was crotchety? "Angela has been home for hours." Doc's arms were folded and he had a perpetual scowl as permanent as his decades-old scrubs. "Where have you been?"

"Never mind. Do you know a Benjamin? Or how about a place called Quixote's Windmill?"

"Benjamin?" His face tightened. "Why are you asking about him?"

"Because I need to find him and some book he has. It's simple. You know him then, right?"

"I have never met him."

Something wasn't right. "What's with you, Doc? Do you know Benjamin or not? And you never answered me about Quixote's Windmill."

Doc walked over to Hercule's chair and sat on the arm, petting him and ignoring me. This, too, was not unusual. "What makes you ask about Benjamin? What do you know?"

"Nothing. I ran across something at the Vincent House and-"

"The Vincent House? What were you doing there?" Doc got on feet-his scowl had turned more scowly if there was such a thing. "You didn't tell me you were going there."

"Ah, no. I didn't know I was. I didn't know the estate's name, why?"

Doc's eyes, normally a deep blue, were fire engine red. "Well? Answer me, Oliver. What about Benjamin?"

I'm sure I mentioned I hate the name Oliver. "What is it, Doc? You know something about the Vincent House? You're acting-"

When I was a cop, I could judge people pretty well. Well, at least well enough to know if they were going to try to kill me or something. With Angel, I could tell in seconds if I was going to get reacquainted with the couch or showered with kisses. With Bear, I could always tell when he needed a date-which was most of the time. But Doc, he's a different story. He was as readable as braille to a seeing-man-the clues were there but you couldn't quite read them.

"What's with the att.i.tude? You must know Benjamin or you wouldn't be acting like this."

He snorted. "How did you hear about him?"

"I ran into this guy-Vincent Calaprese-who still thinks it's nineteen thirty-something. Anyway, he and this hottie named-"

"Sa.s.sy."

"Yeah, Sa.s.sy. You know her, too?"

Doc's eyes went far away. "My, my."

"Come on, Doc, tell me."

He nodded but he was years away.

"Doc, who's Benjamin? Vincent was very adamant I bring him to visit. And let me tell you, his bourbon is great. I haven't had-"

Doc stepped forward and threw a finger at me-a teacher about to launch a lecture. He didn't disappoint me.

"Listen to me, Oliver. Listen to me good. People die. Sometimes things happen to them and they stay behind like us; sometimes. But, when something happens to us-something bad-it's like dying all over again but much, much worse. It's messy ... and very, very bad."

"Ghosts can die?"

"Don't be a smarta.s.s." His eyes drilled holes through me. "Oliver, you have to be very careful with Vincent. Years ago-decades ago-he was a gangster who made Al Capone look timid. He was cunning and heartless. A real b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Someone stood up against him. But when they did, he didn't go easily."

"Like this Benjamin guy? You think he stood up against him? You think he wants another crack at him?"

"Yes." Doc returned to Hercule as he became a haze of dust fading from the room. "Of that I am certain."

"So, what happens if I find Benjamin and bring him to Vincent?" I already knew the short answer. "Is it going to get, you know, 'very messy'?"

Doc was just a voice now. "Oliver, forget Benjamin and stay away from Vincent Calaprese and Sa.s.sy."

"Why? What are you-"

"He could be the death of you."

The death of me?

twenty-four.

These days, I don't need sleep. I don't need to eat either, and it's a good thing-I can't. Except that Vincent Calaprese's bourbon was, well, to die for. Next time I visit him-and there would be a next time no matter what Doc said-I'm asking for a rare T-bone, too. That's some of the things I miss the most-eating and drinking. That of course, and, ah, my wife's tender loving care. Maybe next time Vincent has me over for c.o.c.ktails we can double date.

Maybe.

I got bored watching Hercule snoozing on my pillow beside Angel about eleven a.m. After the night she'd had, I didn't want to wake her or disturb Hercule-he was twenty toes up chasing his ball. Waking him would require a break-in by a bra.s.s band or the aroma of the aforementioned T-bone.

I had neither.

Halfway down the stairs a familiar tickle ran up my spine; Bear was on the move. Since this was his first murder case since mine, I figured I'd better go along to keep him out of trouble. During my case, he had a rough time of it. He was suspect numero uno. He got suspended, chased the wrong bad guy, and was accused of sleeping with my wife. The latter was the worst part. Then, he beat the c.r.a.p out of Detective Mike Spence-that was fun.

Except for Spence; it was a bad week for him.

I did the mind-meld-thing and popped into Bear's unmarked cruiser just as he left Three-A West of the Hunter's Ridge Garden Apartments just outside town-Bear's ah, den as it were. When I landed in the seat beside him, he was talking to someone on his cell phone. He repeated an address, made a U-turn, and sped away toward the county's north end.

"Where we going, Bear?"

He jumped in the seat as his fingers whitened on the steering wheel. He flipped on the radio and tried to find a country station.

"Bear, I have to tell you, we just don't talk anymore. Is it me? Is there someone else?"

Nothing. Nadda. Not even a smile.

"Come on, you big dumba.s.s. I know you can hear me. And I know you believe. So, dig deep and listen for my voice, will you?"

He made a turn four blocks down and headed east on a side street.

"Boo." I leaned over to his ear. "Look out! A dog!"

He jumped on the brakes, swerved the car across the center line, and skidded to a stop over the opposite shoulder. He cursed the entire time through tight lips and big, bulging eyes.

Needless to say, there was no dog. Not even a hamster.

"Oops, my bad."

Bear jumped out of the cruiser and stormed off cursing and spitting up a typhoon. He rambled on and on to no one as he paced back and forth in front of the car. His hands flew in the air and his faced reddened with each guttural foray spoken harsher than at a port bar after midnight.

He needed some alone-time so I waited in the car.

When he returned to the open driver's door, he slipped something out of his suit coat pocket and stared at it-my detective's s.h.i.+eld. I'd given it to him just after solving my murder and nailing Ernie Stuart in a strange, not-of-this-world-kinda-thing. That moment, standing above Ernie's body, was the first time he saw me-the first time he knew it had been me guiding him during the case. And it was the last time he ever acknowledged me.

Until now.

"Jeez, Tuck." He slid his hulking body into the driver's seat. "Can't you give me a break?"

"Sorry, pal, I had to get your attention. Can we talk?"

"No. No. No." He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the steering wheel. "Tuck, it can't be you. Don't you get it? You're dead. Ernie killed you. You're gone. It's how it is. You just can't be here. It has to be me-I lost it the day Ernie died. You're not here."

I reached over and took hold of his hand on his leg-my badge still clutched in his powerful grip. When I did, the metal got hot-and so did he.

He jerked upright and tossed my badge into the console between us. "Come on, Tuck. You gotta let me alone. People will talk. The Cap and some of the other cops already think I'm nuts. Spence and Clemens saw things then, too-and they won't talk about it either. I just can't. I can't walk around talking to you and acting like we're still partners. The Department will have me in for a psych and I'll be kicked off the job."

"Yeah, yeah. It sucks. But you need me, Bear. We were a great team-Hope and Crosby, Holmes and Watson, the Captain and Tennille-"

"No."

He looked up at the car roof for the longest time. His eyes reddened and for a second he looked like he would cry. "I miss you, Tuck. I do. But people think I'm nuts-and they are probably right. I could lose my job, and think of what it would do to Angela. No one would believe. No one would understand."

He was right. He couldn't just play along and act like nothing had happened. It was hard enough with Angel to still be her husband and not have a life with her. A voice across the seat and no closer than another world.

I cut Bear some slack.

"Okay, Bear. I get it. So, look, you can ignore me if you need to. But we both know the truth, okay?"

Nothing. He put the cruiser in drive and wheeled back across the road and headed east again.

"Just forget I'm around. Lie if you have to. I'm all in your head."

Nothing.

"So where we going, partner?"

"Stanley Kravitz's place. The caterer gave me his ... oh, s.h.i.+t." He grabbed my badge out of the console and stuffed it into his pocket. "Really, Tuck? The Captain and Tennille?"

twenty-five.

We rode the remaining two miles in silence. Sometimes, silence is good for the indigestion. For Bear it was, and for me it was my victory dance in the end zone.

When we pulled into a large apartment complex, Bear parked in the center of three lots and surveyed the area. He tried two numbers on his cell phone, got voicemail for both, and hung up.

The complex had five, three-story brick buildings surrounding a cul-de-sac. Each building had a parking area in the rear. The center building had a sign citing it as the rental office with s.p.a.ce available. The buildings were older, but in good shape, and the grounds well kept. There was a playground off to the right of one of the buildings and a pool on the other side. Judging from the cars in the lots-few older than five or six years, nothing up on blocks or looking like the loser in a demolition derby-this was a solid, respectable neighborhood.

I followed Bear to the first building on the right and up to the second floor. It took us two times at bat before we found the right door and he knocked. Well, pounded more like, as anyone on the inside who was deaf, comatose, or dead would have heard him.

"Easy, there, partner. Just because we're spatting doesn't mean the neighbors have to hear."

He grumbled something and pounded again.

"Who's there?" The voice was raspy and meek-a woman's voice. "What do you want?"

"Sheriff's Department. I need to speak with you."

"Why?"

"Just open the door, ma'am. I'm Detective Braddock."

"Prove it."

Bear cursed. "I will if you open the door, ma'am."

A dead bolt clapped open. A second one. Then a chain. The lady fiddled with the k.n.o.b lock and cracked the door open two inches.

"You have some ID?" The woman was seventy-five if she was a day, and thin, with a full head of white hair hanging to her shoulders. She wore a martial arts gi with a black belt tied around her thin waist. "Quick, too. I'm training."

I said, "Quick, Bear, she's training."

He flashed her his badge and ID wallet, and, after she'd read it three or four times, she opened the door halfway but never budged out of Bear's path.

"Sorry to disturb you." He pocketed his badge and said, "I'm looking for Stanley Kravitz, ma'am. Is he home?"

"No. He's not home. And I'm getting sick of this bulls.h.i.+t."

Bear blinked a few times. "Ma'am? Is Stanley-"

"That a.s.shole doesn't live here and never has. You're the second one today looking for him. I told the other fella, too, I been in this apartment fifteen years. And I don't look like no Stanley Kravitz either."

Bear peered around her. "You sure? He's not in any trouble, ma'am, but-"