by Lynn Bohart
“Did Detective Abrams ask you about tattoos?”
“No. But to be honest, I had to cut the conversation short. My daughter fell in her gymnastics class, so I had to go. I was supposed to call him back, but I’ve been too busy,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
“The guy who came to visit your father had at least one tattoo on his neck. He was wearing a turtleneck, so witnesses couldn’t see more.”
“Wait a minute,” Montgomery said, his expression brightening. “On his neck? I talked with my mom the day before I talked to you. She called to tell me that someone had tried to deliver something to the house for my dad. She said the guy had a row of skulls tattooed around his neck. Could that be him?”
“A delivery guy?” Giorgio’s adrenalin began to pump. He pictured the same delivery guy delivering the empty envelope to Angie. “Did your mother tell him where your dad was?”
“I don’t know. She just mentioned it to me because it’s been so long since they lived together, she thought it was weird. And the skulls creeped her out.”
“I’d like to go see your mom. See what else she can tell me,” Giorgio said.
Montgomery gave Giorgio his mother’s address.
÷
Mrs. Montgomery lived in a small house on the grounds of an assisted living facility in Arcadia. When she answered the door, she appeared to be in her late seventies, a bit younger than her now deceased ex-husband.
“There was something wrong with that young man,” she said, when they’d taken a seat. “He couldn’t stop moving. He kept tapping his fingers against his leg and had kind of a wild look in his eyes.”
“Can you describe him in any more detail?” Giorgio pressed her.
“Of course. He wasn’t more than five foot ten, black hair, like it was dyed. He had a slight build and skin that looked like he’d never been out in the sun.” She rolled her eyes as if she was slightly offended by this. “He had bad teeth, too. And he reeked of smoke. Anyway, he had dark eyes, and I think he wore makeup.”
“You mean, like eyeliner?” Giorgio asked.
“Yes. And he had on some kind of uniform, like he was a delivery man. But I remember thinking that no delivery company I knew would ever hire him.”
“What was it he was trying to deliver?”
Giorgio’s mind was whirring now. The sisters had said the man who had pushed Montgomery into the parking lot had been blond, but had come back with black hair. Angie said the delivery man who had delivered the envelope had been blond.
“He just said he was delivering a box of something,” she said. “He said it was perishable, though, and he had to get it delivered quickly.”
“Did you tell him where to find your ex-husband?”
For the first time, she paused and just stared at him.
“Oh, my,” she said quietly. “I…uh…oh dear.” She began to wring her hands. “Yes, I
gave him the name of the nursing home in Seattle. He said he would get the box to him right away.” Tears suddenly glistened in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that. I haven’t spoken to Carson in over four years. I only knew he was in the nursing home because his wife sent me a note. Things didn’t end well between us, you know. He just became a different person over the years. But I would never wish him ill,” she said. She shook her head as the tears began to flow. “Oh, do you really think I was responsible for his death?” She reached over to a table and grabbed a tissue.
“You couldn’t have known, Mrs. Montgomery. You were clearly tricked,” Giorgio said, trying to console her. “I need to ask you though, if Carson ever said anything about the Lisa Farmer case to you while you were married?”
She glanced up at him and took a moment to wipe the tears from her eyes.
“Yes, once. It was a couple of years after that boy’s trial. We’d been arguing, and I told Carson that if I’d known he was an alcoholic I would never have married him. He snapped at me…said he wasn’t a drunk when he married me, that Lisa Farmer had made him that way.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“I’m not sure. But he finished by saying that he wished Edmond Martinelli had never saved his life.”
Giorgio’s heart rate went from zero to sixty.
“He knew Edmond Martinelli? Ron Martinelli’s uncle?”
“Oh, yes. I believe they lived next door to each other growing up. And then he and Edmond served in Vietnam together.”
“And Edmond saved his life?”
She shrugged. “Well, that’s what Carson said. He would never explain how. But when Carson got back from the war, he was a wreck. He couldn’t keep a job. Edmond ended up hiring him to clean some of his brother’s apartment buildings at night. And then when Monty was born, Edmond’s brother, Royce, got Carson the job at the high school. It allowed him to work normal hours and have weekends and holidays off.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Montgomery. You’ve been a big help,” Giorgio said, feeling for the first time like the pieces of the puzzle were coming together.
Giorgio returned to the station, his adrenalin pumping. The connection had been made. Carson Montgomery had worked for the Martinellis and Edmond had saved his life, all the leverage he would need to force Montgomery to do something he didn’t want to do. That meant that it had to be a Martinelli who had killed Lisa Farmer – how else would they have had her shoe and underwear to plant in Jimmy Finn’s locker?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Giorgio took Rocky off his research task to accompany him to Edmond Martinelli’s home. They called in advance, and thirty minutes later pulled up in front of his sprawling ranch-style home, with its perfectly manicured lawns. They parked next to a spouting fountain in the middle of a circular drive. A four-car garage sat off to one side. One garage door was open, revealing a vintage Mustang.
“I guess it pays to be a Martinelli,” Rocky sniped as they approached the front door.
Pushing the doorbell resulted in a melody of chimes, which hadn’t finished playing before the door was opened by a middle-aged woman in a uniform. Giorgio introduced himself and his brother, and the woman led them to the living room overlooking the front drive.
The room was decorated in rich leather, dark cherry woods, and thick brocades. Very male. A group of family photos was carefully arranged on a finely polished table in the corner. Laid out on a glass coffee table was a plate of dessert bread and coffee.
“Mr. Martinelli is just finishing up his afternoon massage. He’ll be right in. Please help yourself,” she said, gesturing to the food. She smiled and then left.
Rocky cocked his head. “Afternoon massage. Must be nice.”
He helped himself to some of the lemon bread, while Giorgio studied the family photos. Royce and Edmond Martinelli looked enough alike to be twins. They were both tall, with dark hair and heavy features. Ron Martinelli, Royce’s son, was shorter and had a slender build and lighter coloring. Edmond’s son, Fritz, looked just like him – tall, with dark hair, imposing eyebrows and a strong jaw. A young boy and a small girl at his side were probably the youngest of the Martinelli clan. Giorgio didn’t know if Ron Martinelli had kids.
Even in photos both the elder Martinellis had a disquieting quality. It was partly the way they held themselves, as if they owned the world and everything in it. But those dark eyes held secrets, as if there was something lurking beneath the surface of all that wealth.
As Giorgio gazed at the photos, he wondered momentarily about Ron. There was a different quality about him. He was more relaxed and didn’t look like the others. Just then, a woman came into view from around the far end of the house. Giorgio turned to watch her through the front window.
The woman was dressed in high heels, a short, flouncy skirt and a skin-tight blouse. She carried a messenger bag over one shoulder and had her wallet in her hand.
Giorgio watched her walk to the end of the driveway, adjusting her skirt as if it wasn’t on properly. A black sports car was waiting for her at the end of the drive. She got in and the car spe
d off.
A moment later, an older gentleman strode confidently into the room, one hand in his pocket. He was over six feet tall and walked slightly stooped at the shoulders. His hair was white now and he wore glasses, but there was agility and power still contained in his frame. He extended a hand to Giorgio.
“I’m Edmond Martinelli,” he said.
Giorgio studied the man as he introduced both himself and his brother. Martinelli’s face was flushed and his lips moist. He remained standing, so Giorgio did, too.
“I understand you’re here about the Lisa Farmer case,” he said.
“That’s right,” Giorgio nodded. “We’re following up on some loose ends.”
“I’m not sure I can help much,” he said. “I wasn’t involved.”
“Well, since your brother, Royce, is gone, we thought perhaps we’d take a long shot and see if he’d ever said anything to you about it.”
“Like what?” the man asked.
Since Edmond still hadn’t offered them a seat, it was clear he didn’t intend for this to take long.
“Did he mention anything about that night?” Giorgio said. “For instance, we understand he’d been out of town.”
There was a momentary tensing of the man’s lower jaw.
“That’s right,” Martinelli said.
“Do you know where he’d been?” Giorgio asked.
“What difference does it make where Royce was?”
“We’re not sure it does,” Giorgio was quick to say. “We’re just trying to fit all of the pieces together.”
He seemed to relax slightly. “He was with me. We’d been out-of-town on a fishing trip. Something we did about that time every year.”
“I see,” Giorgio said with a big smile. He turned to Rocky. “My brother and I like to fish. What do you go after — carp, walleye?”
The man froze momentarily.
“Really, Detective. Can we get on with this?”
Giorgio’s smile faded. “When did you get home?”
“What does it matter?” he said impatiently.
“Your nephew’s girlfriend went missing. It’s important to know where everyone was.”
He sighed. “As I recall, the fish weren’t biting and Royce had some pressing business back in town, so we came back early.”
“The night of the prom?” Giorgio asked.
“Yes.”
“And how did you travel? Fly? Drive?”
“We drove. Actually, Royce drove,” the man said. “Is this going to take long, Detective?” he said, shifting his weight impatiently. “I have…”
“Not much longer,” Giorgio said, cutting him off. “What car did you take?’
The man glared at Giorgio momentarily before answering. “As I recall, we took Ron’s car. An old Chevy Impala. Ron had asked to use Royce’s car for the prom.”
“I see,” Giorgio mused. “So where did you go fishing?”
“Why does that matter?”
“Just routine,” Giorgio said.
“I don’t know. We fished every year. I really don’t remember where we went that particular year.”
Giorgio paused, as if to weigh the veracity of his statement. Just then, the front door opened and another man came in.
“Dad, we need to talk…”
The man stopped the moment he saw two strangers standing in his father’s living room. Edmond Martinelli took immediate control of the situation.
“This is my son, Fritz,” he said, gesturing to the younger Martinelli.
“Yes, we’ve met,” Giorgio said, remembering the chance meeting in Ron Martinelli’s outer office.
Fritz Martinelli was dressed in crisp slacks and a silk shirt. He merely nodded to the police officers as a way of acknowledging them.
“They’re here about the Lisa Farmer case,” his father said, eyeing Giorgio.
“Yes, they came to see Ron, too,” Fritz said. “Well, I’ll be in the kitchen,” he said and started to leave.
“Just a minute,” Giorgio said, stepping forward. “Would you mind answering a few questions?”
He turned and leveled a critical gaze at Giorgio. “I don’t know anything about Lisa Farmer.”
“But you’re Ron’s cousin, and you’re about the same age, aren’t you? You would have been in high school back in 1967,” Giorgio said.
His eyes narrowed. “Ron was a year ahead of me. Why?”
“I thought maybe you might have heard things…from kids at school back then. Maybe comments about Lisa or someone who didn’t like her.”
He glanced at his father before replying. “We lived in Arcadia, so I went to a different high school. I didn’t even know her.”
“I see,” Giorgio said. “Were you and Ron close back then?”
“Not really.”
“But you work together now?” Giorgio said.
His father stepped in. “Fritz runs the real estate side of the business,” he said. “He took over for me when I retired.”
Giorgio turned back to Fritz. “Would you know anyone who might own a blue or gray van?”
Fritz Martinelli flinched ever so slightly.
“No,” he said with a snap. Then he turned to his father. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
He hadn’t liked the question, and by Edmond’s demeanor, Giorgio could tell the welcome mat would soon be pulled out from under him.
“Now, if that’s all, Detectives,” Edmond was saying as he began to usher them to the door. “I have some business…”
“Just a couple more questions,” Giorgio said quickly, stopping in the foyer. “We were curious about the locker search at the high school. The one that resulted in finding Lisa’s underwear and shoe in Jimmy Finn’s locker.”
Martinelli seemed to freeze in place. “I don’t understand. Why are you curious about that?”
“There was a tip; someone called the police department a couple days after Lisa went missing and suddenly there was a full locker check at the school. We’re trying to find out who might have placed that call.”
He shrugged. “How would I know?”
“Ron said you oversaw the maintenance of the buildings in the Martinelli Company back then.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you know a Carson Montgomery?”
He blinked the moment Giorgio uttered the name.
“Carson Montgomery,” he repeated slowly, as if deciding how to respond. “Yes, we served in Vietnam together.”
“He was the janitor at the high school,” Giorgio continued.
The man began to rub his thumb and index finger together as his hand hung by his side.
“So?” Martinelli snapped.
“He was the one who conducted the locker check,” Giorgio said, watching him closely.
“I see. I don’t think I knew that. But I believe Royce knew the school principal. I think he got him that job. I’m not sure what year it was,” he said cautiously. “That was so long ago.”
“But you knew Carson Montgomery well?” Giorgio prodded him.
He paused before answering. “Yes. We grew up together. In fact, we served in Vietnam together. I just said that.” He was growing exasperated.
“And you saved his life?”
His eyes opened wider. “If you know all about me, Detective, I’m not sure why you’re here.”
“I need to hear it from you,” Giorgio replied matter-of-factly.
Martinelli drew his large hands in front of him and clasped them together. He had long, straight fingers that seemed to match his overly large feet splayed out to the sides.
“I saved more than his life,” he said with exasperation. “I saved his reputation. He panicked one day when we were on patrol together. A young Viet Cong appeared out of nowhere. I called for Carson to take cover, but he turned and ran. The Viet Cong raised his gun and would have shot him in the back, if I hadn’t shot him first.”
“And you never told anyone about Montgomery’s reaction,” Giorgio said. “Because they w
ould have called him a coward.”
The big man shrugged. “Yes. It was the least I could do. Wouldn’t you do that for a friend?”
Giorgio had the sense this man didn’t have any real friends, only people who owed him things.
“Were you or your brother close to anyone in the police department at that time?” Giorgio asked nonchalantly.
This time his reaction was pronounced. He straightened up as if Giorgio had just accused him of some indiscretion.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing. We’re just trying to fit some pieces together.”
“You just heard my son say that we didn’t even live in Sierra Madre at the time. But my brother was probably its most prominent citizen. I believe he was even a member of the City Council. So, yes, Royce must have known people in the police department, probably even the Chief of Police. So what?”
“We’re not accusing anyone of anything, Mr. Martinelli.”
Martinelli turned towards the door, signaling that his patience was at its end. “That girl disappeared over forty years ago and last I heard, someone has already been convicted of the crime,” he said, opening the door. “Poking your nose into people’s business isn’t doing anything for anyone. I suggest you focus on current crimes instead.”
Giorgio stood directly behind him, but didn’t move to step past him.
“You must be aware of what’s been happening at the Pinney House – the house where your brother lived at the time Lisa Farmer went missing.”
Martinelli paused and took a deep breath.
“The Pinney House has a long history,” he said with an exhale. “I understand it was once even a sanitarium. Those bodies could have been buried there at any time. My brother had nothing to do with any of that. He and Claire lived there for only five or six years. There’s no telling when those young women were killed.”
“Actually, they lived there from 1955 until just after Lisa Farmer went missing,” Giorgio corrected him. “So it’s quite likely they were living there when those bodies were buried. And just for the record, what did you do after your brother dropped you off the night Lisa Farmer disappeared?”
It appeared that no one had ever asked him that question. He stopped for a moment, and an awkward silence prevailed as his eyes darted toward Rocky. Then he regained his composure.