by Lynn Bohart
It was all Giorgio could do not to hit her. He turned and paced to the other side of the room, thinking. She wasn’t just a cold bitch; she was a selfish cold bitch. The perfect partner. As long as her husband left her alone and maintained the family reputation, she didn’t care who he murdered.
“Mrs. Martinelli,” he said through clenched teeth, when he came back. “You just said a minute ago that you were a light sleeper. Are you telling me that you did hear your son come home the night of his prom? Perhaps your husband as well?”
“Yes,” she replied quietly. “I heard them both.”
“And you listened in when your husband made the phone call from the hallway before leaving again, didn’t you?” Giorgio said, not giving her a chance to deny it.
“Yes,” she said after a pause. “The phone in his study was a private line, but the one in the hallway had an extension in my room. I don’t know who he was talking to. I only heard what he said.”
“Which was what?” he said patiently.
She didn’t reply right away.
“Mrs. Martinelli, tell me what your husband said,” he said forcefully.
“He said, ‘Meet me at the entrance to the monastery right away. We have a problem.’ And then he hung up.”
Giorgio felt his voice vibrate with anger. “So you’ve known for over forty years that your husband was the one who probably murdered Lisa Farmer, and you never told a soul.”
“No,” she said plaintively. “I didn’t know back then that the monastery had anything to do with Lisa’s disappearance. I just heard him say he was going to meet someone up there.”
“But you knew something was up?” Giorgio pressed her.
Once again, her hackles were raised.
“You make it all sound so easy, Detective. As if all I had to do was tell the police what I knew. Think about it. If I had, my life would have been ruined.”
She made this last comment as if the quality of her life was the most important thing in the world – not just for her, but for all of mankind.
“Mrs. Martinelli, do you know where your husband went fishing the weekend Lisa Farmer went missing and why he came back early?”
“I don’t know why he returned early. But I do know where they went. Only because…the next day I found the coat he’d worn. He’d left it hanging on the coat tree next to the front door. I went through the pockets, and there was a receipt for gas from a town outside of Big Bear.”
“Big Bear Lake?” Giorgio asked. The hairs on the back of his neck tickled.
She nodded, and Giorgio felt suddenly cold all over. Without thinking, he reached into his pocket and fingered the souvenir medallion.
“Last question – do you know anyone who drives a Jeep Wrangler?”
She looked up at him, surprised at the change in questioning. “Uh…well, yes. I think my nephew Fritz’s son does. Why?”
“Fritz’s son? What’s his name?”
“Perry…Fitzgerald. His mother was Fritz’s first wife. She went back to her maiden name after they got divorced,” she said.
That answered why the Jeep had never come up under the Martinelli name when they’d searched the DMV.
“What does Perry look like?”
“He takes after his mother,” she said. “He’s kind of small and pale, and he wears all those disgusting black clothes and heavy jewelry.”
“Tattoos?” Rocky said.
She looked up at him. “Yes. Around his neck.”
“And Fritz,” Giorgio said. “Is that his real name?”
“No, it’s Frederick,” she said. “Why?”
“And he was called Freddie?”
“He was Fritz in the family, but, yes, I think he was Freddie to his friends. Yes, why, Detective?”
The cacophony of bells going off in Giorgio’s head made it hard for him to hear her last question.
“We’re done for now, Mrs. Martinelli,” Giorgio said. “But you are not to go anywhere or talk to anyone about this, especially other members of your family. If you do, I’ll send an entire squadron of police after you and lock you up, do you understand?”
She blanched. “Yes, I understand.”
They returned to the car and Giorgio called McCready and told him to put APBs out on Perry Fitzgerald and Fritz Martinelli.
“So, what do we do now?” Rocky asked.
Giorgio started the car and looked over at his brother. “We’re going to Big Bear Lake.”
“But it seems like all the action is down here,” Rocky said.
“Yes, but we don’t have any real evidence to implicate either Fritz or Perry, other than the fact that Perry owns a Jeep.”
“The girl at the nursing home could ID Perry,” Rocky said.
“Yes. But only for Montgomery’s murder. We’ll get him for that. And my guess is that Fritz killed Springer. But I want Edmond, and I doubt either Fritz or Perry will give him up for any role he played in those two murders,” Giorgio said as he took off the emergency brake. “But if we can get Edmond on a different murder…”
Rocky’s eyebrows went up. “You mean one of the girls they picked up on one of their fishing trips?”
“I want to know what went wrong up in Big Bear,” Giorgio said, preparing to pull away from the curb. “So wrong that those two had to come home early. I think whatever it was got Lisa Farmer killed.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Giorgio had been to Big Bear Lake only once when the family had taken a summer vacation there. The lake sits in the middle of the San Bernadino National Forest. In the late 1800s, a trip to Big Bear by buggy would have taken over two days. By car, they’d be there in just under two hours.
“Apparently Big Bear is good for trout, catfish, and bass fishing,” Rocky said, reading from his smart phone. He glanced over at Giorgio. “Too bad Royce and Edmond Martinelli didn’t actually like to fish.”
The brothers arrived at the San Bernadino County Sheriff’s office just before noon. Fortunately, the sheriff was in and welcomed them into his office.
Sheriff Williams was a small man with razor cut hair, a receding hairline and a thin smile. The brothers sat in wooden arm chairs on the other side of his desk, staring out a window at a stand of pines trees.
“What can I do for you boys?” the sheriff asked amiably.
“We’re looking into a murder case that may be connected to something that happened up here back in 1967,” Giorgio said.
The Sheriff shrugged. “Whoa, 1967? You’re not going to find much information going that far back. What was the incident?”
Giorgio snuck a glance at his brother. “We don’t know. But two men who we believe are involved in the murder of a number of young women came up for a long weekend and probably rented a cabin.”
The little man had leaned way back in his chair and tapped the fingers of his right hand on the desk. “This have anything to do with all those bodies that were dug up down your way?”
Giorgio reached into his pocket and pulled out pictures of Royce and Edmond Martinelli.
“Yes. These are the two men. We believe something happened up here that made them pull up stakes suddenly and go back home. We’re trying to find out what that was.”
The sheriff studied the pictures a moment. He tapped his fingers again before saying, “You’ll need to talk with Sheriff Masters. He’s retired now, but he would have been sheriff back then.”
“Do you know where we can find him?” Rocky asked.
“Sure. He has a home over in Fawnskin by Dana Point Park.”
He popped his chair forward and punched something into his computer. Then he grabbed a sticky note and wrote it down.
“Here’s his address.” He glanced out the window. “But the sun’s out, so most likely you’ll find him down by the marina even. Even at this time of year, he likes to take his Kindle and sit down there and read.”
Giorgio nodded. “What’s he look like?”
The sheriff smiled. “Oh, you can’t miss Tubbs Masters.
He lives up to his name.”
Giorgio smiled back. “Thanks for your time.”
As promised, they found Sheriff Tubbs Masters sitting on a bench at the end of the dock, a Kindle held loosely in his hands. He wore sunglasses and a straw hat. A heavy corduroy jacket was stretched tight over an enormous belly, and he had a wool scarf around his neck. The lake lapped gently against the pilings, while a few clouds floated across the sky.
“Sheriff Masters?” Giorgio said, coming up to the side of the bench.
He turned and looked up.
“Who’s asking?”
“My name is Giorgio Salvatori. Joe to my friends,” he said with a smile. “I’m with the Sierra Madre Police Department, down in the San Gabriel Valley.” He lifted up his jacket to show his badge, which was attached to his belt. He pointed to Rocky. “My brother, Rocky. Also with the Sierra Madre PD.”
Rocky nodded to him and also flashed his badge.
The sheriff glanced at the badges and closed his Kindle. “I know Sierra Madre,” he said. “I have a sister who lives in Arcadia.” He eyed Giorgio for a moment. “The monastery murders. You were the lead detective.”
“Yes, sir. I was,” Giorgio said.
“Nice job on that one.”
“Thanks,” Giorgio replied.
“Well, what can I do for you?”
The brothers moved in front of him and leaned against the dock’s railing, both squinting against the glare off the water.
“We need to know if you remember if anything significant happened up here back in May of 1967.”
A short chuckle erupted through his lips. “Like what? A forest fire? A boating accident? A celebrity sighting?”
“No, sir,” Giorgio said. “We have two suspects in a case we’re working from back then. They were supposed to be on an extended fishing trip up here, but came home after only a few days. They’ve been implicated in a string of murders – young girls. We think something happened up here that sent them packing – scared them away.”
The heavyset man sat up a little straighter at the mention of young girls.
“Tell me more about the murders,” he said, removing his sunglasses.
“The women were tortured,” Rocky said. “And murdered.”
The sheriff dropped his gaze to the water behind them for a long moment. He took in a deep breath and then said, “I think you’d better follow me to my home.”
He stood up and led them back to the parking lot, where he hefted his big bulk into an old Ford pickup. They followed him out of town and up a winding road, through the forest. Ten minutes later, they pulled off the paved road onto a dirt road that wound around a natural pond to a large log cabin.
He welcomed them into a warm living room filled with leather furniture, big throw rugs and a rough-hewn wooden dining table. Instead of dead animals gracing the walls, however, framed oil paintings of the lake hung there.
“Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll make some coffee,” he said.
He disappeared into the kitchen, while Rocky and Giorgio made themselves comfortable. A few minutes later, the sheriff returned with a tray of steaming coffee mugs and a plate of chocolate biscotti.
“I make the biscotti myself,” he said proudly.
He dropped his bulk into a big chair and leaned back, holding his coffee cup on his chest. Giorgio dipped the hard cookie into his coffee and then took a bite. His eyes lit up. “Mmmm,” he murmured. “That’s good stuff.”
“Thanks,” the big sheriff said. “I’ll send some with you. Okay, I suppose you’d like to get to the topic at hand. So here’s what I know. It was late May back in 1967. I don’t remember the exact date. There was a young girl by the name of Amber Riley who was picked up by a couple of guys when she was hitchhiking.”
As soon as he mentioned the name, Amber, Giorgio’s antenna went up. Hadn’t Flame mentioned seeing the color amber?
“They took her to a remote cabin,” the sheriff continued. “They raped her and tortured her over a period of a couple of days. But she escaped.”
Giorgio’s heart skipped a beat. “Did you find out who the men were that picked her up?”
“No. They burnt the cabin to the ground when they left. There was nothing left behind, and the owner said she was paid in cash by mail. So she never knew who the renters were. It was different back then. People trusted more. There were no computer trails. No cell phone records. Anyway, the girl wasn’t found until the next morning about a mile and a half away, naked, bleeding and pretty mangled up.”
“Did you launch an investigation?” Giorgio asked.
“Sure we did. But Amber said she had been on a road trip with some friends. She and her boyfriend had gotten into a big fight and she’d left by herself. These men picked her up on the way into town. They never gave her their names and never called each other by name. And from what we could tell, they never utilized any services in town, either. No gas. No food. No nothing. So they came and went like ghosts,” he said, dipping his biscotti into his coffee.
At the mention of ghosts, the muscles in Giorgio’s chest tightened. But he let his hands drop to the table in disappointment.
“Did you get a description from her?”
“Sure,” the big sheriff replied. “Tall, dark hair, dark eyes. But as I said, no one but Amber ever saw them.”
“What about the vehicle they used?” Rocky asked hopefully.
“She was pretty traumatized by the time she was found. Not long on details,” Tubbs recalled.
“Damn! I was hoping we could somehow confirm it,” Giorgio exclaimed.
“Well, you could talk with Amber,” the sheriff said casually. “You might learn a little more. You have the luxury of having someone in mind. We didn’t.”
“She’s still around?” Giorgio asked, flashing a look at his brother.
“Yeah. She stayed in town and runs the area’s only homeless shelter. It’s over in the City of Big Bear, off of 3rd. But I need to warn you, she may not want to talk to you. What they did to her was awful. They broke two of her fingers, used an electrical probe on her genitals, and…” he paused. “They pulled her eyelashes out…one by one.” He swallowed hard and shook his head. “Amber’s case was one of the few times when I hated my job.”
“We’ll go slowly with her,” Rocky promised.
The sheriff stared at Giorgio for a moment and then nodded.
“I’d better give her a call.”
He stood up and went into the kitchen again. They heard his voice, but not what he said. A moment later, he was back with a piece of paper and a paper bag filled with biscotti.
“She said she’ll talk to you,” he said handing Giorgio a bag of biscotti and a slip of paper. “But as you said, take it slowly. I doubt any of us could fully understand what she went through.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
When Giorgio and Rocky walked into the shelter, Amber Riley was standing behind a counter, folding towels, making sure all the corners matched. She was a petite woman with short brown hair and glasses.
Giorgio noticed that her left hand seemed stiff, as if the fingers didn’t work so well. Then he remembered what the old sheriff had said about how her kidnappers had broken two fingers on one hand.
She looked up as the two men strode in and instantly stiffened. Her hands stopped moving.
“You’re the police officers,” she said before they could even introduce themselves.
“Yes,” Giorgio said. “I’m Detective Giorgio Salvatori, and this is Rocky Salvatori. We’re with the Sierra Madre Police. We’re here to talk to you about what happened back in 1967. We think we know who abducted you.”
Her eyes opened wider and slowly, her hands began to shake.
“I know this is difficult, Ms. Riley. But we need your help,” he said, modulating the tone of his voice. “One of the men we believe did this to you is dead. But we need help in identifying the second man. We’d like to put him behind bars.”
She paused for a moment
, and Giorgio held his breath hoping she wouldn’t just turn and walk away.
Then she exhaled and said quietly, “Come with me.”
They followed her down a short hallway, where she handed off the towels to another woman. She led them into a small office at the end of the hallway, where she sat behind the desk, bracing her hands on the arms of the chair. Her body was tense and she looked as if she was afraid they were going to assault her. In a way, Giorgio thought, they were.
Giorgio and Rocky sat facing her.
She’d been pretty once. Her face had good bone structure, and she had few wrinkles, but she also had two dark splotches that stretched across one cheek, like dark birthmarks. And a small chunk of her left nostril was missing, along with her left earlobe. These were just some of the physical scars left behind from her ordeal. Giorgio couldn’t help but study her eyes, thinking about what Sheriff Masters had said about having her eyelashes pulled out one by one. When she noticed him studying her, he dropped his gaze.
“What do you want to know?” she said.
“Everything,” Giorgio replied, glancing back up at her. “Even if you think it’s not important. We believe these men have a long history of doing what they did to you. But you’re the only one we know of that got away.”
That raised an eyebrow. She clasped her hands in front of her on the desk, twisting her fingers into a knot. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
“I’ve spent my entire life trying to understand what happened to me,” she said, her voice shaking. “I was young and so damn carefree. I trusted everyone. The world was my oyster. Isn’t that the saying?”
She looked at them with a haunted expression.
“I know this is difficult, Ms. Riley. We don’t need to know the details of…of the physical abuse. We want to know about the men who abducted you. How they behaved with each other. How they even found you.”
She glanced down to her hands again and pressed her lips together. Then she began to speak as if it took every ounce of strength she had to get the words out.
“Two men offered me a ride one night.” Tears formed in her brown eyes, and she used her good hand to wipe them away. “They looked normal. Like my own dad. In fact, one of them said he had a daughter about my age and wouldn’t want her out hitchhiking alone. They said they’d drop me off at a motel. So I said okay.” She shook her head. “Such a simple act – getting into the wrong car.”
