Bright Futures lf-6

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Someday you may be an old fart,” I said.

  “Great, an old fart with one eye.”

  He went to Laurel and turned left. A minute later he parked in front of my new home, the one with rooms too big and visitors too many.

  “I’m cashing Corkle’s check and heading for the Tampa airport,” he said. “I’ll work in commercials if I’m lucky, dinner theater, wherever a one-eyed character actor is wanted. Who knows? This…,” he said, pointing to his patched eye, “may be the opening of new career opportunities.”

  “Who knows?”

  “We both do,” he said with a smile as bitter as orange peel.

  I got out of the car.

  “Watch yourself, Cub fan,” he said.

  I touched the brim of my cap in a gesture of good-bye. He tore down the street with a drag racer’s abandon. The tires weren’t his. The car wasn’t his. It was too bad the Dairy Queen two blocks down was closed and torn down. He could have had a Blizzard to ease the rush hour trip to Tampa.

  “Let’s go,” Ames said when I went through the door.

  He was standing to my left, near the wall. Victor, in his Chicago Bulls sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, was seated on the floor, his bedroll wrapped neatly in the corner. Ames was wearing black corduroy pants, a red-dominated, plaid shirt, and boots.

  “Where this time?” I asked.

  “To see a man,” said Ames. “Brought you this.”

  He held up a wooden plank about the size of a rolled up newspaper. Burned into its dark, grainy surface were the words LEWIS FONESCA.

  “So people will know you’re here,” said Ames. “I can mount it outside somewhere.”

  “I don’t want any more people to know I’m here,” I said.

  “Suit yourself,” he said, placing the plank faceup on my desk. “Let’s go. Victor’ll drive us.”

  In response, Victor Woo got up from the floor.

  “Where are we going and why?” I asked.

  “I found a man who knows all about Philip Horvecki.”

  Victor chauffeured. Ames and I sat in back. Ames gave Victor directions. They weren’t easy. We drove up I-75 to the University Parkway exit and headed east. Ames gave clipped driving directions like, “Next right,” and Victor drove without speaking.

  “Fella came into the Texas a few hours ago,” said Ames. “Heard him talking. Sheriff’s Deputy. Talking about the murder. Told another fella that the detectives should ask Pertwee about it. I asked him who this Pertwee was. He told me.”

  Ames went silent. Long speeches were not his medium.

  After telling Victor to go down a narrow dirt road, Ames went on.

  “Seems Pertwee knows a lot about old crimes in the county,” said Ames.

  Silence again, except for the bumping tires and the rat-tat of pebbles against the undercarriage of the car.

  “How do you know where to-” I started.

  “Came out here on my scooter when the deputy gave me directions,” Ames interrupted.

  We had gone almost twenty miles from my apartment. On a scooter, going over this road, one would have to be very determined.

  “Look out on the right over ahead. Hardly see it, but there’s a low wooden fence and an open gate.”

  Victor turned into a rutted path even narrower than the dirt road. Ahead of us about fifty yards was a mobile home with a small addition. It was a house of aluminum waiting for a hurricane to wash it away.

  The closer we got the better it looked. The place was recently painted white. A small, umbrella-covered metal table with three wrought iron chairs sat in front of the mobile home’s door.

  Victor parked. We got out as a man lumbered through the door and held the sides of the doorway to keep from slipping on the two steps to the ground. He was short, with a sagging belly. He wore jeans with suspenders over a blue striped polo shirt that was sucked into the folds of his neck. He was about sixty years old.

  He looked at the three of us with amusement.

  “A visit from a formidable trio,” he said. “A cowboy, a chink, and a gingerbread man. What brings you, and would you like a beer?”

  We all said no. Pertwee shrugged and said, “So be it. What brings you here?”

  “Deputy I met said you know a lot about Philip Horvecki,” said Ames.

  “That I do,” said Pertwee. “And who did you say you were?”

  “My name is Lewis Fonesca and I-”

  “Lewis Fonesca,” he said. “Formerly an investigator in the state attorney’s office in Cook County, Illinois. You came here four years back after your wife was killed in a hit-and-run on Lake Shore Drive in Chicago. The driver of the red convertible that killed her was an Asian man who has yet to be found by the police.”

  “This is the man,” I said, nodding toward Victor.

  Pertwee bent forward and looked up at Victor. Not much could happen that would surprise him.

  “And this is Ames McKinney,” I went on.

  “Four years ago, beach at Lido,” said Pertwee. “You shot your ex-partner. Fonesca was there. You did a little time. I sit out here, keep track. Retired detective, Cincinnati Police. Come on in.”

  We followed the wobbling Pertwee into his house. The living room was larger than I had expected. It had the musty but not unpleasant odor of dried leaves. Family portraits hung on the walls, and the sofa and matching chair were each covered with a bright blue knitted blanket. Beyond the living room and down a step into the one-room addition to the home was an office lined with file drawers. A computer with a large screen sat next to a printer and a fax machine. There was a duplicate of the sofa in the other room complete with knitted blanket, only this blanket was brown.

  “Wife’s in town at a photography class at Selby Gardens,” Pertwee said. “Won’t be back for a long while. She’ll have a portfolio full of photographs of flowers and trees when she walks through the door.”

  He nodded toward the wall over the sofa. Color photographs were mounted one after another, all around the room. All the photographs were of flowers or bright fish in a pond.

  Pertwee sat in front of the computer and pressed the power button. While the machine was firing up, he rose and waddled to a file cabinet, opened it, rummaged in a lower drawer, and came up with a manila file folder.

  “Cold cases,” he explained as the image of a red flower appeared on his computer screen. “Sheriff’s office lets me see what I can find. Won’t find stuff like this on the Internet.”

  “Horvecki was involved in a cold case?” I asked.

  Victor had sat on the sofa. Ames stood at my side looking at the screen. Pertwee’s face was red with the reflected color of the flower before him.

  “Two cold cases,” said Pertwee, opening the file folder and placing it on the table next to him. “First case was back in 1968. Young Horvecki was but a stripling. “Two fourteen-and sixteen-year-old black girls were raped and beaten. They were found wandering the byways. Both girls identified Horvecki as the attacker. Both later changed their minds. Case still open. Both girls are grandmas now. One’s a great grandma. One has a son who is not fond of Mr. Horvecki and has been known to speak ill of the now deceased. Son’s name is Williams, Essau Williams. Detective in the Venice Police Department. Detective Williams has been given disciplinary warnings because Horvecki claimed Williams has been stalking him for years.”

  “And the other case?” I asked.

  Pertwee said, “Ah” and flipped pages until he found what he was looking for.

  “Here ’tis, 1988, same year Cynthia and I arrived in the State of Florida and purchased this little bit of heaven. Costs almost as much to get an Internet hookup and dish TV as it cost to buy Buddenbrooks.”

  “Buddenbrooks?” I asked.

  “The abode in which we sit, away from civilization in a field of rattlesnakes, raccoons, and seldom-seen rodents of unusual size and appetite. I can shoot them at my ease from one of those chairs under the umbrella. My principal physical exercise.”

  “S
ounds like fun,” Ames said.

  “Yes, ’tis. However, all in all, I’d rather be back in Cincinnati. Cynthia, however, longed for Paradise, and we wound up here. I’m not complaining.”

  “The second case in your files,” I reminded him.

  He turned the page of the stapled sheets in the folder and said, “One Jack Pepper, sophomore at Riverview High School. Attacked from behind while crossing an orange grove on his way home from school. Assailant told him to pull down his pants or die. Assailant proceeded to attempt anal intercourse. Failed. Boy stepped out of his pants and drawers and ran. Pepper turned and saw the attacker coming after him. Pepper ran faster, covered himself with a damp, dirty newspaper and entered a gas station. Pepper identified Horvecki but Horvecki had the best lawyers money can buy and some friends in the right places. That was nineteen years ago. Jack Pepper is now thirty-six years old and living in relative tranquility in Cortez Village. Thrice Jack Pepper confronted our Mr. Horvecki in public places, broke his nose and cheekbone with a well-placed and probably knuckle-hurting punch, and kicked him into unconsciousness. Attempted murder, but…”

  “Horvecki did not press charges,” I said.

  “He did not. No other incident involving the two of them in the last nineteen years.”

  “You have Pepper’s address?” I asked.

  “That I have. I’ll give you both his and Essau Williams’s address,” said Pertwee. “And I shall print some possibly pertinent information for you.”

  “Cost?” asked Ames.

  “Close those two cold cases and find out who killed Horvecki,” said Pertwee. “These cases of open files challenge and mock me. The fewer there are, the lighter my burden, even though I know others will come to fill the drawers.”

  We started back to the car, and Pertwee called out, “A sweet fella like Horvecki probably had lots of people who didn’t much care for him besides Williams and Pepper.”

  We kept walking. One of the people who didn’t like Horvecki was Ronnie Gerall, sitting in juvenile lockup for killing a man everyone seemed to hate.

  Cell phones are wondrous things. They keep people connected regardless of where they are. Going to be late for an appointment? Call. Have an accident on the road and need AAA? Call. Lapse into drunkenness at the side of the road and need AA? Call. Supposed to meet someone and they don’t show up? Call. Cell phones are wondrous things. They take photographs and videos, tell you the temperature and baseball scores, let you order pickup at Appleby’s, tell you what time it is and where you are if you get lost, and play music you like.

  People can find you no matter where you are.

  The problem is that I don’t want to be connected, don’t want to order braised chicken to be picked up at Appleby’s, don’t want to take photographs or videos, and am in no hurry to get baseball scores.

  But the machines give us no choice.

  The young don’t have wristwatches.

  Phone booths are dying out.

  Good-bye to all that.

  Still, I had a cell phone in my pocket, a birthday present from Flo Zink. Adele had programmed in a ringtone version of “Help!” that was now playing.

  “L.F., unless her body is enriching a wood or bog, Rachel Horvecki is not dead. And she is still not leaving her footprint on the sands of time. I can tell you stuff about her. Got time to hear?”

  “Yes.”

  “She is twenty-seven years old, went to Sarasota Christian High School where she was on the yearbook committee, Spanish Club, Poetry Club, Chess Club, Drama Club, cross-country team; did three years at Manatee Community College, where she was on no club, went to a small school called Plain River College in a small town in West Texas. Her major was English Lit. No extracurricular interests or clubs. Plain River College registrar records show she dropped out. Reason stated: Getting Married. Sarasota Memorial Hospital records show she had an appendectomy when she was seventeen and came into the ER once, when she was fourteen, for a broken arm and bruised ribs. Hospital reported possible abuse, but Rachel insisted she had fallen down some stairs. Want me to keep looking?”

  “Yes. See if you can find out who, if anyone, she married.”

  “Will do.”

  We hung up. I called Winn Graeme’s cell phone and told him I wanted to talk to him without Greg at his side pummeling him. He had something to do at school but would call me when he could get away.

  I called the home of D. Elliot Corkle and left a message when he didn’t pick up. Since he said he never left the house, I wondered where he was. Maybe he was taking a shower or a swim or just didn’t feel like being connected to someone beyond his front door. I gave my number to the machine and said, “Please call me soon. What’s the ‘D’ in your name for?”

  I called Sally. She answered. I said nothing.

  “Lew?”

  Cell phone. Caller ID. She knew who was calling.

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I hoped that words would come when I heard your voice, but they’re not coming.”

  “We can talk later,” she said. “I’m with a client now.”

  “How is Darrell?”

  “Better, much better. I’ll call you later. Promise.”

  She ended the call, and I tried to think of other people to call. I wanted to wear out the charge in my phone so it would go silent, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  I was tempted to launch into baseball metaphors.

  Victor drove me to the Fruitville Library, where I got my bike out of his trunk.

  “I can come back for you,” said Victor.

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  Ames said nothing, just looked at me and nodded. I nodded back. They drove off. The sun was high, the air filled with moist heaviness and the smell of watermelons from a truck vending them on Fruitville, just beyond the parking lot.

  I chained my bike to a lamppost and went inside.

  The cool air struck and chilled for an instant.

  Two minutes later I had an oversize book of World War II airplanes open on my lap. I didn’t want to look at it. I wasn’t interested. It was a prop to keep a vigilant librarian from making a citizen’s arrest for vagrancy.

  No more than five maybe six, minutes later, Blue Berrigan sat down across from me.

  Stuart M. Kaminsky

  Bright Futures: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels)

  8

  You just happened to see me hiding here behind the fiction,” I whispered.

  He was wearing a pair of dark corduroy slacks and a short-sleeved green and white striped polo shirt.

  “I… I followed you.”

  “From where?”

  “You’re going to get angry,” he said. “It can’t be helped. We’re talking about my life here.”

  He looked over his shoulder and out the window and gently bit his lower lip.

  “You’re talking,” I said. “I’m listening.”

  “I put an electronic tracer under the rear fender of your bicycle,” he said. “I removed it before I came in. They’re really cheap now. You can get them online.”

  He held up both hands in a gesture designed to stop me from rising in indignation. I didn’t rise. I wasn’t indignant.

  “I was afraid you didn’t believe me when we talked in the park.”

  “I didn’t,” I said.

  “I do lie a lot. People always say you should tell kids the truth; you shouldn’t lie to them. But there are truths you want to keep from children. There are truths they are better off without. What are you reading?”

  A thin woman with wild hair came down the aisle perpendicular to us carrying a load of books she wouldn’t be able to read in a generation. The books at the top and in the middle of the pile threatened to fall. Blue Berrigan was silent until the woman rounded the corner, went up the next aisle, pulled out two more books, and balanced them on top of her heap. Then she went out of sight.

  “I’m looking at pictures of old
airplanes,” I said.

  “Good.”

  I wasn’t sure why he might think that was good.

  “You’re not being blackmailed,” I said.

  “No.”

  “Then…”

  “I’m being paid to distract you,” he said with a great sigh.

  “From what?”

  “Whatever you’re working on.”

  “Who’s paying you?”

  “A man who called me, said he knew my work, knew I was down on my luck. I’m supposed to keep bothering you, sending you on wild grouse hunts, tell you someone tried to kill me. Improvise.”

  “How much is he paying you?”

  “Five thousand dollars in advance. I’ve got it back in my room.”

  “But you’ve decided…”

  “The guy sounds nuts, is what I’m saying. I’m keeping the money, packing up, and moving west. I’m only renting a room here. He’s got someone keeping an eye on me. I’ll have to lose whoever it is.”

  I was tempted to say I’d join him in his getaway, but it wasn’t temptation enough.

  “Don’t go yet,” I said.

  “Don’t go?”

  “He calls you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell him you have me looking for grouse.”

  “Ah, I see,” he said.

  “What’s a grouse?” I asked.

  Neither of us knew for certain.

  “Let’s leave separately,” I said. “He might have followed you. I’ll get back to you.”

  He got up without certainty and said, “I’m really very good with kids. I just, you know, got lost.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “You don’t live near here.”

  “No. I come here when I want to be alone, where no one can find me unless they plant tracking devices on my bicycle. You want to give me a ride home?”

  “No, can’t,” he said standing quickly. “I’ve got to go.”

  He strode away quickly. I waited about ten seconds and then followed him to the glass doors at the entrance to the library. I stayed against a wall inside, watching him find his car in the lot and leave. It was a well-used Jeep of uncertain vintage. I got the first three letters of his tag before he turned left. That’s when whoever was in the backseat sat up. I couldn’t see who it was.