“His,” I said.
“I’m the one hurt,” Torcelli said, pointing to himself to be sure we knew who and where the injured party was.
“Put your little gun down,” said Ames, “and we’ll get that bleeding stopped.”
Torcelli placed the gun on the bed.
Ames asked, “What happened?”
“He punched me. No warning. Just punched me in the nose,” said Torcelli.
Ames looked at me and before saying, “That a fact?”
“Yes,” said Torcelli. “It’s a fact. I’m running out of blood.”
“Let’s go save your life,” said Ames. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“There,” said Torcelli, bloody shirt pulled up to his nose.
Ames touched my shoulder as he followed Torcelli through a door. Then I heard running water. Then my legs began to shake. There was a chair against the wall next to the door. I managed to sit. My hands were trembling now. Was it because Torcelli had almost shot me? No, that didn’t feel right. It was because I had felt something uncontrollable and powerful when I hit him. The operative word being “felt.” Feeling, strong emotion had come back, if only for a few seconds. I almost didn’t recognize it. I know I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it at all.
When they came back in the room, Torcelli was holding a towel to his nose. His voice was muffled, but I could understand him.
“You could have driven bone into my brain,” he said.
“You’ll be fine,” said Ames, standing behind him.
“Yeah,” said Torcelli, sitting on the bed.
“Why did you do it?” I asked.
He took the towel from his face and looked at it to see if his nose had stopped bleeding. It hadn’t.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” he said.
“No, everything else.”
“It’s a long story.”
“Make it short,” said Ames.
“What am I going to look like?” Torcelli asked. “I have to look good. It’s what I’ve got.”
“Story,” Ames said.
Towel to nose, he turned to look at Ames over his shoulder then back at me.
“I met Horvecki’s daughter in San Antonio. I was working in a Sharper Image store in a mall. She came in. She was visiting a fellow high school friend from Pine View. We started to talk. I said we should talk more. So we made a date for that night. And the next. And the next. I learned that her father was rich. Her father was a jerk. No way he would just accept me.”
“You had already discussed marriage?” I asked.
“We applied for the license the second week I knew her.”
“Love?”
“On her part. I’ve done some acting. I was convincing. I got the idea of using information she had given me to persuade Horvecki to give me a job and pay me at a level that would suit his son-in-law.”
“That didn’t work, did it?” I asked.
“He said that he had another idea. I’d have to register as a high school student at Pine View. He would handle the paperwork. All I had to do was gather examples of how the school was screwing up. He said he wanted to bring down Pine View and the Bright Futures program. I’m sure he also wanted to see how low I would sink to be sure Rachel and I would inherit his money. He had hired a detective to look into my past. He insisted that I change my name, even told me how to do it and how to get a convincing set of documents that established me as Ronald Gerall, a transfer student in very good standing. He said he’d provide us with enough money to keep us comfortable while I accomplished what he demanded.”
“You brought these documents to Sally,” I said.
“I did.”
“What about running from a grand jury in Texas?” I asked.
“A mistake.”
“A mistake Horvecki used to keep you in line.”
“One of them. Maybe I should see a doctor about this nose. The blood is still coming.”
Ames produced a dry towel from behind his back and handed it to Torcelli, who dropped the bloody one on the floor and pressed the fresh one to his nose.
“Thanks.”
“Welcome.”
“Sally authenticated these documents,” I said.
“With a little friendly persuasion,” Ronnie said.
I should have been able to muster enough anger to at least consider another punch to Ronnie’s expanded red-and-purple nose, but I found nothing to call on. Hitting him again would not take care of what I was now feeling.
“Last question,” I said. “If you get it right, you win the prize.”
“Okay,” he said.
“What really happened the night Horvecki died?”
“I called him, told him I wanted to see him, that he was screwing me around, that he was just trying to stall until he could get rid of me, poison Rachel against me. I told him I was coming over. He said, ‘Not now. I’ve got a friend visiting.’ ”
“Did he sound like he meant it?”
“He smirked,” Ronnie said.
“Over the phone?” I asked.
“Yes. Philip Horvecki was good at that.”
“Go on.”
“When I got there, the front door was open. I went in. Someone was going out the window. Horvecki was on the floor. I could see he was dead. Rachel was in the bedroom doorway. Horvecki was on the floor. I told Rachel to get out of the house, get down to Main Street.”
“Why?” Ames asked.
“I panicked,” he said. “I had to almost push her out. She went, and I ran after her, looking for whoever had gone through the window.”
“You didn’t see anyone?” I asked.
“I did,” he said. “There was someone in a pickup truck across the street. I had seen him when I went into the house. I thought he was waiting for someone in one of the other houses. I told you all this.”
“We like hearing it,” said Ames.
“I went back in the house. I was sure Horvecki was dead, but I went over to him to be sure. I’ve seen people beaten, but nothing like this. His face was a mess. A bone in his left arm was pushed through the skin. I started to get up to call 911. The door opened. Two cops were pointing guns in my face. Find Rachel. Find the guy in the pickup truck. Rachel and the guy in the truck both saw the killer go through the window. That’s the story. It’s true.”
“You believe him?” I asked Ames.
“Some.”
“It’s the truth. Oh, shit. Is this a piece of bone?”
He pinched a small piece of something between his thumb and nearby finger and held it up.
“Can’t tell,” said Ames. “Maybe.”
“I’m going to need a plastic surgeon,” Ronnie said.
“Probably, but you can afford one now,” I said. “If Horvecki really left his money to his daughter.”
“That do it for here?” asked Ames.
I nodded. Ames helped Torcelli to his feet.
“I’m still out on bail.”
“I don’t think the police are going to want you out on the streets of Sarasota, or Rio, or Brussels,” I said. “We’ve got a place you can stay for a while.”
“You’re taking me in,” he said.
“No, not yet,” I said. “We’re taking you somewhere safe.”
“You’ll be safe,” Ames said.
“Safe from what?”
“From whoever it is who’s going to try to kill you. My guess is that if he or she catches you, you’ll decide to commit suicide,” I said.
“Why would I kill myself?”
“Guilt over killing your father-in-law,” I said.
“Remorse,” said Ames.
“Case closed,” I added.
“The killer will try to make it look like I killed myself?”
“That’s what I would do,” I said. “Tell us about Blue Berrigan.”
“The clown?” he asked, examining the second blood-drenched towel. “I told you before. I don’t know anything about who killed him. I didn’t. Why would I?” He paused to look at us. �
��You’re going to find the killer and keep me out of jail?”
“At least for a day or two, if we can,” I said. “Ames, I forgot the introduction. This is Dwight Torcelli.”
“Can’t say I’m pleased to meet you,” Ames said.
“Okay. I’m sure Alana will get me a real lawyer. I can talk her into it. She’ll calm down. Now, will you please take care of my nose.”
I wasn’t as sure as he was about Alana Legerman coming up with money for a lawyer.
14
*
HE WASN’T WEARING his uniform when he came through my door that night. The door had been locked, but Essau Williams was a cop. There are many ways to get through a locked door, short of breaking it down. Besides, most people carefully lock their doors at night but leave their windows open with only a thin screen to protect them.
I was lying in bed, my eyes closed, my reading lamp still burning on the chair next to my bed. I had fallen asleep with a book on my chest. The book was a list of boys’ names and their meaning. Lewis means “fame and war.” I hadn’t looked up Essau.
He grabbed me by my blue Chicago cubs sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and lifted me from the bed. We were face-to-face. There was no anger in his face. There was nothing but frigid appraisal. Before he had come in, and before I fell asleep, I was considering a last stop in the restroom. Now I had to pee. I had to pee very badly. I did not tell him.
“I did not kill Horvecki,” he said.
“Okay,” I said.
“The Gerall kid did it. Don’t come to my house again.”
I didn’t answer. I had nothing to say.
“You understand?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Say what you’ve got to say,” Essau said.
He hadn’t addressed that to me but to someone I now made out in the darkness near the door. Jack Pepper, Reverend of the Self-Proclaimed Ministers of God, stepped forward.
“Do you know who killed Philip Horvecki?” asked Pepper, every bit as calm as Essau Williams who stepped back from me but continued wearing a look of menace. He had it down. He was playing bad cop to Pepper’s good Reverend. Or maybe he wasn’t playing.
“Was it Ronald Gerall?”
“I don’t think it was Gerall.”
“If you discover who the person was who killed the bastard of hell, you will call one of us,” said Pepper stepping forward. “But it might be best if no one finds out who did it. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“But if you find the avenging angel—,” Pepper began.
“I call you so you can do what?” I asked.
“Protect him,” said Pepper. “The killing was not murder. Whoever did it, it was an execution. You find him. You tell us. You go about your business. You understand?”
I nodded, but the nod was too small and went unseen in the darkness.
“Understood?” asked Essau Williams.
“Yes,” I said.
“Good,” said Pepper.
“No,” I said. “I understand, but I won’t do it.”
Essau Williams got a one-handed grip on my already crumpled shirt.
“You could have lied to us,” said Pepper. “You’re an honest man. But honesty is not always its own reward.”
“I have a question,” I said.
“Yes?” asked Pepper.
“How did you two team up?”
“In search of retribution from the system of men,” said Pepper, “we’ve encountered each other through the years in our several attempts at trying to seek justice for our families and punishment for Philip Horvecki.”
“Find him, tell us,” said Essau.
“We decided that neither of us would exact physical retribution,” Pepper continued ignoring Essau Williams. “But if someone were to do so, we would put the full extent of our gratitude toward him and pray for the mercy of Jesus upon him.”
“You would pray for the mercy of Jesus,” Essau Williams amended.
“What will you do?” asked Pepper, now only a few feet from me.
“Get a lock for my door,” I said.
Silence. I prepared to be hit, as well as anyone can prepare. The instant the blow came I would go with it, fall back. Then again, Essau Williams might simply decide to strangle me.
“You’re not afraid,” Pepper said.
“No.”
“You know you are in the hands of Jesus,” said Pepper.
“No.”
“Then … ?” Pepper asked.
“I have another question,” I said.
“What?” asked Pepper.
“Do you have a favorite first line from a book?”
“ ‘Behold, I send my messenger before thy face, which shall prepare thy way before thee. Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.’ The Gospel according to St. Mark.”
“You left out a little,” I said.
“What the fuck is this?” Williams said. “Are you both crazy?”
“I was going to ask the same thing,” I said.
“We have a damn good reason if we are, Philip Horvecki. What’s your damn good reason?”
“There’s someone in the dark,” I said.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Williams said.
“Me,” came the voice from the door.
Victor Woo had entered while they were doing their best to intimidate me.
Williams and Pepper turned toward the door. Victor flipped on the light switch. He was barefoot, wearing clean jeans and an orange University of Illinois sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up. In his right hand was the old aluminum softball bat I’d found in the closet when I moved in here.
I could see now that Williams was also wearing jeans. His long-sleeve T-shirt was solid blue. Pepper, pale, his straw hair slightly tousled, wore brown slacks and a white shirt and tie. I wore my underpants with the penguins and my Cubs sweatshirt with the cut-off sleeves. No one wore a smile.
“Victor batted leadoff for two Tigers farm teams,” I said.
I might analyze that instant lie sometime later with Ann Hurwitz. Anyway, it didn’t seem to have any effect on my visitors.
“We’ve said what we have to say,” Pepper said calmly.
“You can put the bat down, Jet Li,” said Essau Williams.
Victor moved away from the door so they could pass. Pepper went out first. Williams paused at the door and said, “‘Once upon a time, there were three bears, a papa bear, a momma bear, and a baby bear.’ A favorite first line. My mother used to tell me that one when I was a baby. That was long after Philip Horvecki raped her and my aunt, and long before he came back eight years ago and turned her and my aunt into cowering old women and ended my family’s history.”
He closed the door behind him. Victor followed them out to be sure they left and then returned, bat still in hand.
“Tea?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “You?”
“I don’t like tea,” he said. “But I have Oreo cookies and milk.”
“That’ll work for me.”
We woke Dwight Torcelli, who was sleeping on a blanket in the room next to mine. Victor had been in that room, too, lying on his bedroll in front of the door to keep Torcelli from deciding to wander. There was a strip of white tape across his swollen nose. The skin under both of his eyes had turned purple. I almost apologized, but I wouldn’t have meant it.
“What?” he asked sitting up, blinking, not sure of where he was, and then slowly understanding.
“You had visitors,” I said. “You missed them. Victor and I are going to have Oreo cookies and milk. Want to join us?”
“I guess,” he said, looking at me and then at Victor, who still bore his softball bat.
I was reasonably sure now who was responsible for the death of both Philip Horvecki and Blue Berrigan. When I got up in the morning, I’d share my thoughts with Ames.
I checked the clock when we went back into the room where my desk sat. It was almost three in the morning.
&n
bsp; We had cookies and milk.
I was up by six. I showered, shaved, shampooed what little hair I have remaining with a giant container of no-name shampoo-conditioner purchased at a dollar store, and examined the scratches on my face. It didn’t look as bad as I thought it would. I certainly looked better than Jeff Augustine.
I was dressed in my jeans and a fresh green short-sleeve knit shirt with a collar. It didn’t go well with my blue and red Cubs cap, but I had no plans for meeting royalty. If I did run into any, I could tuck my cap away. Lewis Fonesca was prepared for anything except intruders, unbidden emotions, disarming surprises, life’s horrors, and the pain and death of others.
When Ames and Darrell Caton walked in together just before eight, I was eating an Oreo cookie with the full understanding that I would have to brush my teeth again.
“Met him downstairs,” Ames explained.
“Takes me a while to get up the stairs since I got shot with an Uzi,” said Darrell.
“It was a pellet gun,” Ames said.
“Shot is shot,” said Darrell. “I can’t go around telling people I was in the hospital for three days because I was shot in the back with a BB.”
“Guess not,” said Ames.
It was obvious Ames and Darrell liked each other, though I couldn’t quite figure out what the essence of that friendship might be.
“Cookies?” I asked.
Both Darrell and Ames took one.
“He safe?” asked Ames, pointing at the door of the second bedroom.
“Victor’s in there with him,” I said.
“With who?” asked Darrell.
“Visitor,” I said.
“You’re my big brother, big sister, uncle, Santa, whatever,” said Darrell. “You’re supposed to tell me things. Share confidences, you know?”
“You’re getting a bit old to have a big brother,” said Ames. “And what are you doing roaming the streets when you’re supposed to be in bed.”
“Okay,” said Darrell, “we’ll call it even. Then we’re …”
“Friends,” said Ames.
“Friends,” I agreed.
“Sometimes I think my mother would rather have me hang with safer friends, like drug dealers and gangbangers.”
I offered him another cookie. He took it. Ames decided one was enough.
“Let’s get some breakfast,” Ames said. “We can bring something back for Victor and our guest.”
Bright Futures: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels) Page 19
