Vengeance (15 page)

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Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky

BOOK: Vengeance
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She placed the biscotti on a napkin on the table nearby, opened the coffee, smelled it and nodded her approval. She was wearing a bright yellow dress with a pattern of large red apples. Her earrings were matching red apples. The room was flooded with light.
“Thanks for seeing me,” I said.
“Fortunately, the time was available.”
“But still …”
“You are forgiven,” she said. “Talk. I’ll drink, eat and listen.”
I talked. She dunked her biscotti, listened, nodded from time to time. When I stopped talking ten minutes or so later, she had finished her biscotti and was almost finished with her coffee.
“That’s what happened, but how do you feel?” she said.
“About what?”
“About what?” she said with a hint of exasperation. “About the dead woman. About your date with Sally …”
“Porovsky,” I said.
“Jewish?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Because I’m Jewish?”
“You mean did I ask her out because you’re Jewish? No, I don’t think so.”
Ann nodded.
“Wishful thinking on my part,” she said. “You want
me to tell you why you did it, asked her for a date? I don’t know yet. You feel guilty about it, feel you are betraying your wife.”
“Yes,” I said.
“But you had a good time? You like this woman?”
“Yes. She’s easy to be with.”
“Sexual thoughts, feelings?”
I hesitated and then said, “Yes.”
“Good,” Ann said. “If you’re not going to eat that biscotti …”
I broke it in half and handed one part to her.
“She reminds me of my wife in some ways. She doesn’t in others.”
“You plan to see her again?”
“Yes.”
“How would you characterize what you did on this date?”
“I made it safe for both of us by spending most of the time searching for Adele Tree.”
“She seemed to find this acceptable?”
“Yes. She said, ‘You know how to show a girl a good time.’”
“Irony,” said Ann, taking care of the last few biscotti crumbs.
“Yes. My grandmother made something like biscotti. I don’t remember what she called it. It was good.”
“And she came from Italy?”
“Yes, Rome. Spoke with an accent but her English was good.”
“You find that observation relevant?” Ann asked.
“Yes, but I don’t know why.”
“We’ll save that for another time. And now to murder and your dream. How do you feel about the dead woman, about what happened, about what the dream is telling you?”
“That’s a lot,” I said, finishing my now cold coffee.
“Jump in. Are you angry?”
“Yes, but I think I should be more angry. She seemed to be a decent person. I should have helped her more. She was murdered where I live. She … I’m still having trouble feeling. Even with this, I’m still having trouble feeling. My wife …”
I stopped and went silent.
“You want to tell me what you think the dream means?”
I shook my head no.
“Then I’ll try. Is the Joker a messenger? Is the Joker a jester? He is certainly handing the dead Mrs. Tree a box with a message for you, a message she gives you, an overflowing box of red pieces of paper. Anything?”
“Blood,” I tried.
“Why not? She gives you the gift and wants you to accept it. She wants you to feel, to find the person who killed her. She wants you to find her daughter, to help her daughter. The three men in shawls are people you know who want to help, who want you to help find this murderer, to help find the girl, the child, Adele.”
“And that’s what my dream means?”
Ann sat back, shrugged and said,
“In the absence of an interpretation by you, that’s what I want the dream to mean. I had a big breakfast. I shouldn’t have had that last piece of biscotti, but …”
“No offense, but isn’t there something unprofessional about telling me what you want my dream to mean?”
Ann touched the right earring.
“I’m old and can say what I wish to say. I want to cut through the baloney and get you jump-started. I want to prod you. That’s what you came here for, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“Then go get something to eat, find out who killed Mrs. Tree and find the girl.”
“What about Melanie Sebastian?”
“Who needs finding more?” Ann asked.
“Adele,” I said.
“That’s your answer. Now, go forth, accept the help of your three men in shawls and when you get a chance, call Sally Porovsky.”
“I will,” I said, getting up. “I think I know who one of my men in shawls is.”
“Who?”
“You.”
“Good,” she said, reaching for the phone. “I have an opening the day after tomorrow at nine. You have twenty more dollars?”
“I’ll be here,” I said, moving for the door while she dialed.
“There’s probably a frightened young man in my waiting room,” she said. “Tell him I’ll be with him in a few minutes.”
The young man was there. He looked very frightened but he didn’t look at me when I told him Ann would see him in a few minutes.
I went out the door and into the sun to have breakfast and look for Adele.
There’s a Mennonite restaurant on Main, a small one, open mostly for breakfast and lunch to serve the downtown office workers, city government people and professionals–doctors, lawyers, therapists–in the area. The food was cheap, plentiful and, if you didn’t mind the prayers in the menu, bright and cheerful.
When I finished, I left a good tip and headed for my office-home thinking about what Ann had said and about what I had said, thinking about a Joker with a box of red secrets.
I walked down to 301 and then the three blocks or so to the DQ parking lot. Dave was behind the open porthole serving customers, and the Geo was sitting where I had parked it. I checked it out. The file on Adele wasn’t there. Either the police had it or left in
my office when they had copied it or someone else had it.
I went up to my office. The drapes were closed and so was the door, but it wasn’t locked. I went in. The contrast between sun and semidarkness took a few seconds to get used to. I started to reach for the cord to open the drapes and stopped. My eyes were getting used to the dim shadows.
In those dim shadows, I could see Beryl Tree sitting where I had left her body. She had one of my files open on her lap and she was looking up at me.
MY HAND WAS SHAKING
but I reached for the drapes.
“No,” she said. “Just turn on the light.”
It wasn’t Beryl Tree’s voice. My hand was shaking a little less when I flicked the switch and the overhead tinkled on.
The resemblance to Beryl Tree disappeared. She was much younger, much better looking, and her dark green dress was much more stylish than anything Beryl Tree had worn in her life.
“You know who I am?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
There was a floppy sun hat and a pair of sunglasses on my desk. The blood had been cleaned up. I moved behind my desk and sat looking at Melanie Sebastian. I knew two reasons why Carl Sebastian might want her back. She was as beautiful in person as she was in her photographs and the painting in his apartment. She also had a mellow voice that promised the possibility of music.
She closed the folder in her lap and handed it to me.
“You read in the dark?” I asked.
“There was enough light if I tilted it just a bit toward the window.”
“And?”
“When I picked it up, I thought it was about me,” she said. “Then I found the one about me. It wasn’t very interesting so I went back to this one on Adele Tree.”
“And this one is interesting?”
“And … there are really people like her father out there,” she said. “You really think he–he sexually abused her?”
“Yes.”
“The world can be a truly awful place,” she said.
“Worse than that,” I said. “It can be a low level of hell. Beryl Tree is dead, murdered right where you’re sitting, probably by her husband. And Adele has been sold by her father to a high-class pimp named John Pirannes. You’ve heard of him?”
“No,” she said. “You’re joking.”
“No.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“You were reading the file. You seem interested.”
“There are too many Beryl Trees. Too many Adeles. And far, far too many Dwight Handfords,” she said. “I’ve seen them. I’ve … is Adele strong? Can she … ?”
“She’s strong. Why are you here?”
“My husband is looking for me. He hired you to find me. You talked to one of my friends, who told me. I don’t want you to find me, not yet. When the time comes …”
“Not yet? You’re going to let me find you?”
“When I’m ready,” she said.
“Look, all I’m interested in is telling you your
husband wants to talk to you, try to make things right,” I said.
“I need a few days,” she said. “I’ve spent a lifetime taking care of people. At least that’s how it feels to me. I’ve taken care of my mother and father, children like Adele, my husband. I don’t think many people can be saved and I certainly don’t think I’m the person to save them. I don’t know if you can understand or if I’m making myself clear.”
“I understand,” I said. “But you won’t talk to your husband at this point?”
“I’ll make that decision in a few days,” she said. “I’m not ready. I just want some time for myself. I … Go find Adele Tree. When you do, then come looking for me. If you’re good, you’ll find me. I have a feeling you’re good. I’ve left a trail.”
“So,” I said. “This is a rich lady’s game with her husband and the dope he hired to find you.”
“No,” she said earnestly. “This is no game and I don’t think you’re stupid.”
She meant it. I could tell that she meant it. I could feel it. I had questions.
“Just tell me—”
“No,” she said, still sitting. “I can do a much better job of hiding than I’m doing now if I wish to. I can leave Florida. I’ll stay if you promise to give me a few days.”
“Is my promise worth anything to you?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
“Okay. I promise. You have Caroline Wilkerson’s driver’s license. Did she give it to you?”
“No, I took it when she was busy. Anything else?”
“Not now. What now?”
“Now I get up and step into the other room,” she said, rising. She was tall. “When I’m in there, you open the drapes, stand there as if you’re thinking and then
you take the files on me and Adele and leave, locking the door behind you.”
“It’s broken,” I said.
She was in the other room now. I was way beyond caring about-how my cubbyhole and bed looked to this beautiful, rich runaway.
“Then just go. Stay away at least an hour.”
“You think someone is following you,” I said, moving to the window.
“No, Mr. Fonesca,” she said. “Someone is following
you.”
 
Folders under my arm, I went back out into the sun and down the stairs, trying not to look around for whoever might be following me. The most logical explanation was that either the lovely Mrs. Sebastian had lost her mind or she was into some very heavy duty drugs. How could she know if I were being followed? And why would anyone want to follow me? Dwight? He knew where to find me, and if he had killed Beryl he probably wouldn’t be within three or four miles of the DQ.
I didn’t see anyone, didn’t see any suspicious cars with tinted windows. I wanted to talk to Dave, but it had been clear that Melanie Sebastian wanted me to get some distance between me and my office.
I got in the car and drove to the Walgreen on Bahia Vista and 41. I made two calls. The first was to Sally. She wasn’t in the office. I got her voice mail and said I’d get back to her soon. The police had copied my file on Adele. They might find Sally the way I had. I thought it would be better if the news of Beryl Tree’s murder came from me. I was trying to protect Sally Porovsky, though it wasn’t really my responsibility. I didn’t think about it.
Then I called Carl Sebastian.
“Carl Sebastian,” he said.
“Lewis Fonesca,” I said.
“You found her?”
“No, but I’m getting close. Maybe another two days, three at the most.”
“She’s still in the area?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive,” I said.
“Find her as fast as you can,” he said. “Find her by tomorrow and I double your fee.”
“It’ll take at least two days,” I said.
He sighed.
“Two days then.”
“Possibly three.”
He hung up.
I made another call.
“Texas Bar and Grill,” came Ed Fairing’s voice in the Texas drawl he had picked up from the movies.
“It’s Fonesca,” I said. “Ames there?”
“I’ll get him.”
“Can you spare him for an hour or two?”
“He’s his own man,” said Ed.
About a minute later Ames answered the phone.
“Yes.”
“Ames, did you clean up my office this morning?”
“Yes. Watched the police leave, came in, went.”
“You see a woman outside or inside my office? Beautiful woman?”
“No.”
“Beryl Tree’s dead.”
Silence.
“Ames?”
“Here,” he said.
“She was killed in my office.”
“It was her blood then, her blood I cleaned up? How’d she die?”
“I don’t think you want to know.”
“I want to know, Lewis.”
“Tire iron. I think I know where her daughter is. I think I’m going to go get her. You want to come?”
“I do,” he said.
“Might want to bring a weapon,” I said.
“I mean to,” he said. “She with the person who killed Ms. Tree?”
“I don’t know.”
“I hope so,” he said.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“I’ll be out in front.”
There were three people in shawls in my dream. Ann Horowitz was one. I had a feeling Ames McKinney was another.
“Ames was waiting in front of the Texas. He was wearing a slicker over his denims and flannel shirt. It didn’t look like rain and it wasn’t cold, but I knew there was a very deep pocket inside the slicker, probably deep enough for a short or sawed-off shotgun.
Ames climbed in and closed the door.
“I plan to shoot him if it’s the one who killed Ms. Tree,” he said. “Thought I’d just tell you up front.”
“I appreciate it,” I said, “but I can’t take you with me if that’s the only choice you have.”
I was on the way down Fruitville to 41.
“I’ll hold off then,” he said.
That was the end of our conversation. I considered turning on the radio and decided against it. I made a right turn off of 41, drove past high-rises and over the bridge to Bird Key, and then kept going to St. Armand’s Circle. The circle was alive with tourists. I swerved to avoid hitting a horse-drawn tourist carriage and then headed toward Longboat Key, over another bridge and down Gulf of Mexico Drive, the only road on the eleven-mile-long island.
Longboat is money. Resorts and high-rise beach
condos on my left, very private home developments on my right. Wealthy French and Germans lived here in the winter. Movie stars had million-dollar retreats, and John Pirannes and others like him quietly sold damaged people, tainted land, and decaying schemes of wealth.
I pulled up to the guard gate at the Beach Tides Resort, rolled down my window and smiled.
“Mr. Pirannes is expecting us,” I said.
The guard was old, but he wasn’t stupid. He looked at Ames, who was staring ahead, and went into his glassed-in hut to call. He was back out in about thirty seconds.
“No answer,” he said. “Sorry.”
“I just have a—”
“Sorry,” the guard said as if he were truly sorry.
I backed up, turned around and went back out on Gulf of Mexico Drive, where I did what I should have done in the first place. I drove to the small shopping mall a quarter of a mile down, pulled in and parked. Not much was open, but there were other cars. Ames and I walked back to the Beach Tides Resort, hoping a cop wouldn’t stop us and ask questions. We kept close to the trees and found an opening in the shrubs we could get through. Security at the resort was fine as long as you tried to get through the front gate, but few of the resorts had fences or walls all the way around them.
My guess was that security was better at night, but I saw no signs of cameras in the trees. The Beach Tides Resort was badly in need of a security consultant.
We moved around a small pond where a white heron was dozing. A few dozen yards past a barbecue pit we hit the beach. I took off my shirt, slung it over my shoulder, and sauntered down the shore with Ames at my side.
“You’re a big retired movie star,” I said, waving at
a trio of kids building a castle of white sand. “A cowboy like John Wayne.”
“All the same to you,” he said. “I’ll think Buck Jones.”
The three kids stopped building and looked at Ames. A jogger in bare feet, red swimsuit and a white T-shirt with Betty Boop reclining on his chest glanced at us as he passed and left footprints in the sand. I laughed as if Ames had just said something hilarious. Ames just looked forward. I was beginning to think that bringing Ames along was not such a good idea. In fact, my coming at all was probably not a good idea, but all I could think of was the fourteen-year-old girl whose picture was in my wallet, her dead mother, her father who had sold her, and John Pirannes who had bought her.
When we came up behind the Beach Tides on the beach, we walked around the pool, where a single old man treaded water, nodding at us as we passed.
We tried three buildings, checking names in the lobby, avoiding the security people who rode around on little golf carts. In the third building, we found a J. Pirannes and I pushed the button.
No answer.
I pushed again. This time a girl answered and said.
“Hello.”
“John Pirannes, please,” I said.
“He can’t come to the phone,” she said.
“Why?”
“I think he’s dead,” she said.
“Adele?”
“Yes.”
“Adele, push the button and let me in,” I said.
“Button?”
“On the phone, near the door, somewhere.”
“Who are you, the police?”
“Good guess,” I said. “The door.”
I heard her put down the phone and waited, phone
in hand, watching the driveway outside for the golf-cart patrol. Then, a buzz. I hung up the phone and went into the lobby. Pirannes’s apartment was on the sixteenth floor. We were up and running down the corridor in about twenty seconds. Ames was almost keeping up with me in spite of the slicker, the shotgun and the more than thirty years I had on him. The door to Pirannes’s apartment was locked. I knocked. I. knocked again.

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