Retribution lf-2

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “And if I do save him?”

  “Lonsberg’s not getting his manuscripts back,” she said firmly.

  “Adele, what’s the story here?”

  “No story. Not yet. What I’m doing is better punishment.”

  “For what?” I asked. “For who?”

  “Save Mickey,” she said and hung up. So did I.

  “You know why Adele took the manuscripts?” I asked Mickey who jiggled in the folding chair and held the seat tightly as if he were about to be thrust into outer space.

  “No,” he said. “She asked me to help her. I did.”

  “Why?”

  “You know Adele?” he asked.

  “I know Adele,” I said.

  “I love her,” Mickey said, looking me in the eyes for the first time.

  “I can understand that,” I said. “Adele’s a great, beautiful, and talented girl. But why is she doing this and where is she?”

  “I don’t know where she is,” he said. “Driving around. We hide the van at night and sleep in it. Blankets on top of all those pages. It’s kind of creepy, but Adele likes it. She looks through everything and picks out the one she’s going to get rid of next. That’s all she told me. That’s all I know.”

  “You went with Adele to your grandfather’s house and found him dead. You cleared out your things and left him there,” I said.

  “We had to,” Mickey cried. “I didn’t want to leave him there like that but Adele said we had to get out of there, that whoever was after her had figured out where we were and had come to get us. I loved my grandfather. I wouldn’t hurt him.”

  “And your father?”

  “He’s crazy,” Mickey said. “Sometimes I think I’m going to be crazy like him.”

  “Could he have killed your grandfather?”

  “Why would he do that? He never even talked to my grandfather. They hated each other.”

  “That sounds like a motive,” I said.

  “My father talks like a lunatic. He is a lunatic but he wouldn’t kill anyone.”

  “There’s always a first time,” I said.

  “Am I going to jail?” he asked.

  “We’re going to talk to a policeman named Viviase. You’re going to tell him everything, running away with Adele, finding your dead grandfather, grabbing a few of your things, and running away. You will not mention the manuscripts. You just ran away with Adele. You understand?”

  “Then I lie?”

  “About Adele, yes.”

  “Go over it again,” he said. “My mind… I’m having trouble keeping things straight.”

  I repeated to Mickey what he should and shouldn’t say. He was a slow learner but when he had it right he sounded convincing to me.

  “Don’t I need a lawyer? On television they always say they want a lawyer.”

  “If you get in trouble, just say, ‘I don’t want to talk anymore without a lawyer.’”

  “How will I know if I’m in trouble? I don’t even know any lawyers.”

  “I do. If you get confused, stop talking except to say you want a lawyer. I’ll get one for you. You understand?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “With some luck, I’ll be in the room when the police talk to you. If I think it’s time for you to ask for a lawyer, I’ll just shake my head.”

  “Which way?”

  “Which way what?”

  “Which way will you shake your head. Up or down?”

  “Like this,” I said.

  “I’m not usually this dumb,” Mickey said, rubbing his hair. “I haven’t had much sleep and my grandfather…”

  I held up a hand to quiet him and picked up the phone. The answering machine was blinking. One call. The call Flo had mentioned. I ignored it, called Viviase, and told him I had someone he was looking for.

  “Come with him,” Viviase said.

  “I was planning to.”

  Then I told him we’d be right over.

  “Be here in ten minutes,” he said. “Then we come looking.

  ’Ten minutes,” I agreed.

  We hung up. I wondered why he wanted me to come, probably more about finding the body of Mickey’s grandfather.

  We could get to his office in five minutes if we hurried. I closed the office and led Mickey down the stairs. We stopped at the DQ. I got a double chocolate Blizzard, large. Mickey said he would have the same. We drank as we walked and said nothing.

  Mickey might not be the brightest kid with a high school diploma but he was a good witness. He looked and sounded frightened and honest. I was counting on it.

  A black car with tinted windows slowed down. I thought of the shot through my window an hour before and stepped back pulling Mickey with me. The car moved on. So did we. I drank the rest of my Blizzard slowly. I wished I were lying in my bed in my underwear watching Humoresque.

  9

  Ed Viviase’s door was open. He stood in front of his desk, sitting back against it, a coffee cup in his hand. His glasses were off and lying on the desk next to a brown paper bag with grease spots showing through. Next to the bag was a manila folder. I don’t like manila folders. They contain too many surprises.

  Viviase looked like a tired bulldog.

  “This is Mickey Merrymen,” I said.

  Viviase nodded and drank some coffee. He looked at both of us for a second and then motioned for us to take a seat in front of him. We did. He looked tired. I told him he did.

  “Earache,” he said.

  “Sony,” I answered.

  “Not mine, Ernie’s. My wife just had some minor surgery, female stuff. I was up with Ernie all night. Medicine, tea, toast, antibiotics. That was after a trip to Emergency. Kid’s tough. He insists on going to school tomorrow. I haven’t had any sleep. Zero. Zilch. Nothing. So make this easy on me. I am in a very bad mood.”

  “How old is Ernie?” I asked.

  “Sixteen. Goes to Cardinal Mooney. I think he didn’t want to miss football practice. What the hell? Donut?”

  He picked up the brown paper bag and held it toward us.

  Mickey picked out a plain one with chocolate icing. I turned down the offer.

  “You sure?” asked Viviase, reaching in for a puffy yellow one with red icing. “If you don’t want a donut, I’ve got a few other things in the bag that might interest you.”

  “No, thanks,” I said, feeling something was coming. He was ignoring Mickey.

  He settled the redicinged donut between his teeth and reached into the bag to pull out the turquoise seashell Jefferson and Conrad Lonsberg had given me the day before. He handed me the shell and then fished a spent bullet out of the bag. He handed me the bullet too.

  Viviase took a bite out of his donut as he watched me. I looked at the two objects. Viviase drank. Mickey looked confused.

  “Someone took a shot at you,” Viviase said. “Bang. End of Taurus window. We fished that,” he said, pointing at the bullet, “out of the backseat. Want to guess what ballistics matched it to?”

  “The bullet that killed Bernard Corsello,” I said.

  “Good guess,” said Viviase. “Want to make some more?”

  “I don’t think I’ll be so friendly with the EZ Economy Car Rental Agency boys from now on.”

  “They called in when they saw the bullet hole in the seat,” Viviase said. “Good citizens.”

  “A couple of frightened men with a marginal business,” I said.

  “All true,” said Viviase. “Now, why would the person who killed Corsello want to take a shot at you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Let’s take a guess or two. By the way, that’s a nice shell. You don’t find many of them that color in that condition. My guess on who took the shot and why? You asked the wrong question to the wrong person, the person who killed Corsello, so he, she, or it decided to take a shot at you.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “I didn’t check this morning, but I don’t think you got a private investigator’s license in the
last day or two or even applied for one.”

  He finished his donut, slurring his last few words. Mickey was finished too.

  “I was just asking questions for a friend,” I said.

  “No idea who took a shot at you?”

  I had a few ideas, but I didn’t want to share them with the police, so I said, “No.”

  “Think they were trying to kill you or scare you?” he asked.

  “I think they would have been happy either way.”

  Viviase suddenly turned to Mickey who had been watching and listening, detached, a little dreamy. Viviase woke him up.

  “You have a gun?”

  “No,” said Mickey, sitting up.

  “Your father owns a nine-millimeter,” Viviase said. “Hell, he owns four of them. One of them is missing.”

  “Dad gets a little… confused sometimes. You know what I mean. It could be someplace he put it and forgot.”

  “For the sake of argument,” said Viviase, now finishing his coffee, “let’s say coincidence suggests that someone took that nine-millimeter, shot your grandfather, and took a shot at Mr. Fonesca here. That make sense to you?”

  “I didn’t take the gun,” Mickey said. “I don’t like guns. I don’t like dogs. I don’t like my father.”

  “But,” Viviase said, “you like girls.”

  “Yes,” said Mickey, looking at me, anticipating.

  “Your father, in a moment of coherence, said you’ve been seeing a girl named Adele Hanford.”

  I blinked my eyes to let Mickey know it was all right to answer the question. Viviase noted the exchange, folded his arms, and looked back at Mickey.

  “I know Adele.”

  “So do I,” said Viviase. “Smart girl.”

  “Yes,” said Mickey.

  “She doesn’t hate guns,” said the policeman, taking in both of us.

  “I don’t know,” said Mickey.

  “Who told you your grandfather was dead?”

  “I…” Mickey looked at me again. It was close to time for a lawyer, but I blinked and he went on. “I don’t get along with my father. Nobody gets along with my father. But I’m the one who has to live with him. So I spend lots of time at my grandfather’s. I was going to spend the night. My father had his gun out, yelling at the old lady next door, talking to the dog. I don’t like the dog. He doesn’t like me. So, I went to my grandfather’s for the night and found him dead.”

  “You were alone?” asked Viviase who turned to me and said, “Fonesca, if you blink, nod, even breathe, I book him on suspicion.”

  Mickey looked confused but said, “I was alone. I found him, got scared, and ran. I knew he was dead. I thought… I thought maybe my father had killed him. They didn’t like each other. My father didn’t like my going to my grandfather’s.”

  “They didn’t like each other,” Viviase repeated. “Can we escalate that to ‘hated each other’?”

  “Esca… hate, yeah, I guess,” Mickey said. “But my father hates almost everybody.”

  “And he has guns, your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “What would you say if I told you Adele’s fingerprints were all over your grandfather’s house, door, window, telephone?”

  “Lawyer time,” I said.

  Viviase looked at me and sighed.

  “You want a lawyer? Why?”

  “I think Mickey wants a lawyer,” I said.

  “Why? I’m just asking questions. I haven’t accused him of a crime.”

  “You didn’t have the time to check out all the fingerprints that must be in Corsello’s house. And given the size of your operation, I don’t think you checked the whole place.”

  I knew, for certain, Adele’s fingerprints weren’t on the phone. I had wiped the phones clean. Viviase was bluffing.

  “Adele wasn’t with me,” Mickey said.

  “You want a lawyer?”

  “You think I shot my grandfather?”

  “No,” Viviase said. “But I’m a lousy judge of human character. I even like Fonesca. You’d be surprised at how many people I was sure were innocent turned out to be guilty and how many I was sure were guilty turned out innocent.”

  “Are we finished?” I asked.

  “Nope,” Viviase said, picking up his cup, remembering it was empty, and putting it down again. “We have more coincidences to talk about. Early this morning, one of our cars pulled over a car weaving all over Proctor. Driver was definitely DUI. The cop saw holes in the side of the van. He opened the van and found, guess what?”

  “More nine-millimeter bullets,” I guessed.

  “Want to know what they match?”

  “The one in my car and the one that killed Corsello?”

  “Good guess. Want to guess the DUI?”

  “Florence Zink,” I said.

  “Good. Let’s keep it up. You know, connect the dots. Corsello gets shot, someone shoots at you, pops Flo Zink’s car full of holes. All the same gun. What’s the common denominator here?”

  I sat quietly and shrugged. Viviase looked at Mickey who probably didn’t know what a common denominator was.

  “You miss the thirty-two-thousand-dollar question,” said Viviase. “The correct answer is Adele. Mickey’s girlfriend, Flo’s foster kid, your adopted delinquent. So, I ask you both, where is Adele?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Me either,” Mickey said.

  “I’d really like to talk to her,” said Viviase. “The way it seems, and this is just speculation, a lot of people Adele knows have pissed her off and she’s going around shooting them.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “She go back on the streets? What?”

  I shrugged.

  “I do sort of like you, Lewie,” he said. “But it wouldn’t be hard to make you decide to leave Sarasota, or even leave Florida. I’d classify you as a petty annoyance but this business could move you up to major pain in the ass. You don’t want to be a pain in my ass. Not when I’m having a bad day.”

  “I don’t, Etienne,” I said in response to his “Lewie.” “Can we go or…”

  “You can go,” he said. “Not far. It might be easier, much easier if Adele just drops by to see me.”

  “Where’s Flo?” I asked.

  “In the tank,” said Viviase. “I talked to her. She asked me to find Adele. She also asked me to find Gus.”

  “Gus?” asked Mickey.

  “Flo’s husband,” I said. “She can find him in a grave in New Hampshire.”

  “Want to see her?” asked Viviase.

  “Yes,” I said.

  He finally pushed himself away from the desk, took the bullet back, and let me keep the seashell.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Viviase said. “Fonesca, she’s a tough old lady with bad taste in music. This is her second DUI in a week. If she doesn’t get sober and stay that way, she’s going to lose Adele. It might already be too late.”

  I motioned for Mickey to rise with me.

  “Thanks,” I said to Viviase.

  “We’ll talk again soon,” he said, moving behind his desk, sitting down, and picking up the phone.

  Mickey and I left the office and went into the hallway.

  “What happened?” Mickey asked.

  “He’s missing a piece and he wants Adele to fill it in,” I said.

  “The stolen manuscripts?”

  “Right. Walk back to my office. Wait for me there.”

  He nodded as we got in the elevator and headed down. I stopped at the second floor. Mickey went down to ground level. Three minutes later I was signing Flo out of the drunk tank. She recognized me, looked away as I walked her out. She was a mess.

  “I have a hangover,” she said as we left the lockup.

  I held her big canvas bag that passed for a purse. It weighed at least fifteen pounds.

  “You’re surprised?”

  “I don’t usually have hangovers,” she said. “I just feel queasy, have a beer, and I’m all r
ight.”

  “A beer won’t help you this time,” I said.

  “No,” she agreed as we stepped out into the street.

  The sky was still overcast but it wasn’t raining.

  “They won’t let me take my car,” she said. “I suppose that means I’ll never drive again.”

  “Not legally,” I agreed, starting to walk.

  “Where are we going?” she asked as I moved down the sidewalk.

  “To get a car and take you home,” I said.

  “I’ll be stranded there,” she wailed.

  “You have money. There are cabs,” I said.

  “You’re mad at me, Lewis,” she said.

  “No,” I answered. “I’ve learned not to expect much from people so when they don’t deliver I’m not disappointed.”

  “You’re disappointed in me?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “But I’m not judging you. I’ll take you home. You hide, wait till you hear from me, drink yourself to death, and hope I find Adele who’ll probably be taken away from you even if I do. If you find the old Flo, have her give me a call.”

  We walked slowly down to the corner, turned left, and hit the EZ Economy Car Rental Agency in five or six minutes of silence.

  “I look like shit,” Flo mumbled.

  I said nothing as we went through the door. Alan was there handing keys to a customer, a young Hispanic in a trim suit carrying a briefcase.

  “Fonesca,” Alan said, bright and false. “Your car’s ready.”

  I held my hand out for the keys. Alan looked at Flo.

  “The cops told you?” he guessed.

  I said nothing.

  “We had no choice,” Alan said. “You know what kind of profit margin we survive on here? I’ve got a kid starting college next year. Fred’s got a stomach he should donate to Johns Hopkins or the Smithsonian or Barnum and Bailey. We can’t afford to fool around with the law.”

  “You’re forgiven,” I said. “Keys.”

  He reached over to the rack of keys, selected the right one, and handed it to me.

  “New key chain,” he said. “Windshield’s new. We patched the bullet hole. Can’t even see where it was.”

  “How close did it come to hitting me?” I asked.

  “Not very,” Alan said. “Passenger side about chest high.”