Gumshoe Ghost Mystery: Dying for the Past Part 27

"You're not telling me everything, Bonnie. No more lies."

Bonnie's face was pale and her hands trembled. Every movement nearby-every customer who walked into the truck stop cafe-sent her closer to the edge of her seat.

"Angela," Bonnie's voice cracked as she spoke. "I am so sorry to drag you into this, but I have no choice. I don't trust any of them. No one. I had no one else to call and I knew you had the right friends to help me."

"The right friends?" Angel watched a trucker drop into a booth three down from them. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't trust the cops. Not that b.i.t.c.h Marcos. Not the FBI. No one. I need protection, Angela. I need your friend's protection."

Angel lifted her cup and watched the steam rise, taking the time to try to sort fear from fiction. So far, Bonnie had lied about almost everything she thought to be important-her relations.h.i.+p with Andre Cartier at the top of the list, and her revelation a few moments ago about Stephanos Grecco's life.

"Bonnie, why did you run away from the FBI? They were protecting you."

"I don't trust them. You have to understand-"

The cafe door opened and Bonnie's head snapped around. When a short, round man dressed in dirty jeans and work boots ambled in and sat at the counter, she closed her eyes and sighed, dropping her head to her hands.

"Angela, Steph was not a good man. He was, well, a crook. And hey, I'm not up for sainthood either, but Steph was a real beaut. He was always running scams and wheeling and dealing. He'd get rich people to put up money for some scheme and he'd skim it off before anyone knew. Sometimes-like last year down in Florida-he had to run because he cheated the wrong people."

"And you met him after he ran?"

"Uh, huh. And I figured out real fast what he was all about."

"And you stayed?"

"Yeah, I did." Tears trickled down her cheeks. "It was too late. I was in love with him. And we moved up here and I met Andre. I thought he could get me out of it all and away from Steph."

"The FBI, Bonnie." Angela tapped the table. "Why did you run from them?"

"After Steph and I met, these guys started coming around all the time and he made me leave. I thought they were the mob or something, but they weren't. They were the Feds. Steph was working with them all along-he told me so-but I wasn't supposed to know. He said he was on their team and they were looking out for him. After he got killed, why should I trust them?"

Angel's eyes flared. "Stephanos worked with the government? He was an informant?"

Bonnie shrugged. "He said he was an 'a.s.set,' yeah, an a.s.set. We kept moving. Every time he got into trouble with a scam, these guys would show, there would be a big fuss, and we'd be moving again. It's been the same way for six months. I've moved six times."

"Bonnie, just because he was somehow working with the FBI doesn't mean they're responsible for his murder."

"It doesn't mean they're not."

"Be reasonable."

"He's dead, isn't he? Dobron and his guys had me in the hotel. Never once did Dobron tell me he was working with Steph. Not once. Why not? I'm his widow, for Christ's sake. Steph was about to make a lot of money-enough to get away for good-and then he's dead." Bonnie's eyes followed the waitress around the room with the coffee pot again. "So you tell me, Angela. They're protecting me and still somebody leaves me a threatening message and tries to grab me? Why should I trust any of them?"

Angel knew no matter what she said, Bonnie wouldn't buy into it. Instead, she changed the topic. "Tell me about this book."

"The book?" Bonnie's face paled. "You too? Great."

"Andre is my uncle," Angela reached across the table and took one of her hands, pulling it to the center and holding it tight. "He's been a father to me. You told him about it, and now, he's a murder suspect. So, tell me about the book."

Bonnie looked out the window and her eyes fixed on a large, black SUV pulled up to the gas pumps yards from the cafe window. "Later. Get me out of here, Angela. Get me to your friends and I'll tell you whatever you want. But get me out of here."

Angel followed her eyes to the SUV. The driver ga.s.sed up and two other men-both in dark jeans and leather jackets-stood nearby talking on cell phones. A fourth was headed for the cafe door.

"What friends, Bonnie? Who do you think can get you out of this mess?"

Bonnie stood. "I'm going out the back. If you want to know about Stephanos's book, pick me up there."

forty-eight.

Chevy's office alarm was flas.h.i.+ng when Bear nudged the rear door open and led Chevy inside. The red light on the alarm panel blinked every ten seconds and the screen read "Alarm Activated-0846." Another tiny red light on the side of the panel flickered -the system was on battery backup.

I looked at Bear's watch. "The batteries kicked in three hours and ten minutes ago."

Bear dialed the Sheriff's dispatch and spoke to an emergency operator. When he tapped the call closed, he looked at Chevy. "Why didn't the alarm company call our office? Didn't you pay your bill?"

"Too many false alarms," Chevy said, looking around his three-room office. "The past couple weeks I've had so many false alarms the cops said they'd fine me over the next one. I told the alarm company to contact me instead."

"Did they?"

Chevy slipped his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and nodded. "Yep, I had two texts at eight-forty-seven and one ten minutes later. You guys had my phone and turned it off, man. If I'd had my phone-"

"You would have if you hadn't broken a dozen laws." Bear flipped the wall light switch but the lights didn't come on. "Power's out." He crossed the office to a small, imitation-wood desk and picked up the telephone. "Phone, too."

"Muy bien," Chevy said, "someone must have shut the power off in the electrical closet down the hall. Maybe they thought it would stop the alarm. The alarm panel is on battery backup."

"Or maybe you didn't pay your electric bill either." Bear opened the plastic window blinds for more light. "We'll check the electric boxes after you find the evidence you promised."

I surveyed the dreary office. "Remind me never to be a PI in this town. And I think being dead is sometimes depressing."

The office of "Victor & a.s.sociates" was unimpressive-to be polite. The main office had Chevy's cheap desk, a beat-up filing cabinet, equipment cabinet, a small, dilapidated couch against the far wall, and a coffee pot sitting with three mismatched coffee mugs on a rickety table in the corner. Adjacent to the coffee maker was a tiny bathroom with a shower. Off the rear wall was a short hall leading to a back door and a second office used as a bedroom. Inside were an unmade twin bed covered in a ragged blanket and pair of old blue jeans, a dresser against the far wall, and a narrow folding table covered with photo equipment and a.s.sorted electronic devices similar to what we'd found at the Vincent House.

"Very homey, Chevy." Bear watched Chevy settle behind his desk, then went over to a small bulletin board beside the bathroom door and read the business license. "Victor and a.s.sociates? Do you have any a.s.sociates?"

"Nope-unless you count the landlord's cat who comes around for sc.r.a.ps."

"You're Victor?"

Chevy nodded. "Right again, Detective. Nothing gets past you."

"Watch it, smarta.s.s." Bear never liked my snappy comebacks either. "Isn't your name Victorio Chevez? That's false advertis.e.m.e.nt."

"Who's gonna call a Latino PI around here?" Chevy slammed the top drawer and went to his filing cabinet. "I gotta get them in the door first, you know, 'cause once I get them face to face, I can talk my way into any job. It's all about confidence. And people like me, Bear. They like me a lot."

"I'm starting to like him, too," I said, "when he's not stalking my wife, of course. Other than his bad habits, he's a good guy."

a little and he went into the bathroom. There, he tried to close the bathroom door but Bear jammed his size thirteen in the way.

"No secrets, Chevy. If you want to walk on the stalking charges, I get to see you with your pants down."

"Okay, Detective." Chevy gripped the medicine cabinet door atop the bathroom sink and pulled. The cabinet swung open revealing a storage area behind it. The cavity was about eighteen inches square and eight inches deep with three shelves lining it.

I said, "Does everyone have secret pa.s.sages and hiding places these days?" I peered over Chevy's shoulder as he dug around inside. "I gotta get one of these."

"They got one here, too." Chevy turned to Bear. "Ah, you aren't gonna believe this, but-"

"But what?" Bear said from the doorway. "And don't give me any lies about being robbed either."

Chevy lifted a manila folder from the bottom shelf and beneath it was a .38 snub-nosed revolver.

"Gun!" I yelled.

Bear's hand snapped to his handgun beneath his sport coat as he lunged into the small bathroom. He grabbed Chevy's shoulder in a powerful grip. "Don't even think about it."

"Relax-it's for emergencies." Chevy held up his hands and stepped back from the cabinet. "How'd they know my stash was in here?"

Bear nudged Chevy out of the bathroom and looked into the cabinet. He withdrew the .38 revolver and tucked it into his belt. "Let me guess. All your supposed-evidence is gone, right? Your super-secret hiding place is empty? And only you knew it was in there. How am I doing?"

"It was here, Detective. I swear, man. You gotta believe me. Give me a polygraph, man."

Bear took Chevy by the arm and shoved him toward the front door. "I don't need a polygraph. My bulls.h.i.+t-meter is pegged. Let's go back to the office so you can file a police report on this alleged break-in while I book you on a dozen felonies."

Chevy turned around and threw up his hands. "No, no, man. I got proof. I do. Take me to the Vincent place. I got more evidence there, man."

"No. Let's go, Chevy." Bear pointed at the door. "Don't make me handcuff you, man. We're just starting to like you."

"We?" Chevy glanced over his shoulder. "Ah, come on. Just one fast trip to the Vincent place. It'll prove me righteous. I swear."

I said, "Bear, let's do it. I think he's telling the truth. Besides, if we go and you're a good boy in the car, I'll introduce you to Sa.s.sy. It'll be worth it."

"Let's go, Chevy. Move." Bear reached behind his back for his handcuffs. "Turn around, Chevy. I didn't want to do this but-"

"No. You're not takin' me in yet."

Bear grabbed his shoulder. "Chevez, turn around and get against the wall." He stepped in close.

Neither of us saw it coming.

As Bear reached for his handcuffs behind his back, Chevy pivoted to his right. He grabbed Bear's arm, twisted and jerked it up, stressing his shoulder, elbow, and wrist all at once. "You gotta listen to me, Detective."

Bear growled in pain but couldn't get free-his size and power couldn't overcome Chevy's arm lock. "Chevez, you're going down for murder and I'm adding a.s.saulting a cop." Bear tried to turn and snapped a punch at him.

Chevy blocked the punch, drove his leg behind Bear's knee and swept his leg out from under him. He followed the leg-sweep with a hard elbow into Bear's back, driving him down to the floor as Bear fell off balance. As he fell, Chevy threw a leg over him and bronco-rode him onto the carpet.

"Don't fight me, man, I don't want to hurt you."

"Hurt me?" Bear raged. "I'm going to break you in half, you little t.u.r.d."

"You just don't listen, man." Chevy tugged Bear's handgun from its holster and tossed it away, then grabbed his own .38 from Bear's belt. Next, he took Bear's handcuffs and snapped one cuff around Bear's wrist and the other onto the old radiator beside them.

"Sorry, Detective." He fished around Bear's jacket pocket and pulled out his key ring with the handcuff key dangling off. "I'm outta here, man. I gotta take care of myself."

Bear lay on his side, struggling to get to his knees, glaring a death wish at Chevy. "You just racked up three more felonies. Unlock these cuffs and I promise not to shoot you right here."

"Later, man." Chevy found Bear's gun and unloaded it, dumping the weapon and the full magazine into the toilet. Then he went to the back door and looked outside. "This is your fault, man." He slipped out the door and was gone.

I sat in Chevy's wobbly office chair watching Bear struggling to sit up. "Holy c.r.a.p on a peanut b.u.t.ter sandwich, Bear. I wish I had a camera. Angel won't believe this. And wait until Spence hears-"

"Get me out of this," he yelled, kicking at the radiator. "He took my keys, Tuck. Do something."

"Tuck?" Twice in one day Bear spoke to me. "You've been ignoring me for months and now it's 'Tuck, do something?'"

"Dammit, cut the lip and get me out of this."

I walked over to him. "Sorry, can't help you. I'm not good with handcuffs unless I'm all juiced up. And you said yourself, there's no power in here. I can't do anything to help you. So, I'm going to the Vincent House. I'll fill you in later if I find anything."

"What?" His face was on fire. "You nag and nag and drive me insane. I pretended you weren't around, but no, you just had to hound me. Now I need you, and you're running off?"

"Sorry, Bear." At the back door I watched Chevy drive off in Bear's unmarked cruiser. "I need a good stiff drink."

forty-nine.

"The book is the key to the war between the Calaprese families and the Reds." Poor Nic stood behind his antique mahogany desk with his grandfatherly smile directed at Bonnie Grecco. "Or I should say, Soviet Intelligence in Was.h.i.+ngton-well before the KGB or the thugs operating today."

Angel glanced over at Bonnie and noted she didn't seem surprised at Poor Nic's revelation. She and Bonnie had arrived at Nicholas' an hour ago after escaping the roadside truck stop. Angel secreted Bonnie out of the rear parking lot after she was convinced the large, black SUV was there for her. Angel drove straight to Nicholas' house.

"Spies? Vincent Calaprese was involved with Soviet spies?" Angel asked.

"No, no, not the way you think, my dear," Poor Nic said. "Vincent Calaprese was, shall we say, a business man who preferred to operate outside the normal restrictions of the law."

"They were gangsters," Bonnie said in a flat voice. "Mob. Like you, Nicholas."

Poor Nic let his smile settle the awkwardness Bonnie's words lay between them.

Angela shot her a "you're a guest-behave" glance, then she asked Nicholas, "What did he have to do with Russian spies?"

"Ah, yes. You see, it was the late-thirties and the second world war was starting to churn. German and j.a.panese spy networks were already operating in our country. Little do many people know, but so were the Soviets-many worked through the Communist Party of the United States. Oh, the party was a legitimate group, mind you, but some were also Soviet spies and sympathizers."