Stuart Kaminsky - Retribution

John Gutcheon sat at the reception desk on the first floor of the three-story Building C in the complex of identical buildings marked A, B, C, and D. The complex was just off of Fruitville and Tuttle. Gutcheon sneezed and wiped his nose with a fresh tissue from the box on the corner of his desk.

Building C housed some of the offices of Children’s Services of Sarasota. Buildings A, B, and D had a few empty offices but most were filled by dentists, urologists, a cardiology practice, investment advisers, jewelry and estate appraisers, young lawyers, a dealer in antique toys, and at least three allergists. There are a lot of allergists on the Gulf Coast. John Gutcheon was in need of one or more of them. His eyes were watering and he looked ready to reach for the tissues again.

John was busy on the phone guiding people, giving advice he wasn’t supposed to give, directing calls, taking messages, or transferring them to voice mail. A computer sat on a small, precarious wooden platform that slid out of his gunmetal desk and when he wasn’t on the phone John Gutcheon folded mailings and put them into envelopes, copied handwritten reports onto the computer and printed them, or warded off people who had come to the wrong place for help.

“Do you know who that was?” he asked, hanging up the phone and looking up at me as he folded his hands on his desk like a third grader.

“Pete Ward,” I guessed.

“Pete…?” Gutcheon said, looking at me with pursed lips in the expectation of a pale punch line.

John Gutcheon was thin, blond of hair, about thirty, and openly gay. He had a sharp tongue to ward off the potential invaders of his life choice and sexual preference and a wary air of conspiracy for those he accepted and who accepted him. I had made the second list but it was difficult for John to keep the pointed words from shooting out like little darts.

“That was Thomas Warden’s assistant,” he said, proudly tilting his head down and looking up at me expecting me to recognize the name. “And who is Pete Ward?”

“Was a third baseman for the Chicago White Sox when I was a little kid,” I said. “Solid player, go for any ball hit his direction. That was in the days before AstroTurf,” I said. “AstroTurf ruined the game, football too. Hitting AstroTurf is like landing on a concrete sidewalk.”

“I’m fascinated,” Gutcheon said, sniffing back.

“Thought you would be,” I said. “Who’s Wardell?”

“Wardell Galleries on Palm Avenue,” he said as if I should now know from at least the context.

I did.

“Should I be impressed?” I asked.

“They are going to show two of my paintings during the next art walk,” he said. “You are the second person to know. Actually, you’re the fourth including Alex Wardell, his secretary, and me.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “I didn’t know you painted.”

“Sanity behooves me to paint,” he said. “They’re painting the building. I can’t breathe but I’m happy.”

“What kind of paint?” I asked.

He looked up at me and sighed.

“Sherwin-Williams or something like that,” he said.

“Something cheap. Children’s Services is putting up that eight-million-dollar building downtown for offices and meeting rooms for those who lead us in our mission to save the children of this county. The turnover rate of social workers and therapists is a mind-boggle.”

He pointed to his computer screen and blew his nose.

“None but those most in need of work or dedicated to the point of insanity stay more than a year. Their caseloads are enormous. Their salaries low. The paperwork is staggering and the work is heartbreaking. So, I take it back. They’re not using Sherwin-Williams. They’re using something mixed by ex-convicts in a basement somewhere in a vacant office of Building B. God, I sound bitter. It’s become a lifestyle even when I’ve had good news.”

“I meant what kind of paint do you use,” I said. “On your paintings.”

“Watercolors,” he said, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I specialize. Dark, gothic backgrounds, decaying buildings, castles, full moons, dark clouds, dense woods, and always a single bright beautiful flower, usually an orchid so bright in hue that it doesn’t need the sun or moon.”

“Hope,” I said.

“In the flower, yes,” he said. “Hope, a little beauty, but even the darkness and decay have a fascinating beauty, at least to me and apparently to some degree to Mr. Wardell.”

“Good luck,” I said.

“You and Sally are invited to attend, not expected to buy,” he said. “My only hope is that they don’t have that huge bowl of Hershey’s candy kisses for browsers.”

“Let’s hope. Is…?”

“You’re in luck,” he said before I could finish my sentence. “She got in about five minutes ago. I think she has a client call in, let’s see, about an hour. I’ll tell her you’re on the way up.”

He sneezed.

“Bless you.”

“That would be nice,” he said, picking up the phone as I headed for the elevator. It was open. I stepped in and pushed the button for the third floor.

Sally was at her desk. She was brushing back her hair with one hand and thumbing through a file thick with papers and reports on her desk. She and the other workers, some of whom were out, a few of whom, male and female, were huddled with clients and their parents or foster parents.

“I’m so busy, Lew,” she said. “Court in the morning and I can’t find the case study report. Gone, missing. I was sure it was here. Gone. Or maybe I’ve flipped past it ten times but my mind is among the missing.”

“Normal day,” I said, sitting next to her.

“Perfectly normal,” she said. “Adele?”

“Nothing,” I said. “You?”

“Haven’t heard from her again.”

She stopped going through the papers, put both hands to her hair to try to get it to cooperate, and sat back looking at me.

“Five minutes, Lew. I’m sorry. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Michael Merrymen is dead, Mickey’s father. Mickey’s grandfather too.”

“And?”

“I think I know who killed Merrymen and Corsello and took a shot at me and Flo,” I said.

“Who?”

I told her.

“Why?”

I told her.

“Now,” I said. “If I’m right, how do we get to Adele? How do we stop her? Ames and I can try to protect her but you’ll have to put her together when we find her.”

“Not ‘if’ you find her?”

“I’ll find her. Maybe you can help with that part, but I’ll find her,” I said.

Sally nodded. She wore little makeup, still carried a few more pounds than she would like, and had on a serious blue court suit that needed ironing or pressing. She looked serious. She looked dark and pretty, her mouth and eyes large, her cheeks and forehead unlined. Adversity, the loss of a husband, two kids to raise, and a job that could break a hangman’s heart didn’t destroy her looks or determination.

“Assuming you’re right,” she said.

“Assuming,” I agreed, leaning forward.

I listened to her talk. She let her eyes wander toward the photograph of her children on her desk as she talked, making sense, suggestions, pointing out possibilities, ways I could handle the situation with the least harm to the fewest people. She made sense. It was her job. She did it well. Then she looked at her watch.

“Got to find that case study,” she said with regret, touching my hand.

“Friday night I owe Harvey a dinner at Michael’s at the Quay,” I said. “Can you?”

“No kids?”

“If possible,” I said.

“Possible,” she said. “I need it.”

She got up and glanced around and so did I. She stepped close to me and gave me a kiss. It wasn’t long and it wasn’t deep, but it was full. There was promise.