Stuart Kaminsky - Always Say Goodbye

He had checked the other room, the small space with a closet that Lew called home. That space, Ames knew, would be neat and clean, everything in place, a cell waiting for inspection.

Lew had left his sister’s phone number with Ames, Ann, Flo and Adele. Ames picked up the phone and dialed.

Victor Lee’s house was in a three-year-old development called Oak Branch Park, two-story frame and brick family houses on lanes that circled, separating every seven or eight houses into discrete cul-de-sacs.

Three children about seven or eight years old, two girls and a boy, wearing sweaters and giggling, ran in the driveway. Lew parked and walked up the brick path.

One of the girls, a pretty, giggling girl who might be Lee’s child, ran in front of him, looked up, shrugged her shoulders, said, “Excuse me,” and ran on with the other two children in pursuit.

He pushed the button next to the door and a chime echoed inside. He waited and pushed again. When the door opened, a woman in her late thirties opened it and looked at him.

“Mrs. Lee?”

She was pretty, Chinese, dressed in a business suit and wary of the sad-eyed man wearing a baseball cap.

“Yes.”

“Is Mr. Lee home?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t live here anymore.”

Lew said nothing. Waited.

“He hasn’t lived here for almost two years,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Lew said.

“So am I,” she said. “Who are you?”

“I just came from Mentic Pharmaceuticals. This is Mentic’s address for your husband.”

“He didn’t want anyone to know,” she said. “He was, is, ashamed. You are the first one from the company who has ever come here. I can get a message to him if you like.”

“Where does he live?”

“He… Victor is… is this really important?” she asked, still standing in the doorway.

The children screamed behind them.

“Yes.”

She stood considering.

“When did you last see him?” Lew asked.

“More than a year, but I know he sometimes goes to our daughter’s school and watches her come out and get on the bus. He told me. We talk a little on the phone, not much. Is this something that will cause trouble for Victor?”

“If there’s trouble, it happened a long time ago,” said Lew.

“Four years?”

“Yes, four years,” said Lew.

She nodded and said, “He would never tell me, but one day he came home and he wasn’t Victor anymore, not the Victor I knew. For two years he tried, but… he sends me almost all the money from his check every month.”

Lew nodded.

“Can you give me his address?”

She hesitated and then told him the address and apartment number.

“He called me a few hours ago. He said, ‘Goodbye.’ That’s all he said. Please go there.”

Lew nodded.

Mr. Showalter,

I have moved out. Here is my check for this and next month’s rent. You may keep the deposit I put on the apartment when I moved in. I’m sorry for any inconvenience.

Victor Lee

The note and the check were inside an envelope with Mr. Showalter’s name neatly written on it. The envelope was tacked to the door of the apartment.

Lee’s apartment was on the second floor of a renovated three-story brick walk-up building in Aurora. The hallway smelled like strawberry Kool-Aid. A battle had been waged against determined mildew. The battle was being lost.

“I think that’s for me.”

A hand reached around Lew and took the note, envelope and check.

The man was about fifty, black, a compact car of a man, wearing a business suit and tie.

“Showalter?”

The man answered, “Umm” and read the note, shaking his head.

“Yes,” he said, looking up. “Ving Showalter. Who are you?”

The man could be thinking only one thing, that Lew, a little man in a jacket wearing a Cubs cap, was here to steal and had almost gotten away with the check Victor Lee had left.

“Lew Fonesca. I’m a process server.”

Lew got his card from his wallet and handed it to Showalter who looked at it and handed it back.

“Florida? You’ve come a long way. What did Lee do in Florida, murder the governor?”

“He didn’t do anything in Florida,” said Lew.

“You want to show me the papers you are serving on Victor Lee?”

The man who weighed well over two hundred pounds set his legs slightly apart and blocked the way to the staircase.

“I’m not here to serve papers, just ask him a question.”

“Yes,” said Showalter slowly. “And that question is?”

“Did you kill my wife?”

“Did I…?”

“No, that’s my question for Victor Lee: Did you kill my wife?”

“You think Victor Lee killed your wife?”

“Yes.”

Showalter shook his head and thought, Stay focused, Ving. Shit happens. You’ve seen worse and more will come. Just keep your focus on the investment. Clean the apartment, rent it if you can, remember you’ve got a two-month check in your pocket and you don’t have to return the deposit.

“You know anyone looking for an unfurnished efficiency apartment?” Showalter asked.

“Maybe, a security guard at Mentic who’s retiring, looking for something small, month to month.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” said Showalter. “What’s his name?”

He had a pocket-sized leather-bound notebook in his hand now.

“Can I take a look at it first?” Lew said, looking at the door.

Showalter tapped the notebook against his leg and said, “Why not.”

He opened the door and they walked in. A single wooden-floored room with a small bed against a wall, a desk and chair and a refrigerator and sink. Only one wall had windows, two of them looking down at the street. On the opposite wall was an open door to a small bathroom. The only thing on the walls was a small framed painting of a rainy empty city street at night, office buildings looming like black shadows, the only spot of light coming from a tiny window in one of the shadow buildings.

The room was also clearly and completely clean, sparse and orderly. The room seemed familiar to Lew. He knew why.

“As you can see, the apartment comes furnished,” said Showalter, walking to the bathroom. “Including towels. But if the tenant has his or her own furniture, we can clear everything out.”

Lew moved to the desk and opened the middle drawer. The only thing in it was an unframed and folded university degree.

“Okay if I take this?” Lew asked, holding up the degree.

“I don’t-” Showalter began.

“Owen Keen,” Lew cut in. “The man who might be interested in renting. His name is Owen Keen.”

“Owen Keen,” Showalter said, writing the name in his notebook. “I’ll give him a call. Mentic Pharmaceuticals, you said?”

“Yes, can I take the painting too?” Lew asked, tucking the folded sheet of paper carefully into his pocket.

Showalter looked at the dark noir canyon on the wall. “Sure,” he said, moving to the window. “You want to give Mr. Keen a call and tell him?”

“I will,” said Lew, moving to the painting and taking it from the wall.

“Is that valuable?” asked Showalter, glancing back at Lew. “If it is…”

“In money? No. I don’t think so.”

“I’ll be damned,” Showalter said, now looking down at the street. “He’s back.”

Lew, framed painting tucked under his arm, was at Showalter’s side. There were plenty of spaces on the street. The gray Kia SUV was pulling into one of them directly across the street.

“Changed his mind,” said Showalter with disappointment.

Victor Lee, lean, shoulders slightly slumped, got out of the car, adjusted his glasses and started across the street.

“No,” said Lew. “He forgot to take something with him. He’s coming back for it.”