by Lynn Bohart
“May we hold onto this temporarily? I’ll see that you get it back.”
“If you must,” she said, stiffly.
“So, Ron left to go pick up Lisa. What did you do that evening?” he continued.
“My husband was out of town. As I recall, I had dinner and watched some TV. I was getting ready for bed when Ron came home,” she said, placing the photo album on the side table.
“So you did hear him come in?”
Those blue eyes darted away, and she busied herself reaching for her lemonade again. She took a drink before continuing. Giorgio loved watching people attempt to cover their lies.
“I’m not sure whether I heard him come in,” she said with hesitation. “I think perhaps that I was already in bed.”
“The police report says that you originally said you were sound asleep by ten o’clock. Ron says he didn’t get home until after midnight.”
“I misspoke just now, Detective,” she snapped. “After all, it’s been over forty years. You can’t expect me to remember every little detail.”
She lifted her chin as if to emphasize her point.
“I’m not accusing you of anything. Your husband also came home unexpectedly that night, is that right?”
Her expression tightened. “Yes. Why is that important?”
“Where had he been?” he pressed her.
Her demeanor became guarded. “Why does it matter?”
“It might not,” he said. “But it’s good to have all the information.”
She waited a moment, and then said, “He’d been on a ten-day fishing trip. But I think he said the fish weren’t biting.”
“I see. And so what did you do the next day?”
She took a deep breath, as if it took every ounce of her patience to put up with this intrusion.
“We went to early church service and then went out to breakfast.”
“Did Ron mention anything about the night before?”
She was clasping her hands in her lap, and he noticed the long, strong fingers of her left hand, along with her expensive wedding band set.
“I believe I asked him if he had had a good time,” she said.
“And?” Giorgio prodded her.
“He said yes.”
“Did he say what they did after the dance?”
“I beg your pardon,” she snapped, her eyebrows lifting.
Giorgio realized she thought he was referring to any intimacy between the couple, but he kept quiet to let things fall where they may. She seemed to make a decision.
“Ron didn’t discuss his girlfriends with us,” she said.
“Where were you when you heard about her disappearance?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she exclaimed, throwing a hand out to the side. “How should I remember that?”
“Was it Ron who told you that she’d gone missing, or your husband? Or perhaps you didn’t know until the police showed up on your doorstep.”
He imagined that the police had never showed up on their doorstep. Most likely Sierra Madre’s most influential couple had been invited to come down to the station.
“Really, Detective. This all seems superfluous. After all, this case was closed decades ago. You’re just wasting your time – and mine,” she said with emphasis.
“Mrs. Martinelli, your son was the primary suspect for a time. By his own account, he didn’t have anyone to back up his story that he dropped Lisa off at home.”
She stiffened. “His story? My son had nothing to do with her death,” she almost spit. “Don’t you dare try to sully his name.”
“I have no such intention,” he replied calmly. “But I need to know what you know. Was there anything about his behavior that raised your suspicions? Did he say or do anything out of the ordinary?”
“No,” she said with a raised voice. “I told you. My son didn’t do anything wrong.”
“What about his friends? Had any of them ever dated Lisa? Would they have been jealous of Ron?”
“Everyone was jealous of Ron,” she spat. “The kids in his class. The rest of the football team. Even the girls. But he never saw it. He coddled his friends. Thought they all had his best interests at heart. But they didn’t. Especially that Joshua Springer, who tried to get him expelled.”
“Expelled? What for?”
Giorgio’s interested was piqued. The Ice Queen was wound up. All Giorgio had to do was let her go.
“Joshua Springer was the second string quarterback. He barely got to play during his junior year and desperately wanted Ron’s position. So he talked a friend into getting Ron to give him some answers on a test at the beginning of the senior year. And then someone told the teacher and Ron was called into the principal’s office and suspended for three days.”
“How do you know Ron was set up?” Swan asked.
“Because Joshua’s girlfriend eventually told him that it was Joshua that set him up and then snitched on him. Fortunately, the school couldn’t afford to lose Ron on the team, so he was allowed to play.”
“Do you know if the police ever talked with this Joshua Springer?” Swan asked.
She snorted. “I have no idea. They arrested Jimmy Finn and things quieted down. That’s all I cared about,” she said. “It’s time to let that girl rest in peace, Detective.” She pushed a button and began to back the wheelchair towards the hallway. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
Giorgio glanced over at Swan and they both stood up.
“Do you happen to know if Joshua Springer still lives in the area?” Giorgio asked.
“Last I heard he drank himself to death,” she spat. “Good riddance, I say. But his horrid father is still around.”
“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 breakin,” 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, rundown 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, sidestepped 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.