Tahoe Blue Fire (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 13)

by Todd Borg

  “Right.” I told him about the murders back home in Tahoe and the victims who had been interested in the Italian Renaissance and Professor Drago in Florence who told us about the Blue Fire of Florence rumor and how he said that if anyone could give us more information about the diamond, it would be Bruno Valenti. I explained how we’d spoken to Valenti for a bit and then, after we left, we were pursued and shot at by Valenti’s assistant.

  Inspector Speranza didn’t react to anything I said, but he took careful notes.

  “Was Valenti’s man trying to scare you? Or was he aiming to kill?” Speranza asked.

  “It seemed that he was shooting to kill. Several of the shots struck walls near my head. Stone chips flew. One stung me here.” I reached up and touched my cheek.

  Speranza nodded. “You have some dried blood. How was it that you escaped him?”

  “We ran through multiple passages while he chased us on his motor scooter. When he followed us up to the church, I was able to tip one of the sculptures in front of him, which made him fall over the wall and slide down the slope. I climbed down to him. He was alive but unconscious.”

  The policeman turned to the other cops who’d come with him. He sent three of them out to find the man who rode the scooter. The fourth man stood near Valenti’s body, his back to the window wall, waiting as if to guard Speranza should anyone else come into the room.

  After the three men left, Speranza turned back to me. “You’re pursuing the famous rumored diamond from the era of the Medicis. You came all the way from America to follow a rumor.” He didn’t sound scornful so much as disappointed that Americans could be so extravagant in chasing a fictional treasure.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Did Mr. Valenti give you useful information?”

  “He wasn’t eager to be helpful. But I think he didn’t want to seem too resistant because then we might think that he was hiding something significant. At first, he told us that he knew nothing about the diamond. So we left. Then his man chased us and shot at us. I took that as an indication that Valenti did, in fact, have information about the diamond. But after his man crashed on the scooter and we came back to talk, Valenti seemed quite stressed, and then he died.” My statement was marginally correct. I worried that if I were more forthcoming, it would serve no purpose other than delaying us in Italy.

  “Tell me again the series of events when Valenti’s man chased you. How was it that you came back and let yourself into this house?”

  I recounted what happened, step by step. Speranza consulted his notes from the first time I’d told the story. He was no doubt looking for any inconsistencies in my reporting. He was especially interested in our movements when we got back into the house.

  Again, I told the truth albeit with a different emphasis than I might use in a future retelling.

  “Bruno Valenti appeared to be bedridden,” I said, “so when the young man who’d shot at us crashed and got knocked out, I took his keys so I could let us back into the house and inform Valenti. I assumed, of course, that Valenti had sent him on his mission to kill us.”

  “You might have gotten killed. Valenti could have had a gun under his leg. He may still.” The ispettore turned and looked at Valenti’s body.

  “Yes, I was aware of that. I came up close to him before I woke him just so I could grab his arm if he reached for a weapon. But he didn’t.”

  “Was he dead?”

  “No. He was asleep. I said his name, and he woke up. He was startled to see me.”

  “Because he thought that you’d be dead.” The policeman made it a statement.

  “Probably.”

  “What happened then?”

  “He clenched his hands and body, then took a pill and said that this was his fifth heart attack and that the doctor had told him that if he had another heart attack, it would kill him. Valenti said he wanted to die at his home. Which he then did. He made a long exhalation and went still.”

  Speranza made some more notes. He paused. “You are certain that the man who shot at you worked for Valenti?”

  “Yes. He was the one who originally let us in to speak with Mr. Valenti. His key unlocked the back door.”

  “Did you have friction with the young man? Or do you think Valenti told him to kill you, and he was merely following orders?”

  “I have no evidence either way. We had no friction. The man said nothing, and we overheard nothing.”

  Speranza nodded.

  As a general principle, and also because of my background in law enforcement, I believe in telling the whole truth. But I’m willing to modify that principle under the condition that withholding information does not jeopardize justice and that it increases the safety of innocent victims.

  In this case, the perpetrator was dead. So I decided not to mention Frank Sinatra. I knew that if Valenti’s statement about stealing the diamond and delivering it to Sinatra’s mother was made public, it would get back to the States and to Tahoe and create a huge media storm. The attention would likely cause the murderer in Tahoe to speed his plan and kill more people before we could catch him.

  Speranza made some more notes. “Let me be sure I understand,” he said slowly. “You came to Italy not knowing what BFF referred to. And even though Professor Drago told you the story about the Blue Fire, you’ve still found no actual evidence for this diamond.”

  “Correct,” I said. I didn’t feel bad saying it because, despite Valenti’s story, I still had no evidence. Just a story from a convicted mobster who may have been enamored with the idea of a connection between him and Sinatra. And with the mobster aware of his impending death, what would keep him from spinning that story to grander levels?

  Speranza looked up from his notebook. “Do you think you’ve come closer to understanding your killer’s motive?”

  “I don’t know. Now that I know that BFF refers to a diamond, real or fictional, my best guess is that the killer believes the diamond exists and he thinks that other people he knows can find it. He may be killing those other people so that, if and when he finds the Blue Fire, he can keep it for himself.”

  Speranza nodded, his skepticism obvious.

  The front door opened. One cop came in, stepped aside, and held the door for the other two. They carried the young man, one cop holding his shoulders, and the other cop holding his feet. From the posture and the skin coloring, it appeared that the young man was dead.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  They set the body on the floor.

  “He was dead when you found him?” Speranza said to his colleagues in English.

  They spoke back in Italian. I got the sense that the man had died as they carried him back to the house.

  Speranza took more notes. One of the cops handed Speranza the young man’s wallet. Speranza looked at the ID. They all spoke in Italian. They were animated. It was obvious that the young man’s identity was significant. Eventually, Speranza spoke to us.

  “This man is Mario Montana, someone we’ve been looking for. Informants associate him with Tony Scozzari. They are both reputed to be Cosa Nostra soldiers. They are subjects of interest in two murder cases in Palermo, Sicily. Now we have Montana, a very good thing. But we still need to find Scozzari. We heard from an informant that Scozzari had gone to the states and that Montana had come up here to Tuscany. But he was never spotted. Finding him here, working for Valenti, is an important event. It is unfortunate that he is dead. He could have given us useful information.”

  “If he broke his code of silence,” I said.

  Without pause, Speranza said, “We have techniques.” He made a quick glance toward Street. Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe not.

  “I’ve never heard of the names Scozzari or Montana in Tahoe.” I turned to Street. “Have you?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  Speranza said, “You’ve mentioned Tahoe. Remind me how it is that I’ve heard that name.

  “Lake Tahoe is a large mountain lake on the border of California and N
evada,” I said. “It’s a very popular tourist area. The lake is surrounded by mountains with a dozen ski resorts. There’s lots of boating, hiking, skiing.”

  Speranza nodded.

  “Scozzari is especially notable to us because the man we believe to be his grandfather was a boss in the Los Angeles crime family in the fifties. We don’t know if Scozzari originally came from America. Or perhaps his father did and the young man was born here. Both Antonio Scozzari and Mario Montana are like apparitions, men made of smoke, of mirrors. More idea than substance.”

  “Similar to how you think of the Blue Fire of Florence,” I said.

  Speranza looked at me with hard eyes. “Exactly. And now that we’ve found Montana, it starts to make Scozzari seem more real as well.”

  “Do you have a photograph or description of Scozzari?”

  “No photograph. Two descriptions from informants contradict each other so much, we thought maybe Scozzari was having people impersonate him. Tall, short, brown hair, blond hair, brown eyes, blue eyes, heavy, skinny, handsome, ugly, rough skin, smooth skin. Either that or he is very good at makeup.

  One of the other policemen approached. He handed a piece of paper to Speranza and spoke to him in Italian.

  After a moment, Speranza turned to us. “My men have searched Montana’s room. The only thing they found that was somewhat unusual was this paper, tucked into a Bible.” He handed it to me.

  It had handwriting that said ‘TahoeBlueFire@gmail.com.’

  I handed it to Street. “I found this same email address written on Darla Ali’s desk.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” she said, handing it back to Speranza.

  “Who is Darla Ali?” he asked.

  “One of the murder victims in Tahoe.”

  He made a slow nod. “This certainly suggests that Montana was in contact with someone who is in Tahoe or knows Tahoe. Could the address belong to Darla Ali?”

  “I couldn’t find out. If so, she probably was in contact with Montana. If not, she was probably in contact with the same person who Montana communicated with. Either way, this is a connection between Darla and Montana.”

  Speranza said, “Normally, I would email an inquiry to this address and see if we get a response. But I’m thinking this is something you might want to pursue.” He looked over at Montana’s body. “I have a closed case. You don’t. I’m assuming you would be kind enough to let me know if you learn anything.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “This paper needs to go in the case file. Do you need me to write down the email address?”

  “No, thanks. I can remember TahoeBlueFire at gmail.com.”

  Speranza said, “Is there any chance you can file a request with Google to learn the identity of the account holder?”

  “From what I’ve heard, no,” I said. “They may cooperate with requests from the U.S. National Security Agency, but not with private investigators.”

  Speranza looked over at Street. “I would like you both to come with me outside and show me where you ran and where Montana was when he shot at you.”

  We nodded. “Of course.”

  Speranza made a call, speaking in Italian. Then he spoke to two of his men. I gathered that he wanted them to stay at Valenti’s house, maybe to wait for the medical examiner. He gestured for Street and me and the other two cops to come outside.

  We spent the next two hours retracing our steps as best as we remembered. We showed him the locations where we thought we’d been shot at and where Mario Montana had been when he fired. Speranza took more notes.

  At one point, a short, elderly woman came out of a small doorway. She spoke rapid words to Speranza and the other cops. Then she pointed at us. Speranza spoke back. After several exchanges, Speranza said, “Grazie,” and the woman went back inside.

  Speranza turned to us. “The woman says that she saw you two running up this passage, and a moment later she saw a young man come after you on a motorcycle. He had a gun and was firing at you. Just as you suggested, she said she was afraid to tell us until she saw my men carrying the man’s body. So your story has been corroborated,” he said.

  I nodded.

  We continued on our trek. When we got to the medieval church where the damaged scooter lay on its side near the bronze sculpture, I motioned for Speranza to come along, and I climbed down the embankment to show him where Montana had slid and where I’d found him. Speranza continued past me, angling sideways. Ten yards down, he broke a stick from a bush, bent down, and pulled a pistol out of the brush, using his stick to lift the gun by its trigger guard. He held it up. It was medium in size and had a three-inch-long silencer attached to the barrel.

  “Looks like a Beretta PX-Four Storm,” I said. “A reliable Italian semi-auto, but not especially accurate at a distance. Especially with a silencer.”

  “You know your weapons,” Speranza said. “It is similar to our Ninety-two.” He patted his own holstered sidearm. He walked up the slope toward me. Using a handkerchief, he pushed the magazine release button on the Storm and looked at the ammo. “Forty-five ACP.”

  “I’m glad he missed us,” I said.

  “What do you carry in the States? Something similar?”

  “I don’t carry.”

  “An ex-cop? I don’t understand.”

  “Personal preference,” I said.

  He looked at me for a moment. “You had a bad experience.”

  “Yes.”

  Speranza let it drop, which I appreciated.

  We climbed back up to the church where we all sat on the short stone wall and Speranza asked Street and me more questions about our movements and Montana’s pursuit. He focused on Street’s perspective of events. He also wrote down our passport numbers and our contact information.

  One of the cops we’d left at Valenti’s house approached with a man in dress clothes. We heard Italian and the word medico several times.

  Speranza spoke to the medico at length, then nodded and said grazie. They left and Speranza turned to us. “The doctor said that his preliminary examination suggests that Valenti died of natural causes and Montana died of accidental causes, Valenti possibly by myocardial infarction and Montana probably by traumatic brain injury.”

  I nodded.

  “I don’t mind saying that I’m not sorry these men died,” Speranza said. He closed his notebook. “I believe I have enough information. You may go.”

  “Will you want to see us again?” I said.

  “I have what I need. If Montana and Valenti were still alive, we’d want you to provide testimony. But with them both dead, we have little need for your continued involvement. If something comes up, I know how to contact you. It is okay with me if you go home.”

  “Thank you. I think our business in Tuscany is done,” I said.

  As he shook my hand, he said, “I wish you luck catching your murderer.” Then he turned to Street and took her hand in both of his. “It has been a pleasure to speak with you, and if you have any unattached sisters, please tell them I give free, personal tours of Tuscany.”

  Street smiled at him, the tight hard smile of someone who’s trying to be polite despite their pain, and we left to walk back down the steep pathways to our little Fiat.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Later that afternoon, when we got back into our Florence hotel room, Street began trembling. I sat her down with me on the bed and held her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice wavering and tears building up and spilling over her lower eyelids. “I can pull maggots out of corpses, but having someone trying to kill us is different.”

  I rubbed her shoulders.

  “I can’t get those gunshots out of my mind. The flashes coming out of that gun barrel. Every little noise makes me flinch.” She was crying now, tear tracks down to her chin.

  “It’s upsetting, sweetheart. When someone shoots at you, it shakes you deep.” I leaned toward her and tucked her head under my chin and pulled her up against me.

  “Do y
ou think Bruno Valenti was telling the truth?” Street asked, her voice thick.

  “About what?”

  “That he didn’t know what you meant when you said he’d made a mistake sending Montana after us.” Street’s nose was running.

  “I don’t know. I assumed he was just protesting. But I suppose it’s possible he didn’t know and that Montana acted by himself. Montana may have been working for Valenti so that he could find out about the Blue Fire Diamond. Maybe he’s been feeding information about the Blue Fire Diamond to Scozzari back in Tahoe. Or maybe he was working with Darla. Montana may have already known I was working on the case in Tahoe. So when I showed up at his door, he decided to take me out of the way.”

  “I don’t like it,” Street said.

  We sat in silence for 15 minutes, both of us probably thinking things we didn’t want to put into words. The only sound was city traffic on the street below us and the occasional click of shoes in the hallway outside our door.

  “Do you think you’re up to eating some dinner?” I finally said.

  Street wiped her face. “Yes. But I must look like a Halloween mask or something.”

  “You look upset is all. Everybody knows what upset is. And anyway, you’re still beautiful.”

  “You lie,” Street said, “but I love you for your kindness.”

  We headed out into the bustling medieval city and found an elegant but light dinner and with it, a bottle of Chianti Classico.

  The next day, we caught the late-morning flight out of Florence, repeating our previous trip in reverse. The Alps were covered in clouds, so we couldn’t see the spectacular peaks and glaciers. Frankfurt was socked in with rain and looked no more interesting than Newark. Our second flight followed the sun as we headed northwest up toward Greenland, but below us was only clouds. After another eleven hours nonstop, we landed at SFO in what appeared to be solid fog. Eager to get back to Tahoe sunshine, we boarded the shuttle flight to Reno only to find that the Sierra was having a spring snow storm intense enough to have pushed over the Carson Range on the east side of the Tahoe Basin and down into the Nevada valleys.