A time for reckoning, p.22
A Time for Reckoning, page 22
Penelope rests a hand on my arm and looks me in the eye. “This needs to stop, Tony. You have to stay out of danger.”
I know that my propensity for walking into perilous situations concerns her. It
increasingly concerns me, as well. I cover her hand with my own and say, “Don’t worry, partner, my cowboy days are behind me. I know how lucky I was out there and won’t get myself into any more situations like that.” I even cross my heart. “Scout’s honor.”
Then again, I was never a Boy Scout.
36
The mountains are a breathtaking sight in the early afternoon sunlight as my flight descends toward Glacier Park International Airport outside Kalispell, Montana. I’m returning to Flathead County after only a week at home. I’ve come for two reasons. The sheriff and county attorney have some additional issues they want to discuss, and I’ve agreed to handle the arrangements for returning Marty’s body to his family in England. I’m not looking forward to either undertaking. It’s already been a long day—an early flight from Chicago to Denver before connecting to Kalispell after a three-hour layover. The day is about to get longer.
My first stop is the funeral home to which the county coroner released Marty’s body. I leave thirty minutes later, having finalized arrangements to have his remains returned home to Southampton. It’s the least I can do for a man who saved my life and died in the process. The sight of Marty’s corpse in a cheap shipping casket will remain etched into my memory—right alongside the grisly images of his murder. I spend a couple of minutes in my rental car composing myself before I enter the Flathead County Sheriff’s building. Sheriff Anderson doesn’t keep me waiting.
He grips my hand in a solid handshake when I’m shown into his office. “Thanks for making the trip back, Mr. Valenti. I know it’s not easy being here.”
“You’re welcome.”
He asks a couple of questions about my flight and confirms that the arrangements with Marty were satisfactory.
“Not to be rude, Sheriff, but can we move things along?”
“Sure. I only have a couple of questions for you, but County Attorney Stone has a few things he’d like to discuss.”
Argh. I find myself wishing that I’d simply done this over the phone or in a video conference from Cedar Heights. Brittany is just settling back in after her summer vacation in Brussels. It’s been a fun week of telling summer tales and diving into guitar rehearsals. I’m happy to have her home. She grumbled a little when I told her I was coming back here so soon after her return, but she’s always happy to spend a few days with Pat.
Anderson frowns sympathetically. “You’re a lawyer, so I suppose you know how things go with prosecutors. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
My reply is a weary nod. When I agreed to attend to Marty, it seemed like a good idea to put Flathead County behind me once and for all on the same trip. Wrong. It’s shaping up to be a bad idea.
County Attorney Stone is apparently a busy man today, because he makes me wait close to two hours before he deigns to appear and usher me into an interrogation room. His greeting is perfunctory. Sheriff Anderson joins us and we get down to business.
Stone surprises me right out of the gate. “We’ll be recording this interview, Mr. Valenti.”
Sheriff Anderson looks away when my eyes drift to him. Nothing about the setup suggests I’m here for an informal chat to clarify a few matters.
I turn my attention back to Stone. “This is a little more formal than I was led to believe.”
Stone levels a less-than-friendly look on me. “You killed a man in my county, Mr. Valenti. I aim to find out why.”
His county? Is this guy a poor man’s version of Paul Lewis down in Wyoming? I push the thought away and ask, “Is there a reason you didn’t inform me that I should have an attorney with me today?”
He feigns innocence. “Why on earth would you need an attorney, Mr. Valenti? You told us just last week that you didn’t do anything wrong.”
He’s exhausted my patience in ninety seconds. I rest my elbows on the table and lean in. “I know a thing or two about how these things are done. This has all the earmarks of a suspect interrogation, so how about you tell me right now why I haven’t been read my rights.”
“There’s no need for that, Mr. Valenti,” he replies curtly.
“I think there is, Mr. Stone.” I cut my eyes to Anderson. “Am I a suspect in your investigation, Sheriff?”
He turns his gaze to the county attorney. “Mr. Stone?”
Stone sits back and gives me a cold stare. “Go ahead then, Sheriff. Read him his rights.”
Anderson looks decidedly uncomfortable as he does. I like the sheriff and think he’s a straight shooter, so whatever is going on here is being instigated by the county attorney. It’s not as if I haven’t anticipated this possibility, so I’ve given some thought to how to manage the questions I suspect are coming.
“Fair enough,” I say when the sheriff finishes. “I’ll answer whatever questions I’m comfortable with.”
“Why didn’t you contact the sheriff here when you located your brother, Mr. Valenti?”
“My brother was on the run from the law, Mr. Stone, and he was doing a good job of not being found. Marty and I, for our own reasons and motivations, decided to help the Chicago police locate him.”
“Then why didn’t you contact Chicago PD when you found him?”
From his perspective, it’s a good question, and one that could prove tricky for me. That said, I’m the only survivor of that night.
“We didn’t know who was in that cabin,” I reply. “We thought it might be Frankie, but we weren’t sure until he confronted me with a gun.”
“And, according to your statement, that’s when Mr. Thorne-Dalyrimple tried to shoot your brother.”
“That’s right, Mr. Stone.”
He’s clearly not buying my story, but if I’m steadfast in keeping to that explanation, there isn’t anything he can do to contradict me. I hope. The thought has crossed my mind that Frankie might have had some sort of video gear with a record of what happened, but Stone would have mentioned if they had found something along those lines. Besides, a recording of what happened when shots were exchanged would simply corroborate that the end game played out exactly as I said it did.
“What were you doing in Montana, Mr. Valenti?”
“Following up on a lead,” I reply.
“How did you come across this lead?”
I answered this question more than once in the days after the shootings, but explain the circumstances to Stone yet again.
He circles back to his initial question. “Why didn’t you just pass the information along to Chicago PD and let them check it out?”
“If you’ve been in contact with Detective Greenwood, you know I shared the lead with him. He didn’t have the resources to pursue it.”
Stone all but rolls his eyes. “Chicago PD is an exceptionally large police force. I don’t imagine they lack for resources.”
“I suggest you take that up with Detective Greenwood.”
“Flathead Lake is a long way from Chicago,” Stone retorts. “It seems mighty strange to me that you’d come all the way out here on a whim.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t reply. I’ve already told them that we were in Wyoming on legal business and decided to pop up here as long as we were only a few hours away. That’s easy enough to confirm, especially considering that I’ve already handed over the hotel, rental vehicle, gas, and meal receipts to support my story.
“Do you want to know what I think?” Stone asks combatively.
I don’t, but there’s no point in antagonizing this clown. I wait for him to answer his own question.
“I think you and Mr. Thorne-Dalyrimple came here with the express intention of murdering Frank Valenti.”
I shrug. “You’re entitled to your opinion, Mr. Stone, but you have nothing to back up that claim.”
My answer annoys him. Tough cookies.
“So, you’d have us believe that you, a man who has killed before, and your co-conspirator—who just happens to be a former Special Forces operative uniquely qualified to deliver lethal force—hung around in the woods hoping to stumble across your brother.”
I stare back at him without comment.
“And, then what?” he says. “You were going ask him to contact Detective Greenwood and turn himself in?”
I lean my arms on the table. “We’ll never know, will we? There was no time to talk when Frankie confronted us.”
“We looked at the history on that GPS unit you carried,” Stone says. “You spent a lot of time in those woods that day and evening.”
“We did.”
“Why not just go to the door? Why were you so heavily armed?”
I sigh. “I assume you’ve familiarized yourself with the recent history of my brother in Chicago. A man would be a fool to confront Frankie without the means to protect himself.”
“I am familiar with that history, Mr. Valenti. Your brother allegedly threatened you and his wife with death, raped and assaulted your girlfriend, who subsequently killed herself, and laid a few beatings on you. Sounds like plenty of motive for murder.”
“You’ve done your homework on my brother, so you know he’s been a menace to all sorts of people these past several months,” I counter. “Death threats, beatings, rape. His wife took out a restraining order to keep him away from her and their daughter. He even killed a pair of Chicago cops. Of course I bought a gun to defend myself.”
Stone stares back at me. “You just bought the gun you used. I think you came to Flathead County to execute your brother.”
One might say that and not be far off the mark, but there’s no way Stone can prove it.
“Again, you’re entitled to your opinion,” I reply.
“I intend to prove that you, with malice aforethought, murdered your brother in cold blood,” he announces.
The statement unnerves me. It also brings our little gabfest to an end. I push my chair back and stand. “This is the point where I end my voluntary cooperation, Mr. Stone. Unless Sheriff Anderson is going to take me into custody and charge me, I’ll be on my way.” I toss a Brooks and Valenti business card on his desk. “Any future contact you wish to have can be directed to my attorney. She’s the one not named Valenti.”
When nobody makes a move to stop me, I open the door and walk out without another word. The parting shot was stupid, but the guy got under my skin. I have no doubt he’ll do his best to make me pay for my irreverence.
Sheriff Anderson catches up to me in the hallway.
I keep walking and shoot him a sideways glance. “If you have something to say, Sheriff, let’s walk and talk.”
He falls in beside me. “That wasn’t my show.”
I smile grimly. “I know. Don’t sweat it.”
He follows me outside and into the parking lot, where we stop at my rental car and stare at each other. I lean an elbow on the top of the car and cock an eyebrow.
“I admire that you came back to take care of Mr. Thorne-Dalyrimple’s remains,” he says. “That’s gotta be a bitch.”
“It is,” I say, then wait. Discussing Marty’s corpse isn’t why we’re standing together in the parking lot. “And?”
“I was wondering about your brother, Mr. Valenti. The coroner released his remains today, as well.”
Seeing his discomfort, I unclench my jaw and ask, “Is there something you want me to do?”
“I, uh, called his wife. She’s next of kin.”
“Well, then, there you go. Does Jo want me to do something?”
Anderson pulls his hat off his head and holds it in one hand while he rests both forearms on the car roof beside me, squinting as the sun hits his face. “She said, and I quote: ‘Let him rot in the woods where he died.’”
Wow. Not at all what I would have expected from Jo, well deserved though it may be. Then again, after the initial shock of my telling her I’d killed her husband, Jo hadn’t exactly broken down in hysterical tears.
“Can’t say I blame her, Sheriff.”
“I suppose,” he allows. “Thing is, we have a body that needs to be disposed of.”
“Not my problem.”
He nods. “No, I guess it isn’t. I just thought that… well, maybe, with you being brothers and all.”
“Do you have brothers or sisters?” I ask.
“One of each.”
“Thought so.”
He gives me a curious look. “Why?”
“My guess is that they’re good and decent people, Sheriff. Much like yourself. I had a sister like that once upon a time. I would never have left her body in a morgue hundreds of miles away without making arrangements to bring her home—I can’t fathom doing so. I imagine that’s how you think a brother should feel.”
“This is where you’re gonna tell me that I’ve never had a brother like yours.”
I nod.
He steps back from the car while placing his hat back on his head. “You have yourself a good rest of the day, Mr. Valenti. Far as I’m concerned, you’re free to go home.”
A vision of one of my mother’s favorite family pictures swims into my head as I watch Anderson walk away, a photo that still hangs on our living room wall. It’s a Christmas portrait of all of us: my mother and father; sister Amy; myself; and my brother, Frankie. There were some good times—they just didn’t last. I can’t imagine Mama and Papa doing what I just did.
“Hey, Sheriff!”
Anderson stops and looks back. I take a step in his direction; he turns and heads my way.
“What can I do for you?” he asks.
“Who do I see about dealing with Frankie’s body?”
37
Grazyna wakes up groggy and disoriented. Where am I? she wonders through a blistering headache that is aggravated by the sunshine slanting through a set of miniblinds. She peers around the bedroom she is in. It looks familiar but her foggy mind cannot put the pieces together. She squeezes her eyes shut again and pulls the covers over her face while she struggles to sort things out. Then she inches the covers down to take a second look at the floral wallpaper and six-drawer dresser on the far wall. She realizes with a start that this is the guest room of the house she shared with Mark during their marriage, meaning the sun peeking through the blinds is an evening sun. How did she get here?
She tosses the covers aside and levers herself upright, hangs her legs over the edge of the bed, and stands on shaky legs. As she looks at her feet on the hardwood floor, she realizes that she is naked, save for a pair of panties. She looks around frantically for her clothes. Seeing none, she falls back on the bed and burrows back under the covers. What in God’s name is going on? How did she get here? Why does she feel so awful?
She digs her hands into her hair and rubs vigorously, as if she can get her mind functioning by doing so. Think back further, she tells herself. Mark’s lawyer had called to again suggest that she visit Wyoming to pick up Mark’s car and the $350,000. Grazyna, who wanted nothing more than to end this chapter of her life, had asked herself, “Why not go?” After all, everything was settled, and there was no reason to even see Mark—his lawyer said he’d already signed the divorce papers. Besides, Grazyna felt that she had already taken up too much of Penelope and Tony’s time; they had more people to help than just her. It would be a kindness to them if she took care of this herself. So, she had flown here from Chicago to pick up the car and her check. The prospect of driving Mark’s Aston Martin halfway across the country in a celebration of her freedom delighted her.
Which does not explain why she is in this house.
With her mouth as parched as a dusty trail, she climbs out of bed again and walks unsteadily to the attached bathroom. As she leans on the vanity waiting for the water to turn ice cold, she looks at herself in the mirror and frowns. She is a mess. No makeup, straggly hair, and her normally sparkling eyes are dull and bloodshot.
She spies the welcome sight of a familiar fluffy, baby-blue bathrobe hanging on a hook beside the shower. It used to be hers. She supposes it still is. She gratefully pulls it on and ties the belt around her waist. The water is now running cold, so she fills a glass and drains it. It seems to clear her head a little. She cracks open the medicine chest and gratefully tips a pair of Extra Strength Tylenol out of a bottle and into her hand, then washes them down. Splashing ice-cold water on her cheeks pushes the shadows back a little farther. She closes her eyes and sorts through fragments of memory. A car. A highway. But that is all she remembers.
As she straightens and looks around, her eyes fall on the walk-in shower opposite the sink. Towels hang on a rack beside the door, shampoo and soap sit on a ledge inside the enclosure. A nice hot shower sounds divine. As deliciously hot water courses over her shoulders and neck, the fog in her brain continues to dissipate as she works shampoo into a lather.
And then she remembers.
An Uber had met her at the Casper airport to bring her to Douglas. Grazyna had thought that was very thoughtful of Mark and his lawyer. The memory of the Uber driver crystallizes—a tall woman wearing a colorful scarf even in the heat of the afternoon. “I have a bit of a cold,” she had told Grazyna. Then, with a little laugh as she pulled the fabric tighter over her nose and mouth, “I don’t want to spread my germs over you.” This is followed immediately by a memory of the car pulling onto the shoulder and the driver saying, “I need to get something out of the trunk.”
Grazyna had nodded and paid no more attention as the woman got out of the car and disappeared past the side window. Next came a moment of wide-eyed shock when the rear door was yanked open, and the woman slapped a cloth over Grazyna’s mouth and nose. Her next conscious memory was waking up in bed here a few minutes ago.
