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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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opened, I was standing in a luxuriously furnished,
two-story great room. There were antiques and expensive trap-
pings and I could have been in an English castle amongst lords
and ladies. There were paintings, sculptures, and fine art of every variety. The room exuded wealth and power. Across from me, in
front of the story-tall double oak doors, two muscular goons
70
stood guard. But, they were not watching me, they were watch-
ing … the other me.
The other me?
Bear was there too, sitting in front of a battleship-sized ma-
hogany desk, right next to the other me— the me that had been alive, in this room, working a case with Bear. The details were as hazy as the file on my desk. Across from us was the now familiar
man in the photograph. In person, he was short and thin, with
silver hair recently trimmed and combed back. He looked sev-
enty despite his younger age. Wear and tear caused battle scars
but he held himself with starch and power.
This was Poor Nicholas Bartalotta.
Bear was questioning him. But I recalled it was more an inter-
rogation. “Listen, Nic, lawyer or no lawyer, I want those records.
If you’re innocent, show them to us.”
“I think not.” Poor Nic sat stone-faced and played with a
large, gold coin. He rolled it in his fingers and fondled it like a lover. A smile traced across his boney face and that unnerved
me—both of me. “Detective, you don’t have a warrant. You get
nothing. Now, leave my home.”
Alive-me sat next to Bear and leaned forward, tapping the
desktop. “Listen, Nic. Give Bear a break. You don’t have any do-
nuts. What he means to say is, if you don’t cooperate, you’ll be in our office later today. You’ll be answering questions and it will be real y unpleasant. Give us the records and we’re out of here. You
know the warrant is just a formality.”
“Then get one.”
“Come on, Nicky, do the right thing.”
71
“My men will show you out.” Poor Nic motioned for his two
goons and continued fondling his good luck coin. “I’ve told you,
I had nothing to do with that guard’s death. He worked at my
warehouse—that’s al . Now leave.”
This was frustrating. I’d come in on part of the conversa-
tion—the part I remembered—and the missing part left me
blank. “Damn, will one of you just say the dead guy’s name?”
“Have it your way.” Bear stood and shot a gun-finger at the
two bodyguards. “Sit, boys, or I’ll shoot you.”
As I stood there, just a foot from myself, a mind-meld sizzled
through me and everything fell into place. This was Saturday
morning more than a week ago. Bear and I had been working a
homicide that led us to Poor Nic Bartalotta. After the crime
scene, we headed straight to this house. Poor Nic was, as previ-
ously mentioned, our local—albeit retired—mobster. He had his
finger in everything from land deals to labor unions in his time
with the New York crime families. So why not here? Bear was
convinced he was involved in our case, but I couldn’t remember
why. The victim was … nuts. I couldn’t remember the name.
“Nic,” Alive-me said. “Get your lawyer and be at the office by
noon. If not, we’ll come back with two warrants—one for your
books and the other for you. Capice ?”
“Be on time, gumba ,” Bear added. “Got it?”
Poor Nic glanced at his men and they closed in. Bear turned
and brushed past them on his way to the door. He threw an
elbow into one of the bodyguards that made the big goon stagger
backward and cough.
72
Alive-me followed, but stopped at a grand bookcase near the
door. On the center shelf was a lighted mahogany and glass case.
Inside were a dozen or more mounted coins of varying sizes and
distinctions. I knew less about rare coins than I knew about space travel, but I could tel these were valuable. In the very center of the display’s mounting apron were several empty, circular holes.
“Hey, Nic. You have a robbery?” Even
two-story great room. There were antiques and expensive trap-
pings and I could have been in an English castle amongst lords
and ladies. There were paintings, sculptures, and fine art of every variety. The room exuded wealth and power. Across from me, in
front of the story-tall double oak doors, two muscular goons
70
stood guard. But, they were not watching me, they were watch-
ing … the other me.
The other me?
Bear was there too, sitting in front of a battleship-sized ma-
hogany desk, right next to the other me— the me that had been alive, in this room, working a case with Bear. The details were as hazy as the file on my desk. Across from us was the now familiar
man in the photograph. In person, he was short and thin, with
silver hair recently trimmed and combed back. He looked sev-
enty despite his younger age. Wear and tear caused battle scars
but he held himself with starch and power.
This was Poor Nicholas Bartalotta.
Bear was questioning him. But I recalled it was more an inter-
rogation. “Listen, Nic, lawyer or no lawyer, I want those records.
If you’re innocent, show them to us.”
“I think not.” Poor Nic sat stone-faced and played with a
large, gold coin. He rolled it in his fingers and fondled it like a lover. A smile traced across his boney face and that unnerved
me—both of me. “Detective, you don’t have a warrant. You get
nothing. Now, leave my home.”
Alive-me sat next to Bear and leaned forward, tapping the
desktop. “Listen, Nic. Give Bear a break. You don’t have any do-
nuts. What he means to say is, if you don’t cooperate, you’ll be in our office later today. You’ll be answering questions and it will be real y unpleasant. Give us the records and we’re out of here. You
know the warrant is just a formality.”
“Then get one.”
“Come on, Nicky, do the right thing.”
71
“My men will show you out.” Poor Nic motioned for his two
goons and continued fondling his good luck coin. “I’ve told you,
I had nothing to do with that guard’s death. He worked at my
warehouse—that’s al . Now leave.”
This was frustrating. I’d come in on part of the conversa-
tion—the part I remembered—and the missing part left me
blank. “Damn, will one of you just say the dead guy’s name?”
“Have it your way.” Bear stood and shot a gun-finger at the
two bodyguards. “Sit, boys, or I’ll shoot you.”
As I stood there, just a foot from myself, a mind-meld sizzled
through me and everything fell into place. This was Saturday
morning more than a week ago. Bear and I had been working a
homicide that led us to Poor Nic Bartalotta. After the crime
scene, we headed straight to this house. Poor Nic was, as previ-
ously mentioned, our local—albeit retired—mobster. He had his
finger in everything from land deals to labor unions in his time
with the New York crime families. So why not here? Bear was
convinced he was involved in our case, but I couldn’t remember
why. The victim was … nuts. I couldn’t remember the name.
“Nic,” Alive-me said. “Get your lawyer and be at the office by
noon. If not, we’ll come back with two warrants—one for your
books and the other for you. Capice ?”
“Be on time, gumba ,” Bear added. “Got it?”
Poor Nic glanced at his men and they closed in. Bear turned
and brushed past them on his way to the door. He threw an
elbow into one of the bodyguards that made the big goon stagger
backward and cough.
72
Alive-me followed, but stopped at a grand bookcase near the
door. On the center shelf was a lighted mahogany and glass case.
Inside were a dozen or more mounted coins of varying sizes and
distinctions. I knew less about rare coins than I knew about space travel, but I could tel these were valuable. In the very center of the display’s mounting apron were several empty, circular holes.
“Hey, Nic. You have a robbery?” Even
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