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

by Lynn Bohart

  He was about to chalk it up to the tree and go back to bed, when something almost out-of-sight at the corner of the garage made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Tucked under the oak tree was the dim image of Christian Maynard, shimmering in the dark like a glow bug.

  Giorgio swallowed a ball of spit, and his heart kick-started with a thump.

  Now what? There had to be a reason the boy was here again. Each time Christian had appeared in the past, he was trying to convey some information. From the first time the boy had unlatched the window on the second floor of the monastery, to the night in the graveyard when he showed Giorgio where to find a time capsule that would lead them to the answer they were looking for, the boy had purposely provided clues.

  Giorgio turned to check on Angie, the adrenalin thrumming through his veins. She seemed to be slumbering peacefully, so he quickly slipped into his pants, threw on a shirt and grabbed his shoes. He was just about to exit into the hallway when Angie groaned.

  “What’s wrong, Joe?” she murmured.

  She was just a pile of blankets in the dark. He stopped.

  “Grosvenor needs to go out. I won’t be long.”

  “Okay,” she mumbled again. “Put a jacket on. It’s cold out.”

  “Okay,” he whispered with a brief smile.

  He snapped his fingers at the dog, and Grosvenor looked up from his pillow. He hefted himself up and lumbered over, head down, ears dragging. Giorgio took him by the collar and pulled him into the hallway and closed the door.

  “C’mon, boy. You have to go out. You just didn’t know it.”

  They descended the stairs and Giorgio grabbed the dog’s leash off the coat rack that hung by the front door. He clipped on the leash, put on his leather jacket and unlocked the front door.

  The night was chilly and there was a thin fog hanging in the air. The house across the street still had their Christmas lights on, but their blow-up Santa and Snowman were mere puddles of color on the lawn.

  Giorgio followed the walkway back to the garage. Christian had been standing in between the tree and the garage. The space was empty now.

  Damn!

  Giorgio moved over to allow Grosvenor to water the grass. When the dog finished, Giorgio looked around, wondering where the boy had gone.

  He was startled to see the boy’s hazy image about three-quarters of the way down the driveway. Giorgio stuck his left hand into his coat pocket, absentmindedly fingering the brass button he’d picked up in the theater parking lot the night Mallery Olson had died. He’d carried it with him all this time.

  “What do you want?” he said to the boy in a hoarse whisper.

  The boy didn’t answer. He never did. Perhaps he couldn’t. Giorgio didn’t really know how all of this worked. But the boy was gesturing now with his right arm, as if he wanted Giorgio to follow him. Then his image faded – evaporating into thin air.

  “Damn,” Giorgio mumbled.

  He hurried to the sidewalk with Grosvenor in tow, glancing from left to right, looking for the boy.

  Shit, there he was at the corner of Grandview and Sunnyside. What the heck?

  There were no cars or pedestrians out, so Giorgio relaxed and turned south, wondering where Christian was taking him. He crossed to the south side of Grandview and then followed the boy east.

  The sidewalk was lined with trees and bushes, so he allowed Grosvenor to stop every so often to mark his territory. The boy kept appearing at each street corner, drawing Giorgio farther and farther east.

  By the time they’d gone four long blocks, Christian disappeared altogether. Giorgio was left standing under a street lamp, looking around as if his date had left him at a party. A car rumbled by, making him look down at Grosvenor, as if he were waiting for the dog to finish something.

  When he glanced up, he happened to read the street sign.

  A full blown chill snaked its way down his back and he shivered.

  He was standing on the corner of Lima Street and Grandview. The Pinney House, where Ron Martinelli’s family had lived at the time Lisa Farmer went missing, was only a half a block away.

  Giorgio turned south on Lima, walking past small, tidy homes and low-hanging trees. The line of trees ended at the edge of a big property with a broad front lawn.

  The Pinney House was set far back from the street on about a half an acre of land, sitting in elegant contrast to all the surrounding homes. The old home was a landmark in the area. Giorgio had looked up its history. It was a three-story, huge Victorian built as a hotel in the late 1880s, complete with a turret and a veranda that ran the entire width of the building. Over its one-hundred-plus-year history, it had served as a sanatorium and a boarding house. There had also been many individual owners, one of whom was the Martinelli family back in 1967. Currently, it was a bed and breakfast.

  The dramatic Queen Anne, with its oriel tower and gingerbread cutouts, was all decked out for the holidays. Garlands were draped along the white picket fence. Multi-colored light strands lined the porch railing and a large wreath hung on the front door. Several of the bushes in front of the porch were also covered in a spray of colored lights.

  Giorgio viewed the grand old building with suspicion as it sat quietly and eerily in the surrounding dark. Why had the ghost of Christian Maynard brought him here?

  He approached the white picket fence and glanced around again, wondering if the boy would make himself known. And then, there he was, standing right on the front porch.

  Giorgio flinched inwardly. Now what the hell was he supposed to do?

  The rumbling of occasional cars up on Grandview sounded distant and forlorn. He glanced around and then cautiously climbed the few steps to the curved walkway and approached the elegant staircase that led to the building’s front door. He stopped there.

  He couldn’t go any farther. It was the middle of the night. And if he was caught on the grounds, he could be charged with trespassing. He glanced around again, unsure of what to do.

  The boy’s image flickered in the low light and then faded. Giorgio waited at the bottom of the steps for the boy to return.

  A minute went by. Then two.

  No Christian Maynard.

  Giorgio had been deserted.

  His common sense finally got the better of him, and he retreated to the curb.

  When he took a final look at the grand old Victorian, he couldn’t help but wonder why the boy had led him there in the first place.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was only a few hours later that Giorgio beat Swan into the office, his need to solve this case overriding his need for sleep. The meeting with the janitor’s son and the trip to the Pinney House had energized him.

  Jimmy Finn’s girlfriend remained a loose end that Giorgio needed to tie up. He resumed the search to find current addresses for either Cheryl Lincoln or her brother, Leroy. The fact that Cheryl might have married would make the search more difficult, but he found seven Leroy Lincolns in the San Gabriel Valley. He gave McCready the task of trying to figure out if any of them had a sister named Cheryl.

  Giorgio met with the captain as soon as he arrived, and asked about the possibility of taking a trip to Seattle to interview Carson Montgomery.

  Captain Alvarez was a short man in his fifties, with salt and pepper hair slicked back on both sides. He’d served for many years with the Los Angeles PD, coming to Sierra Madre, like Giorgio, in search of a slower pace.

  “Can I speak to you?” Giorgio asked, entering the office.

  “Of course, Joe,” the Captain said. “What’s new on the Lisa Farmer case?”

  “That’s what I’d like to talk about. I got a phone call last night to meet with a man who says his father was the janitor who conducted the locker search at the high school back in 1967.”

  Captain Alvarez sat back in his chair, his hands in his lap. “So?”

  “This guy was only ten years old at the time, but he says he heard his father on the phone the night before the locker search.”<
br />
  The captain’s dark eyes flashed momentarily in anticipation.

  Giorgio continued. “His father got a call from someone who asked him to do something he didn’t want to do – something his dad said he could get fired for, maybe even go to jail.”

  “And the next day, there was the locker search in which the missing girl’s underwear turned up,” the captain said.

  “Right. The son says his family was never the same. His dad started drinking and his parents split up. And when he asked his old man about it once, he was told to never mention it again. Eventually his dad moved to the Seattle area. He’s up there now in a nursing home.”

  “And you want to fly up and talk to him?” Captain Alvarez said.

  “We don’t have a connection yet with this guy and anyone associated with Lisa Farmer’s disappearance. I need to know who called him that night and what they asked him to do,” Giorgio replied.

  The captain’s hands were clasped in his lap, and one thumb was pressing against the other. Finally, he said, “You realize that someone has already served time for this crime?”

  “Yes, sir. But I think it may have been the wrong person. You heard that Jimmy Finn is alive, didn’t you? We interviewed him yesterday, and he just doesn’t fit the profile. He’s docile. He doesn’t even seem angry that he was sent to prison. Then there’s Alex Springer’s death. I don’t know yet how he’s connected, other than he worked for the Martinellis, but it’s just too coincidental. And I don’t…”

  “Believe in coincidences,” the Captain finished his thought, nodding. “I know.” The captain studied Giorgio for a moment. “You feel good about this one, Joe? Because it’s out of our jurisdiction, and I’ll have to justify the expense.”

  Giorgio nodded. “I have a feeling captain.”

  The captain considered his comment. “Okay. Go. But for now, keep the media off this.”

  Giorgio nodded. “Thanks.”

  Giorgio found the number for the Cascade Care Facility in North Seattle and called to explain a visit that afternoon. He spoke to the manager, Joann Felton, but her response stopped him cold.

  “I’m so sorry, Detective,” she said. “But Mr. Montgomery died yesterday.”

  “What do you mean?” Giorgio demanded, his heart rate increasing. “How?”

  “Well, he had congestive heart failure, so I assume it was his heart.”

  Giorgio paused, his thoughts spinning. Another convenient death.

  “You assume?!” he said.

  “Well, yes. He was under a doctor’s care and his prognosis wasn’t good. So, even though he went a little sooner than we thought, his death wasn’t unexpected.”

  Giorgio was about to say thanks and hang up, when he thought of something.

  “Did anyone come to visit him yesterday?”

  She paused. “Well…um…I’m not sure that’s information I should give out.”

  “Mrs. Felton, let me be clear,” Giorgio said, keeping his anger in check. “I was coming to interview him as part of a murder investigation. So it’s important I know if someone came to visit him yesterday.”

  She sputtered on the other end of the phone. “Um…yes. A young man came to see him. In fact, that’s the only thing out of the ordinary about all of this.”

  The hairs on the back of Giorgio’s neck came to attention. “What do you mean, out of the ordinary?”

  “The young man took Mr. Montgomery out for some fresh air, but never brought him back. We didn’t find him for over an hour.”

  “Where the hell was he?”

  “He…uh…was in a wheelchair out in the parking lot. That’s why we had trouble finding him. I think he must have died while the young man had him outside, and the boy probably panicked and took off. He’s not in any kind of trouble, you know. Our patients come to us at the end of their lives, but it can be frightening when it happens. He might have thought it was his fault.”

  “Were the police called?” Giorgio interrupted her.

  “Well, no. We didn’t think there was any reason. As I said, he had heart trouble. I…uh…I hope we didn’t make a mistake.”

  “I’m on my way up there,” Giorgio snapped. “I’ll need to speak to your staff.”

  “Of course. We’ll be happy to speak to you, but… I don’t understand. Mr. Montgomery was very ill. I’m sure his heart just gave out…”

  “Mrs. Felton, I’ll be on the first plane up there, and I’m calling the Seattle police right now. You can probably expect a visit from them as well.”

  He hung up and found the number for the Seattle Police Department. When he explained why he was calling, he was immediately put in touch with a Detective Abrams. Giorgio explained the situation.

  “Shit,” Abrams said with a sigh after hearing the story. “Do you know where the hell they took the old guy?”

  “No. Probably to a funeral home,” Giorgio replied. “Anyway, I’ll be on the first flight I can get.”

  “Okay, we’ll track him down and get him to the Coroner’s Office. Grab a cab to the downtown station. I’ll be looking for you.”

  ÷

  Giorgio’s flight arrived at SeaTac airport at 12:35 p.m. The sky was a slate gray, although there was no rain in the forecast. He’d taken an umbrella anyway. He actually had an uncle who lived in the Seattle area and had visited several times. Most of the locals didn’t carry umbrellas, but Giorgio didn’t like to get wet.

  He’d flown on an open ticket, hoping to return that evening. Traveling light with only a briefcase and his weapon, he grabbed a cab and had the driver make a beeline for the downtown Seattle PD.

  Giorgio glanced out the taxi cab’s window as it sped north on Interstate 5 toward the city, passing intersecting freeways and two big sports arenas. The Puget Sound glinted in the background.

  The cab driver dropped him off right in front of the Seattle PD in downtown. It was almost 1:20 p.m. by the time he walked into the busy lobby. The chaos reminded him of his days with the New York Police Department.

  When he introduced himself to the sergeant at the front desk and asked for Detective Abrams, he was asked to wait. A few minutes later, a tall, athletic man in his late twenties or early thirties appeared and extended his hand.

  “Sean Abrams,” he said. “Let’s grab a room.”

  Abrams was tall and had the rugged good looks of an action hero. But this guy walked with the kind of confidence that comes from a lot of physical training.

  Abrams led Giorgio down a long hallway to a conference room and offered him something to drink. When the detective returned and handed a can of soda across the table, Giorgio noticed a U.S. Army Ranger tattoo on his forearm; that explained the air of confidence.

  “We found Montgomery,” Abrams said. “You were right — they sent him to a local funeral home. He’s at the county morgue, now, and we’re waiting for an autopsy. So, tell me more about this case you’re working on.”

  Giorgio relaxed back in his chair. He didn’t have any reason to hold back. Montgomery’s death was Abrams’ case, and all Giorgio could do was try to learn as much as he could.

  “We found the skeleton of a girl in the well of a Catholic monastery in town,” he said. “We’re pretty sure it’s a girl that disappeared the night of her high school prom back in 1967. The body was never found, but they pinned the rap on a young kid who couldn’t defend himself.”

  “Evidence?” Abrams asked.

  “Just circumstantial. They found the girl’s underwear and one of her shoes in the kid’s locker. Carson Montgomery was the janitor at the high school back then. He conducted the locker search.”

  Abrams was tapping the eraser of a pencil on the table.

  “So, you came up here to find out if Montgomery knew anything?”

  “Actually, more than that,” Giorgio nodded. “His son contacted me last night and told me that the night before the locker search his father got a phone call. He says he overheard his father say something to the effect of ‘I can’t do that. I’ll
get fired. I could even go to jail.’”

  Abrams’ eyebrows arched over hooded blue eyes. “So…someone was asking, or maybe telling, him to do something he didn’t want to do.”

  “Right,” Giorgio said. “And the very next day the police get an anonymous tip to conduct a search of all of the lockers on the high school campus, and it was Montgomery who opened each locker. The son said his father changed after that. He started drinking heavily and retreating from the family. He and his mother eventually split up and Montgomery moved up here. I came up to find out who called him that night and why.”

  Abrams furrowed his brow while he continued to tap the pencil. “And now your potential witness is dead.”

  Giorgio shrugged. “What are the odds?”

  “Too great,” Abrams said.

  “Have you heard anything from the M.E. yet that would pin this as murder?” Giorgio asked hopefully.

  Abrams pursed his lips. “Naw, she just got started, so nothing about the body itself. But we called the manager at the nursing home and apparently he was found in a wheelchair behind a dumpster in the parking lot.”

  “Behind a dumpster?” Giorgio said with alarm. “She left that part out on the phone.”

  “Yeah, some kid claiming to be his great-nephew had come to visit him and took him outside for some fresh air. Neither one of them came back. Forty-five minutes later, they went looking for Mr. Montgomery and found him dead as a doornail. We asked the M.E. to put a rush on it, so hopefully we’ll know more this afternoon.”

  “Have you been out to the nursing home yet?” Giorgio asked.

  Abrams shook his head. “No. I got called in on another case for a lineup. So how ‘bout we take a trip out there together now?”

  Giorgio nodded. “Sounds good.”

  It took them only twenty-five minutes to make the drive to the Green Lake neighborhood, in North Seattle. They were greeted by Joann Felton, the nursing home administrator Giorgio had spoken to on the phone. She was tall and in her mid-forties.

  “Nothing like this has ever happened,” she said nervously as she settled behind her desk. “We have very strict rules about the patients and their visitors. But I have a new girl at the front desk, and she, well, she let the boy through. A young man, really,” she corrected herself.