Murder In the Past Tense (A Giorgio Salvatori Mystery Book 2) (10 page)

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.

Montgomery squirmed, but suddenly groaned and slumped sideways, his head dropping forward.

The kid reached out and pressed two fingers against the carotid artery, and then removed the syringe. Half a second later, he stripped off the blond wig he’d picked up at a cheap outlet store and jogged back to the van.

As he opened the van door, he tossed the fake glasses under a car, jumped in and sped off. Half a block away, he rolled down his window and tossed the syringe into the street.

Oh, those pesky druggies,
he thought to himself with a smile
. Always littering the streets with their drug paraphernalia.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Giorgio dragged himself home at 7:15 that night. He’d met with the captain and reported his suspicion that Alex Springer had been murdered because of something he knew about the Lisa Farmer case. Since Swan was due to take the rest of the week off, they’d spent the remainder of the afternoon writing up notes and attempting to run down leads on Cheryl Lincoln, Jimmy Finn’s girlfriend, and her brother, LeRoy. By the time he got home, Giorgio was starving.

His nostrils flared at the smell of oregano, bell pepper and onions when he stepped through the front door. He didn’t know if it was spaghetti, ribs, or something else, but he didn’t care. He threw his jacket over Prince Albert’s helmet and headed for the kitchen.

Raised voices greeted him when he passed the den. It was Tony and Marie, arguing over something. He made a quick left turn into the kitchen, choosing to let them sort out their differences by themselves.

“You’re home late,” Angie said. “The kids have already eaten, but I waited for you. Do you have rehearsal tonight?”

“No. The first read-through is scheduled for next week,” he said. “They’re still cleaning up after the fire.”

As soon as he said it, he glanced nervously at his wife. It was the fire and the attack on Giorgio during the Mallery Olsen case that had sent him to the hospital, and caused Angie to fall down the stairs. When she lost the baby, it had been a dark time in their lives. The shadow hadn’t completely lifted for either one of them.

“We’re working that cold case,” he said to change the subject. “And Swan leaves tomorrow to help his mom clean out her house.”

Angie turned and gave him a frown. “That’s right. Didn’t you say Rocky might step in to help you?”

“Yeah. He’s been going through orientation,” he said, opening the refrigerator.

He pulled out a beer, popped the top and sat at the kitchen table. Angie leaned over and opened the oven, pulling out a pan topped with aluminum foil. Giorgio felt the sour taste of saliva flooding his mouth.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken cacciatore,” she replied.

“Smells great,” he said.

Just then, Grosvenor lumbered in and pushed his nose against Giorgio’s leg.

“Hello, little guy,” he said, stroking the dog’s head. “Hey, listen Ange, I’ll work on those kiddie latches tonight. We’ll get everything done by this weekend.”

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said with a distinct drop in her energy level.

She placed the pan of chicken on the tiled counter and turned to him, her mouth set in a straight line.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Elvira called today. She spoke to the state inspector, and she doesn’t think they’ll clear us for a license.”

“What? Why not?”

He lowered the can of beer to the table, forgetting the dog for the moment.

“Two reasons,” she said with a disappointed sigh. “We have firearms in the house, and…”

“But I keep them locked up,” he said, cutting her off. “No one can get to them.”

“I know,” she said, coming to sit across from him. “But there can always be accidents. Then, there’s Grosvenor.”

“What about Grosvenor?”

He felt his blood pressure rising.

“I had to divulge his history, and the fact that he’s been abused
and
been to dog therapy,” she said with a sigh. “According to Elvira, their attorney says we’re just a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

She took a deep breath, and Giorgio recognized the pending onslaught of tears. He reached out and grabbed her hand.

“Hey, Ange. It’s okay. I’ll… I’ll talk to them about the guns. I’m a cop. I can work this out.”

Her eyes fluttered up so that her gaze rested on him.

“And what about Grosvenor?”

He paused and looked down at the brown and white spotted dog who sat with his tail curled around his long body. He didn’t know what to say about Grosvenor. The dog was a part of the family now. How in the world could they get rid of him?

“I was really counting on this, you know?” she said in a small voice. “We’re so close to having the house ready, too.”

A tear rolled down her cheek, and she reached up and swept it away.

“I’ll make it up to you, Ange,” Giorgio said, squeezing her hand. “I’ll… I’ll figure out something,” he said, lamely.

He stopped because he didn’t know what else to say.

“No, Joe. It’s okay,” she said, reaching out to wrap her fingers around his. “I appreciate all you’ve done, Joe. Really, I do. And I love the two kids we have – I love them to death. In fact, after what happened with Marie, maybe it’s just better that I focus on them. Really,” she said, tears glistening. “I’ll be okay.”

He stared at her for a moment and then got up and crossed around the table, pulling her out of the chair. He drew her to him, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her auburn hair.

“I’m sorry, Ange. I wanted this to be perfect for you.”

“I know,” she whispered into his shoulder. “But we’ll be fine.” She patted his arm, as if she were comforting
him
. Then she pulled away, wiping the moisture from her face. “After all, having Grosvenor is like having another kid in the house anyway.” She smiled up at him. “I’ll be okay, Joe. Now, go wash up for dinner.” When he didn’t move, she pushed him away. “Go.”

He took her face in both hand and gave her a kiss. Just then, the phone rang. He touched his nose to hers, and left the kitchen to pick it up in the hallway.

“Hello,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Hello,” he said again when no one answered.

Still nothing.

He looked suspiciously at the phone as a chill rippled across his shoulders.

He replaced the receiver and crossed the hallway to the den, where he found Tony and Marie wrestling on the floor. The argument had apparently been resolved, and the raised voices had been replaced with squeals of laughter. Grosvenor had followed him out of the kitchen and suddenly the three of them were fighting for control of a squeaker toy.

“Hey, it’s a school night,” he half-bellowed, stopping the action on the floor. “What about homework?”

“All done,” Tony said, looking up from where Grosvenor’s rear paw was stuck in his face. “I only had my diorama to finish.”

“And I got most of mine done at school,” Marie chimed in, rolling away from the dog.

Marie was a miniature version of her mother. She had honey-colored skin, and big, round eyes. Tony was a few inches shorter, with the same smooth skin, but shared his father’s brooding, dark brown eyes.

Giorgio stood for a moment, watching them as if he didn’t believe them. Then he grunted,

“You okay, Marie?”

She glanced up. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I’m fine, Dad.”

He nodded. “Okay, as is everyone.”

The children smiled and re-engaged with the dog, and before long, the three of them were rolling on the floor. Giorgio shook his head.

“How could anyone think you wouldn’t be good with kids,” he murmured to himself, watching how gentle Grosvenor was with them.

Then he went down the hallway to the guest bathroom to wash his hands.

÷

It was eight-thirty and the entire family was in the den watching TV when the phone rang.

This time Angie went into the hallway to answer it and came back to get Giorgio.

“Joe, it’s for you. I don’t know who it is.”

He lifted himself out of his big leather chair, displacing Grosvenor, who had draped his snout over his foot, and went into the hallway. When he took the phone and said hello, a hushed voice greeted him.

“I know something about the murder of that young girl,” the voice said. “We need to meet.”

“Who is this?” Giorgio asked, remembering the earlier call.

“Look, I’m taking a chance here. Let’s meet, and I’ll tell you what I know. I’ll be at the Prairie Diner in Arcadia in half an hour. Just get a table. I know who you are.”

The line went dead.

Giorgio told Angie he had to go out, grabbed his weapon and badge and headed out to the car. As he backed out of the driveway, he noticed a dark Jeep Wrangler parked across the street. The flare of a cigarette inside signaled that someone was behind the wheel.

Giorgio drove down Sunnyside, glancing in his rearview mirror. His cop’s intuition made him wonder why someone was sitting in the car in the dark. As he watched, the car’s headlights flashed on and the car pulled away from the curb going the opposite direction. Giorgio relaxed.

It was nine o’clock when he parked across the street from the Prairie Diner in Arcadia. Huntington Drive was a main thoroughfare through many of the towns in the valley, so the street was busy, even this late.

The diner was small and sat between an antique store and a pawn shop. It had only a small front window that was almost completely obscured by curtains and a big flashing neon sign, depicting a green buckboard that kept flashing on and off.

It was December, so the night was cool, and yet the sidewalks were peppered with people. Several store windows were outlined in red and green holiday lights.

Giorgio got out of the car and crossed the street, looking up one side and down the other out of habit. He mentally took note of the cars parked along the curb and people loitering in doorways and on the street corner, just in case he had to remember details later on.

He pulled open the door to the café and was greeted with a darkened interior and the smell of hot oil. The order counter stretched across the back. Beyond that, a short order cook was busy moving back and forth filling orders and flipping something on a hot grill. A young waitress approached the counter and pulled off two plates filled with food. She turned and delivered them to a table in the corner.

The tables were covered with green plastic tablecloths, accented with cheap white vases that were filled with red silk Poinsettias. The place was half full of patrons engaged in conversation and consuming their meals.

Giorgio glanced around, looking for a table with a single man who might be watching for him. But there was none, so he took the first table to his right and sat facing the door. A moment later, the young girl came to take his order. He asked for a soda and some fries and she left.

The door opened and four kids came in laughing and texting on their cell phones. They took one of the tables in the center of the room. The door opened again, and a man in his forties entered. Giorgio came alert as the man glanced at him, but then headed for the counter.

Giorgio’s waitress returned with his order. He was just about to squirt some ketchup onto his plate, when a second man suddenly appeared in the seat across from him.

“Thanks for coming,” the man said.

Giorgio stopped, the ketchup bottle held mid-air.

The man was probably in his mid-to late fifties and built square, like a football player, but without the muscle. He had sandy blond hair, a full face and a receding hairline that gave him a broad forehead. And he had on an apron.

“Are you the cook?” Giorgio asked.

“No. My name’s Monty,” he said, nervously. “I own this place. But I help out in the kitchen when it’s busy.”

Giorgio glanced down and finished squirting the ketchup onto his plate and then put the bottle back onto the table. He picked up a fry, dipped it into the rich red sauce and popped it into his mouth.

“Was that you who called earlier and hung up?”

The man’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah. Sorry. I just…this is hard.”

“Okay,” Giorgio said, swallowing. “Why am I here?”

Monty’s eyes darted across the room, as if he thought someone might be listening.

“Look, I heard on the news that you found that girl up at the monastery. The word is that it’s Lisa Farmer.”

“What do you know about her?”

The man began wringing his hands.

“I was just a kid back in 1967, just ten years old. But my dad worked at the high school. He was one of the janitors. I heard him one night. He took a phone call from someone. I don’t know who it was, but it made my dad really nervous.”

“Whoa, slow down. He took a phone call. When?”

“I think it was a couple of nights
after
the girl went missing. I don’t remember exactly. I was pretty young. But her disappearance was a big deal back then.
No
body ever just up and disappeared,” he said to make a point. “Anyway, my dad didn’t know I was there. Our phone was in the kitchen and I was in the hallway. I remember him getting pretty upset. It sounded like someone asked him to do something he didn’t want to do, and he was trying to get out of it. He kept saying, ‘I can’t do that. You can’t ask me to do that. I could lose my job, go to jail.”

“And you don’t know what he was talking about?”