Murder In the Past Tense (A Giorgio Salvatori Mystery Book 2) (9 page)

“Why do you say that?” Giorgio asked.

She turned back to him, her eyes ablaze. “As far as I’m concerned, his father was the mastermind behind that incident with the test. Joshua wasn’t smart enough to think up anything on his own. Alex Springer ran against my husband for the school board when we lived in Sierra Madre and said some of the most hateful things. But despite the lies, Royce won. I just couldn’t believe it when Royce hired him a month or so later.”

“To do what?” Giorgio asked.

She exhaled in exasperation. “Royce hired him to manage all of our apartment buildings. I couldn’t believe it, but Royce said he was a brilliant manager, and if anyone could turn that part of the company around, Alex could.”

“And did he?” Giorgio asked.

She paused, considering her response. “Yes. He made us a lot of money. But I swear, if that young Negro boy didn’t kill Lisa Farmer, I’d bet my diamond bracelet that Alex Springer was the one who did.”

“Why do you think Alex Springer would want to kill your son’s girlfriend?” Swan asked.

She shot Swan a look that was meant to belittle his intelligence.

“To embarrass Royce, of course.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Giorgio called McCready again and got the address for Alex Springer. He programmed it into his GPS, and they made their way to East Walnut Drive in Pasadena and turned south towards the Museum of California Art.

As they entered Springer’s neighborhood, they rolled down streets lined with large oak trees and big, stately homes set back from the road. Most had wide, sweeping lawns; some even had security gates.

They turned a corner onto Pendleton Drive, counting down the house numbers, until they were stopped by a police cruiser and an officer in uniform. Alex Springer’s home was the next house on their left.

Giorgio rolled down the window and showed the officer his badge. The officer arched his eyebrows.

“What’s the Sierra Madre PD here for?” he asked.

“We’re here to talk to the gentleman who lives at 1818 Pendleton Drive.”

The officer stuck his thumbs into his belt. “Don’t think you’ll be talking to him,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “He was dead when we got here.”

Giorgio threw a quick glance at Swan. “What happened?”

“Looks like a home invasion,” the officer replied matter-of-factly, glancing back up the street.

“That’s 1818 right there.”

He pointed to a big colonial-style home with white pillars holding up the front portico. An ambulance was just pulling out of the driveway and drew alongside Giorgio’s car. The officer waved it by and Giorgio’s eyes tracked the red and white van as it turned the corner and left.

“The old guy that lived there was shot in the chest,” the cop said.

Giorgio glanced at Swan and back again. “I need to speak to the officer in charge.”

“Okay. Pull up over there,” he said, gesturing to his left. “And then ask for Lieutenant Pearson.”

Pendleton Drive curved out of sight under a canopy of trees about 100 yards away. Giorgio pulled up in front of a red brick house across the street from Springer’s home. Three women stood in front of the house, arms crossed, watching the activity with grim faces. A young boy stood at the curb.

Giorgio got out of the car, noticing the women and the little boy.

“I doubt they’ve ever seen anything like this in
this
neighborhood,” Swan said cynically.

“No,” Giorgio agreed. “My guess is that there will probably be a run on updated security systems after this.”

Three police cars were parked in Springer’s driveway, along with the coroner’s van. He and Swan strode up the driveway as the ME and his assistant were climbing into their vehicle. The two Sierra Madre officers climbed the porch steps, but were stopped at the front door by a burly officer in uniform.

Giorgio asked to speak to Lieutenant Pearson. A few minutes later, a thirty-ish woman with a decent figure and short, brown hair came out and shook his hand. She was dressed in a dark pantsuit and thick, rubber-heeled shoes. She wore her badge on a lanyard around her neck.

“I’m Lieutenant Pearson. I’m a bit busy here. What can I do for the Sierra Madre PD?” she said in a husky voice.

“We were coming to interview Mr. Springer,” Giorgio said to her. “It has to do with an old case we’re working on.”

She regarded Giorgio a moment and then said, “The body found up at that monastery?” When Giorgio nodded, she said, “I saw it on the news. Okay, let’s step over here.” She moved to one side to allow another officer to move past them. “Well, I doubt this guy was your perp for that one,” she said. “He was in his mid-eighties and walked with a cane.”

“The body we found is over forty years old,” Giorgio said. “So Springer
could
have been the perp back then. But we were just looking for some information from him.”

“Well, this looks premeditated,” she said, nodding toward the house. “Someone called his housekeeper early this morning, telling her that her daughter had been in an accident and was all the way over at Santa Monica Hospital. Of course, she took off, leaving Mr. Springer alone. Whoever this was broke in through the kitchen door.”

“What about an alarm system?” Giorgio asked, glancing around. “These are all pretty expensive homes.”

She nodded. “The line at the back of the house was cut.”

She had her hands on her hips and seemed to be considering something. Finally, she said, “Let’s get you checked in and I’ll take you inside.”

Giorgio and Swan put on the blue paper booties they found in a box at the front door, checked in with the duty officer and then followed Detective Pearson into the foyer of the home. A large chandelier hung from a vaulted ceiling and a big staircase curved up to the second floor along the left wall. To their right was the living room, where two forensics people were dusting for prints. The floor was littered with broken glass, books and random papers.

“Up here,” Pearson said.

She led them up the stairs to where a streak of blood ran down the wall just to the left of a bedroom door.

“He was found here, slumped against the wall,” she said, pointing to the spot where Springer had died.

Giorgio glanced around. “Weird,” he mumbled. “If he’d been shot from downstairs,” he said looking over the railing, “he would have either just crumbled or maybe fallen backwards onto the floor. But this looks like he fell back against the wall.”

“You’re thinking his killer came up here,” she said. “Me, too. He had gun powder residue on his pajama top.”

“Which meant he was shot at close range,” Swan said.

“Right,” she said, glancing at him. “Springer must have heard the commotion downstairs and come out onto the landing,” she speculated, pointing to the railing.

“But why was the thief up here?” Giorgio said, looking around.

She shrugged. “Well, either he was looking for something downstairs and didn’t find it,” Pearson began.

“Or he knew Springer and purposely came upstairs to kill him,” Giorgio finished her thought.

“But then why trash the living room?” Swan asked.

“Maybe to make it look like a break-in,” she said.

“Was anything stolen?” Giorgio inquired.

“All the big electronics are still there,” she said. “We don’t know, yet, whether anything else is missing. The housekeeper found him when she came back from the hospital and is pretty upset. We’ll get her to ID anything that might have been taken.”

“What about the rest of the rooms?” Swan asked. “Anything else disturbed?”

She shifted her eyes to him. “No. It looks like the killer came in through the kitchen and went directly to the living room. Then killed Springer and left. The ME thinks he’s been dead about six to seven hours.”

Giorgio stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Convenient,” he muttered.

“You think this has something to do with your case?” the Lieutenant asked, her eyebrows curling into a question.

“What happened to the housekeeper’s daughter?” Giorgio asked.

Pearson shrugged. “It was a ruse. Someone clearly wanted her out of the house.”

“Then this wasn’t just convenient,” Giorgio said. “It was planned. It seems someone went to great lengths to make sure Springer was alone. I doubt it was just a thief.”

The Lieutenant stared at him a moment and then said, “Did anyone know he was on your radar?”

“No,” Giorgio shook his head. “We just found out about him today. But he was well known to one of the families involved in our case. And as you just said, the case has been all over the news. Did any of the neighbors hear anything?”

“We haven’t canvassed every house yet,” Lieutenant Pearson said. “But so far the neighbors close by say they heard nothing.” She stood in thought for a moment and then straightened up. “I’ll be sure to keep you in the loop, Detectives. And I hope that if you find out anything that would be material to this investigation, you’ll give me a call.”

“Absolutely,” Giorgio said, producing his card. “Thanks.”

“Lieutenant!” a voice called from below.

A young man dressed in a dark suit and tie skipped up the stairs.

“We found these under a tree in the side yard.”

He held out a gloved hand, in which he held three cigarette butts, each bagged separately. The lieutenant leaned over, opened one of the bags and sniffed the contents.

“Smells pretty fresh,” she said. “Get them to forensics.”

She turned to Giorgio. “Looks like someone might have been waiting outside. If so, we’ll get some DNA. I’ll be in touch,” she said and the three of them returned to the foyer.

Giorgio and Swan returned to the car and slid inside.

“Well, that certainly changes things,” Swan said.

“Sure seems to,” Giorgio replied.

“Of course, if Springer was anything like what the Ice Queen said, he could have a lot of enemies,” Swan said.

“Who just happened to choose now to take him out?” Giorgio said with a raised eyebrow.

Swan shrugged.

“Timing is everything,” Giorgio said, glancing up at the big house. “And the timing on this stinks.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

As he and Swan left Pasadena and headed back towards Sierra Madre, Giorgio got a call from McCready.

“Good news,” McCready said. “Jimmy Finn isn’t dead.”

Giorgio flashed a look at Swan. “Do tell.”

“Apparently he did hang himself in prison about thirty years ago, but they cut him down in time to save him,” McCready continued. “He was on life support for a while, but finally woke up. They put him in a psychiatric ward. He was released about eleven years ago and has been living in a halfway house ever since.”

“Have an address?”

“Sure do,” McCready said.

The young cop read off the address, and Giorgio repeated it for Swan.

“Okay. Good job. We’re going to get a late lunch and head over there.”

The halfway house was an old, two-story, run-down motel in West Covina. They checked in at the office, where the Christmas decorations consisted of an aluminum tree decorated with about six glass ornaments. They asked if they could see Jimmy Finn. The manager pointed across an overgrown courtyard to an upstairs room.

As they traipsed across a weed-infested lawn, they passed a woman turning circles outside one of the doors. She was dressed in her bathrobe and talking to herself. When they found the stairs leading to the second floor, Giorgio almost bumped into a man tucked around the corner, sucking on a cigarette. Giorgio excused himself, side-stepped the man, and waved a hand in front of his face to dispel the smoke before springing for the bottom step.

They knocked on #23 and waited a moment. When Jimmy Finn answered the door, the dank aroma of grungy clothes and body odor billowed out, momentarily taking Giorgio's breath away. He showed his badge and introduced himself.

“Why…why are you here?” the little man asked.

“May we come in?” Giorgio asked. “We just need to talk with you.”

Finn was indeed a small man – not more than 5’ 4” or 5’ 5”tall and with a slight build. Like Ron Martinelli, he would be in his early sixties now, but time had been far harsher to him. His face was deeply lined, and he had several scars across one cheek. His hair was cut short and peppered gray, and he had a cauliflower ear. As he stepped back to allow them inside, he listed to one side, as if one side of his body was weak or injured.

The room was depressingly blank. It had pea green walls and a carpet that looked like it had never been shampooed. Dark stains were visible all across its surface, and it was frayed in places, showing the thin padding underneath.

The only places to sit were the sagging sofa and the chair Jimmy had taken – an old patio rocking chair. An old box TV sat on a chipped wooden table, while a three-shelf bookcase, devoid of any books, leaned against the wall.

When Giorgio introduced himself and why they were there, Finn’s dark eyes betrayed no recollection of the case.

“Mr. Finn, do you remember going to prison?” Giorgio asked, hoping to make a connection.

The little man nodded with a blank expression.

“Do you remember why?”

“They thought I killed that girl,” Finn said without emotion, starting to rock back and forth.

“Lisa Farmer. And did you?” Giorgio asked.

“Course not. I never killed nobody,” he replied simply

Finn was still rocking back and forth, staring at them, his fingers tapping the arm of the chair.

“Do you know who did?” Giorgio asked.

“How would I know?”

“May we sit down?” Giorgio asked, pointing to the worn sofa.

“Suit yerself,” he said.

This wasn’t going to be easy. Finn was clearly in a diminished capacity. Whether more diminished than when he was eighteen years old, Giorgio didn’t know.

“Mr. Finn…may I call you Jimmy?” Giorgio said, perching on the edge of the sofa.

He nodded. “Sure.”

“We believe we’ve found Lisa’s body.”

There was an immediate change in the man’s facial expression. His dark eyes suddenly lit up, and he seemed to come to attention. But he remained silent.

“Her body was found in an old well, up at the monastery in Sierra Madre,” Giorgio continued. “Would you know anything about that?”

Finn shook his head slowly, and Giorgio noticed that his eyes had begun to glisten. And then he suddenly dropped his gaze to the floor and stopped rocking.

“We’re trying to find out what really happened, Jimmy.”

Giorgio paused, letting this sink in. It may have been the first time anyone had ever expressed doubt that he had committed the murder.

The small man got up suddenly, crossed his arms over his chest and began to pace back and forth. Giorgio and Swan watched him for a moment.

“Jimmy, did you put Lisa’s belongings in your locker?” Swan asked.

He stopped pacing and looked over at Swan and shook his head.

“No, sir,” he spat in military fashion. “I didn’t know nothing about that.” Then he began

pacing again and mumbling to himself.

“Jimmy, please try to help us,” Giorgio said. “Why did they think you might have killed Lisa?”

“I liked Lisa,” he said, still pacing. “I would never hurt her. Cheryl, maybe. But not me.”

Giorgio looked at Swan. “Who’s Cheryl?”

“My girlfriend. I had a girlfriend. She didn’t like Lisa. She was jealous all the time. Her brother told me to leave Lisa alone, or he’d hurt me.”

“Whose brother?” Giorgio asked.

“Cheryl’s brother. He didn’t like her, neither.”

His pacing picked up speed, as if this memory made him nervous.

“Jimmy,” Giorgio began. “Do you remember Cheryl’s last name and where she lived?”

“Sure. I’m not stupid. I’m not
stupid
!” he almost yelled, stopping and staring at them. “People think I’m stupid. But I’m not.”

“What was Cheryl’s last name?” Swan asked quietly. “That would help a lot.”

“Lincoln. Her last name was Lincoln.”

“What was her brother’s name?” Giorgio asked.

Jimmy’s brows furrowed as he concentrated. “Leroy. He wasn’t very nice. He used to hit
his
girlfriends. He told me that’s what men do to keep their women in line. I never hit Cheryl.”

“Do you have any idea where either one of them are today?” Giorgio took the long shot.

He shook his head. “No. I went to prison.”

He said this as if it had been the end of his life. And in a way, it had been.

“Jimmy, you told the police you were home alone the night Lisa disappeared. Was Cheryl with you?”

He looked up at Giorgio, his dark eyes pinched in thought. “She was there,” he said.

“But we read the file. And according to the file, you told the police that you were alone.”

He shook his head slightly, as if clearing his head. “She was there, but then she left.”

Giorgio had to tamp down his impatience and work
with
Finn and not against him. He tried a different tactic.

“Did you hear anything, or see anything unusual after Cheryl left that night?”

Jimmy was still standing with his arms crossed, tense and anxious. Finally, he let his hands drop to his sides.

“We had a dog – Skipper. He started barking.”

“Did he bark often?” Giorgio asked.

“No. Only when people came into the yard.”

Swan and Giorgio exchanged quizzical looks.

“Into
your
yard?” Swan asked.

“Or Lisa’s. He was a little dog and would get up onto the kitchen table and look out the back window. He could see into Lisa’s yard.”

“You think he might have been barking at someone in Lisa’s yard?” Giorgio asked, trying to confirm.

“Yes. He always barked when she came home late at night.”

“Do you remember what time this was, Jimmy? It’s important.”

“Maybe midnight. I just turned off the TV.”

“And Cheryl was gone?” Swan said.

Finn seemed to have relaxed a bit and returned to his rocking chair.

“Cheryl left early. I watched TV by myself. I liked Lisa,” he repeated. “I liked her a lot.”

“Did you see anyone outside that night?” Swan asked.

“No,” he shook his head. He held his hands in his lap and was clasping them tightly. “My mother was yelling at me. She wanted Skipper to be quiet.”

“And so you went into the kitchen to get the dog?” Giorgio prompted him.

“Yeah. I grabbed him and pulled him off the table.

“Can you remember anything else about that night?” Giorgio said.

“A car,” he said right away. “There was a car behind the house.”

A virtual concert of bells went off in Giorgio’s head. He paused and looked at Swan.

“Could that have been Ron Martinelli’s car, dropping Lisa off after the prom?”

Finn began to rock back and forth again.

“No. This car was parked. Ron always dropped Lisa off at the street, and she would walk down the alley. I used to wait and watch her come in the back gate. Ron never drove down the alley.”

“This car you saw…could you tell what color it was?’ Swan asked.

His eyes squinted in thought. “Dark. Black, maybe.”

“And it was parked? And the headlights were off?” Giorgio prodded.

“Yeah. It was parked. Ron never parked back there.”

There was absolutely no animosity in his voice as he spoke about Ron, telling Giorgio that just as Lisa’s mother had said, Finn must have liked Ron Martinelli.

“Why didn’t Ron drive into the alley?” he inquired.

“Because the alley came out onto a different street.”

“And you lived in a cul-de-sac?” Giorgio said.

He looked up as if he wasn’t quite sure what that was.

“Your street ended in a circle,” Giorgio clarified.

He nodded. “Yes.”

“So Ron would drop her off, turn around and go back out the same way he’d come in?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And you don’t know who might have parked in the alley?”

He thought for a moment and then shook his head. “People weren’t supposed to park back there. It’s too narrow.”

“Jimmy,” Giorgio began. “Did the police ever ask you about any of this?”

He was rocking and rubbing the palms of his hands together. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“They said I killed her.”

“Is there anything else you can remember about that night? Anything that might help us?” Giorgio asked.

The little man stopped and stared at him.

“I wouldn’t hurt Lisa,” he said simply.