fifty-one

When Bear arrived, Angel had already inventoried the valuables in the house and determined that only her computer was missing. Her jewelry, china, silver, a few pieces of art, and even my 9mm were untouched. Someone came to the house for information, not profit.

“I’ll have a crime scene tech here to check for prints,” Bear said. “But it’ll be a while—too many scenes working right now. I didn’t see any signs of a break-in, so someone must have picked the locks. Did you get the license plate number on Raina’s car?”

Ouch—sore subject. “No, we didn’t have a chance …”

“I was on the porch,” Angel said. “Tuck walked her to her getaway car.”

Touché.

Bear snorted. “All right, I have to get back. Cal’s got information on Marshal from the hotel in Harrisonburg. He’s found something hot. Are you okay here?”

“Yes, I’m fine, Bear. I’ll wait on your crime scene people,” Angel said.

“I’ll go with Bear,” I said. “What are you going to do alone here, Angel?”

“I’ll call my office and get a new laptop ready.” A car pulled up outside in front and she looked out the den’s bay window. “Oh, Franklin’s here.”

Thorne walked up the front porch stairs and rang the doorbell.

I said, “What’s he want?”

“Lunch, I hope.”

Bear headed for the door. “I’ll be leaving. Come on, Tuck, it’s better if you’re with me.”

“Or you could come along, Tuck,” Angel said, “and watch us eat a good steak-and-cheese sub with lots of French fries.”

“Now you’re just being cruel.”

She grinned and taunted me by blowing a kiss. “Perhaps just a little.”

At the front door, Bear said to Thorne as the door opened, “What are you doing here?”

Hercule slipped into the foyer and greeted Thorne, too—with a growl.

“Hercule, lay down.” Angel apologized and told Thorne what had happened at the house, ending with, “And yes, let’s get lunch after the crime scene people leave.”

“Sure, yes, lunch. Terrific.” He looked from Bear to Angel and back. “I’ll wait with her until your technicians are through—for her safety, of course. Then we’ll get some lunch.”

“Of course,” I said. “And take Hercule to lunch, too, Angel. For his safety.”

She ignored me.

Bear said, “Thorne, I may need to speak with you later. Keep your cell phone handy.”

“Of course, Detective. I am at your disposal.” He glanced over at Angel. “I am at everyone’s disposal.”

Cal clicked the video player’s pause button on his computer. “Did you catch it? Did you see the vehicle that comes into view when Marshal walks out of the hotel?”

“No, play it again.” Bear leaned closer to the computer screen.

The video was from Marshal Mendelson’s hotel in Harrisonburg. It was shot on their security system the evening before, and early morning of, the day William was murdered. The readout said “0012”—twelve minutes after midnight. The video camera was mounted somewhere outside the hotel and focused on the lobby entrance and hotel parking lot in front of the hotel. When the video played again, Marshal Mendelson walked out the hotel lobby doors at precisely 0012. He proceeded to the sidewalk and turned right. As the video continued, Cal stopped it as a vehicle entered the camera view from the right and drove in the direction Marshal had walked.

Bear stared at the video for a long time. Then it hit him. “That’s Larry Conti’s pickup truck.”

“Maybe,” Cal said. “It’s a pickup truck for sure, man. And it’s the same description as Conti’s—and it also matches the one fleeing the Kit Kat last night. I can’t be sure they’re one and the same, Bear, and can’t say they’re not.”

“So Marshal left the hotel at twelve after midnight.” Bear leaned back and opened the case file on Cal’s desk. “And William opens the bank door at oh-one-thirty. Presumably to let someone in, right? That’s plenty of time for Marshal to leave the hotel and drive back to town. And the ME says William was murdered at oh-two-hundred. That would give Marshal plenty of time to drive home from Harrisonburg, kill his father, and get back to the hotel by breakfast.”

I said, “Yes, it does. Whoever was in the pickup is connected to Marshal. Which means it could be William’s killer and whoever tried to kill Poor Nic.”

Cal turned the video off. “Marshal’s back in the suspect pool, right?”

“He never left,” Bear said. “What else you got?”

Cal pointed to a second file on his desk. “I ran backgrounds on Conti, Simms, Thorne, and Marshal Mendelson. Jeez, man, these people are something.”

“What’s that mean?” I asked and Bear repeated me.

“Conti was fired from his last two jobs as a security guard. Guess why?” Cal waited but Bear didn’t want to play “I’ve got a secret.” Cal went on. “He harassed some young sweetie-secretary every night. When her boyfriend stepped in, Conti beat the shit out of him and had him arrested for trespassing. The boyfriend was trespassing, but he sneaked into the building where the girl worked to catch Conti harassing her.”

Bear nodded. “And Simms?”

“She’s been at the bank for years, ever since high school. She’s in college part time—a nursing student at the hospital—and ran up some big tuition bills. Never married. No criminal record. Had a disabled stepfather who became an alcoholic and her mom died a year before she got out of high school. No father on record. But Thorne is the odd one.”

Bear opened the file and found the yellow legal pad page with Thorne’s name at the top. Below it was his date of birth—he was thirty-six. Then there was a second date of birth making him thirty-five. His address was listed as a condo on the northwest side of town and he had two driver’s license numbers. One in Washington DC and one in Virginia—hence the two dates of birth. There was no car registered to him, no previous addresses, and no credit history.

“What the hell is this?” Bear asked. “This guy’s …”

“A ghost,” Cal said.

“He is not,” I said.

Cal went on. “I cannot find any reference to him before he joined the bank seven months ago. Poof, nothing.”

“Poof?” Bear said. “I don’t like poof.”

“Then you’re gonna love this.” Cal leaned forward and flipped the yellow legal pad page to the one with Marshal Mendelson at the top. “Read on.”

The notes provided Marshal’s normal information—age, address, three registered automobiles, education, etc., etc. But it was the financial notes that had Bear’s eyes popping. Marshal had over $100,000 in credit card debt and there was a note circled at the bottom of the page. It read Private debt—$250,000.

“His gambling debts,” Bear said. “Like Keys said?”

Cal nodded. “I contacted the track in West Virginia. Marshal was a big player there until about eight months ago. His credit crashed and then he came in with a private marker and ran up another quarter mil. They tossed him two weeks later and he’s not allowed back until he squares his debts. Somebody paid down about fifty thousand a month ago—in cash, man. Cash. I’m guessing that was William.”

“I have a pretty good guess who owns his marker, too.” Well, maybe it wasn’t a good guess; it was the only guess I had.

“Poor Nic is loan-sharking these days.” Cal smiled, nodded, and leaned back on the corner of the desk. “Marshal’s into him for some big money. Now you know why William couldn’t invest in the Kit Kat.”

Bear read the file. “So, we have one goodie-two-shoes who claims to have some dirt on everyone, one nut-job security guard, one mystery-man security executive, and one asshole in debt over his eyeballs. And of them, one is probably dead, one is in custody, one is now running the bank, and the other is courting Angela Tucker.”

I cringed. “Thanks, Bear.”

Cal nodded. “That’s about right.”

“Oh, and the suspect pool just got bigger.” He told Cal about the break-in at my house and the mysterious Egyptian beauty, Raina. “Might as well add her to the list.”

Cal picked up the two files from the desk and stuffed his notes back inside. “Well things could be worse, Bear.”

“How?”

“We could have no suspects, man.”