Always Say Goodbye: A Lew Fonesca Mystery

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  He walked through the open door and down the hall past the cubicles on his right where people worked silently and seldom looked up. He had withdrawn all of the money in his bank account. The thick wad of bills was wrapped inside a blue dish towel in the trunk of his car. It wasn’t the same car he had been driving when he killed Catherine Fonesca. He had gotten rid of that car, sold it at a loss to Ralph Simcox, the mechanic.

  It was early. He would go to the cafeteria and watch the clock. He would finish out his last day. No one would care. They would be happy to see him go. There was no denying that he had been drinking, though he had done his job, but there was also no denying that he brought an aura of gloom and doom when he entered the Mentic Pharmaceuticals building each morning. His expertise would be missed, but he could be replaced. Everyone can be replaced.

  He was alone in the cafeteria. The lights weren’t on but the sun was still high and the windows were tall and wide. The light on the coffee machine was glowing red but he didn’t get a cup. He sat facing the brace of trees across the well-trimmed lawn.

  As Lew Fonesca pulled out of Toro’s Garage on Taylor Street and passed the thin small tree waving to him from the small circle of dirt in the cracked concrete sidewalk, Dimitri and Stavros Pappas were waiting.

  They followed in the car they had rented, Dimitri driving because he had two eyes. Fonesca knew their car, which was why their father had told them to rent this one, a bronze Mazda.

  “We’re really going to kill him?” asked Dimitri, staying back, being careful, remembering a few days ago when they had been cut off by the tow-truck driver.

  They followed as Lew headed for Dan Ryan.

  “You’ve got a gun. I’ve got a gun,” said Stavros, his head and eye turned forward.

  Stavros put his hand on the white paper bag between them, reached in and came up with two small, round cheese tiropeka. He held out one to his brother who took it and said, “That’s not an answer. I like the guy. I feel sorry for him. Why does Pop want us to kill him?”

  “To keep him from finding the papers, files, whatever his wife left. There’s something in them that could hurt Pop. Hell, Dimi, you know that.”

  “I thought there was something in the files Pop could use to get Posno off our backs.”

  “There is,” said Stavros.

  “Then why did we stop looking for Posno? I could see us shooting him.”

  “We can’t find him. Fonesca is right in front of us.”

  “I know that,” said Dimi.

  They drove. Ten minutes. Twenty.

  “We’ve never killed anyone,” Dimi finally said, as much to himself as his brother.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Stavros said, reaching into the bag for another pastry.

  His stomach would surely bother him later. He was lactose intolerant. He had forgotten his pills. His grandmother always made her pastries with cream. It always gave him a stomach problem even when he took the pills, but he couldn’t stop himself. No one in the family could resist his grandmother’s cooking. Immediate brief comfort won out over common sense. It always did. He pulled out a sticky square of baklava.

  “Five of Johann Sebastian Bach’s sons became successful composers. You didn’t know that.”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Stavros. “What’s your point?”

  “I want to go home and practice on my viola. My chamber group has a concert tomorrow. You remember that?”

  “No.”

  “Well, we do. I want to play music, not kill people.”

  “We’ll put that on your headstone: Dimitri Pappas. He wanted to play music, not kill people.”

  “Okay, so laugh.”

  “Hah.”

  “You want to be somewhere quiet, creating Web pages, inventing computer programs, whatever it is you do. You don’t want to kill people either.”

  “Have a melomakarona.”

  He handed Dimitri a Greek Christmas cookie. Dimitri popped the whole cookie into his mouth. Ahead of them Fonesca weaved the white Cutlas through traffic into the right lane. They followed. When he exited, they slowed down.

  “We lost him,” said Dimitri.

  “He’s right there,” said Stavros, pointing at the car ahead of them.

  “I don’t see him,” said Dimitri. “I think we should turn around and tell Pop we lost him. I think we should tell Pop that we’re not going to kill anyone. If he wants someone dead, fine. He or Grandma can do it. They’ve done it before. They’ve got the experience.”

  He pulled the car off the road and stopped. Fonesca joined a stream of traffic moving away from them. Stavros turned and looked at his brother.

  “We lost him,” Stavros agreed, handing his brother the last pastry in the bag. It was another Christmas cookie.

  8

  HIS NAME, KEEN, was in capital black letters on the bronze rectangular badge pinned to his pocket. Keen’s gray uniform, a size too large, sagged. He was somewhere in his late sixties, maybe he was seventy. His white hair was done in a buzz cut and his skin was the color of a flamingo.

  Lew felt that if he touched the guard-receptionist’s cheek, which he did not intend to do, he would leave a permanent white circle in a sea of pink.

  Keen had been working on a fifth of Dewar’s under the desk for almost an hour. It was the first time he had ever taken a drink while on the job, but today he had his reasons.

  “Yes, sir,” said Keen, seated behind the curved desk in the lobby of the five-story main building of Mentic Pharmaceuticals.

  His voice echoed in the marble-tiled space sparsely filled with chrome-and-black leather chairs. The walls were empty except for one that held dozens of color photographs of smiling men and women.

  Lew tucked his Cubs cap deeper into his pocket.

  “I’m looking for a man who works here who drives a red sports car.”

  Lew had looked at the more than one hundred cars parked in the company’s parking lot. Eighteen sports cars, two of them convertibles, none of them red. He had checked all of the sports cars to see if they had been repainted and if they were old enough to have been the one that killed Catherine. They were not.

  “Why?” asked Keen.

  “I’m a process server,” Lew said, taking out his wallet and handed him his card.

  Keen looked at the forlorn face on the card and at Lew.

  “You’re from Florida,” Keen said. “You can’t serve papers outside the state.”

  “I’m not here to serve him papers. I need some information from him.”

  An elevator pinged open behind the desk. A man and a woman in their thirties, carrying identical briefcases, both smiling, came out. The man said something. Lew thought it was, “Chestnuts.”

  Keen nodded to the couple who signed out in the black leather-bound book on the desk. The couple looked at neither Lew nor Keen. When they had gone, Lew said, “He’s Asian, the guy who has the red sports car.”

  “Asian? Four hundred and seven people work here, about one hundred are Asians. Biologists, microbiologists, immunologists, geneticists. What’s he look like?”

  “Asian,” said Lew.

  “Narrows things down,” said Keen. “You don’t know his name?”

  “No.”

  “Never seen him?”

  Lew shook his head no.

  “Your lucky day, Fonseca,” Keen said, handing the laminated ID card back to Lew.

  “Fonesca.”

  “You got me on my last day,” Keen said. “I’m retiring.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Yeah. I’m officially retiring tomorrow, but I won’t be coming in. You know why?”

  Keen’s hands were folded in front of him now, thick knuckles white.

  “You don’t like goodbyes,” Lew said.

  “You got it,” Keen said. “You get called into the cafeteria. Everybody is standing there. There’s a cake. It says: Thirty-four Years, Owen Keen, We’ll Miss You.”

  “That’s a lot of words to put on a cake,” sa
id Lew.

  “Yeah. They’ll smile at me, be taking peeks at their watches and the wall clock. Avery Nahman will make a little speech, hand me a bronze plaque that I’ll stick in a box in my garage. I’ll have to say a few words that no one wants to hear. No, I won’t be there. Today’s my last day. Why am I telling you all this?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You are that,” said Keen. “Go over to that wall, the one with the photographs.”

  Lew moved to the wall, eight rows across and seven down of seven-by-nine-inch color photographs of people, about half of them Asian. On the bronze plaque above the photographs it read: EMPLOYEES OF THE QUARTER.

  “Like Wal-Mart or something if you ask me,” said Keen, still seated behind the desk.

  “What am I looking at?” asked Lew.

  Keen pointed and said, “Third row down, second photograph.”

  “Victor Lee,” Lew read.

  “Yeah, when some of them say it, it sounds like Victory. Not Dr. Lee. No accent. Good guy.”

  “He has a red sports car?” asked Lew, staring at the lean, dark-haired man with glasses and a smile that was something less than a smile.

  There was a familiar look of something, maybe sadness in Victor Lee’s face.

  “Had a red sports car. Alfa Spider. Years ago. Had it and then one day he came in and didn’t have it, switched to a Kia SUV, sort of gray.”

  “Is he here?”

  “Signed out half an hour ago. Ask me he looked like a turtle turd, wiped to shit. That picture on the wall was the last high for Victor. Started to stop even faking a smile after that.”

  “When?”

  “Don’t remember. Three, four years ago. Funny, when my wife was alive we all the time planned to go south, New Orleans. Now there’s no Ophelia. Hell, there’s no New Orleans. My wife had a sense of humor. Said her claim to fame was that they had named a hurricane after her.”

  Keen laughed. Lew smiled.

  “Fonesca, I’m retiring in two hours and I don’t know what the shit I’m going to do or where I’m going. I’d move in with my brother, but he has a damn cat that … hell, I’ve only known you five minutes and you’re my goddamn best friend. Everyone else I knew, family, friends, they’re back in Philly or getting skin cancer in Florida. Our only kid, Dennis, got killed skiing when he was twenty-one.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Keen looked up and said, “Yeah, I’ll be damned, you really are. She was a good woman. He was a good kid. And I’ve always been a tough asshole. Now I’m old and I’m just an asshole.”

  “You have an address for Lee?”

  “Hmm?”

  “An address. Lee.”

  Keen nodded, punched open a pop-up address book and came up with an address in Oswego.

  “I think I’ll find an apartment around here someplace, settle things and then maybe try Florida. Where is it you live?”

  “Sarasota,” Lew said, writing the address in his pocket notebook.

  “That where they have the race track?”

  “That’s Saratoga. Sarasota has greyhound racing.”

  “You like greyhound racing?” Keen said with some interest.

  “Never went.”

  Keen nodded and looked down.

  “Sarasota,” said Keen to himself. “Might try it.”

  Twelve hundred miles away, in Sarasota, the phone rang on Lew’s desk. There was no answering machine. At the urging of Ann Horowitz, he had installed one for a while, but had dreaded the flashing red light that intruded on his sanctuary and refused to stop blinking.

  Now the phone rang six times before Ames McKinney picked it up and said, “Yes.”

  Ames was making his daily stop at Lew’s office-home to pick up the mail, see if anything needed fixing or cleaning up. Ames’s scooter was parked in the Dairy Queen lot about thirty feet from the bottom of the concrete stairs and rusting railing of the two-story building. Lew had helped Ames when he had shot an old betraying partner on South Lido Beach. They had been friends since and just two days before Lew had left for Chicago, the two had sat at a table in the Texas Bar and Grille where Ames worked keeping the place clean and where he lived in a small room next to the exit near the kitchen. They had celebrated Ames’s seventy-fourth birthday with a beer. No one else had been invited. No one had been told. Lew had given Ames the latest biography of one of Ames’s heroes, Zachary Taylor.

  “Fonesca?” said the man on the phone.

  “No.”

  “Is he there?”

  “No.”

  “Will he be there soon?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Couldn’t say for sure.”

  “Can I reach him? It’s important, very important.”

  “Name and number,” said Ames.

  “Earl Borg. Tell him dogs and hogs. He’ll know.”

  “Dogs and hogs,” Ames wrote on the pad of lined paper he had brought and placed next to the phone.

  Lew worked with worn-down pencils, writing on the backs of envelopes and flyers. His notes, including addresses and phone numbers, were stacked neatly in the bottom drawer of the desk.

  Borg gave Ames the phone number and address.

  “It is extremely urgent. A life is … just have him call me.”

  “You got troubles, maybe I can give you a hand till he gets back.”

  “You are …?”

  “Ames McKinney.”

  “And you …?”

  “Work with Lewis sometimes,” said Ames.

  A double beat and then Borg hung up.

  Ames looked around the room, the outer room. There wasn’t much to do. There wasn’t much in the room to clean, straighten or fix. Ames had turned the window air conditioner on low when he had arrived. He had swept and straightened the lone painting on the wall, the painting by Stig Dalstrom was of a dark jungle with a hint of a moon blocked by black mountains. The only color was a small yellow-and-red flower. The painting was Lew. No doubt.

  He had checked the other room, the small space with a closet that Lew called home. That space, Ames knew, would be neat and clean, everything in place, a cell waiting for inspection.

  Lew had left his sister’s phone number with Ames, Ann, Flo and Adele. Ames picked up the phone and dialed.

  Victor Lee’s house was in a three-year-old development called Oak Branch Park, two-story frame and brick family houses on lanes that circled, separating every seven or eight houses into discrete cul-de-sacs.

  Three children about seven or eight years old, two girls and a boy, wearing sweaters and giggling, ran in the driveway. Lew parked and walked up the brick path.

  One of the girls, a pretty, giggling girl who might be Lee’s child, ran in front of him, looked up, shrugged her shoulders, said, “Excuse me,” and ran on with the other two children in pursuit.

  He pushed the button next to the door and a chime echoed inside. He waited and pushed again. When the door opened, a woman in her late thirties opened it and looked at him.

  “Mrs. Lee?”

  She was pretty, Chinese, dressed in a business suit and wary of the sad-eyed man wearing a baseball cap.

  “Yes.”

  “Is Mr. Lee home?”

  “I don’t know. He doesn’t live here anymore.”

  Lew said nothing. Waited.

  “He hasn’t lived here for almost two years,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” Lew said.

  “So am I,” she said. “Who are you?”

  “I just came from Mentic Pharmaceuticals. This is Mentic’s address for your husband.”

  “He didn’t want anyone to know,” she said. “He was, is, ashamed. You are the first one from the company who has ever come here. I can get a message to him if you like.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “He … Victor is … is this really important?” she asked, still standing in the doorway.

  The children screamed behind them.

  “Yes.”
/>   She stood considering.

  “When did you last see him?” Lew asked.

  “More than a year, but I know he sometimes goes to our daughter’s school and watches her come out and get on the bus. He told me. We talk a little on the phone, not much. Is this something that will cause trouble for Victor?”

  “If there’s trouble, it happened a long time ago,” said Lew.

  “Four years?”

  “Yes, four years,” said Lew.

  She nodded and said, “He would never tell me, but one day he came home and he wasn’t Victor anymore, not the Victor I knew. For two years he tried, but … he sends me almost all the money from his check every month.”

  Lew nodded.

  “Can you give me his address?”

  She hesitated and then told him the address and apartment number.

  “He called me a few hours ago. He said, ‘Goodbye.’ That’s all he said. Please go there.”

  Lew nodded.

  Mr. Showalter,

  I have moved out. Here is my check for this and next month’s rent. You may keep the deposit I put on the apartment when I moved in. I’m sorry for any inconvenience.

  Victor Lee

  The note and the check were inside an envelope with Mr. Showalter’s name neatly written on it. The envelope was tacked to the door of the apartment.

  Lee’s apartment was on the second floor of a renovated three-story brick walk-up building in Aurora. The hallway smelled like strawberry Kool-Aid. A battle had been waged against determined mildew. The battle was being lost.

  “I think that’s for me.”

  A hand reached around Lew and took the note, envelope and check.

  The man was about fifty, black, a compact car of a man, wearing a business suit and tie.

  “Showalter?”

  The man answered, “Umm” and read the note, shaking his head.

  “Yes,” he said, looking up. “Ving Showalter. Who are you?”

  The man could be thinking only one thing, that Lew, a little man in a jacket wearing a Cubs cap, was here to steal and had almost gotten away with the check Victor Lee had left.

  “Lew Fonesca. I’m a process server.”