Stuart Kaminsky - Vengeance

“I like her,” said Beryl.

“Yes,” I said.

“You can tell with some people,” Beryl said. “I think she tried to help Adele.”

I agreed. Sally returned in less than three minutes carrying a manila folder, handed the original documents to Beryl, who put them in her purse, and sat down.

“Mrs. Tree,” she said. “Your daughter said her name was Prescott, Adele Prescott.”

“Prescott?”

“Her father’s name is Dwight Prescott.”

“No, it’s Dwight Handford.”

“He said it was Prescott. He had a driver’s license, Social Security number, Sarasota address,” said Sally, putting her hand on Beryl’s. “Since Adele confirmed he was her father and… Mrs. Tree, they said you were dead.”

“Adele told you I was dead?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“He made her,” Beryl said. “She was afraid of him.”

“She came to Sarasota on her own to look for him, Mrs. Tree,” said Sally. “That’s a brave thing to do for a sixteen-year-old girl.”

“She told you she was sixteen?”

“Yes.”

“She’s fourteen,” said Beryl. “Her birthday was on the fourth of last month.”

Sally sat back, sighed, closed her eyes and looked up at me. I nodded to confirm what Beryl had said so far.

“Your daughter got in trouble with the police,” Sally said. “They referred her and her father to us. The referral was mandatory, court ordered. That meant they had to work with us.”

Someone laughed, a man on a telephone not far away.

“What kind of trouble?”

“She was soliciting,” Sally said, taking Beryl’s hand again.

Beryl nodded. She knew what that meant and the information didn’t seem to surprise her. It hurt, but she wasn’t surprised.

“Where is she now?” asked Beryl.

“We don’t know,” said Sally. “We’re looking for her. Her father hasn’t been very cooperative and… we’re looking. Beryl, Adele said some things to me that… How can I put this? Did your husband ever abuse your daughter?”

“Hit her?”

The pause was long.

“Sexually,” said Sally.

This pause was even longer. I turned away.

“I…” Beryl began. “I don’t know for sure. He went to prison for

…”

“He sexually abused a young relative,” I said.

“I thought maybe when Adele was…” Beryl said. “But I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. Adele never said anything. I can’t think.”

“I understand. Are you going to be in town for a while?”

“Till Adele and I get on a train, plane or bus out of here,” she said.

“Is there anywhere I can reach you?”

Beryl looked up at me. I gave Sally my home-office number.

“Mrs. Tree’ll be staying with a friend. I think you should know that she ran into her husband two days ago. He hit her. Then he called her this morning and threatened to kill her if she didn’t stop looking for her daughter.”

“Did anyone hear the threat?” asked Sally.

“I did,” said Beryl.

“Anyone else?”

“No,” I said.

We exchanged looks that said we both knew there was nothing the law could do.

“I’ll call Mr. Fonesca if we find Adele,” Sally said, getting up and helping Beryl to her feet.

“Thank you,” said Beryl.

“I’ll meet you at the elevator,” I said to Beryl. “I’ve got to ask Ms. Porovsky something.”

Beryl nodded and. moved toward the elevator.

“The answer is yes,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Dinner, remember?”

“I remember,” I said. “Tomorrow night. Seven?”

“That’s cutting it a little tight,” she said. “I’ve got a home visit in Englewood till five. Make it seven-thirty.”

“Dress casual,” I said.

“Fonesca, this might be a mistake for both of us.”

“Might be,” I agreed.

She handed me a card. I turned it over. There was a phone number and address in ink:

“Seven-thirty, then. You like kids?”

“Huh?”

“I have two kids, a boy and girl. Thirteen and nine.”

“I like kids,” I said.

“Well, be prepared for these two. Dinner only, quick, home and friendly. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” I said, looking at Beryl at the elevator. “I’m not dangerous.”

“I wouldn’t have said yes if I thought you were,” she said. “In my work, I see dangerous people all the time.”

“Since we’re on the subject, think you can give me Handford’s address?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “But I gave Mrs. Tree his current name. I think you heard it.”

“Prescott,” I said.

She said nothing.

“Dwight Prescott,” I said.

“Got to get back to work,” she said. “See you tomorrow night.”

John Detchon waved to us from behind his receptionist’s desk as we left the building. He seemed to be reasonably happy. I wasn’t sure how I was feeling.

Gus Zink had died more than a year ago. Natural causes. I understand the distinction between murder, manslaughter and accident and natural causes- breakdown of the body, invasion by disease. But it all seems natural in a screwy kind of way. Murder is natural. Usually wrong, but natural.

Gus had come to Sarasota with his wife, Flo, more than a decade ago. He was retired, had money, got elected to the city council as an independent, made enemies and had gone out swinging.

During his campaigns, necessary public talks, lunches, dinners and various appearances, Gus had done his best to make excuses for the absence of his wife. She was ill or she was touring Europe or visiting one of her brothers or sisters in Alaska, Montana, California or Vermont. The Zinks had no children.

Just before he died, Gus, already more than just sick, was kidnapped to keep him from a key council vote on where to put a branch library. There was big money on the line, big enough to make some landowners and contractors want to insure the location.

I had been hired by the city’s only black councilman to find Gus Zink. I had found him. Gus started to fail fast after that last council meeting. He and Flo had gone north, to Vermont, where Gus had been raised. When he died, Flo came back to their house in Sarasota. The house was on the bay but on the mainland, not one of the Keys.

Flo Zink answered the door, a familiar glass of amber liquid in her hand. She looked at me, grinned, winked at Ames, who nodded, and turned her attention to Beryl Tree. A woman sang plaintively inside the house. I recognized the voice and the song. It was Patsy Cline.

Flo was in her late sixties. She was dressed in a black silver-studded skirt and vest over a blue denim shirt. She wore boots and looked as if she were on her way to do some line dancing. She was a barrel of a woman, with too much makeup, large earrings, and the distinctly vacant look of a heavy drinker. Even through her generously applied perfume there was a smell of scotch, probably good scotch. Flo, I had learned from personal experience, held her alcohol well, but once in a while there was a scotch overdose and the well-rounded widow Zink turned honest and foul-mouthed.

“I’m Flo,” she said to Beryl Tree. “Come on in and let’s get friendly. You can tell me your story. I’ll tell you mine.”

Flo put her free arm around Beryl and guided her into the house. Ames and I followed.

Flo led us into the living room with a view of the bay. The furniture around the room looked as if it belonged on the set of a Clint Eastwood western. Wood, old brown leather, a rough-hewn table made from a thick slice of redwood, and animal skins for rugs. Two paintings on the wall were authentic Remingtons- galloping cowboys, Indians riding bareback.

Flo moved to the double-speakered stereo against the wall and turned Patsy Cline down but not off.