Vengeance lf-1

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “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.

  “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.

  “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.

  “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.

  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.

  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 Menno
nite 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.

  9

  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.”