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

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “He withdrew from your case,” said Viviase. “He has a bad cold.”

  “His feet are cold,” said Torcelli. “Alana stopped paying him, didn’t she? Find Rachel. Rachel will pay him.”

  “We’re looking for her,” Viviase said.

  “This is a mistake,” Torcelli said again, this time looking at Ames, who said, “Take it like a man.”

  “I didn’t touch your daughter,” Torcelli tried, turning to Viviase. “A kiss, maybe. What’s the harm in that?”

  “She’s fifteen,” Viviase answered.

  “Fonesca, you were supposed to help me,” Torcelli said, his voice dropping, his head in his hands.

  “I guess I failed,” I said.

  19

  *

  YOU SURE?” Viviase asked.

  “Sure,” said Ames. “Followed the taxi right here.”

  The sky was almost black. Thunder from the north. Lightning flashes. The rain was light. It would, I was sure, turn heavy. It was a typical Florida rainstorm.

  We had backup, two patrol cars running without sirens or lights, two armed police officers in each.

  “Let’s get it done,” said Viviase, walking up the path to the door with one of the police officers, ringing the bell and stepping to the side.

  Ames and I stood off to the side on the sidewalk, watching the other cops, two left, one right, circling around the building. Viviase rang again and then used a key to open the door and step in, his back against the doorjamb.

  “You need a warrant,” a voice came from the darkness inside. “You have a warrant?”

  “We don’t need a warrant,” Viviase said as a single small light came on, and Rachel Horvecki stepped forward inside the room. “This is a crime scene.”

  “I want him,” I heard her say.

  “Fonesca,” called Viviase. “You want to step in here a minute? The lady wants to talk to you.”

  Ames and I stepped forward and through the door. The shades and curtains were all down and closed. The room was a funereal black.

  Thunder rolled toward us. Then lightning, and in the flash we saw Rachel standing completely nude and carrying a shotgun that looked big and powerful enough to down a large, charging rhino.

  We stood in darkness.

  “Your husband confessed,” Viviase said.

  “To what?”

  “To killing your father,” Viviase said. “He says you helped him and it was all your idea so you could get your father’s money.”

  “He didn’t say that,” she said.

  “You’re under arrest,” Viviase said firmly. “Tell her, Fonesca.”

  Imperative. An order. Tell the naked woman in the dark with the shotgun how you figured out she and her husband murdered her father.

  “I came here last night,” I said. “You were out, looking for me. You were followed by Mr. McKinney. I found your father’s collection of shotguns and rifles in the back room and some photographs on the wall of you and him. You were about thirteen and cradling a weapon almost as big as you were. Your father has his hand around your shoulder in all the photographs.”

  I could hear her move a little. I glanced at a shadow moving past the window to her right as she said, “If they shoot, I shoot.”

  “No one’s shooting,” said Viviase.

  “I found some of your poetry in a drawer in your room,” I said.

  “You had no right,” she shouted.

  “Crime scene, remember?” said Viviase. “Your father died just about where I think you’re standing.”

  I knew there were still bloodstains on the floor.

  “You tried to kill me,” I said.

  “Why would I want to kill you? You were helping Ronnie.”

  “You were afraid I’d find out that your husband really did kill your father.”

  “Not true,” she said.

  “True,” said Ames.

  A slight tink of metal as I sensed the shotgun moving toward Ames.

  “Ronnie, or both of you, killed your father early that night,” I went on. “You chose that night because you knew you had a nearly perfect witness. Essau Williams, a policeman or Jack Pepper, a minister, would be parked across the street watching your father’s house, wanting to be watched as they returned to that spot across the street, like men punching into work. It was Pepper. And what did he see? Hours after your father was already dead, the Reverend Jack Pepper saw Ronnie enter the house just as a man in a coat and watch cap came through a side window and run down the street. Almost immediately, Ronnie came back out the door and looked both ways for the man in the watch cap. He looked around and he went back inside. You had already called 911 and said there’d been a murder. There was a car there almost immediately. A bloody Ronnie was kneeling by the body. The police didn’t find you, because you were the man in the watch cap. There was only one problem.”

  “What?” she asked.

  I was sure the shotgun was getting heavier. It was probably pointing down at the floor.

  “Jack Pepper didn’t immediately come forward about the man who came through the window and about seeing Ronnie in the house for only a few seconds. He didn’t want to explain why he was sitting in his car in front of your house. There was a restraining order against him. You waited a while before coming forward with your story about seeing a man in a watch cap kill your father and go through the window. Your father was already dead. You were the one in the watch cap. When Pepper showed up, you talked loud enough for Pepper to hear a muffled voice and something thudding, probably you hitting the wall.”

  “Pepper should have come forward sooner,” she said.

  “He’s come forward now,” said Viviase.

  “Want to give me that shotgun, miss, and go put on some clothes?” said Ames gently.

  There was a sound of movement and she turned on a shaded table lamp.

  She looked dazed.

  “Ronnie said I killed my father?”

  “He did,” Ames said. “We heard him.”

  “It’s on tape,” said Viviase.

  “Ronnie’s not a bad man,” she said. “He likes my poetry. He’s so gentle in bed. I know he can’t stay away from other women, from girls, but he always comes back to me.”

  And your father’s millions, I thought.

  “This is unfair,” she said. “My father was a monster. He did things to me I … it’s unfair. The police could never stop him—him and his lawyers. He deserved to die.”

  The shotgun rose and pointed directly at Viviase’s chest.

  “Could I have a glass of water?” Ames said.

  She looked at him.

  “And could I maybe sit down?”

  “Water?”

  “Juice would be fine, too, but not grapefruit. Doesn’t sit well in me.”

  “I like your poetry,” I said.

  “You’re just saying that because you don’t want me to shoot you.”

  “That, too, but I like your poetry. None of it is happy, is it?”

  “No,” she said. “Never was. Looks like it never will be. I’ve got fresh orange juice. Will that do?”

  She handed the shotgun to Ames, who said, “It’ll do just fine.”

  “So,” said Viviase while a policewoman walked with Rachel to her room to dress. “One down. Which one killed Berrigan and why?”

  Ames had removed the shells from the shotgun and handed it to one of the police officers who had come into the house from all entryways.

  “That’s a mystery,” I said.

  “You didn’t answer the question,” he said.

  “I don’t have an answer.”

  “You have a pretty good idea,” said Viviase.

  I shrugged.

  I drove to my place and let Ames out.

  “Certain you want to do this yourself?” he asked.

  “Certain.”

  “I’ll be here,” he said.

  I knew the odds of reaching the person I had called were slight, and I was right. I left a message saying we had
to meet at four at Selby Gardens.

  “Walk along the path till you see me. I’ll be sitting on a bench,” I had said.

  It was almost one when I got to the Dairy Queen on Clark Street. There was a huge photograph on the wall of the original DQ with old cars and long-gone people around it. I didn’t order the Chocolate Covered Cherry Blizzard. I wasn’t sure why. Instead I had a medium Banana Chocolate Oreo Blizzard. I also ordered a burger and a large fries. When my order came, I put the fries in a bag and worked on the blizzard and burger. It wasn’t the DQ I had lived behind for almost four years. The owner was nice, but he wasn’t Dave.

  By three I was at Selby Gardens sitting on a bench facing the water. A white heron landed next to me, its wings flapping to a close, searching for something from the human on the bench. I did not disappoint. I placed three fries on the bench. He gobbled them up and was joined by two other small, brown, iridescent birds. After the fries were gone, the birds lingered, looking at me. They left only when they were certain I would give no more. The heron was the last to go. He flapped his wings and flew off over the bay.

  At ten minutes to four, Winston Churchill Graeme sat next to me, right where the heron had been. He cleaned his glasses on his shirt and turned his eyes in the same direction mine were pointed.

  “When I was sixteen, I thought about quitting school and joining the Navy.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “The fact that my parents didn’t object. They thought it was a pretty good idea. They thought going to college and becoming a lawyer was an even better idea.”

  “What happened?”

  “I didn’t become a sailor. If I had, I might be out to sea instead of sitting here with you.

  “Why are we here?” Winn asked.

  “So you could tell me why you killed Blue Berrigan.”

  20

  *

  THERE WAS A SINGLE FRY LEFT. I had missed it, but I spotted it now as I was about to crumple up the bag and drop it in the nearby trash basket. I handed him the bag.

  “For the birds,” I said. “One left.”

  He nodded, adjusted his glasses, and threw the fry in the general direction of a pair of nearby pigeons.

  “Why do you think I killed him?” he asked.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out the white and red golf tees.

  “I found these in the backseat of Berrigan’s jeep.”

  “So, he played golf.”

  “No, he didn’t. I looked in his room and his closet and asked his landlady. He didn’t play golf. You do.”

  “Maybe they didn’t belong to whoever killed him. Maybe they had been there a long time,” he tried.

  “No,” I said. “Both tees were on top of a splatter of blood. The killer lost them during the attack.”

  “I’m not the only one who plays golf,” he said.

  “No, you’re not, but you’re the only one who would kill Berrigan for blackmailing Greg. Greg told me that Berrigan tried to get more money out of him.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you told me you would do anything to protect your friend.”

  His hands were shaking now.

  “What happened, Winn?” I said.

  He paused, looked into the DQ bag as if there might be a miracle fry in it, and then spoke. “I was with Berrigan when he went to see you at that bar. I wanted to be sure he would go through with saying he had evidence to clear Ronnie. I stayed in the jeep.”

  “But?”

  “He got frightened, panicked. You said something to him in the bar. He told me he wanted more money, a lot more money. He was hysterical. He said he’d tell you, tell the police that Greg had murdered Horvecki. He drove to his place and parked in front. He kept saying things like ‘What am I doing? What am I the fuck doing?’ He didn’t get out of the jeep, just sat there looking over his shoulder down the street, hitting the steering wheel hard with the palms of both hands. I told him to get out. He wouldn’t move. He kept saying he would tell the police that Greg killed Horvecki. I couldn’t let that happen.”

  Winn closed his eyes.

  “So you hit him with something in the backseat.”

  “Yes, one of Greg’s grandfather’s mallets.”

  “Then you got out of the jeep and ran before I got there.”

  “Yes.”

  “You went to Ronnie’s apartment and put the mallet under his bookcase. He was in jail for one murder. Two wouldn’t make a big difference, right?”

  “You know, I could hit you with something and throw you in the bay,” he said.

  “No, you couldn’t,” I said.

  “No, you’re right. I couldn’t. What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “You’re going to go to Elisabeth Viviase’s father and tell him what happened.”

  “I can’t. My mother …”

  “The odds are good that eventually, probably soon, a strand of hair, a string of cloth, a DNA trace is going to lead to you. You already left the two tees. What else did you leave?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Turn yourself in, get a good lawyer. I’m sure Greg’s grandfather will pay for one. You’re still a minor. Think about it.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll think about it. Thanks. Will you turn me in if I don’t do it?”

  “You’ll do it,” I said. “Do you know who George Altman is?”

  “Cardinals outfielder in the sixties?”

  “And a Cub before that. Here.”

  I took the autographed baseball I had purchased out of my pocket and handed it to him. He took it and looked at me, puzzled.

  “It’s yours,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I got up.

  Winn Graeme looked down at the ball cupped in his hands as if it were a small crystal ball.

  “Mr. Fonesca,” he said. “What will Greg do without me?”

  At ten the next morning, I carried my tribute of coffee and biscotti into the office of Ann Hurwitz who motioned me into my usual seat. She was on the phone.

  “I’m not investing in alchemy,” she said patiently. “I want secure stocks and bonds. I do not want real estate, neither malls nor parking lots nor the foreclosed property of others.”

  There was a pause while she listened, accepted a bagged biscotti and coffee, nodded her thanks, and then spoke into the telephone as she jangled the heavy jeweled chain around her thin wrist:

  “We’ve been through this many times, Jerome. You are forty-four years old. I am eighty-three years old. Depending on what chance and heredity bring your way, you will live about forty more years according to current actuarial projections. I, on the other hand, should have, at most, another seven to ten years. I am not interested in risking what my husband and I have saved. It is not because we intend to retire to Borneo on our savings. We wish to give to a set of charities, charities that support the continuation of human life. Get back to me when you’ve thought about this.”

  She hung up and looked at me.

  “Lewis, you are the only one of my current clients who does not believe in God and does not want to live forever.”

  “If there is a God, I don’t like him,” I said.

  “So you have indicated in the past. Almond or macadamia?” she asked, hoisting a biscotti.

  “Almond.”

  “Tell me about your week,” she said, “while I enjoy your gift.”

  I told her, talked for almost twenty minutes, and then stopped. She had finished her biscotti and coffee and my almond biscotti.

  “Progress again,” she said.

  “Progress?”

  “You made a commitment to Ames. You offered something resembling a commitment to Sally. After four years you are putting down tentative tendrils in Sarasota.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Have you done your homework?”

  I reached into my pocket and came out with the stack of lined index cards on which people’s favorite, or just remember
ed, first lines were. She took them.

  “Why did I have you collect favorite first lines rather than jokes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think it is time for you to have a new beginning,” she said, quickly going through the cards, glasses perched on the end of her nose. “And now yours, Lewis, your book.”

  “Moby-Dick,” I said.

  “What do you think the book is about?” Ann asked.

  “A lone survivor,” I said. “I bought a copy of the book at Brant’s and copied the line.”

  I took out my notebook.

  “Is it that hard for you to remember? Almost everyone knows it. ‘Call me Ishmael.’ ”

  “Yes,” I said. “Can I read what I have on the card?”

  “All right,” she said, lifting a hand in acceptance, “read.”

  “ ‘It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan.’ ”

  “That’s not the beginning of Moby-Dick, Lewis,” she said.

  “No,” I said. “It’s the end.”