Tahoe Blue Fire (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 13) (23 page)

THIRTY-FIVE

They set the body on the floor.

“He was dead when you found him?” Speranza said to his colleagues in English.

They spoke back in Italian. I got the sense that the man had died as they carried him back to the house.

Speranza took more notes. One of the cops handed Speranza the young man’s wallet. Speranza looked at the ID. They all spoke in Italian. They were animated. It was obvious that the young man’s identity was significant. Eventually, Speranza spoke to us.

“This man is Mario Montana, someone we’ve been looking for. Informants associate him with Tony Scozzari. They are both reputed to be Cosa Nostra soldiers. They are subjects of interest in two murder cases in Palermo, Sicily. Now we have Montana, a very good thing. But we still need to find Scozzari. We heard from an informant that Scozzari had gone to the states and that Montana had come up here to Tuscany. But he was never spotted. Finding him here, working for Valenti, is an important event. It is unfortunate that he is dead. He could have given us useful information.”

“If he broke his code of silence,” I said.

Without pause, Speranza said, “We have techniques.” He made a quick glance toward Street. Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe not.

“I’ve never heard of the names Scozzari or Montana in Tahoe.” I turned to Street. “Have you?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Speranza said, “You’ve mentioned Tahoe. Remind me how it is that I’ve heard that name.

“Lake Tahoe is a large mountain lake on the border of California and Nevada,” I said. “It’s a very popular tourist area. The lake is surrounded by mountains with a dozen ski resorts. There’s lots of boating, hiking, skiing.”

Speranza nodded.

“Scozzari is especially notable to us because the man we believe to be his grandfather was a boss in the Los Angeles crime family in the fifties. We don’t know if Scozzari originally came from America. Or perhaps his father did and the young man was born here. Both Antonio Scozzari and Mario Montana are like apparitions, men made of smoke, of mirrors. More idea than substance.”

“Similar to how you think of the Blue Fire of Florence,” I said.

Speranza looked at me with hard eyes. “Exactly. And now that we’ve found Montana, it starts to make Scozzari seem more real as well.”

“Do you have a photograph or description of Scozzari?”

“No photograph. Two descriptions from informants contradict each other so much, we thought maybe Scozzari was having people impersonate him. Tall, short, brown hair, blond hair, brown eyes, blue eyes, heavy, skinny, handsome, ugly, rough skin, smooth skin. Either that or he is very good at makeup.

One of the other policemen approached. He handed a piece of paper to Speranza and spoke to him in Italian.

After a moment, Speranza turned to us. “My men have searched Montana’s room. The only thing they found that was somewhat unusual was this paper, tucked into a Bible.” He handed it to me.

It had handwriting that said ‘[email protected].’

I handed it to Street. “I found this same email address written on Darla Ali’s desk.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” she said, handing it back to Speranza.

“Who is Darla Ali?” he asked.

“One of the murder victims in Tahoe.”

He made a slow nod. “This certainly suggests that Montana was in contact with someone who is in Tahoe or knows Tahoe. Could the address belong to Darla Ali?”

“I couldn’t find out. If so, she probably was in contact with Montana. If not, she was probably in contact with the same person who Montana communicated with. Either way, this is a connection between Darla and Montana.”

Speranza said, “Normally, I would email an inquiry to this address and see if we get a response. But I’m thinking this is something you might want to pursue.” He looked over at Montana’s body. “I have a closed case. You don’t. I’m assuming you would be kind enough to let me know if you learn anything.”

“Of course,” I said.

“This paper needs to go in the case file. Do you need me to write down the email address?”

“No, thanks. I can remember TahoeBlueFire at gmail.com.”

Speranza said, “Is there any chance you can file a request with Google to learn the identity of the account holder?”

“From what I’ve heard, no,” I said. “They may cooperate with requests from the U.S. National Security Agency, but not with private investigators.”

Speranza looked over at Street. “I would like you both to come with me outside and show me where you ran and where Montana was when he shot at you.”

We nodded. “Of course.”

Speranza made a call, speaking in Italian. Then he spoke to two of his men. I gathered that he wanted them to stay at Valenti’s house, maybe to wait for the medical examiner. He gestured for Street and me and the other two cops to come outside.

We spent the next two hours retracing our steps as best as we remembered. We showed him the locations where we thought we’d been shot at and where Mario Montana had been when he fired. Speranza took more notes.

At one point, a short, elderly woman came out of a small doorway. She spoke rapid words to Speranza and the other cops. Then she pointed at us. Speranza spoke back. After several exchanges, Speranza said, “Grazie,” and the woman went back inside.

Speranza turned to us. “The woman says that she saw you two running up this passage, and a moment later she saw a young man come after you on a motorcycle. He had a gun and was firing at you. Just as you suggested, she said she was afraid to tell us until she saw my men carrying the man’s body. So your story has been corroborated,” he said.

I nodded.

We continued on our trek. When we got to the medieval church where the damaged scooter lay on its side near the bronze sculpture, I motioned for Speranza to come along, and I climbed down the embankment to show him where Montana had slid and where I’d found him. Speranza continued past me, angling sideways. Ten yards down, he broke a stick from a bush, bent down, and pulled a pistol out of the brush, using his stick to lift the gun by its trigger guard. He held it up. It was medium in size and had a three-inch-long silencer attached to the barrel.

“Looks like a Beretta PX-Four Storm,” I said. “A reliable Italian semi-auto, but not especially accurate at a distance. Especially with a silencer.”

“You know your weapons,” Speranza said. “It is similar to our Ninety-two.” He patted his own holstered sidearm. He walked up the slope toward me. Using a handkerchief, he pushed the magazine release button on the Storm and looked at the ammo. “Forty-five ACP.”

“I’m glad he missed us,” I said.

“What do you carry in the States? Something similar?”

“I don’t carry.”

“An ex-cop? I don’t understand.”

“Personal preference,” I said.

He looked at me for a moment. “You had a bad experience.”

“Yes.”

Speranza let it drop, which I appreciated.

We climbed back up to the church where we all sat on the short stone wall and Speranza asked Street and me more questions about our movements and Montana’s pursuit. He focused on Street’s perspective of events. He also wrote down our passport numbers and our contact information.

One of the cops we’d left at Valenti’s house approached with a man in dress clothes. We heard Italian and the word medico several times.

Speranza spoke to the medico at length, then nodded and said grazie. They left and Speranza turned to us. “The doctor said that his preliminary examination suggests that Valenti died of natural causes and Montana died of accidental causes, Valenti possibly by myocardial infarction and Montana probably by traumatic brain injury.”

I nodded.

“I don’t mind saying that I’m not sorry these men died,” Speranza said. He closed his notebook. “I believe I have enough information. You may go.”

“Will you want to see us again?” I said.

“I have what I need. If Montana and Valenti were still alive, we’d want you to provide testimony. But with them both dead, we have little need for your continued involvement. If something comes up, I know how to contact you. It is okay with me if you go home.”

“Thank you. I think our business in Tuscany is done,” I said.

As he shook my hand, he said, “I wish you luck catching your murderer.” Then he turned to Street and took her hand in both of his. “It has been a pleasure to speak with you, and if you have any unattached sisters, please tell them I give free, personal tours of Tuscany.”

Street smiled at him, the tight hard smile of someone who’s trying to be polite despite their pain, and we left to walk back down the steep pathways to our little Fiat.

THIRTY-SIX

Later that afternoon, when we got back into our Florence hotel room, Street began trembling. I sat her down with me on the bed and held her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice wavering and tears building up and spilling over her lower eyelids. “I can pull maggots out of corpses, but having someone trying to kill us is different.”

I rubbed her shoulders.

“I can’t get those gunshots out of my mind. The flashes coming out of that gun barrel. Every little noise makes me flinch.” She was crying now, tear tracks down to her chin.

“It’s upsetting, sweetheart. When someone shoots at you, it shakes you deep.” I leaned toward her and tucked her head under my chin and pulled her up against me.

“Do you think Bruno Valenti was telling the truth?” Street asked, her voice thick.

“About what?”

“That he didn’t know what you meant when you said he’d made a mistake sending Montana after us.” Street’s nose was running.

“I don’t know. I assumed he was just protesting. But I suppose it’s possible he didn’t know and that Montana acted by himself. Montana may have been working for Valenti so that he could find out about the Blue Fire Diamond. Maybe he’s been feeding information about the Blue Fire Diamond to Scozzari back in Tahoe. Or maybe he was working with Darla. Montana may have already known I was working on the case in Tahoe. So when I showed up at his door, he decided to take me out of the way.”

“I don’t like it,” Street said.

We sat in silence for 15 minutes, both of us probably thinking things we didn’t want to put into words. The only sound was city traffic on the street below us and the occasional click of shoes in the hallway outside our door.

“Do you think you’re up to eating some dinner?” I finally said.

Street wiped her face. “Yes. But I must look like a Halloween mask or something.”

“You look upset is all. Everybody knows what upset is. And anyway, you’re still beautiful.”

“You lie,” Street said, “but I love you for your kindness.”

We headed out into the bustling medieval city and found an elegant but light dinner and with it, a bottle of Chianti Classico.

The next day, we caught the late-morning flight out of Florence, repeating our previous trip in reverse. The Alps were covered in clouds, so we couldn’t see the spectacular peaks and glaciers. Frankfurt was socked in with rain and looked no more interesting than Newark. Our second flight followed the sun as we headed northwest up toward Greenland, but below us was only clouds. After another eleven hours nonstop, we landed at SFO in what appeared to be solid fog. Eager to get back to Tahoe sunshine, we boarded the shuttle flight to Reno only to find that the Sierra was having a spring snow storm intense enough to have pushed over the Carson Range on the east side of the Tahoe Basin and down into the Nevada valleys.

Our airport waits ate up the clock, and we’d been traveling for 21 hours. But because we followed the sun and went back through 9 time zones, our 21 hours had only moved us 12 hours forward on the clock. When we got into the Jeep at the Reno/Tahoe airport parking lot, the clock said 10 p.m. But our bodies were on Italian time, so it felt like seven the next morning. Because of our jet lag, combined with snow and high wind in the Washoe Valley, I drove the Jeep slowly, feeling the wheels struggle to grip on the wet, icy, compacted snow. The headlights were impotent in the face of waves of snow blocking all vision. I’d hoped that the snow would ease as we continued south and dropped down 400 feet into Carson City, but it seemed to intensify. Farther south, Carson Valley was enduring a blizzard. When we got to Diamond’s house in Minden, Nevada, we pulled into his drive through eight inches of fresh powder.

Street had called Diamond en route, so he was waiting for us. He opened the front door as we got out of the Jeep. The light spilling out of his house lit up the giant flakes swirling down from the sky. Spot pushed out and raced around, possibly as eager to play in the fresh snow as he was eager to see us. We’d been gone only a few nights, so Spot was still on his Diamond-and-Danishes high. Having us come home might have been a disappointment. But he put on a good performance and wagged and bounced as we both hugged him.

“Snowing too hard to drive up to the lake, don’t you think?” Diamond said.

We agreed.

“You want beer and chips or something?”

“It feels like tomorrow morning to us, so it would be best if we crashed.”

Diamond understood. “You know where the guest room is. This way, Spot and I get one more party night together.” Diamond turned to Spot. “Hey, dude, you want beer and chips?”

Spot wagged so hard his entire 170 pounds rocked side-to-side.

Street and I climbed up the narrow stairs to the attic of Diamond’s bungalow. Spot followed and tried to play with me a bit, grabbing my hands as I play-boxed with him. I gave him a headlock, rubbed him, then sent him back down the stairs to Diamond.

Street and I climbed into the two narrow beds under Diamond’s sloping attic roof and were asleep in minutes.

In the morning, we joined Diamond for coffee. Spot lay on the floor nearby. The snow had stopped falling, and the little desert town of Minden looked like something out of a Christmas movie. A foot of spring snow draped the trees and hung down from the eaves and stood up high on the mailbox. It was a strange perception shift. I kept thinking it looked like a great deal of snow, even as I knew that, were I out of the desert and up in Tahoe, I’d regard it as a modest little dusting of white, a thin blanket of no account.

Diamond looked at the time. “Civic duty calls in less than an hour. Gotta go give the taxpayers good value.”

“Good to have a job,” I said.

“Learn anything interesting in yonder Italia?”

I hadn’t yet had enough coffee to cut my brain fog, so Street gave it to him in linear fashion, her recitation as precise as one would expect from a scientist. She turned to me. “Did I leave anything out?”

“Just the turquoise confetti,” I said.

Street made a sly smile. “I’m thinking that Diamond wouldn’t be interested in that.”

I saw Diamond’s eyebrows twitch. “Sounds like something that ain’t my business,” he said. After a long silence, he added, “So, where to now?”

“From what Bruno Valenti told us, I’m going to start with Sinatra. His whereabouts during the early sixties, for example.”

“Tahoe, the Cal Neva Hotel, Palm Springs, and Vegas, of course,” Diamond said.

“And his associates,” I said.

“The Kennedy brothers, the Rat Pack, the boys at his little business he called Reprise Records,” Diamond said.

“His association with the Mob,” I said.

“Sam Giancana, Carlo Gambino, Lucky Luciano,” Diamond said.

“His loves.”

Diamond thought about it. “In the early sixties, he was between marriages. He’d recently divorced Ava Gardner, and Mia Farrow didn’t appear for several years.”

“Not much there,” I said.

Diamond said, “Of course, he did have an affair with Marilyn Monroe.”

“You may have just struck gold,” I said.

“Or diamonds,” Diamond said.

“At that time, she was the most famous and desirable woman in the world, right?” Street said. “Didn’t Sinatra have a cabin at the Cal Neva that was set aside for her?”

Diamond drank coffee and nodded. “Yeah. And the secret tunnels made it so that he and she and all the others could come and go out of sight of the paparazzi.”

“How do you know all this stuff?” I asked.

Diamond frowned. “If you moved south of the border and adopted it as your new country, I’d expect you to brush up on all things Mexican, which would include pop culture history.”

Street looked at Diamond. “Let’s say you had enough millions to buy the Blue Fire of Florence and you were in Sinatra’s shoes. Would you make it a present to Marilyn Monroe?”

“Sure. Why not? She’d be a pretty good catch, huh? But I’d change the name. The Blue Fire of Florence would become… Let me think. The Tahoe Blue Fire.” He glanced again at the time. “Gotta go. Lock up when you leave?”

“Thanks.” I lifted my coffee cup toward him as a salute. “I appreciate you taking care of my hound even though I’ll probably never be able to get him to eat dog food again.”

Diamond nodded, gave Street a kiss, Spot a bear hug, and left out the kitchen door.

Spot stood at the closed door, his ears twitching as he listened to the inaudible sounds of Diamond as he shuffled down the snowy sidewalk, brushed the snow off his old, rust-experiment pickup, started up the noisy engine with bronchitis in the carburetor, and drove away.

“What about you?” Street asked me. “Would you have paid two million back then to buy a giant Medici diamond for Marilyn Monroe?”

I walked over behind Street and wrapped my arms around her, my hands exploring. “I don’t know about Monroe,” I whispered in her ear, “but I’d certainly buy it for you.”

“Because I’m a classy broad?”

“Hmm,” I said.

“Or because of my turquoise confetti?”

“Well, there is that,” I said.