Tahoe Blue Fire (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 13) Page 22

  The scooter appeared below us. The shooter saw us up at the top of the stairs and raised his gun.

  I pulled Street out onto an open area as the man fired from below. Bullets thudded into the rock next to us. The shooter revved his scooter, driving it up the stairway, its wheels easily gripping the shallow, granite steps.

  We sprinted out onto the plaza of the ancient church, perched at the top of the small mountain near Valenti’s house. I pulled Street with me as I jumped up two feet onto a stone-paved square. We ran across the square toward the far side where there was a short rock wall. Beyond the wall, the mountain dropped away down a steep slope.

  The motor scooter revved behind us. Another spit of muffled gunfire came at us. I pulled Street to the left and then to the right as we ran, a serpentine motion to make us harder targets to hit.

  There was more gunfire.

  “Try to get over the wall and climb down the slope,” I shouted to Street. “I’ll see if I can stop him.”

  Street shouted at me, “Those sculptures in front of the church. You could use them!”

  As Street ran for the wall, clambered over it, and lowered herself down the other side, I veered toward the front of the church and its two sculptures, one made of stone, one bronze. The bronze one might be hollow and lighter. It was about five feet tall, a man in robes, probably a saint. As I ran up to it, I circled around, grabbing it under its elbows, lifting, pulling, jerking.

  It must have weighed 250 pounds. I dragged its feet off of its pedestal and moved in a rotating motion, lifting the sculpture with centrifugal force. I leaned back against its weight and spun around, keeping its feet in the air. I did one full rotation, then began another, the bronze saint’s feet rising. In my peripheral vision, I saw the young man on his motor scooter. Somehow, he’d jumped the scooter up the two-foot rise onto the church plaza. He came straight for me, his gun raised. As I rotated around, I saw the dark eye of his gun barrel flash. I let go of the bronze saint. It clattered onto the stone surface. The saint’s hand caught in a crack in the stones and flipped the sculpture over into the path of the scooter.

  The scooter driver tried to slow, tried to evade. But he hit the saint on its chest, the thickest part. The scooter stopped fast, and the man went over the handlebars. He almost cleared the plaza without touching, but his head struck a glancing blow on the stone wall as he flew over it, and he flipped over as he went off the drop off just two feet from where Street had gone out of sight.

  I ran to the wall and looked down. Street was crouched down beneath the wall, gripping a bush and digging her feet into crumbling dirt to keep from sliding down the mountain. Below her, the scooter driver was rolling, limp like a rag doll. He came to a stop against a boulder.

  I reached down to Street’s hand and helped her up and over the wall.

  “We’re safe now,” I said, hugging her hard.

  She trembled in my grip, but she didn’t speak.

  “I’m going to climb down to the driver. Are you okay waiting here? I don’t think anyone else is out prowling and looking for us. But if you step around the back side of the church and flatten yourself against the far wall, no one will be able to see you.”

  Street nodded, still silent, the trauma of the chase obvious on her face.

  She ran toward the church. I climbed over the stone wall.

  The slope the young man had tumbled down was steep. I used both hands as I climbed down, grabbing onto bushes and protruding rock and tufts of grass. The man was about 30 yards below the wall, face down in the dirt, wrapped halfway around the boulder. As I got close, I saw that he was still alive. One foot was moving, turning back and forth. Both of his hands were visible. I looked for his gun, but I didn’t see it. It could be far below us. Or it could be under his body.

  I put my fingers through the back of the man’s belt and lifted. He didn’t resist. I got him turned over, face to the sky, still held in place by the boulder. One of his eyes was shut, the tissue around it already blue and swelling. The other eye was partway open, unfocused. There was no gun where he’d been lying.

  I went through his pockets and took his keys.

  The man was quite banged up, scraped and bleeding on his hands and forehead. There was a significant laceration on his left elbow. But it didn’t look like his injuries were lethal.

  I slapped his face. “Wake up.”

  His lips tried to form a word, but it sounded like gibberish.

  It was possible that he had a serious concussion. It was possible that he had bleeding on the brain and would die in minutes, but I doubted it. From his movements, I guessed that he would be crawling back up the slope within an hour.

  I scrambled back up to the church plaza and found Street at the back side of the church.

  “Okay?” I said.

  “I’ve been kidnapped twice in connection with your cases, but I’ve never been shot at.”

  “I’m so sorry about that.” I hugged her again. She was shaking.

  “Is the shooter…”

  “He’s alive, but he’s unconscious and banged up. He lost his gun. I think he’ll come around in an hour or two. We have some time.”

  Street made a small nod as we walked.

  “You’ve been shot at multiple times,” she said. “I don’t know how you handle the stress.”

  “I just remind myself that the vast majority of all shots miss. Not that it’s much comfort.” I put my arm around her shoulder and got her walking. Movement is always good for psychological trauma.

  “Actually, that is a kind of comfort,” Street said. “Next time, I’ll tell myself that.”

  “Let’s hope there’s never a next time.”

  “Where to now? Do we call the police and a doctor for the shooter?”

  “I’d first like to revisit Bruno Valenti, if you think you’re up to that.”

  “But he’s the one who no doubt ordered us killed.”

  “Right. And he’s expecting his assistant to come back and report.” I pulled out the young man’s keys and showed Street. “Valenti won’t know it’s me until I walk into his room.”

  Street looked alarmed.

  “If you like, we can go back to the car, drive away, and I can come back alone, later.”

  “No. I should come. I have to face these things.”

  “It could be dangerous.”

  “Yes. But I think that Valenti’s houseman was the only other person there. And Valenti doesn’t seem dangerous by himself.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Instead of trying Bruno Valenti’s front door, we walked around to the side where I guessed the young man had emerged with the scooter.

  There was an ancient stone overhang, large enough to be a carport if the streets allowed something as wide as a car to pass. Instead of a car, there was a stylish three-wheeled scooter. The front seat was like that on a motorcycle, with similar handlebars and controls. Behind it and above the two rear wheels was a larger seat with a back rest. The trike was no more than four feet wide, narrow enough for Valenti’s assistant to give him rides up and down the steep streets of the medieval town. To the side of the trike was enough space to park a motor scooter. There was a door at the back of the stone carport. I didn’t see a video camera or a motion light, but that didn’t mean we weren’t watched.

  Moving quietly, I tried the doorknob. It was locked.

  I didn’t want to risk making noise by trying different keys in the lock. So I studied the key opening and then found the key that matched. I held the doorknob to help muffle the sound as I slid the key in, click by click. The key turned, and the door opened.

  I motioned Street to follow. We walked softly into a kitchen, went through it to a dining room with large windows that showed the grand valley views. To the side was a hallway that looked like the one we’d been in earlier when we’d come in the front door. The next room would be the one with Valenti.

  I put my hand palm out and pointed at the floor, letting Street know that I wanted her to
stay here out of the danger range in case Valenti had a gun. Moving silently, I peeked around the corner. Valenti was still on his reclining couch, his hands folded across his chest, his head back, snoozing. I took silent steps until I was standing next to him, close enough to grab him if he reached for a hidden weapon.

  I spoke loudly enough to wake him up. “You need a more reliable assassin, Bruno.”

  Valenti awoke with a jerk. His eyes were wide. “You…” His hands seemed to clench in fear.

  “Yeah, your boy is a screwup. And you’re an idiot for sending untrained help on a mission over his head. Maybe now we’ll have a more productive talk, huh?”

  “I don’t know to what you are talking.” Bruno stopped looking at me. His gaze went up toward the ceiling, his look was intense, the fear now mixed with confusion. His body tensed as if he were doing crunches. He started to vibrate. His right hand went to his left arm, squeezing it as if he had a sudden pain. His left hand reached down to the couch, feeling where the fabric of his bedclothes met the cushion. I tensed, ready to grab his arm if he brought out a weapon.

  He pulled out a small vial. With practiced precision, he flipped open the top with his thumb, raised the vial, and popped a pill into his mouth. He shut his eyes and mouth. His lips and jaw moved as if he was getting the pill under his tongue.

  “You want me to get help?” I said.

  “No.” Valenti managed to say, his voice soft.

  Valenti breathed hard and fast. Street came into the room and looked at me.

  “We’ll wait a bit,” I said to her.

  Gradually, Valenti’s breathing slowed. He stopped shaking. Valenti opened his eyes and spoke.

  “I will not go back to prison. This is the end. Fifth heart attack. The doctor said if I had another, that would be it. I want to die here. Not in a hospital. In my home.” He clenched again, his eyes shut tight, his upper body rising slightly. Slowly, he relaxed.

  “Tell me about the Blue Fire of Florence,” I said. “Otherwise, we call the police.”

  “No policia!” He said in a raspy whisper.

  “Then talk.”

  He breathed hard several more times. His face was a peculiar gray. He closed his eyes as if calming himself, then spoke. His voice was airy and softer still.

  “This is my end. I can tell. So now I will tell a story. What difference will it make?” Valenti’s knuckles bulged as his fists tightened. He breathed shallow, fast breaths.

  We waited.

  “Back in early nineteen sixties,” he began, “when I was in my thirties, I was in prime of life and making a name for myself in the business. I got unusual PO. I think it was nineteen sixty-one.”

  “What’s a PO?” I asked.

  “Purchase Order. A buy request. We had other names for them. If the PO was big, we called it - let me think of the English - a yacht builder. The way it worked, if someone would pay highest dollar for something, we were willing to get it for them. The buyer did not know that we were inventive to how we acquire these items. The buyer thought we were dealers.”

  “What kind of dealers?” I asked.

  “It depend on what buyer wanted. If buyer wanted valuable painting, we were art dealers. If buyer wanted a piece of military, we were weapon merchants. The more hard the item was to get, the more the buyer needed specialty dealer like us. And the more expensive the item, the more resource we invest to find it.” He stopped to breathe, over and over. He’d been speaking slowly. Maybe I could help him speed up.

  “So if someone wanted the Blue Fire of Florence and was willing to pay big bucks for it,” I said, “you were willing to pose as gem merchants to the buyer. So you made inquiries regarding its whereabouts, and then you went and stole the diamond.”

  Bruno Valenti’s face was turning from pale gray to a duller gray. He took several more labored breaths. “Sì.”

  “How did you find and steal it?”

  “My capo knew a guy who knew a guy who worked with Florentine mosaics. This is art of creating pictures with the colored Venetian glass and the gemstones. This man sold individual gems as well. He told that the Fuoco blu di Firenze was to be in the safe of a Florentine family who had the connections back to the Medicis of the Renaissance.”

  “So you and your men burglarized the family’s house, then broke into the safe and found the Blue Fire of Florence.”

  “It is very hard to break secure lock box. So we had the truck and the hydraulic hoist and took the safe. We cut it open at our warehouse. There were lots of jewels.” Valenti sounded proud. “They were very amazing.”

  “And the gems included the Blue Fire.”

  He nodded.

  “How did you know? How could you verify that it was the actual diamond? Did you have a jewel expert with you?”

  “There was huge blue diamond in lock box. We knew the Blue Fire of Florence is red glowing diamond.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s very rare. It happens only with certain blue diamonds. Just to be sure, we got special light from jeweler. He called it the ultraviolet color. We took the diamond to the darkest corner of the warehouse and shined the light. When we turned the light off, the Blue Fire of Florence glow like red fire. Very dramatic. That proved it was the real gem. The diamond’s huge size was more proof. Of course, in the Medici time, there was nothing like these special lights. But the sun also has the violet color. If someone holds the diamond in sunlight and then brings it into dark room where you are waiting with your eyes already in the darkness, you will see it glow bright red. But the special light makes it easier to see.”

  “What happened to the diamond?”

  “The buyer was in the States. He used a middle seller. A woman named Natalina Garaventa. Natalina got a message to us that she would pay two million dollars cash for the Blue Fire of Florence. That was a lot of money. But the diamond was most amazing. So two million was very good price.

  “We made some questions about Natalina Garaventa. We learned she represent a rich buyer in the States. She lived in Hoboken, New Jersey. But she was originally from Italy. She spoke native Italian, and she had a sister in Genoa, Italy. ”

  Valenti shut his eyes and breathed many shallow lungfuls. I heard phlegm rattling in his bronchial tubes.

  “So you sold Natalina the diamond.”

  “Sì. We brought it to Natalina’s sister’s house. Full service. She had jeweler to confirm the authenticity. He brought one of the special lights and shined it on the diamond to see it glow red. He told Natalina - who went by the name Dolly - that it was real, and she paid us cash. Hundred dollar bills. Twenty thousand of them.”

  “Any idea where the diamond might be now?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea who Dolly was buying it for?”

  “Sì,” Valenti said. He breathed some more, his lungs sounding worse. “Dolly had married a man who was also from Italy. A man named Antonino Martino Sinatra. Their son was born in Hoboken. He was the singer Frank Sinatra. He was the real purchaser.” Valenti appeared distracted by pain.

  Street leaned toward me and whispered, “There’s your connection between Tahoe and the Italian Renaissance. Do you want to ask him about the Cal Neva Hotel?”

  I nodded. I said to Valenti, “Back in the time you speak of, the early sixties, Sinatra owned the Cal Neva, a hotel at Lake Tahoe where we’re from,” I said. “He was reputed to have been involved with the Mafia, and the state of Nevada took away his gaming license as a result.”

  Valenti’s head moved just a bit. Maybe it was another nod.

  “Were you connected to that in some way?” I asked. “Beyond just selling his mother the diamond that you stole? Or, after you knew who the purchaser was, did you or your relatives get involved with Sinatra then?”

  Valenti looked at me. Then his hands and abdomen clenched in another crunch-type move. He sucked in air as if fighting pain. Then his muscles loosened. He relaxed. The air came out of his lungs in a long, slow, rattling breath as if he wer
e sighing.

  It was his last sigh. He went still.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I wanted to walk away. We’d gotten the information we came for. Bruno Valenti had died, and the injured young man was unlikely to talk considering he was the one trying to kill us.

  But the ex-cop in me needed to play by the rules. Most of the rules, anyway. So I called the polizia.

  We heard their arrival fifteen minutes later, the sound of sirens pulling into the village below and stopping down the slope where the cars could go no farther. After several minutes, five officers came into the door that I’d opened for them. They were all panting hard from their trot up through the steep village. The man in charge spoke excellent English.

  “I am Ispettore Speranza. And you are?”

  “I’m Owen McKenna and this is my companion Street Casey.”

  “From America,” he said, recognizing Americans, as all Italians do, whether it be by speech or clothing or manner. He walked over and looked down at Valenti’s body, touching the face, then touching the cornea on one of Valenti’s eyeballs. With no reaction, it was an effective way of telling that there was no normal brain function. He drew his fingertips down over Valenti’s eyes to shut his eyelids. They reopened half way. He did it again. They stayed mostly shut.

  “Ispettore Speranza means...?” I said.

  “Like a police inspector in America.” He was proud.

  I nodded. “I was with the San Francisco Police Department before I quit.”

  He looked at me, reassessing. “What was your rank?”

  “I was a homicide inspector.”

  Speranza frowned.

  “Like a sergeant who focuses on murder,” I said. “Just as you’re doing now.”

  “You said ‘was.’ Now you are retired? Or private?” Speranza said.

  “Private.”

  “You are in Italy on business or pleasure?”

  “Business.”

  He gestured at Bruno Valenti’s body. “This is your business?”