Murder In the Past Tense (A Giorgio Salvatori Mystery Book 2) (15 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Giorgio woke the next day to a forbidding sky and a dull headache. Once he’d made it home the night before, he’d lain awake staring at the ceiling thinking about the three girls, their wounds, and their horrific deaths, finally falling into a restless slumber.

As a New York cop, he’d seen gang murders, killings for revenge, greed, and power. He’d even seen his share of torture. When he’d adopted Grosvenor and realized that someone had used a cigarette to burn his skin, he’d immediately thought of a four-year old boy who had been tortured in a similar way in New York. But Giorgio hadn’t seen anything like what this appeared to be – the wanton, repeated torture of young women.

There was a problem, though. No one even knew about these women, and he had no idea who they were. How was he supposed to investigate crimes that no one in
this
world even suspected? He couldn’t very well approach a judge and ask for a search warrant based on visions he’d had of ghosts.

He made it to the office frustrated and bleary-eyed. He spent the morning valiantly trying to focus on the current investigation, when the phone rang. It was Detective Abrams from Seattle.

“Maybe some good news,” he said. “Our guys found a syringe in the gutter about a block from the nursing home. There were only partial prints on it, and there’s no way to tell if it was the one used to kill Montgomery, but this isn’t a normal neighborhood for drug paraphernalia. So we’re having the lab run it anyway.  Maybe we’ll get lucky and it will match whatever we find in Montgomery’s system. I should have his tox screen back this afternoon.”

“Anything from your psychic friend?” Giorgio asked hopefully, his thoughts returning to the images of the girls the night before.

“Yes, but I’m not sure it’s helpful,” Abrams replied. “I took her up to the nursing home and then down to the morgue. She kept seeing a cabinet.”

“A cabinet?” Giorgio said.

“Yeah. A wooden cabinet and something about a rose. Also, when she placed her hand on the puncture wound on Montgomery’s neck, she said she felt as if she was drawn through a tunnel of sorts. Back in time, through several decades of the same family.”

“Montgomery’s family?” Giorgio asked.

“No. She didn’t think so. She thought it was whoever held that syringe,” Abrams replied.

“What do you suppose that means?” Giorgio asked.

Abrams sighed loudly. “Hell if I know. I don’t profess to understand how this works. Or even
if
it works. But she grew very weak and almost passed out as a result.”

“Huh, I wonder why?” Giorgio murmured as he wrote notes on a pad of paper.

“She said she saw a whole lot of death – painful deaths.”

“Murders?” Giorgio asked, looking up, his heart rate increasing.

“She thinks so. At least they were traumatic deaths. She said these people are all connected somehow through very painful deaths. It was enough to make her physically ill.”

Giorgio’s body was humming. “Did she see any details? Like faces?”

“Only that they were all women. That’s why I said it might not be much help.” Abrams said.

“Okay, thanks,” Giorgio said, sitting back with disappointment. “Let me know about the tox screen.”

“Will do,” Abrams replied.

Giorgio hung up and stared at the opposite wall for a moment, unable to quiet the raging thoughts in his head. Traumatic deaths going back a long time. All women. It made him wonder – how long had those girls been buried at the Pinney House?

He had to know more.

While Rocky went out to interview Jimmy Finn’s brother, Marvin, and McCready tracked down Cheryl Lincoln in Florida, Giorgio drove to a small white bungalow a block off Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena. He’d seen the house many times on his way to his favorite Mexican restaurant.

He parked at the curb and turned to study the entrance for a moment, questioning whether he really wanted to do this. He didn’t know anything about the place, other than what the sign said. And his better judgment was telling him to just turn around and go back to the office.

And yet, he hesitated.

The sign outside said, “Psychic. Palm reading. Tarot cards. Walk-ins welcome.”

When he’d first seen Christian Maynard’s apparition at the monastery, he’d ignored it, telling himself it was his imagination. When he saw the boy again, he felt a little confused and embarrassed. After all, he was the lead investigator on a major murder case. How could he explain such a strange phenomenon? So he’d never told anyone. But when he saw the boy a third time, he began to question his sanity, at least until it was clear that Christian’s ghost was actually trying to help.

He’d thought many times about stopping here to see if the psychic could help explain his experience at the monastery. But his cop brain had always stopped him. Psychics were for kooks or gullible women trying to connect with long-lost lovers. But the boy was back, and it couldn’t be a coincidence that he had taken Giorgio to the Pinney House, the exact place where the Martinellis had lived when Lisa Farmer went missing. He didn’t know if the deaths of all those girls were connected to Lisa Farmer, but the psychic in Seattle seemed to think they were
connected to Montgomery’s death, and Giorgio needed to know for himself what was going on. He only hoped that he wasn’t making a big mistake.

With a sigh, he got out of the car and strode up the walkway to the front door of the little bungalow. He started to knock, but then noticed a small sign hanging from a beaded wire on the door that said, “Please Enter. Madame Mirabelle will see you.”

The name was an instant turnoff, and he thought about leaving. But he took the doorknob in his hand and turned it, springing a small bell as he entered a waiting room.

The room was furnished in comfortable overstuffed furniture. Two chairs were draped in quilts, while a wooden rocker sat in the corner. The tinkling sound of water drew his attention to a small water feature that sat on a stack of old suitcases now serving as a side table.

His nose twitched at the deep floral scent of incense, and in the background was the sound of harp music. All in all, he felt like he’d walked into a New Age bookstore and wondered again if he’d made a mistake. The only normal things in this place were several copies of
Vogue
and
Good Housekeeping
scattered across a coffee table made out of an old wicker picnic basket.

As he stood uncomfortably in the entrance, a side door opened and two women emerged.

“Give it some time, Mrs. Fanning,” a young woman said to the plump, middle-aged woman by her side.

The older woman just nodded and used a tissue to wipe her eyes. Giorgio stepped out of the way as she passed by and left. He shifted awkwardly back onto his heels as the young woman turned her gaze upon him.

“May I help you?” she said in a gravelly voice.

She was probably twenty-three or twenty-four, of medium height. Her short, spiky black hair had a red streak that swept from front to back on the left side. Although it was December, the young woman was wearing a tank top and baggy jeans.

It seemed that everywhere he looked she sported either a tattoo or piercing of some kind. She had two rings pierced through her lower lip, a stud in her nose, three or four small hoops up each ear, and a bar through one eyebrow. Giorgio felt his skin prickle at the thought of so many holes punched through his skin, and he couldn’t help but flash momentarily on the girls from the night before with their many cuts and missing parts.

He had to forcibly switch thoughts.

She smiled as she watched him take it all in.

“You’re a cop,” she said matter-of-factly.

His eyebrows shot up. “You know that because you’re psychic?”

“No,” she laughed. “I can see you assessing me. Cops read people like me,” she said without any animosity. “They map the tats and remember how many rings I have through my lip, just in case they have to ID me later for something – you know, as either a suspect or a victim.”

“
Have
you been ID’d before?” he smiled.

“Only as a suspect. I’m never a victim,” she said confidently. Her lips parted into a self-satisfied grin. “You don’t believe me,” she said.

Giorgio shrugged. “I don’t know whether to believe you or not. I guess that’s why I’m here.”

“Right. Because I see things. You want to see things, too.”

He stuck his hands into his pockets. “I want to talk to you,” he said. “I have questions.”

“I get paid by the hour,” she said. “Read the sign, and then I’ll meet you inside.”

She returned to the other room. He glanced over at a sign that said, “Reading Fees.” According to the chart, a half hour reading was $35. A full hour was only $60. Even psychics cut deals, he thought.

He got out his wallet.

When he stepped into the next room, he was enveloped by a feeling of claustrophobia. The curtains were drawn and a single dim light hung from the middle of the ceiling. The walls were draped in white, gauzy fabric. Although the room was carpeted, a second, round area rug had been laid on top of the wall-to-wall.

Once the door closed, there was utter silence.

A square table, flanked by two chairs, took up the center of the room. Several straight-back chairs sat against one wall. Underneath the curtained window was a narrow table with a pitcher of water and a stack of plastic glasses.

His skepticism must have registered on his face.

“This is normally my aunt’s gig,” she said. “She likes all of this…ambience. Me? I could take it or leave it.”

“So you’re not the…you’re not…?”

Her laughter rang like a pair of church bells. “Madame Mirabelle?” She lowered herself into the chair on the opposite side of the table. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

He pulled out a wooden captain’s chair and sat down.

“No, I’m not Madame Mirabelle,” she smiled. “That’s my aunt. Her ex-husband died in Atlanta, so she went to the funeral. I’m filling in.”

Giorgio started to get up again. “I’m sorry, then. I think I’ll…”

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” she said, putting a hand up. “Not so fast. You have questions. I have answers.”

“No, I think I’ve made a mistake,” he said, turning for the door.

He was just about to step out when she said, “The boy’s here, you know. He came in with you.”

Giorgio whirled around. “What?”

“The boy…the one in the knickers and the white shirt. He came in with you. He’s over by the window,” she nodded to her left.

Giorgio’s heart rate went into overdrive. He stepped back to the table.

“Why can’t I see him?” he asked. “I usually see him.”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “We could ask him,” she said, holding out her hand.

He paused, but then fished out thirty-five dollars in cash and handed it over. As he sat down, he asked, “What should I call you?”

“My friends call me Flame.”

His eyes drifted up to the red streak in her hair.

“And you are?”

“I’m Detective Salvatori.”

“So, do you want to know who he is?”

“No. I know who he is. I want to know why he’s still here. I thought I…released him.”

She gave him a quizzical look, but then shrugged again.

“Okay, I’ll try. But they don’t come through the way you and I are talking right now. I sometimes hear voices, but it’s usually just snatches of conversations. I mostly get impressions, which I then have to interpret. Sometimes I’m right. Sometimes I’m wrong. And they don’t usually appear like this,” she said, glancing to the window. “This is unusual. Anyway, why don’t we try something easy first?”

“Like what?”

“Like how old he is.”

“I generally know how old he is,” Giorgio said.

She sighed in frustration. “Is there something else?”

“No. Go ahead – ask him how old he is. I don’t know for sure.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Christian,” Giorgio replied, glancing at the water table again.

The girl closed her eyes. He watched her, wondering again at his sanity. He even glanced around the room, wondering if there was any kind of special effects apparatus built into the ceiling.

But then Flame leaned back in the chair and her breathing slowed. He watched her again, hoping she wouldn’t start speaking in tongues or try to levitate.

“Ten, I think,” she said. “He’s ten years old. He’s holding up all of his fingers.”

She paused again and tilted her head, as if listening to something. Giorgio waited.

“He’s showing me a big Spanish-style building. He seems very sad about it. I think it’s where he died.” She paused and the room went still for several seconds. “Oh, yes,” she said. “He jumped out a window to hang himself.” Her voice reflected sadness, and she shook her head slightly at the mental image. There was another long pause. “Now he’s showing me…I’m not sure. I think it might be his father. Yes, his mother, too. He also had a little brother. He left them all behind, when he…” She paused. “When he hung himself.” She swallowed as if whatever she was seeing was difficult. “Anyway, now he’s…he’s somewhere else. He’s surrounded by several young girls. I think they’re people who haven’t crossed over.” She wrinkled her brow. “I’m not sure why they’re with him.”