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

by Lynn Bohart

  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 an
d 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.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The kid drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He was watching the entrance to the nursing home in North Seattle, thinking about how to approach his task. His heart was racing, and his eyes flitted back and forth to take in his surroundings, as he toyed with a blond wisp of hair that draped down his cheek. There could be no mistakes. There were people counting on him, and this was the first time he’d been trusted with a solo operation. The trouble was, he didn’t have a plan.

  He was parked across the street, studying the building. There was a parking lot to one side of the building, at the end of a circular drive. A big dumpster sat against the building about halfway back in the lot. Out front, there was a metal bench to one side of the main entrance. The bench was set back from a concrete walkway that wrapped around the building and extended all the way to the parking lot.

  As his gaze followed the walkway, a plan finally began to form in his mind, and he fingered the loaded syringe in his pocket. The day was unseasonably warm and clear for Seattle — something he thought could work in his favor. Doing the job inside the building was a big risk. Too many people. Too many eyes. But if he could get the old man outside, well that was a different matter. He knew some basic information about the guy. He had been a big drinker and a chain smoker for most of his life. It’s why he was in the nursing home now and wasn’t expected to live much longer.

  The kid reached for the open pack of cigarettes on the dashboard and stuffed them into his pocket – right next to the wrinkled photograph he’d grabbed out of a family picture album the day before.

  He was ready.

  He started the engine and pulled away from the curb. He turned down the short side street that ran along the west side of the building. The old van bounced over a speed bump and into the parking lot. He pulled into a space near the street and turned off the engine.

  The door creaked when he opened it and groaned when he slammed it shut. With quick steps, he traversed the walkway and entered the building through the automatic front door.

  A young woman sat behind a half-moon desk in the middle of the lobby. She was staring at a computer screen. Two elderly men with canes stood chatting off to one side, and a middle-aged couple to his left were hugging each other.

  He adjusted the fake glasses he’d bought at a drug store and approached the desk.

  “Excuse me,” he said pleasantly.

  The young woman looked up. She had big brown eyes and apple cheeks.

  “Yes?” she said. “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see my great uncle,” he said. The initial lie rolled off his tongue with ease, giving him confidence to continue. “Carson Montgomery?”

  Her eyes shifted to the computer screen, and she punched in something on the keyboard.

  “Ah, let me see. Just a moment,” she murmured. “Here we are. Yes, Mr. Montgomery. He just had lunch, so he’s back in his room.” Her gaze rested on him now. “Is he expecting you?”

  “Um, no,” he said, shifting uncomfortably. “I haven’t seen him since I was a little boy. I’m just passing through Seattle and wanted to say hello.”

  “May I see some ID?”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.

  “Here,” he said, holding up a driver’s license. It wasn’t actually him, but close enough he thought she wouldn’t notice. But just in case, at the same time, he grabbed the picture he’d been carrying and drew it out. “But this might help more,” he said, immediately switching her attention to the faded photograph. “This is a picture of me and my uncle when I was young.”

  She took the picture and stared at it.

  “I was only six. He used to take me to the beach.” The kid smiled at the false memory as if it were just yesterday. “We had some great times.”

  She looked at the picture of Montgomery and his own son, and then up at the young man in front of her.

  “Anyway, I’m only passing through, so this is my one chance to see him before…” he stopped and dropped his chin as if it pained him to go on. “I know he’s not well.”

  He looked at her with a plaintive expression. She melted.

  “Okay,” she said, handing the photo back. “Why don’t you sign in, right there,” she said, pointing to a registration book.

  He reached out and grabbed a pen and scribbled the phony name that was on the driver’s license in the space provided.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled. “This means a lot.”

  The girl gave him a broad smile. “No problem. Your uncle is in room 32.” She turned and pointed behind her. “Just take that hallway to your left. It’s about halfway down. He has a roommate who usually naps after lunch, so you’ll need to be quiet. Mr. Montgomery is in the second bed.”

  A nervous jolt rippled across the young man’s chest. Dammit! A roommate. He hadn’t thought of that.

  “Sure, no problem,” he purred. “Thanks again.”

  He tapped his fingers twice on the registration book and then skirted the counter, heading for the hallway. He passed a rec room on his left, where a number of people played cards or board games. Sitting just outside the door was an empty wheelchair. He glanced around. No one was watching, so he grabbed the handles and spun the chair around in front of him and headed into the hallway.

  He left the wheelchair in the hall and pushed open the door to #32. A wizened old man with a tuft of white hair dozed in the first bed, snoring softly. The curtain was pulled halfway around the foot of his bed.

  The kid grabbed the edge of the thin drape and slid it the rest of the way around. The curtain rings bounced along the metal rod until it completely blocked the old man from view.

  Then, the kid stepped past the first bed and found an old man with thick gray hair propped up in the second bed, watching the TV. He looked up with a curious expression.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  The boy came around to the far side of the bed.

  “I’m Freddie’s boy.” He smiled as he moved closer to the head of the bed, and then leaned in with a whisper. “Shhh, I don’t want to wake your roommate,” he said in a low voice. “Here, take a look at this.” He pulled out the photo again. “That’s you and your son at the beach,” he whispered. “Remember? You visited my uncle’s place down in San Diego one year.”

  “So you’re Freddie’s boy?” the old man said, looking up at him. “So Freddie is all grown up. How is your dad? I haven’t seen Freddie since he was in high school.” As soon as the old man said it, he seemed to grow cautious. “Why are you here?” he said.

  “My dad and I are just passing through town and wanted to say hello.”

  “Where is he?” the old man asked, looking over the kid’s shoulder for the boy he once knew.

  “He’s having a cigarette outside.”

  “A cigarette?” Montgomery said, his eyes lighting up. “Man, I wish I could join him.”

  “Well, why don’t we go outside? The sun is out and it’s pretty warm out there.”

  The old man smiled. “A smoke?”

  “Sure. No one needs to know,” the boy said, conspiratorially. “We could go sit on that bench out front. Besides,” the kid said, patting his coat pocket. “I might have a pint of something here to take the edge off.” He gave the old man a Cheshire cat smile.

  A slow smile spread across the old man’s face. “Okay. You got some wheels for your dad’s old friend?”

  “Be right back.
”

  The kid hurried to the hallway and grabbed the wheelchair. He took it back and helped the old man out of bed and into the chair, wrapping a blanket around him. He was about to push the chair forward, when the door opened and someone stepped inside the curtain next to them.

  “Hi, Mr. Cornwall. It’s time for your sponge bath,” a female voice said.

  Carson Montgomery chuckled. “Well, that’ll keep ‘ole Cornwall busy. Let’s get this buggy rollin’.”

  They rolled past the first bed. The kid could see the backside of the nurse as she spoke to the old man named Cornwall.

  The kid quickly opened the door and hurried into the hallway. As they passed the front desk, the young woman with apple cheeks looked up. She was about to say something when the kid shot her a big smile.

  “Just goin’ outside for some fresh air.”

  Mr. Montgomery gave her a casual wave over his shoulder, and they trucked right out the front door.

  The kid didn’t stop at the bench that sat in front of the building, but kept going around the corner and toward the back parking lot.

  “Where’s your dad?” the old man asked.

  “He must be at the car. He’ll be really glad to see you. Here take one of these,” he said, tossing his carton of cigarettes into the old man’s lap.

  They passed a big bank of tinted windows, and rolled into the parking lot. The kid passed right by the van and kept going until he was on the other side of the dumpster.

  With a quick rotation of his head, he checked the parking lot to make sure there were no prying eyes. Then he whirled around and backed up to the wall, extracting the syringe from his pocket in one swift movement.

  “Hey, what the heck are you doin’?” the old man demanded, dropping the unlit cigarette. “What’s going on? Where’s your dad?”

  “Still in California, old man.”

  And with that, the kid used his left hand to cover the old man’s mouth and jabbed the syringe into the leathery folds of Carson Montgomery’s neck, depressing the plunger to deliver the angel of death.