Vengeance (14 page)
Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
When we got to the front door of her apartment, we shook hands, a warm, friendly shake that lasted long enough to show that she was definitely friendly.
“Next time,” she said. “Let’s try Chinese or Thai and a movie. No business.”
“Saturday?” I said.
“Why not?” she answered with a smile. “Six-thirty. A movie. Something funny. I need something funny.”
She smiled. Tired smile, but real.
“I’ll say one thing for you, Fonesca. You know how to show a girl a good time.”
It was a little past eleven when I got back to the DQ parking lot. The DQ was closed. Traffic was slow on 301 and I got out of the car touching my tender but slightly better stomach. I thought about what Dwight Handford had done to his daughter and almost wished that he would come out of the shadows by the stairs. I went to the trunk, found the Geo’s tire iron under the mat and closed the trunk. My tire iron upstairs was bigger but this was lighter.
I wondered what Ann Horowitz would say about tire irons as my weapon of choice. I had too much respect for her to think she would give me the old phallic response. It might be true, but we were beyond that.
Dwight did not appear out of the shadows. I went up to the dim-lit concrete balcony that led to my home,
my office, the place where I wanted to feel reasonably safe and somewhat comfortably alone.
my office, the place where I wanted to feel reasonably safe and somewhat comfortably alone.
Something had happened to me in the last few days. I decided to call Ann Horowitz and hope she had time for an emergency visit. I had the twenty dollars.
Feelings were dancing in my mind and chest. Adele, Beryl, Sally and Dwight. And there was something about Melanie Sebastian. Something off. Something wrong. I was feeling it, but … My door was closed. Ames McKinney had fixed it. The lights were out. Tire iron dangling by my side, I turned the handle. The door was open. I stepped in, ready, and flicked on the light. Ames had put everything back in order.
Beryl Tree was sitting on the folding chair in front of my desk. Her hands were clasped together. Her head was back. She was looking up at the ceiling at nothing. Her face was red with blood.
I checked my second room. No one was there. I went to Beryl, touched a large vein in her neck. Beryl Tree was dead.
DETECTIVE ED VIVAISE’S GLASSES
were perched on the end of his ample nose so he could look down at the few sheets of paper in front of him and then over the tops of his glasses at me.
were perched on the end of his ample nose so he could look down at the few sheets of paper in front of him and then over the tops of his glasses at me.
“Lewie,” he said, shaking his head. And then again, “Lewie.”
He was a little under six feet tall, a little over fifty years old and a little over two hundred and twenty pounds. His hair was short, dark, and his face was that of a man filled with sympathy, the smooth pink face of a man whose genes were good and who probably didn’t drink. He wore black slacks, a tieless white shirt. A black zipper jacket was draped on his straight-backed wooden chair.
Vivaise sat behind his desk in the Sarasota police station on Main Street. There were three other desks in the office, all institutional metal, all with papers and reports piled in metal mesh boxes or freestanding and about to topple. Vivaise and I were the only ones in
the office. We had been sitting there for about an hour, or at least I had been sitting there an hour. He had gotten up and left the room four times, once to get himself and me coffee, and three times when the phone on his desk rang. All three times he had returned with papers.
the office. We had been sitting there for about an hour, or at least I had been sitting there an hour. He had gotten up and left the room four times, once to get himself and me coffee, and three times when the phone on his desk rang. All three times he had returned with papers.
In the hour, Ed Vivaise had said nothing to me but “Lewie, Lewie, Lewie,” which translated into “Lewis Fonesca, what have you gotten yourself into.”
“You don’t mind if I call you Lewie, do you?”
“I prefer Lew or Lewis,” I said.
Vivaise held up his hands in a gesture of peace and understanding.
“I understand,” he said, leaning over. “I’ll share a secret with you. I don’t tell many people, but my real name is Etienne. French. Can you imagine me getting any respect if I used the name Etienne? I’d spend half my time telling people how to pronounce it.”
“Thanks for sharing with me,” I said.
He smiled, the pained smile of a man with severe stomach cramps.
“The victim’s name was Beryl Tree,” he said, looking at the top paper in front of him.
“Yes.”
“No, I was telling you, not asking, but feel free,” he said. “Age, according to the ID in her purse, was forty-two. She looked a hard-life forty-two to me.”
He looked up.
“To me too,” I said.
“So,” he went on, putting the papers neatly in front of him and leaning back with his hands behind his head, “you tell me what you told Officer Bayles in your statement. New words, old words, whatever.”
“Right,” I said, leaning forward. “Beryl Tree came to me through a friend. I’m a process server.”
“She needed a process server?”
Vivaise’s eyes were closed now. He took his right
hand from behind his head long enough to scratch his nose.
hand from behind his head long enough to scratch his nose.
“No, she stopped at the Dairy Queen right near where I live, said she was looking for help finding her runaway daughter. She told the man at the DQ that she had come to the police, but she didn’t think they were going to do anything much about it. There were too many runaways from and to Sarasota. Check on reports for missing kids from Monday.”
“It’s all on computers,” he said, eyes still closed. “It’s been done. So far you haven’t fallen from the tightrope. So she came to you?”
“It was convenient for her. I was right behind the DQ. I said I’d try to find her daughter.”
“She gave you money.”
“She gave me money. Not much, but I needed it. I don’t need much.”
“I’ll back you on that,” he said. “After seeing your place, you don’t live high.”
“I looked for her daughter,” I went on. “So far I haven’t found her, but I did find her father or, to be a little more accurate, he found me. Told me to stop looking, threatened Beryl and me. His name is—”
“I’ve got it, Dwight Handford. Did time. An unwelcome resident. We have his records.”
“He’s using the name Prescott,” I said.
“Dwight Prescott?” he asked, writing the name on the pad in front of him.
“Yes. I took Mrs. Tree to stay with a friend. Handford found out she was there. She ran. I was out with a lady, came home, found Beryl’s body, called nine-one-one .”
“Makes sense,” he said. “Sixty-two dollars and change in her purse. Wouldn’t make much sense for you to bash her head in and call nine-one-one. Sense would have been to get rid of the body and go on with your business.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
His eyes were still closed. His hands were still clasped behind his head.
“But,” he said, “there are lots of reasons for killing people and I’ve seen killers do some very dumb things. Common sense doesn’t always prevail. You know what I mean?”
“Yes,” I said. “But it makes sense that Handford killed her and I didn’t. What reason would I have for killing her?”
“Who knows? She insulted your heritage, called you a queer, came on to you and you went nuts remembering some sexual trauma in the distant past.”
I blew out some air, sat up with my back aching slightly and said.
“You’ve got imagination.”
“Yeah. I’m a dreamer, aren’t we all,” he agreed. “Why do you have two tire irons in your office, one of which was found by your bed, the murder weapon according to lab, and the other on your desk?”
“Protection,” I said.
“From?”
“Handford. Take a look.”
I lifted my shirt. Vivaise opened his eyes and examined the large bruise.
“Looks like modern art,” he said. “Colorful. My wife’s an artist. Abstract. Portrait. Landscapes. You name it. She’ll do it. You can pull your shirt down.”
“He killed her,” I said.
“No prints on the tire iron,” he said, closing his eyes again. “Not yours, not anyone’s. Got any more suspects for me, Lewis?”
I thought. Had John Pirannes found out about Beryl and me looking for Adele? Was keeping a teenage prostitute a reason for murder? Maybe Adele found out from Tilly the Pimp. Maybe Tilly the Pimp had a change of heart and came looking for me, afraid I’d tell
Pirannes Tilly had talked too much. Maybe he had walked in on Beryl and … Maybe a lot of things. Dwight knew where I lived and worked. Keep it simple. Dwight was the man.
Pirannes Tilly had talked too much. Maybe he had walked in on Beryl and … Maybe a lot of things. Dwight knew where I lived and worked. Keep it simple. Dwight was the man.
“No,” I said.
Vivaise opened his eyes, stood up and stretched.
“Your background checks. Got some nice words about you from the state attorney’s office in Cook County. Said you’d gone a little flaky when your wife died, but that you were harmless. I’ll go for Handford, see what happens. Is he smart?”
“He’s smart,” I said.
“Dangerous. Probably call a lawyer and refuse to talk if we pull him in.”
“Probably,” I agreed.
“Without evidence he’ll walk,” said Vivaise. “Smart ones usually walk, especially if they have money. Handford have money?”
“He’s a tow-truck driver. I don’t know what else.”
“We’ll see,” Vivaise said. “You got a friend to stay with? We’re still going over your place. I don’t think we’ll find anything, but sometimes you get lucky. You can go back in the morning.”
“I’ll get a room at the Best Western,” I said.
“You want a ride?”
“I’ll walk,” I said.
“Nice night. A little cool. Beryl Tree, she was a nice lady?”
“Yes,” I said. “She was a nice lady.”
“Melanie Sebastian,” he said.
“What about her?”
“You’ve got a file on her in your office. Mind telling me why?”
“I mind,” I said.
“Suit yourself,” he said.
“The Sebastian folder has nothing to do with Beryl Tree’s murder.”
“We’ll leave that one open,” said Vivaise. “We made a copy of the file and your notes on Adele Tree. The file was on your desk. On that one, we don’t care if you mind.”
I hadn’t left the file on Adele on my desk. I had left it under the seat of the Geo. I was in no position to complain and I didn’t.
“You can go, Lewie. Things get anywhere, a trial, something, we may need you to come in and talk about Handford’s threats, the artwork he gave you, the fact that he knew his wife was in town and was after her. You’re our only witness. Take care of yourself.”
“I will, Etienne,” I said.
“You pronounced it right,” he said, adjusting his belt. “Last question. You know where we can find the daughter?”
He looked at the papers on his desk and then at me over his glasses.
“Adele,” he said.
“Haven’t found her yet,” I said. “She’s supposed to be living with Handford but I hear she ran away from him.”
“You hear?”
“You know, you hear.”
“Take care of yourself, Lew.”
“I will, Detective Vivaise.”
“Ed will be fine.”
“Ed,” I said.
There was a vacancy at the Best Western. The night clerk, a thin woman with a slightly pinched face and a nice voice, asked pleasantly if I had any luggage. I knew why she was asking. Suicides sometimes checked into hotels without luggage. They knew they weren’t going anywhere and didn’t need a change of clothes. There was also the chance that I had a prostitute or someone’s
wife out of sight in a car and needed the room for a few hours. That was none of the management’s business, but dead bodies and bloody walls were.
wife out of sight in a car and needed the room for a few hours. That was none of the management’s business, but dead bodies and bloody walls were.
“Fire in my place, down the street, behind the DQ. Lost everything.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m insured,” I said with my most plaintive Jobian smile.
I needed a shave. I needed a bath. I needed to think. The clerk gave me a complimentary disposable orange-and-white Bic razor and the key to my room. It was two doors down from the one Beryl Tree had sat in waiting to hear from me.
A shave, a hot bath, a shampoo of what remained of my hair and I was ready to think. It was nearly eleven. I turned on the television instead and watched the rerun of a soccer match on ESPN. Manchester United was playing someone. I didn’t know who.
I lay in bed in my underwear with the lights out watching men running back and forth, crashing into each other, shouting, kicking and trying to score. I turned off the sound and fell asleep knowing that my inner clock would wake me in time to get back to my rooms, change clothes and drive the rented Geo to my appointment with Ann Horowitz.
My inner clock was off. I woke from a dream about a man dressed like the Joker in a deck of cards. The man was on a platform. There was a big crowd watching quietly. The Joker pulled out a small wooden box and held it up. He grinned and teased the audience with his hand, moving it as if he were about to open the box, and then pulling his hand back. He did this three or four times until three men wearing colorful shawls over their heads moved to the platform. The Joker looked at the men, bobbed his head and danced to make them
smile or respond which they didn’t do, and finally, resigned, the Joker opened the box and waved it, and small red pieces of paper came flying out. The audience went “Ah.” The three men with shawls shook their heads in approval. The red paper came out in a storm that covered the floor up to our ankles. The audience was in a near religious fervor.
smile or respond which they didn’t do, and finally, resigned, the Joker opened the box and waved it, and small red pieces of paper came flying out. The audience went “Ah.” The three men with shawls shook their heads in approval. The red paper came out in a storm that covered the floor up to our ankles. The audience was in a near religious fervor.
And then Beryl Tree was on the platform, Beryl Tree before her head had been shattered by a tire iron. The Joker handed her the box, which was still spewing red-paper snow. Beryl moved through the wildly applauding audience and handed the box to me. The audience went wild. Beryl said something to me. I couldn’t hear her. The crowd was too noisy. I knew that she was telling me something important. And then a man somewhere said, “Is that everything?”
I woke up. The room was bright with sunlight. I hadn’t pulled the drapes closed. On the television screen women were playing golf. The clock on the table near the bed said it was almost nine.
The man’s voice said.
“Let’s go.”
I got up and went to the window. A man wearing a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap was loading his car truck. A woman and a boy were getting in the car.
“That’s everything,” the man said and closed the trunk.
He saw me in the window, wasn’t sure how to react, and decided t6 smile. I smiled back and for some reason waited till he and his family had driven away before I got dressed, checked out and jogged to my office home.
The door was closed but not locked. There was no crime-scene tape. I went in. There was blood on the floor where Beryl’s body had been. There was blood on the floor near my bed where the tire iron had been thrown. I changed clothes and hurried to the Geo.
I made my usual stop at Sarasota News and Books for two coffees to go with chocolate biscotti, left the car in a space in front of the bookstore and took my paper bag to Ann Horowitz’s office a block away.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, handing her the peace offering of coffee and biscotti. I knew she was a sucker for sweets.
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