Stuart Kaminsky - Always Say Goodbye

Lew and Franco followed her inside.

“The door,” she said.

Franco closed it. It locked automatically.

The woman started walking to the left.

“I’m still cooking,” she said. “John and the boys are upstairs. Tell them lunch is in half an hour.”

She took two more strides, put her hand on the kitchen door, turned her head toward them and said, “You’re Christians, right?”

“Yeah,” said Franco.

“Then you’re invited to lunch.”

She went through the door. Lew and Franco went up the stairs toward the music. The door to Pappas’s sanctuary was closed. Lew knocked.

“Come in. Come in,” Pappas called.

Pappas was standing with Stavros and Dimitri in the center of the room. Each held a wineglass. The wine was white. The music was a man singing in Greek.

“We’re celebrating,” Pappas said, looking at Lew.

“We know,” said Franco. “Your mother told us.”

The three Pappas men looked somber.

“We’re invited for lunch,” Franco added. “Because we’re Christians. But to tell you the truth…”

“Posno,” Lew said.

“I heard he’s dead,” said Pappas, holding up his glass in a toast. “I know. We’re celebrating his demise and we’re respecting his memory. We were partners, even friends for a long, long time. Well, maybe not friends, but close.”

“I know,” Lew said.

“I can go outside now,” said Pappas, taking a full sip of wine. “Maybe. Maybe I’ll try tomorrow. Oh, manners. Stavros, get our guests some wine. Karipidis winery. They still make it like it was made six thousand years ago.”

Stavros blinked his good eye at Lew and moved to the bottle and glasses on the desk.

“Can we talk in private?” Lew asked.

“Private? I’ve got no secrets,” said Pappas.

Lew met his eyes.

“All right. My sons, Mr. Fonesca and I will talk in here. Give Mr

…”

“Massaccio,” said Franco.

“Stavros, give Mr. Massaccio a glass of wine and you two take him to see the garden.”

“The garden?” asked Dimitri. “What’s there to see in the garden?”

Pappas shrugged and said, “That’s what you’re supposed to say in situations like this. Go, play pool in the den or something.”

“I think I’ll stay with Lewis,” said Franco, accepting the glass of wine from Stavros whose good eye met both of Franco’s.

“It’s okay,” Lew said. “Go with them.”

Franco reluctantly followed the brothers Pappas out of the room, looking back over his shoulder at Lew.

When they were alone and the door was closed, Pappas took another sip of wine and said, “Sure you won’t have a little? It’s good.”

“No, thank you.”

“Want to sit?”

“No.”

“You don’t look happy,” said Pappas. “But then, you never look happy. What makes you happy?”

“Safe children laughing,” said Lew.

“We should both be happy today, Fonesca. Posno is dead. He killed your wife. He wanted to kill me. He-”

“He didn’t kill Catherine,” said Lew. “I found the man who killed her.”

Pappas looked surprised.

“Good for you,” he said, refilling his glass and holding it up in a toast. “So it wasn’t Posno? Well, did you kill him, this man who ran down your wife?”

“No.”

“Will you?”

“No.”

“Well, then, have him arrested,” said Pappas. “Or better, tell me who it is and he will be dead in forty-eight hours, as God is my witness.”

“The man the police found dead with Posno’s identification wasn’t Posno,” said Lew.

Pappas paused, glass almost to his mouth. Then he took a long drink.

“Posno is dead,” Pappas said, pointing a finger at Lew. “I know it. I feel it. He did not get away. Somewhere he is dead.”

“The way most people would look at it, he can’t be dead.”

Pappas reached for a remote control on the desk, pushed a button, and stopped the music.

“Why not?” asked Pappas.

“Posno never existed except in your imagination,” said Lew. “You made him up to take the fall for everything you did, everyone you killed. It wasn’t Posno who was afraid of what Catherine had in her files. It was you.”

“You’re a crazy person, Fonesca. Maybe that’s why I like you. Crazy people are interesting as long as they’re harmless.”

Pappas poured himself more wine and sat down, legs crossed, trousers straightened smooth.

“Posno exists,” he said. “Believe me.”

“There are no authenticated photographs of him,” said Lew. “No fingerprints on record. He was never arrested. No one but you has ever seen him.”

“My son Stavros-”

Lew shook his head no.

“Posno tried to kill him, took his eye.”

“You told your son that Posno was after you. You were the one doing the shooting. My guess is you were keeping Posno alive. You wanted to come close, but you accidentally almost killed your son.”

Pappas finished the wine in his glass, put it on the table in front of him, tapped Lew’s knee and said, “Door’s closed. Just you and me. You’ve got an imagination. Okay, I’ve got one too. It’s the poet in me. I think the police are going to find that the man with Posno’s identification was dead before he was shot. Heart attack, stroke, who knows. Died in a doorway on Roosevelt Road. Who knows? Then someone shot him and drove him to your sister’s house. Just a guess, but…”

“Who knows,” Lew repeated.

“Stavros set up that Posno Web site?” asked Lew. “Never mind. I’ll ask him.”

“Hey,” said Pappas, standing suddenly. “I killed nobody this time around. Not your wife. Not the homeless guy who, by the way, was the work of an idiot. You get what you pay for. And for the record, whatever that means, I did not kill or have killed those two others.”

“Santoro and Aponte-Cruz,” Lew supplied.

“Yeah, them. I didn’t kill them, didn’t have them killed.”

“You’re clean?”

“Clean?” Pappas said with a smile and a shake of his head. “Hell no. I just didn’t kill those two guys, but between you, me and the floor, I’ve killed people, all but one of them men. No regrets. I’ve got it worked out with God. I only killed people who deserved it. On that I’m clean. But, between you and me and Bobby McGee, I’ve got an inoperable brain aneurism. That’s not clean. I know it’s there. Can pop anytime. Could kill me just like that.”

He slapped his hand down on the table.

“Worse,” he went on, “it could leave me living the life of a pickled artichoke. So, clean is not the word I’d think of for me.”

“Pain?”

“Not really,” said Pappas.

“I’m sorry.”

“You know what? I believe you.”

“I believe you’re in pain,” said Lew. “I don’t know about the aneurism.”

“My doctor-”

“I’d get a second opinion,” said Lew. “Unless you’re just making up the aneurism and the doctor telling you about it and the myth of Posno.”

Pappas was shaking his head no and smiling tolerantly.

“Why would I lie about an aneurism?”

“To get your family to do anything you wanted them to do,” said Lew. “Mind if I talk to your doctor?”

“Yes,” said Pappas, looking passively at the drink in his hand. “Doctor and patient… you know.”

“I know you have no palsy,” said Lew. “Your pupils aren’t dilated. You don’t show any signs of double vision or pain above your eye or localized headache. No signs of nausea or vomiting, or stiff neck or-”

“You’re a doctor and a process server,” said Pappas. “Interesting combination.”

“I know a bail bondsman in Sarasota who also sells pizzas,” said Lew. “My father died of brain aneurism. I watched it happen. I can find out about you. It’s what I do.”