Tahoe Blue Fire (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 13) Page 32

  “And if somebody knew about it, it could put you at risk.”

  “I already am. Someone broke into my house a couple of weeks ago. He went through my stuff, practically everything I have, and made quite a mess. But he didn’t take anything.”

  “I thought I saw an alarm panel by your door.”

  Vince nodded. “I have an alarm. It is wired to the door and all of the downstairs windows.”

  “The burglar came in an upstairs window?”

  “And went back out the same way. My alarm is quite old, so I don’t have motion detectors.”

  I thought about how Diamond described the male victim, Sean Warner, as a burglar specializing as a “second-story man.”

  “Any idea what he was looking for?” I asked.

  “Well, from the mess, he spent most of his time going through the Sinatra stuff, so it makes me think that he was looking for the Blue Fire Diamond.”

  “Any chance he found it? Someplace where you never looked?”

  “There is no place where I’ve never looked. I’ve been very thorough.”

  “In your searches, did you ever find any reference to the Blue Fire of Florence? Any piece of paper with the letters BFF on it?”

  “Other than the letter, no. But I found something very intriguing, if ambiguous.”

  “That’s what we investigators look for. What was it?”

  “A note that Frank Sinatra wrote to Marilyn Monroe.”

  FIFTY

  Vince went over to a bookshelf and pulled out a biography of Sinatra. He opened the back cover, removed a piece of paper, and handed it to me. It was white paper, yellowed a bit with age and lined with light blue lines faded almost to the point of invisibility. There was a note written with a blue ballpoint pen. It said,

  ‘M, I put it all on the line for you, but you rejected the whole concept. Yes, my reaction was too dramatic. But it’s still there. That shows how I feel about you even if things will never be the same. - F’

  I gestured with the note. “You kept this secret for some time, Vince. Why are you willing to tell someone about it now?”

  Vince walked over to the photo wall and looked at two pictures of Frank with Marilyn.

  “I think the Blue Fire is here in Tahoe,” Vince said, “and I think that others have figured out that much. Three people are dead, and there have been attempts on you and others. I can no longer think it’s right for me to sit on the info. Tell me what I can do to help.”

  “Let’s start by having you show me your Sinatra collection.”

  “It’s mostly just piles of boxes. This is a four-bedroom house, and I sleep in the smallest one. The others are stacked to the ceiling. Anyone who looked into those rooms would think I have a hoarding problem, which, I suppose, I do. I might sell the works. I looked up a bunch of items on eBay once. Whoa, was that an eye opener. It looks like I’ve got at least a quarter million dollars worth of stuff, if one were to carefully itemize it and sell it piece by piece. Maybe a lot more. But I’d prefer to find a good museum to take the collection. I’d be willing to donate the whole works, if it went to the right home. C’mon, I’ll give you a peek.”

  Vince stood up and went upstairs. Spot jumped up and looked at me. Ruby turned to stare at Spot, but she didn’t move.

  “My hound wants to come. That okay?”

  “Sure.”

  So Spot and I followed Vince up the stairs.

  “Here’s the biggest part of it,” Vince said, walking through an open door. “Fills the master suite.”

  Spot pushed ahead of me into a large room mostly filled with cardboard boxes piled in tall rows. There were two narrow aisles that one could squeeze through to get to the boxes near the wall.

  The area near the corner windows was where Vince had put stuff that wouldn’t fit in boxes. The largest item was a full-sized sculpture of Sinatra. It was made of metallic plastic that glittered in shades of red, magenta, pink, and orange. Nearby, standing up in a golden support was a golf driver, gold plated from handle to the club head. I picked it up. It was engraved. ‘This club is filled with lead. Maybe now you’ll be able to hit farther than 20 yards. Your fan, Dean Martin.’

  “Got that from Caesars Palace in Vegas,” Vince said.

  We moved to the other rooms. I looked in many of the boxes, not for anything in particular, but to see if anything gave me a new idea. I saw autographed napkins, a set of shot glasses with Sinatra’s picture on them, a jar of dirt with a label that said it was the first scoop that marked the beginning of the Cal Neva remodelling after Sinatra bought the hotel, bundles of letters, music award certificates too numerous to frame, copies of Nevada State files from the time when the gaming commission was investigating Sinatra’s alleged ties to organized crime.

  “How’d you get these?” I said holding up what looked like official Nevada government files.

  “Everything you want in life gets down to who you know,” Vince said. “I know a lot of people.”

  I spent 30 minutes looking but found nothing that might connect to the Blue Fire Diamond or Sinatra’s mother Dolly or anything related. Of course, I didn’t expect to find anything considering that Vince had been looking for the same thing for decades.

  When I was done, I said, “Anything else that isn’t in these rooms?”

  “Just the sculptures and the photo wall downstairs.”

  Back in the living room, Vince held his arms wide in a gesture to show the scope of the photo wall. There were several dozens of photos, most, but not all, of Sinatra. Many of the other people in the photos were famous, from presidents and foreign heads of state to royalty from around the world. There were photos of Sinatra receiving Grammy Awards and his Academy Award and Golden Globe Awards. There were photos of Sinatra performing all over the world from Caesars Palace in Vegas to Carnegie Hall in New York to London and Paris.

  In its own area on the wall was a group of photos that were all taken at Tahoe, from the Cal Neva Hotel to boats out on the lake. There were pictures of Sinatra with his Rat Pack pals Joey Bishop, Sammy Davis Jr., Peter Lawford, and Dean Martin. There were photos of his friends and associates, including John and Robert Kennedy. There was a picture of Sinatra with mobster Sam Giancana. And there was Marilyn Monroe, sitting at a table at the Cal Neva, watching Sinatra perform.

  “And these are Sinatra’s records,” Vince said, pointing at a substantial shelf on an adjacent wall. “I have them all, including the rare ones.”

  Ruby walked out from under the piano, strolled past Vince’s feet, and sauntered over near Spot. Casual as could be, she lay down on the carpet near him, then stretched out her head until her nose nearly touched his. Spot shifted his head closer, but he didn’t lift it off the carpet. His nostrils were flexing. It seemed as if Ruby was watching them move.

  Vince stared. “I’ll be damned. Look at that cat. It’s like she’s flirting with your dog.”

  Vince moved over near the fireplace. On a stand was a large aquarium with bright tropical fish, orange and yellow and blue, swimming elaborate patterns.

  “This was at the Cal Neva. See the line on the bottom?” He pointed to a black line that went across the white gravel on the bottom of the tank.

  I nodded.

  “For years, this aquarium was inset at the end of the lobby where the state line between Nevada and California ran across the lobby floor. So Sinatra had a line painted on the bottom of the aquarium, and then he put in a bunch of fish and asked visitors to guess which were the Nevada fish and which were the California fish.”

  “Are these the same kind that he had?”

  Vince laughed. “I doubt it. I just picked what the pet store had. To my knowledge, there’s no record of what Sinatra had. I saw one old photo with the aquarium in the background. The photo was in black and white, and the fish were nondescript, so it’s anybody’s guess what kind of fish he had.”

  “Anything else I should’ve asked about?”

  Vince paused, then slowly shook his head. “But if I th
ink of something, I’ll give you a call. You’re welcome to come back anytime and dig through boxes.”

  “Thanks.” I turned to leave, then stopped. “Vince, I don’t want to alarm you, but I’d like you to be very security conscious. Someone is killing people who knew about the diamond.”

  I told Vince about Old Man Joseph and how he’d been interrogated about the Blue Fire Diamond and then left to die.

  “So I can’t stress that enough. Be very careful. Lock your doors.” I gestured at the windows. “Keep the drapes pulled.”

  “Will do. This place seals up tight. Ruby has her cat door, but it’s tiny, and its frame is solid. No person could get through.”

  “You should also use your garage so that you’re not visible when you get in and out of your car,” I said. “Come and go at unpredictable hours. Don’t let him know where you are at any time.”

  Vince shook his head. “That would be like living in prison. At my age, I won’t spend the rest of my life, however little of it there is, hiding from the boogeyman.”

  I walked over to the front door. Spot followed. I turned and reached for the doorknob. “Thanks for letting me look at your Sinatra memorabilia. It is an amazing collection.”

  Vince came over and gave Spot a pet, then looked up at me. He seemed sad to see us go. And in his sadness, he looked his age. With his ever youthful false teeth and false hair and facelift, and, probably, nitro-freezing for age spots, and laser treatments for fading vision, he seemed like one of the awkward agers.

  I appreciate older people who embrace their age, wrinkles, yellowed teeth, thick eyeglasses, and bald pates with the fringe of white fuzz. Yet, even as I thought that Vince’s cosmetic applications looked obvious and goofy, I also realized that they did in fact make him look younger. Maybe the facades he put up to fend off aging were just a sign of youthful spirit. He still felt young, so he was going to try to look young. Screw the degradations of age. And if anyone had a problem with it, Vince didn’t care.

  Spot and I walked out the door into the night. I shut it and waited a few seconds to hear the reassuring sound of the deadbolt.

  FIFTY-ONE

  We got in the Jeep and drove away, turning onto Venice Drive and heading east.

  The night was cold, and there was a mist coming off the canals. The Keys’ houses were largely dark, empty vacation homes that would go unused by owners and renters alike until summer was upon us in July. The streets were empty as well, with none of the parked cars that spilled out of driveways and onto the streets on a normal summer night. The only one I drove by at the shoulder was a Fiat 500, just like the one Street and I had rented in Italy. I cruised on past, thinking about things Italian. Italian influence on America was pervasive. We ate Italian food, we wore Italian clothes, we drank Italian wine, we celebrated Italian movie stars, Italian art, Italian sports cars, Italian singers. Like Frank Sinatra.

  It seemed that ever since Bruno Valenti told us about selling the Blue Fire Diamond to Sinatra, I kept bumping into people who celebrated Sinatra. People who’d seen Sinatra perform. People who’d watched his movies. People who collected Sinatra memorabilia. People who listened to his music. Like Vince Russo. Like the guy at the city yard who had Sinatra on his boombox. What was his name? Emilio. Wasn’t Emilio also an Italian name? I’d thought he was Hispanic. But maybe he was Sicilian. Maybe the best way to disguise an Italian accent was to cover it with a manufactured Hispanic accent...

  I slowed, turned around, drove back and stopped near the Fiat. It was parked near a canal. Like the canal near Vince’s house, it would be crowded come summer. But now, this one had just a few floating docks and no boats.

  But it could have held a boat an hour ago. And Brann Crosen had described Emilio as a guy who could make any engine run. Maybe even when he didn’t have an ignition key.

  I pulled out and sped back to Vince’s street, slowed to a quiet stop some distance from Vince’s house, got out with Spot, and we trotted through the dark.

  The house was mostly dark. Vince had turned off his lights. But there seemed to be a glow of light on the side with the canal. I held Spot’s collar as I went around the side of the house. The winter’s blanket of snow had melted. The fresh snow of the last day was soft. We could walk quietly without crunching through crusted snow.

  The glow of light was coming through the drapes on the windows that faced the canal. I heard voices. I couldn’t make out the words, but I could hear the stress, the tension, the fear.

  Nearby, was Vince’s floating dock. Unlike earlier, there was a boat tied to one of the posts at the end of the dock, its bow facing the lake.

  Spot’s ears were focused, his eyes searching, nostrils flexing. I touched my finger across the top of Spot’s nose, a signal to be silent. I wanted to rush in, break down a door, but I paused, considering my options.

  I walked softly down the ramp to the dock.

  The boat was a low profile speedboat with an outboard engine. The cockpit was small, protected from the wind by a tiny windshield.

  “Spot, stay,” I whispered, then stepped into the boat. It rocked and bumped noisily against the dock. I took out my penlight, shielded the rim of the light and turned it on. The boat contained the usual gear. Life jackets shoved under the bow deck. Dock bumpers in the side stowage just below the gunnel. A small anchor tucked into a stern bin.

  The boat was moored by a single line at the stern. I saw another long line looped around a cleat on the bow. One of the ends ran back along the side of the boat and into the stowage at the stern. The other lay loose on the bow and was long enough to reach a dock post. I dropped it over the post with a running bowline knot. There was still some slack in the line, so I pushed it down onto the surface of the water so it would not be too obvious. If one of the men in Vince’s house tried to make a fast escape and only unhitched the rear mooring line, he’d be in for a surprise as he tried to drive off and discovered that the boat was still lashed to the dock.

  When I was back out of the boat, the line was noticeable even in the dim light from distant house lights across the canal. But perhaps the boat’s operator wouldn’t notice, because he would assume that the boat was as he had left it.

  Spot and I tiptoed up the dock ramp and over to the windows. The voices were louder, angry. I thought I heard Vince say, “I told you, I don’t know!”

  I gently put my hand on the handle of the sliding glass door.

  It was locked.

  There was a small patio. At the outer two corners were large ceramic planters, empty now, waiting for summer flowers that were still two months off.

  I did a test lift on one. It was nearly as heavy as the bronze statue I used to stop Mario Montana on his scooter at the church in Roccatederighi in Tuscany.

  “Okay, Spot,” I whispered in his ear in a tone that would prepare him for action.

  I bent my knees, gripped the planter, and lifted it up. I gave it a backswing, then let it fly toward one of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  It was like an explosion as the planter crashed through window and blinds. The tempered glass collapsed all at once. I put my arm out to sweep the blinds aside, and I ran through into Vince’s living room. Spot was at my side.

  There were three men, all showing shock at what had just happened. All turned to stare.

  Emilio from the city yard was on the left. His arm was up, pointing, telling the others what to do.

  Brann Crosen was in the center of the room. His right hand and arm were in a splint, the result of Adam Simms crushing it with his hands. In Crosen’s left hand was a large knife, a silent weapon that wouldn’t alert neighbors to mayhem. Standing in front of him was Vince, trying to work a key into the lock of the glass display case that held the Sinatra sculptures.

  “Spot!” I yelled as much to unnerve the men as to communicate to Spot. “Take the suspect! Take him down!” I dropped my lower arm in front of Spot’s face and pointed toward Crosen.

  Crosen was fast. He grabbed Vince and spun him a
round as a shield against Spot. Crosen held the knife against Vince’s neck.

  But dogs don’t respond to threats. Spot jumped up, hitting Vince in the chest with his paws. Both Vince and Crosen toppled over backward.

  Crosen rolled, got his left hand out, knife up toward Spot. But Spot was faster. His jaws closed on Crosen’s hand, biting down. Crosen screamed as his hand was crushed against the knife handle enclosed in his grip. He tried to jerk away from Spot. But a dog’s natural reaction to resistance is to bite harder. Crosen screamed louder.

  I pulled Vince to his feet as I turned toward Emilio.

  “I’m so sorry,” Vince said, his voice shaking. “Ruby had gone outside, and this man appeared at my window, knife to Ruby’s neck. I couldn’t let him butcher her. I had to open the door.”

  Emilio picked up a chair and threw it at me. There was no time to duck, but I got my arm up. The chair knocked me back onto the couch. Emilio came at me. I rolled to the floor and reached out my leg to trip him. He fell. I leaped on top of him, pinning him to the floor. I tugged at his arm, trying to jerk it behind his back. But Emilio was very strong. He twisted sideways and swung back with an elbow punch that grazed my jaw. He got his knees up and kicked out, pushing off the couch, driving himself out from underneath me.

  I jumped to my feet. But as I turned toward him, Emilio was already up, in the martial arts position used by Crosen and his men against Adam Simms. Emilio was bouncing on his toes.

  “Good move, Emilio. Or is it Antonio Scozzari?” I said, as I circled, my fists up. “From the L.A. crime family. Friend of Mario Montana in Tuscany. Co-conspirator in chasing down the Blue Fire of Florence. Murderer of how many people? Two with a rotary plow? One with a rifle? More that we don’t know about?” I danced left, then right.