Read Online Dying to Know by T. J. O'Connor - Free Book Online
Authors: T. J. O'Connor
Tags: Sarah Glokkmann. But the festive mood sours as soon as a well-known Glokkmann-bashing blogger is found dead. When Mira's best friend's fiancé becomes a top suspect, Battle Lake's premier fall festival. To kick off the celebrations, she wades through mudslinging and murderous threats to find the political party crasher., the town hosts a public debate between congressional candidates Arnold Swydecker and the slippery incumbent, Beer and polka music reign supreme at Octoberfest
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they had unfinished business.
66
“Yeah, Doc. I have to find my killer. Then I’m gonna kill him.
So make them a reservation.”
“No, no killing.” He went over to my bookshelf and admired
my collections. “Not bad, Oliver. Nice collection—I approve.
Spil ane was my favorite. You remind me of Hammer.”
“Thanks, some were my grandfather’s—a few first editions.
It’s the only stuff from my family I got.”
“Yes, yes.” He turned and threw a lecturing finger at me. “Kil -
ing is not in the playbook. You don’t have the power to kill or
hurt or anything of the sort. You are a bystander, a witness, not a participant. In time maybe a little more. No killing. That I know.”
He put down a volume of Agatha Christie as his demeanor
changed from kindly spirit to divorce lawyer. “Are you sure about
Angela?”
What did he say? “No way, Doc. Not Angel. She loves me.”
“Good for you.” A thin smile etched his lips. “If you’re sure.”
“She didn’t kill me, right?”
“What about Bear?”
“What about him?”
He rolled his eyes—people do that a lot with me. “Do you
trust him?”
“He’s acting strange, I’ll give you that. But, he saved my life
three years ago. He took a bullet for me.”
“Yes, that was a mistake.”
“Are you saying …”
“No.” He turned around as his face began losing clarity. I
watched him become little more than a wisp of himself. “All I’m
67
saying is this is entirely wrong. Nothing is as it should be. It
started with Bear. And it’s not over yet.”
“Wait, dammit.” I watched Doc vanish. “Did he change
things? Should I have died before?”
He was just a voice. “You have a lot to do. Remember … just
be there.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll just be there.”
“And you’ll have to come to terms with everyone you thought
you knew. You may find you don’t know them at al .”
“How am I gonna figure all this out?”
“I don’t know, Oliver, but things are going to get crazy.”
68
t welve
“Going to get crazy?” I turned to Hercule. “So, Herc, you’ve
been holding out on me. Doc and you are old pals.”
Woof. A second later, his eyes closed and he was asleep.
“Thanks for the help, pal.”
Doc seemed surprised I couldn’t read the file, so I returned to
it on my desk. The pages were still spread about where Angel had
left them. On top were blurry photographs, and with them, my
yellow legal pad of notes. I concentrated on the top photograph.
The image looked like a man. The face was indiscernible and his
surroundings unclear. Sparks flickered in my head and the nag-
ging feeling of recognition struck me. This man was important.
Think, Tuck, think …
Nothing. I touched the image. Sparks tickled my fingertips as
one-by-one they moved over the image.
Be there .
69
Like striking a match, the sparks ignited and flames singed
my fingers. An image swirled in the print as if developing before
me. A thin, shal ow face with haunting, powerful eyes emerged.
The face was aged and showed a man worn by more than years.
This face was no friend.
Poor Nicholas Bartalotta.
Poor Nic was not poor at al . In fact, he was one of the wealth-
iest people in Frederick County. He was also the county’s most
notorious, albeit only, gangster. Poor Nic was retired from the
New York City mob families. Newspapers, being as fond of noto-
rious mobsters as they are of bestowing silly names on them,
dubbed him “Poor Nic” from his lavish lifestyle. The nom de
guerre followed him to Winchester.
“Hi, Nic. I bet you thought you were rid of me.”
I laid my hand on the photograph and a manic episode ex-
ploded in my brain. My thoughts lost focus and melted. Needles
pricked me everywhere. I tried to get control but a jolt of elec-
tricity shot through me like a cattle prod to my brain. Lightning
burst through—synapse-by-synapse. My eyes shuttered closed
and the current swept through me.
When my eyes
66
“Yeah, Doc. I have to find my killer. Then I’m gonna kill him.
So make them a reservation.”
“No, no killing.” He went over to my bookshelf and admired
my collections. “Not bad, Oliver. Nice collection—I approve.
Spil ane was my favorite. You remind me of Hammer.”
“Thanks, some were my grandfather’s—a few first editions.
It’s the only stuff from my family I got.”
“Yes, yes.” He turned and threw a lecturing finger at me. “Kil -
ing is not in the playbook. You don’t have the power to kill or
hurt or anything of the sort. You are a bystander, a witness, not a participant. In time maybe a little more. No killing. That I know.”
He put down a volume of Agatha Christie as his demeanor
changed from kindly spirit to divorce lawyer. “Are you sure about
Angela?”
What did he say? “No way, Doc. Not Angel. She loves me.”
“Good for you.” A thin smile etched his lips. “If you’re sure.”
“She didn’t kill me, right?”
“What about Bear?”
“What about him?”
He rolled his eyes—people do that a lot with me. “Do you
trust him?”
“He’s acting strange, I’ll give you that. But, he saved my life
three years ago. He took a bullet for me.”
“Yes, that was a mistake.”
“Are you saying …”
“No.” He turned around as his face began losing clarity. I
watched him become little more than a wisp of himself. “All I’m
67
saying is this is entirely wrong. Nothing is as it should be. It
started with Bear. And it’s not over yet.”
“Wait, dammit.” I watched Doc vanish. “Did he change
things? Should I have died before?”
He was just a voice. “You have a lot to do. Remember … just
be there.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll just be there.”
“And you’ll have to come to terms with everyone you thought
you knew. You may find you don’t know them at al .”
“How am I gonna figure all this out?”
“I don’t know, Oliver, but things are going to get crazy.”
68
t welve
“Going to get crazy?” I turned to Hercule. “So, Herc, you’ve
been holding out on me. Doc and you are old pals.”
Woof. A second later, his eyes closed and he was asleep.
“Thanks for the help, pal.”
Doc seemed surprised I couldn’t read the file, so I returned to
it on my desk. The pages were still spread about where Angel had
left them. On top were blurry photographs, and with them, my
yellow legal pad of notes. I concentrated on the top photograph.
The image looked like a man. The face was indiscernible and his
surroundings unclear. Sparks flickered in my head and the nag-
ging feeling of recognition struck me. This man was important.
Think, Tuck, think …
Nothing. I touched the image. Sparks tickled my fingertips as
one-by-one they moved over the image.
Be there .
69
Like striking a match, the sparks ignited and flames singed
my fingers. An image swirled in the print as if developing before
me. A thin, shal ow face with haunting, powerful eyes emerged.
The face was aged and showed a man worn by more than years.
This face was no friend.
Poor Nicholas Bartalotta.
Poor Nic was not poor at al . In fact, he was one of the wealth-
iest people in Frederick County. He was also the county’s most
notorious, albeit only, gangster. Poor Nic was retired from the
New York City mob families. Newspapers, being as fond of noto-
rious mobsters as they are of bestowing silly names on them,
dubbed him “Poor Nic” from his lavish lifestyle. The nom de
guerre followed him to Winchester.
“Hi, Nic. I bet you thought you were rid of me.”
I laid my hand on the photograph and a manic episode ex-
ploded in my brain. My thoughts lost focus and melted. Needles
pricked me everywhere. I tried to get control but a jolt of elec-
tricity shot through me like a cattle prod to my brain. Lightning
burst through—synapse-by-synapse. My eyes shuttered closed
and the current swept through me.
When my eyes
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