Vengeance

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Knew Emmett Kelly slightly. Lou Jacobs. The Wal-lendas,” Sebastian said, shaking his head. “Looking at those stars always brings back memories. I love the circus.”

  “I’m fond of it myself,” I said. “You followed me out here to talk about circuses.”

  “You said you’d find Melanie,” he said.

  “I said I’d find her in two or three days. This is day one.”

  “It’s day two,” said Sebastian.

  “Look, Mr. Sebastian—”

  “Tomorrow then?”

  “The next day at the latest,” I said, knowing that Melanie Sebastian might change her mind about letting me find her and that Harvey might not be able to follow her on the Internet highway to where she was hiding.

  “I’ll give you a bonus if it’s tomorrow,” he said.

  “You said you’d double my fee. When we talked last time you said you’d double it.”

  “Double, then. Just find her. I can’t sleep. I can’t work. I can’t think.”

  He put his head down and rubbed his neck. Then he looked up and said, “Sorry. You said you understood what it was like to lose your wife. You remember? You said that?”

  “I remember,” I said.

  “Then find her. Find Melanie.”

  There were tears in his eyes. He turned away and walked up the path that ran through the middle of the circle.

  I went back to the Columbia. Flo was working on her paella. My 1908 Salad sat waiting.

  “This is great,” she said. “What did he want?”

  “Everything,” I said. “Everything.”

  14

  JOHN DETCHON SAT BEHIND the reception desk at the Children’s Services office. He looked up from a pile of papers he was sorting and smiled.

  “The sad detective is back,” he said.

  “I’m not a detective, John.”

  “Indulge me in my fantasy,” he said. “I’m trapped behind this desk eight hours a day. I need to bring home tales of corruption and intrigue to my roommates.”

  “I’m a detective, John. I carry a derringer in a tiny holster near my crotch. I’ve been shot five times and killed four people. I may not look tough but I turn into a raging revenge-seeking monster when provoked.”

  John grinned.

  “Beautiful,” he said. “Beautiful. I don’t believe a word of it, but it’s beautiful. I didn’t think you had an imagination.”

  “I’m learning;” I said.

  “Can we cut the crap and get on with our business,” Flo said.

  “And you,” John said, “must be Mr. Fonesca’s mother.”

  Flo went tight.

  “Listen, sissy,” she said. “I’m broad-minded, but I don’t take shit on a silver spoon from anyone, especially sissy boys.”

  “Sissy? God, the last person who called me that was my grandfather when I was six.”

  “I’ve got better words,” she said.

  “Flo, don’t blow this,” I said.

  She shrugged, nodded to show that she was under control and said,

  “Sorry.”

  “Apology accepted,” said John. “I like your sweater.”

  “Thanks,” said Flo.

  “Miss Flo,” said John. “The word of choice is ‘gay.’”

  “I know,” said Flo.

  “Sally is expecting you,” he said. “Go right up. You know the way.”

  We got on the elevator. The doors closed.

  “He’s okay,” she said, looking at the door. “I’m just fucking nervous.”

  “Flo, if you have to, say ‘freaking.’”

  “Can’t,” she said. “It’s a PG-rated coward’s word. Let’s get on with this.”

  Sally stood as we approached. There was a woman with her. The woman was in her fifties, a little off in her color combinations and in need of a good hairbrush. She looked frazzled. Sally smiled at me. I liked the smile. She didn’t look like a woman who had shot a man this morning, but she might be smiling about it. I didn’t know her well enough yet.

  “This is Florence Zink,” I said.

  The two women stepped forward to shake Flo’s hand.

  “And this,” said Sally, “is Edna Stockbridge. She’ll talk to Mrs. Zink in my supervisor’s office. She’s at a conference.”

  “This way,” said Edna Stockbridge, motioning to Flo.

  Flo followed, after looking at me. There was warning in my look. I hoped she read that warning.

  When they were gone I sat in the chair next to Sally.

  “She’ll be fine,” Sally said. “And we need foster homes so badly that she’d have to be an ax murderer to be rejected. She’s rich. She wants to deal with Adele. What more can we ask for? All she has to do is convince Edna that she can handle Adele.”

  “She can handle Adele,” I said. “Dwight Handford.”

  I watched her face for a sign. I didn’t see one as she said,

  “I talked to our lawyer this morning. She thinks there’s a fifty-fifty chance at best of keeping Adele from him. The power of a mistaken belief that children should be with their parents whenever possible combined with the likelihood of a really expensive lawyer representing Handford make fifty-fifty look optimistic.”

  “Handford’s dead,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Dead.”

  “Really? When? Where?”

  “His house. The real one in Palmetto. You want to know how he died?”

  “Not really,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I’m trying to deal with the fact that I suddenly feel relieved and I don’t feel guilty.”

  “Why should you feel guilty?” I asked.

  She looked at me. It was a very serious look.

  “Because a man is dead and and I’m troubled because I don’t care. Why else would I feel guilty?”

  “He was murdered,” I said flatly.

  “I’m not surprised, though death in an alcoholic stupor or a bar fight wouldn’t surprise me either. I’ve got to think about what this means to Adele, how to tell her. I’ll have to call our lawyer. Sometimes death is good news.”

  “You wanted him dead,” I said. “You said you could kill him.”

  She was silent. Her mouth opened slightly.

  “Lewis, you think I killed him?”

  “It’s possible,” I said.

  “I didn’t.”

  “You’re offender. I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m not offended. I guess it’s a reasonable question. Do I need an alibi? When did he die?”

  “My guess is early this morning, very early.”

  “I was home with the kids.”

  “When did they get up?”

  “About eight,” she said.

  “You could have gone out, killed Handford and gotten back before they got up.”

  “I could have, but I didn’t. Lewis, are you trying to back away from me, from—for want of a better word at the moment—our friendship?”

  “No. I’m asking you questions the police might ask you, maybe today, maybe tomorrow. There’s a smart detective named Vivaise who—”

  I stopped in midsentence. I had another suspect. Ed Vivaise had a daughter. He had said something about the benefit to the world of Dwight Handford’s death.

  “Too many suspects,” I said, leaning back. “The only way I’m ahead of the police is that I can eliminate me from the list. Are we still going out Saturday?”

  “We’re still going out,” she said, touching my arm. “You pick a place to eat. I pick the movie.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what? Being honest with me? Now the hard part of my day,” she said. “The downside of Dwight Handford’s death. I’m the one who’ll have to tell Adele her father’s dead and I have no idea how she’ll react.

  I think I’ll do it now. I don’t want to carry it around all day.”

  “Let me know how she takes it,” I said.

  “I will. Saturday. That was interesting,” she said. “Being a suspect. Am
I clear now?”

  “Yes,” I said, but I lied.

  Flo had to stay with Edna, get papers filled out. Edna would drive her home. She came out of the supervisor’s office and told me this. She was nervous and glowing. They were hurrying the process.

  I told Sally what Harvey had told me about the Buga-Buga-Boo virus. She made a note to E-mail everyone in her computer address-book to warn them. I left.

  I was sure Handford had murdered Beryl, but I wasn’t too sure about who had killed Tony Spiltz and Dwight Handford. The loss mankind would suffer due to their deaths was nonexistent.

  My vote went to John Pirannes. Had a fight with Spiltz, who was doing his part to train Adele. Pirannes wanted Handford out of the way because he was probably a witness to the Spiltz murder and because he was a loose blunderbuss, ready to explode, dangerous. Pirannes probably knew Dwight had killed Beryl. My vote definitely went to John Pirannes.

  That should have closed the file for me, but it didn’t.

  I had to know for sure. I knew why I had to know.

  My wife had been killed by a drunken hit-and-run driver. The driver hadn’t been found. There was no closure. I needed closure, certainty, in my life. I’d talk about it with Ann Horowitz as soon as I could.

  The blue Buick followed me back to the DQ parking lot. I went to see Dave, who leaned out the window.

  “How’s business?” I asked.

  “Slow,” he said. “Rain always makes it slow. I don’t mind. You went to see Pirannes?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You survived. Congratulations. The Fair Maiden pulled out this morning, headed who knows where,” said Dave.

  “Doesn’t surprise me.”

  “You want a burger, Blizzard?”

  “Had a big salad for lunch. Diet Coke.”

  Dave nodded over my left shoulder. I turned and found myself facing two policemen. Their car was in the lot a few feet away.

  “Lewis Fonesca?” one cop said.

  Both cops were young. There was a thin one with a smooth face and a heavyset one with an amber mustache.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Would you come with us, please? Detective Vivaise would like to talk to you.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No, sir,” said the thin cop.

  I knew better than to ask if I could drive my rented Geo. I climbed into the backseat of the police car. Until recently, the Sarasota police car insignia on the door was a picture of the statue of Michelangelo’s David. A copy of the statue stood in the courtyard gardens of the Ringling Museums. A copy of a copy had graced the doors and hallways and official vehicles of the city. Many of these tributes to distant art still remained. I don’t know much about art but, I liked the Ringling, the polished dark wood floors, the old-worldliness of the galleries of ornately framed paintings Ringling had collected in his European travels. I had been told by someone who should know that the paintings on display were the worst of the great masters–Rembrandt, Titian, that whole gang.

  “You ever go to the Ringling Museum?” I asked the young thin cop at my side as we drove.

  “When I was a kid, once,” he said.

  “You?” I asked the driver.

  “No,” he said. “My wife has.”

  “She like it?”

  “Said she did.”

  I considered asking Vivaise about the Ringling Museum, but when I stepped into his office he was seated and patting his desk with his left hand.

  “Dwight Handford is dead,” he said.

  I sat across from him.

  “Not sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “I’m not either, but it’s my problem.”

  “Where did he die?” I asked.

  “You know damn well he died in his house in Palmetto.”

  “Why would I know?”

  “Don’t wear me out,” he said.

  He had stopped drumming.

  “A neighbor saw two men going into Handford’s house this morning. Tall man with a yellow raincoat and a short bald man. They came in a little white car and left in it a few minutes after they went in. Sound familiar?”

  “Anything else?”

  “Manatee medical examiner is looking at the body. At this point all he’s sure of is that Handford is dead and that he died sometime last night or early this morning, very early, before you and your friend were there.”

  “And?”

  “You’re going to play games with me, aren’t you, Fonesca? Handford was murdered. Shot. Between you, me and the painters out there if they’re listening at the door, I say the world’s a little better place today. Fonesca, did you kill him?”

  “You mean did I drive out to Palmetto in the middle of the night, kill him and then drive back in the morning, discover the body and not report it?”

  “Did you kill him?” Vivaise repeated.

  “No, did you?”

  “Not funny,” he said.

  “Not meant to be. You have the weapons, the reason. The same reason I’d have. You’re happy he’s dead.”

  “My guess is a lot of people are happy he’s dead,” Vivaise said.

  “Why is it your case if it happened in Palmetto?”

  “Because I think Handford murdered his wife and probably murdered Tony Spiltz, who died within the jurisdiction of the Sarasota Police Department, died in my county. And the Palmetto police are happy to give it to me as long as I keep them informed.”

  “Pirannes’s boat pulled out this morning,” I said.

  “I know. We’re looking for him.”

  “What now?”

  “You feel like confessing?”

  “To what?” I said.

  He threw up his hands.

  “To anything. A plot to kill the President. Crossing Proctor against the lights. I’ll take what I can get. Have you been to confession recently?”

  “I’m not a Catholic,” I said. “Episcopalian, very lapsed.”

  “Do you know who killed Handford or Spiltz?” he asked.

  “I’m working on it. Let’s pin it on Pirannes. If he didn’t do the murders, I’m sure he did others we know not of. He gave me reason to believe.”

  “That the way the police think in Chicago?” he asked.

  “That’s the way,” I said. “But I’m not a cop.”

  “You’re not even a private investigator,” he said, beginning to steam. “You’re are a goddamn little process server with a big nose that gets into places where it shouldn’t be.”

  “I agree,” I said.

  “Get out, Fonesca,” he said, both hands on the table. “I know where to find you.”

  “What happened to those two guys last night? The black guys in handcuffs?”

  “You are a piece of work, Fonesca,” he said with a grin almost as sad as mine.

  “I can’t help it,” I said.

  “They got off,” he said. “They’re car thieves, but we didn’t have enough to keep them without a confession. They didn’t confess. They went home. That’s the way it usually is.”

  “Another question?” I asked.

  “Why not?” Vivaise said.

  “Have you ever been to the Ringling Museum?”

  “You are nuts, Fonesca.”

  “Maybe, but I’m taking a sort of survey.”

  “I’ve been to the museum. My wife and I have taken the kids. We’re museum members. I like it there. It’s peaceful, old. It’s a refuge, a garden of sanity, a sanctuary from the mad chaotic world outside, the world where people like you drive the streets and ask crazy questions. You satisfied with my answer?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Get out, Lewis,” he said calmly. “I sort of like you, but that can change quickly.”

  I got out. The two young cops who had brought me here were waiting outside Vivaise’s door watching the painters, talking to them, laughing. They offered to take me home. I told them I’d walk.

  I went down Main Street past the YMCA. I hadn’t been there for five days. I l
onged for that bicycle ride and workout. I wanted my routine back. I wanted my loneliness back. I looked at the people beyond the glass on the exercise machines. I thought, waited for an epiphany. None came. I walked back to 301 and headed south toward home.

  When I passed the Crisp Dollar Bill across from the DQ, it hit me. It hit me hard. It was the only thing that made sense. I didn’t like the sense it made.

  The blue Buick was parked in the DQ lot. The blue angel was sitting at one of the tables eating what looked like the deluxe burger. He had probably seen the cops pick me up and had decided it wasn’t a good idea to follow a police car. He was waiting for me.

  I didn’t want him with me where I was going, so I went into the Crisp Dollar Bill. It took my eyes a few long seconds to adjust to the darkness. There was no music. I had lived across from the bar for more than two years and had never been in it before. It wasn’t as big as I thought it would be, just a line of wooden tables to the right and a long bar with stools on the left. There were no booths. One man sat alone at a table. He was a silent solitary drinker, his eyes fixed in the past. He was wearing a colorful Hawaiian shirt and I guessed his age at fifty.

  There were two people at the bar, talking quietly. One was a woman who looked as if she were a retiree from the North Trail. The man wore a rumpled suit and had his back to me.

  I went to the bar and ordered a Budweiser from the lean, long-haired bartender, who might have been any age between forty and sixty. He gave me a friendly smile and wink and said, “Coming up.”

  No music. I liked that. I never understood why, when you got in someone’s car or went to their home to talk, they turned on music.

  The television over the bar was off and the place was dark. I liked it here. I wondered if it was like this at night. I didn’t think so. Late afternoon was the time to come to the Crisp Dollar Bill. I’d remember that.

  “Phone?” I asked when the bartender came back with my beer.

  “Back there by the john,” he said. “Need change?”

  I checked. I had a handful of quarters and other change in my pocket.

  “No,” I said.

  “Give me a nod if you want your bill or another Bud,” he said.

  “There’s no music,” I said.

  “Music-free bar,” he said. “Watch a football game once in a while. Sundays, Monday night. Quiet most nights.”