Murder In the Past Tense (A Giorgio Salvatori Mystery Book 2) by LYNN BOHART Page B

stinks.”

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER FOURTEEN
     
    As he and Swan left Pasadena and headed back towards Sierra Madre, Giorgio got a call from McCready.
    “Good news,” McCready said. “Jimmy Finn isn’t dead.”
    Giorgio flashed a look at Swan. “Do tell.”
    “Apparently he did hang himself in prison about thirty years ago, but they cut him down in time to save him,” McCready continued. “He was on life support for a while, but finally woke up. They put him in a psychiatric ward. He was released about eleven years ago and has been living in a halfway house ever since.”
    “Have an address?”
    “Sure do,” McCready said.
    The young cop read off the address, and Giorgio repeated it for Swan.
    “Okay. Good job. We’re going to get a late lunch and head over there.”
    The halfway house was an old, two-story, run-down motel in West Covina. They checked in at the office, where the Christmas decorations consisted of an aluminum tree decorated with about six glass ornaments. They asked if they could see Jimmy Finn. The manager pointed across an overgrown courtyard to an upstairs room.
    As they traipsed across a weed-infested lawn, they passed a woman turning circles outside one of the doors. She was dressed in her bathrobe and talking to herself. When they found the stairs leading to the second floor, Giorgio almost bumped into a man tucked around the corner, sucking on a cigarette. Giorgio excused himself, side-stepped the man, and waved a hand in front of his face to dispel the smoke before springing for the bottom step.
    They knocked on #23 and waited a moment. When Jimmy Finn answered the door, the dank aroma of grungy clothes and body odor billowed out, momentarily taking Giorgio's breath away. He showed his badge and introduced himself.
    “Why…why are you here?” the little man asked.
    “May we come in?” Giorgio asked. “We just need to talk with you.”
    Finn was indeed a small man – not more than 5’ 4” or 5’ 5”tall and with a slight build. Like Ron Martinelli, he would be in his early sixties now, but time had been far harsher to him. His face was deeply lined, and he had several scars across one cheek. His hair was cut short and peppered gray, and he had a cauliflower ear. As he stepped back to allow them inside, he listed to one side, as if one side of his body was weak or injured.
    The room was depressingly blank. It had pea green walls and a carpet that looked like it had never been shampooed. Dark stains were visible all across its surface, and it was frayed in places, showing the thin padding underneath.
    The only places to sit were the sagging sofa and the chair Jimmy had taken – an old patio rocking chair. An old box TV sat on a chipped wooden table, while a three-shelf bookcase, devoid of any books, leaned against the wall.
    When Giorgio introduced himself and why they were there, Finn’s dark eyes betrayed no recollection of the case.
    “Mr. Finn, do you remember going to prison?” Giorgio asked, hoping to make a connection.
    The little man nodded with a blank expression.
    “Do you remember why?”
    “They thought I killed that girl,” Finn said without emotion, starting to rock back and forth.
    “Lisa Farmer. And did you?” Giorgio asked.
    “Course not. I never killed nobody,” he replied simply
    Finn was still rocking back and forth, staring at them, his fingers tapping the arm of the chair.
    “Do you know who did?” Giorgio asked.
    “How would I know?”
    “May we sit down?” Giorgio asked, pointing to the worn sofa.
    “Suit yerself,” he said.
    This wasn’t going to be easy. Finn was clearly in a diminished capacity. Whether more diminished than when he was eighteen years old, Giorgio didn’t know.
    “Mr. Finn…may I call you Jimmy?” Giorgio said, perching on the edge of the sofa.
    He nodded. “Sure.”
    “We believe we’ve found Lisa’s body.”
    There was an immediate change in the man’s facial expression. His dark eyes suddenly