Stuart Kaminsky - Vengeance

Ames nodded and said,

“I’ll have to work out what I owe you some other way than the air conditioner.”

I wanted to tell Ames again to forget it, but he couldn’t forget what he thought he owed me. He had to pay it off to keep his self-respect.

“I’ll think of-”

The phone rang. I had a pretty good idea who it might be. Once again I was wrong. I picked it up.

“Hello.”

Ames started to pick things up off the floor. I didn’t stop him.

“Fonesca,” said Harvey the computer genius. “He tell you? I wanted to be sure you got the message.”

“Who? What message?”

“Your partner,” said Harvey.

Ames held up a black oblong something. I couldn’t figure out what it was for a second. Then I remembered. It was the name plaque that had been on my wife’s office door. Ames turned it over, looked at the name, rubbed it gently against the sleeve of his well-worn flannel shirt, placed it faceup on the desk and began to clean up the room.

“My partner?”

“When I called you earlier, he answered, took the message,” Harvey said.

“Give it to me again, Harvey. That wasn’t my partner. I don’t have a partner.”

“Then who… forget it. I don’t want to know.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I had some information on Melanie Sebastian. Her car was found at the airport. Could have been there for weeks in the long-range parking, but Carl Sebastian reported it missing. Routine check found it. I found the report on the airport computer.”

“So she flew away,” I said.

“Don’t think so,” said Harvey. “I went into the records looking for a Melanie Sebastian, or a Melanie Lennell or a Melanie anything who might have flown out anytime between this morning going back to Tuesday. Nothing. Didn’t expect to find anything. Then I tried females with the initials M. L. or M. S. Nothing. You have to show ID when you get on a plane, you know.”

“I know, but how closely do they look.”

“Some do. Some don’t. You want the rest?”

Harvey was enjoying himself. I wasn’t. But I needed him. I watched Ames and listened to Harvey.

“Then I checked all the women who had paid for their tickets in cash since no credit card of hers showed an airline ticket purchase. Nothing. You know what I did next?”

I was reasonably sure, but I didn’t want to spoil Harvey’s surprise.

“Taxis from the airport to anywhere with a woman passenger. Town this size with most people getting picked up or having their own cars waiting, business at the airport isn’t all that hot for taxis even on the best of nights or days.”

I felt like blurting out “car rentals” but I said,

“And you found nothing?”

“Nothing. Then rentals cars. I got her, pilgrim. Last Wednesday night. Lady got a red Neon from Budget. Showed an ID, left a cash deposit. You have a pen and something to write on?”

I had a green-and-white push-button pen in my pocket. The word RHINOCORT was in green against the white. I had no recollection of picking it up. Everybody advertises on pens, gives them away. I haven’t bought a pen in five years. I found an envelope in the top drawer and said,

“Ready.”

“Georgia plates. License number 66884J. Now, you’ve got three questions, right?”

“Right,” I said as Ames, with a handful of junk, stood surveying the room to see what items larger than a paper clip he might have missed.

“Gonna get a broom,” he said.

I covered the mouthpiece of the phone and said, “DQ will lend you one.”

Ames nodded and left as Harvey said,

“Question one: How many days did she rent it for? Answer: Ten days. Question two: Where did she plan to return it? Answer: Back at the airport right here in town. Question three: Whose ID did she show? Answer: Caroline Wilkerson. Driver’s license. You ever see a photo of Caroline Wilkerson in the Herald- Tribune?”

“I’ve seen the woman up close, this morning.”

“I matched computer images from IDs of the two women,” said Harvey. “You’d have to be blind to think it was the same woman.”

“So,” I said, looking at my watch.

“So, someone with the touch, knowledge and a halfway powerful computer and a color printer could strip in a photograph of Melanie Sebastian over Caroline Wilkerson’s and then relaminate.”

“You know people who could do it?” I asked.

“I know some and I’m sure there are a lot more out there. I don’t think we’ll track her that way.”

“Thanks, Harvey.”

“I’ll keep looking,” he said.

“You’ve done enough.”

“This is fun. I need fun.”

“Then have fun. Call me if you turn anything up.”

We hung up and I looked at my wife’s nameplate. I remembered it on her door. I remembered her walking out to greet me with a smile, her hair pulled back, her… Question: How did Melanie get Caroline Wilkerson’s driver’s license?

I did know a lot now. Melanie Sebastian was driving a new red Neon. She was probably still within driving range of Sarasota unless she planned to: (a) drive back from somewhere two or three days away; or (b) return the car to some other Budget office. I was sure Harvey would keep track of that. And (c) was my favorite: She was still in the immediate area. Why?

I reached for the phone and the Melanie Sebastian file, which Dwight had gone through and dumped. It didn’t look as if he had taken anything. Why should he? He wasn’t looking for Melanie. I was. He was looking for Beryl Tree. I dialed the number for Caroline Wilkerson. It rang six times and the answering machine came on. It was her voice. The message was simple: “Please leave a message.” I did. I asked her to call me. Just in case she had tossed my card, I left my number.

Ames returned, broom and dustpan in hand, and went to work. I watched him. Once he had been worth about three million dollars, by his reckoning. Now he was cleaning the floors and tables in a bar and sweeping my floor and he said he was content. I believed him.

“Ames, I’ve got to find Beryl Tree.”

“She’s not at Flo’s?”

“Ran away. Her husband tracked her down.”

I pointed to the mess to indicate how he’d located her.

“We’ve got to find her,” he said as he swept. “I like the lady.”

“Then we better start looking for her and her daughter.”

“Adele,” he said.

“Adele,” I repeated.

“Nice name,” said Ames. “You feel up to it? You look kind of sickly.”

“Dwight came to see me last night.”

I got up, rubbed my sore stomach.

“Bad man,” said Ames, sweeping the floor.

“Very bad. I’ve got to get myself in shape fast,” I said. “I’ve got a date tonight.”

Ames stopped sweeping and looked at me. Just looked.

“A lady?”

“A lady,” I said, tucking the envelope with the tag number of the red Neon Melanie Sebastian had rented into my shirt pocket.

“You sure you’re up to it?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “But I’m going to try.”

I looked at him and he looked at me and then at my wife’s name plaque.

“It’s worth trying,” he said. “You know what trying does?”

“What?”

“Keeps a man alive,” he said.

Beryl Tree could be in any one of five dozen motels in Sarasota, not to mention more in Bradenton. It would take too long to find her that way. No, the best way to find Beryl was to find Dwight or Adele or both.

I had called Carl Sebastian and told him I had some news.

“Yes?” he said eagerly. “Where is she?”

“I’d like to come by and see you,” I said.

“Sure, of course, but I have a dinner meeting tonight. Let’s see… It’s almost four. Can you be at the bar in Marina Jack in half an hour?”