Murder In the Past Tense (A Giorgio Salvatori Mystery Book 2) (7 page)

CHAPTER TEN

It was 4:00 a.m., and the man in the stocking cap had watched the home on Pendleton Drive until he was sure the inhabitant of the house was asleep. He knew the neighborhood and had cut through the backyard of the house next door to get where he was, the weapon tucked neatly in his pocket. He waited behind a bush at the side of the property, indulging in a string of cigarettes, his car parked around the corner.

It had already been a good night. He’d followed the detective to the Christmas tree lot earlier in the evening and approached the little girl just out of fun. He didn’t think the detective would get anywhere close to the truth about Lisa Farmer, but why not distract the family just in case? Sometimes it was enough to throw a monkey wrench into everything. Besides, the little girl
was
very pretty. Maybe he’d revisit her in a few years.

He drew in a lungful of smoke and then exhaled. The early morning air was crisp, and the upscale neighborhood in Pasadena was sound asleep.

He knew the old guy who owned the house and knew that he suffered from a variety of ailments that forced him to rely on sleeping pills at night.

But he had a plan.

So, when the time was right, the man in the stocking cap took out his cell phone and dialed a number.

“Mrs. Simpson? This is Officer John Bundy,” he said, when the housekeeper answered. “Your daughter has been in an accident. We just took her to Santa Monica Hospital.”

He chuckled silently at the hysterics on the other end of the phone.

“Calm down, Ms. Simpson. We’ll meet you at the hospital,” he said and then hung up.

Less than five minutes later, the housekeeper came barreling out the front door, jumped into her car and took off up the street. The man in the stocking cap smiled.

The old man was alone now, and the house remained dark and still. The street was quiet.

The man’s dark, piercing eyes followed the roofline of the big home. It was wired for security, as all the homes were in this neighborhood. But a phone call had given him the information he needed to disable the alarm system. Now, all he had to do was walk inside and get the job done.

He dropped his last cigarette to the ground and snuffed it out. Then he snuck down the long driveway to the back and carefully opened a side gate. Most of the backyard was patio and pool, so he quickly traversed the pool deck to a back door, leaving no footprints behind. He jimmied the lock on the kitchen door and slipped inside.

It was prudent to pause for a moment and listen, just in case. But there were no sounds except the ticking of a wall clock above the sink.

With his adrenalin flowing, he crossed through the large kitchen and crept into the stately dining room. Out the door into the foyer, he turned left and he was in the living room. The heavy front curtains were closed, so he felt comfortable turning on a flashlight.

With carefree abandon, he began pulling things off the shelves and out of drawers. Books, lamps and collectibles went crashing to the floor. He wanted it to look like a random break-in. Every few seconds, he’d stop and listen and then start up again.

After only a minute or two, he heard what he wanted to hear – the old man’s voice.

“Who’s there? Roberta? Is that you?”

The intruder pulled the gun from his pocket and attached the silencer, and then tucked it back into his jacket. He removed the stocking cap and stuffed it into his belt and then moved to the entrance of the living room and stepped into the foyer.

“Don’t shoot, Alex. It’s just me,” he said, holding up his hands. He chuckled as if this was a casual visit.

The old man stood at the banister at the top of the stairs. He leaned over the railing, peering down into the darkened foyer.

“What are you doing here? Where’s Roberta?”

The intruder moved to the foot of the stairs and began to climb to the second floor.

“She had to go to the hospital. Her daughter’s been in an accident. I came to tell her.” He kept climbing, coming closer and closer to the old man. “I can help you get back into bed.”

“I don’t need help,” the old man snarled. “You need to go. I’ll call the police.”

“The police?” the intruder said with a laugh. “For heaven’s sake, Alex. Let me help you back into bed.”

“I said no!”

The old man started to turn for his bedroom. That’s when the intruder skipped up the last few stairs.

“Wait, Alex. We need to talk.”

The old man turned around as if to say something, but found the intruder’s gun pointed at his chest.

“Wait. What are you doing?” the old man sputtered. “I wasn’t going to say anything…”

The gun fired, hitting the octogenarian in the chest. He staggered backwards against the wall. He hung there for a brief second, his eyes opened wide. He slid to the floor, leaving a trail of blood to mar the floral wallpaper behind him. His body landed with a thud, and he remained there, slumped to one side, his eyes staring straight ahead.

The intruder stepped forward, but the old man didn’t move. Two fingers at the carotid artery confirmed that he was dead, so the intruder stepped back.

“There you go, Alex. Better than a sleeping pill. Don’t you think?”

A few minutes later, the intruder was back in his car, with a feeling of deep satisfaction.

Now if only the job in Seattle would go as well. He didn’t have as much confidence in that one. But if the kid didn’t screw up, they were safe once again to pursue the little hobby he’d come to depend on.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The next day, a gaggle of local reporters milled about the police station parking lot again. Giorgio parked on a side street this time and was about to enter the building by a side door, when Mia Santana called out to him.

“Detective,” she yelled, running down the sidewalk. “Do you have a minute?”

He turned away, intent on ignoring her, but then thought better of it; it would help to have the media on their side. He turned back and gave her a quick smile.

“Ms. Santana,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

She stopped short, her expression cautious.

She was a petite brunette, with large brown eyes, a full mouth and long dark hair pulled into a loose pony tail. She had her microphone out, and her cameraman was poised and ready to shoot from behind her. Giorgio put up a hand.

“Sorry. Not on camera,” he said.

She paused and then turned. “Turn it off, Randy,” she said. She turned back to Giorgio. “Okay, do you know yet how the girl was killed?”

“Not for sure. I expect we’ll get a full report today or tomorrow.”

“Rumor has it that it’s Lisa Farmer. Can you confirm that?”

He allowed his eyebrows to shoot up momentarily.

“Where did you hear that?”

“You’re kidding, right? It’s my job.”

He rocked back on his heels a bit, thinking about how to answer.

“The DNA test will confirm whether it’s Lisa Farmer.”

“What about the flower and jewelry?” the young woman asked.

“That too,” he nodded.

He avoided any mention of his conversation with Lisa’s mother. No doubt the press would track her down before long, but there was no reason for him to destroy what little privacy she had left.

“Jimmy Finn was convicted of her murder years ago,” Ms. Santana said. “Is there any reason to doubt his guilt after all these years?”

“I can’t say. We’re only following up on a few things left over from 1967. Due diligence and all of that,” he said.

“Have you talked with Ron Martinelli?” she asked.

He smiled. “I have to go,” he said. Without further comment, he turned and went inside.

He used the main hallway to cross from one side of the building to the other, passing through the small squad room to his office at the far end. When he entered, Swan was talking with Officer McCready.

“I was just telling Chuck that I looked into when that patio was laid up at the monastery,” McCready said, as Giorgio took off his coat and threw it over a hook on the wall. “Believe it or not, it was back in 1967.”

Giorgio’s eyebrows arched. “Well, isn’t
that
a coincidence?”

“Yep,” McCready agreed.

McCready had a round face, a splash of freckles across his nose, and short, spikey red hair that made him look like he was in high school.

“When the monks and church elders decided to rent out parts of the monastery for things like weddings and conferences,” he said, “they needed a place for people to sit during the spring and summer. So they had the patio built.”

“Too bad that won’t tell us when the girl was dumped into the well,” Swan said.

“No,” Giorgio said, “but it narrows the field, and it gives us one more reason to believe this really is Lisa Farmer, since she went missing in 1967. Did you find exactly when the concrete was laid?” Giorgio asked McCready.

The young cop shook his head. “No. All I found were building plans and the permits from March of that year.”

“Well, we had luck with the architect that designed the monastery additions last time round,” Giorgio said. “See if you can find whoever constructed the patio.”

Giorgio was referring to Elvira Applebaum, who also ran the child care consortium that would help license Angie’s new business. Elvira’s father had been the architect who had designed the addition to the monastery that would become the boys’ school and then the conference center. It was Ms. Applebaum who gave Giorgio the key needed to unlock some important doors at the monastery during the investigation up there. Giorgio didn’t hold out much hope that he’d be so lucky again, but then, you never knew.

“Listen, I have to make a report on something that happened last night,” he said to Swan. “Rocky is doing his weapons retest, so how about you and I go see the boyfriend, young Ron Martinelli?”

“Who won’t be so young anymore,” Swan quipped.

“True,” Giorgio agreed. “Let’s go see middle-aged Ron Martinelli.”

Giorgio filed a report on the incident at the Christmas tree lot, and then he and Swan left for the Martinelli Property Development Company. It was in a large, two-story building near the Tournament of Roses headquarters in Pasadena.

They entered a spacious lobby with huge plate-glass windows and a slate floor. A floor to ceiling fountain flanked by chrome and leather furniture took up one corner, and an enormous, fully decorated Christmas tree filled the center of the room. Giorgio lifted an eyebrow in Swan’s direction at the opulence.

A young woman sat behind a rich cherry wood counter against the wall. Above her in brass letters, a sign read “Martinelli Property Development Company.” Right next to that was “Martinelli Real Estate.” She looked up with a smile.

“May I help you?”

“We’d like to see Mr. Martinelli. And no, we don’t have an appointment,” Giorgio said before she could get the words out. “We’re here on official business.”

He pulled out his shield. Her brown eyes lost their friendly luster and grew wary.

“Of course,” she nodded. “But do you mean Mr. Ron Martinelli, or Mr. Fritz Martinelli?”

Giorgio paused. “Ron,” he replied.

“Just a moment,” she said.

She picked up the phone and told someone on the other end that the police were there to speak to Mr. Martinelli. She hung up.

“Miss Brinson will be down in a moment.”

“Thank you,” Giorgio said.

She wasn’t joking. A few seconds later a woman in her thirties appeared at the head of the staircase. Giorgio made an assessment as he watched her descent. She was attractive in an efficient sort of way: Blond hair cut just above the ears. A tight-fitting black pant suit with a blue blouse. Pearls at her neckline and a pair of blue tortoise-shell glasses. The fact there were police in her lobby didn’t seem to unsettle her. She held his gaze without ever once looking down, one slender hand sliding down the bannister as she came. Once she’d reached the bottom, she approached him with a warm smile.

“I’m Julie Brinson, Mr. Martinelli’s assistant,” she said, crisply. “He’s just finishing up a meeting. Perhaps I can help you.”

“I’m Detective Salvatori with the Sierra Madre Police Department. This is Detective Swan. I’m afraid that we really need to speak with Mr. Martinelli,” Giorgio said. “We can wait.”

Giorgio had been forced to investigate enough business owners and CEOs to have a strong distaste for sifting through the layers of protection they put in place to isolate themselves from the rest of the world.

“The Sierra Madre Police Department?” she said with a slight lift to her voice. “Perhaps I can tell him what this is in reference to.” Her eyes shifted to Swan, and then back to Giorgio.

“You can tell him it’s in reference to the murder of his high school sweetheart,” Giorgio stated.

Her eyes betrayed her surprise, but just for a moment. Then the sense of business calm returned.

“I see,” she said. “Please, follow me.”

She turned and headed back to the stairs. They followed her to the second floor, watching the rhythmic swing of her slender hips as she climbed each step. There was no attempt to engage them in conversation. There was no need. They weren’t clients. She let her hips do the talking.

They reached the top of the stairs and turned left down a carpeted hallway. They stepped through double doors that led to an expansive reception area, where another attractive young woman was just fielding a phone call.

“If you’ll just wait here,” Ms. Brinson said, “Patty will let you know when Mr. Martinelli is available.”

Patty nodded, while she listened to the caller and made a note.

What was it with women? Giorgio wondered as he watched the receptionist. They could multi-task better than most men. Angie was like that. She could fry bacon, get the kid’s lunch boxes ready, and kick Grosvenor away, all without batting an eye. He could barely tie his shoes, one shoe at a time.

As Ms. Brinson disappeared into the inner office, Giorgio and Swan took seats across from the reception desk and settled back to wait. They didn't have to wait long, however; notification of their visit brought Martinelli out very quickly.

The door opened and a man in his mid-sixties emerged, dressed in an expensive tan suit and green silk tie. He was approximately 5’ 11” and his hair was cut extremely short, probably to balance the fact that his hairline had receded up to the middle of his scalp. His brown eyes were quick and attentive, and he retained a look of health and vigor, although his face showed lines of age.

He approached them with a tense expression. “I’m Ron Martinelli. Pam tells me you’re here about Lisa. Please, let’s go into my office,” he said, gesturing with his left hand.

Giorgio noticed the heavy gold watch on his wrist. With a rigid turn, Martinelli led them into his office, where Ms. Brinson stood off to one side.

“We’d like to speak to you alone, if you don’t mind,” Giorgio said, eyeing the assistant.

Martinelli circled his desk to stand behind it. “You can speak freely in front of Ms. Brinson.”

“I don’t think so,” Giorgio countered. “This is a police matter. We need to speak to you alone.”

Martinelli started to object, but she put up a hand. “That’s fine, Ron. I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

She left for her office through an adjoining door, and Martinelli offered the two men a seat.

“What’s this about Lisa?” he said, sitting behind the desk. “Is there some new information about her disappearance?”

Giorgio glanced at Swan. “You haven’t seen the news?”

“I just got back from Florida. What news?”

“We believe we’ve found her remains,” Giorgio said.

Martinelli inhaled, his eyes growing wide. His fingers reached out for a pen lying on the desk. He picked it up and began rolling it between his fingers.

“Where?”

“Some landscapers found an old well on the property of the monastery up in Sierra Madre. At the bottom was the skeleton of a young girl. We found a faded pink flower headband and a heart necklace with the body.”

Martinelli inhaled again and held it this time. His eyes glistened as tears threatened. He opened his eyes wide to control the onset and then dropped his chin. After a moment, he said, “My God, she was there all the time. So close. And we didn’t even know it.” He lifted his head and looked at Giorgio through wet lashes. “What happened? How did she die?”

Giorgio glanced at Swan again, allowing him to take over.

“It appears she may have been struck on the head. They found an old army shovel in the well with her.”

At the mention of the army shovel, Giorgio noticed a quick flash of recognition in Martinelli’s eyes, but then it was gone.

“Did you know anyone who owned an army shovel back then?” he asked.

Martinelli laughed a mirthless laugh as he opened a drawer and drew out a tissue.

“We all did,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Well, any of us who were in the Boy Scouts. We used them for making camp.”

“I see,” Giorgio said. “Can you tell us what happened that night? We’ve read the case file. But we’d like to hear it from you.”

Martinelli stared at them a moment and then got up and turned to look out the big picture window behind his desk. It looked out onto a canopy of trees and a stretch of green lawn.

“It was prom night…1967,” he said as if the memory of that night had just reformed in his mind. “I picked Lisa up around six o’clock. I had borrowed my dad’s car and took her to dinner at the Northwoods Inn in Pasadena,” he smiled. “From there we went to the prom at the Huntington Sheraton.” He turned back, his hands in his pockets, his nervousness abated now that he was walking down memory lane. “We left the dance around eleven o’clock and…” He stopped.

Giorgio had the distinct feeling he was contemplating something. To lie? To tell the truth?

“The temperature was mild that night, so we went to the park and…well, we had sex.” Martinelli said with a shrug. “Then I took her home.”

“What time did you drop her off?”

“Just before midnight.”

“What happened the next day?” Giorgio asked.

“I went to church with my parents. I tried calling Lisa when we got home, but no one answered.” He looked up at the detectives. “Her mother drank a lot, so I didn't think much about it. But by noon, she was calling our house wondering where Lisa was.”

His throat seemed to close around the words, and he reached over and grabbed a bottle of water on his desk. He opened it and took a swig. A bead of sweat glistened at his brow.