Stuart Kaminsky - Vengeance

“Suit yourself,” he said.

“The Sebastian folder has nothing to do with Beryl Tree’s murder.”

“We’ll leave that one open,” said Vivaise. “We made a copy of the file and your notes on Adele Tree. The file was on your desk. On that one, we don’t care if you mind.”

I hadn’t left the file on Adele on my desk. I had left it under the seat of the Geo. I was in no position to complain and I didn’t.

“You can go, Lewie. Things get anywhere, a trial, something, we may need you to come in and talk about Handford’s threats, the artwork he gave you, the fact that he knew his wife was in town and was after her. You’re our only witness. Take care of yourself.”

“I will, Etienne,” I said.

“You pronounced it right,” he said, adjusting his belt. “Last question. You know where we can find the daughter?”

He looked at the papers on his desk and then at me over his glasses.

“Adele,” he said.

“Haven’t found her yet,” I said. “She’s supposed to be living with Handford but I hear she ran away from him.”

“You hear?”

“You know, you hear.”

“Take care of yourself, Lew.”

“I will, Detective Vivaise.”

“Ed will be fine.”

“Ed,” I said.

There was a vacancy at the Best Western. The night clerk, a thin woman with a slightly pinched face and a nice voice, asked pleasantly if I had any luggage. I knew why she was asking. Suicides sometimes checked into hotels without luggage. They knew they weren’t going anywhere and didn’t need a change of clothes. There was also the chance that I had a prostitute or someone’s wife out of sight in a car and needed the room for a few hours. That was none of the management’s business, but dead bodies and bloody walls were.

“Fire in my place, down the street, behind the DQ. Lost everything.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m insured,” I said with my most plaintive Jobian smile.

I needed a shave. I needed a bath. I needed to think. The clerk gave me a complimentary disposable orange-and-white Bic razor and the key to my room. It was two doors down from the one Beryl Tree had sat in waiting to hear from me.

A shave, a hot bath, a shampoo of what remained of my hair and I was ready to think. It was nearly eleven. I turned on the television instead and watched the rerun of a soccer match on ESPN. Manchester United was playing someone. I didn’t know who.

I lay in bed in my underwear with the lights out watching men running back and forth, crashing into each other, shouting, kicking and trying to score. I turned off the sound and fell asleep knowing that my inner clock would wake me in time to get back to my rooms, change clothes and drive the rented Geo to my appointment with Ann Horowitz.

My inner clock was off. I woke from a dream about a man dressed like the Joker in a deck of cards. The man was on a platform. There was a big crowd watching quietly. The Joker pulled out a small wooden box and held it up. He grinned and teased the audience with his hand, moving it as if he were about to open the box, and then pulling his hand back. He did this three or four times until three men wearing colorful shawls over their heads moved to the platform. The Joker looked at the men, bobbed his head and danced to make them smile or respond which they didn’t do, and finally, resigned, the Joker opened the box and waved it, and small red pieces of paper came flying out. The audience went “Ah.” The three men with shawls shook their heads in approval. The red paper came out in a storm that covered the floor up to our ankles. The audience was in a near religious fervor.

And then Beryl Tree was on the platform, Beryl Tree before her head had been shattered by a tire iron. The Joker handed her the box, which was still spewing red-paper snow. Beryl moved through the wildly applauding audience and handed the box to me. The audience went wild. Beryl said something to me. I couldn’t hear her. The crowd was too noisy. I knew that she was telling me something important. And then a man somewhere said, “Is that everything?”

I woke up. The room was bright with sunlight. I hadn’t pulled the drapes closed. On the television screen women were playing golf. The clock on the table near the bed said it was almost nine.

The man’s voice said.

“Let’s go.”

I got up and went to the window. A man wearing a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap was loading his car truck. A woman and a boy were getting in the car.

“That’s everything,” the man said and closed the trunk.

He saw me in the window, wasn’t sure how to react, and decided t6 smile. I smiled back and for some reason waited till he and his family had driven away before I got dressed, checked out and jogged to my office home.

The door was closed but not locked. There was no crime-scene tape. I went in. There was blood on the floor where Beryl’s body had been. There was blood on the floor near my bed where the tire iron had been thrown. I changed clothes and hurried to the Geo.

I made my usual stop at Sarasota News and Books for two coffees to go with chocolate biscotti, left the car in a space in front of the bookstore and took my paper bag to Ann Horowitz’s office a block away.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said, handing her the peace offering of coffee and biscotti. I knew she was a sucker for sweets.

She placed the biscotti on a napkin on the table nearby, opened the coffee, smelled it and nodded her approval. She was wearing a bright yellow dress with a pattern of large red apples. Her earrings were matching red apples. The room was flooded with light.

“Thanks for seeing me,” I said.

“Fortunately, the time was available.”

“But still…”

“You are forgiven,” she said. “Talk. I’ll drink, eat and listen.”

I talked. She dunked her biscotti, listened, nodded from time to time. When I stopped talking ten minutes or so later, she had finished her biscotti and was almost finished with her coffee.

“That’s what happened, but how do you feel?” she said.

“About what?”

“About what?” she said with a hint of exasperation. “About the dead woman. About your date with Sally…”

“Porovsky,” I said.

“Jewish?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Because I’m Jewish?”

“You mean did I ask her out because you’re Jewish? No, I don’t think so.”

Ann nodded.

“Wishful thinking on my part,” she said. “You want me to tell you why you did it, asked her for a date? I don’t know yet. You feel guilty about it, feel you are betraying your wife.”

“Yes,” I said.

“But you had a good time? You like this woman?”

“Yes. She’s easy to be with.”

“Sexual thoughts, feelings?”

I hesitated and then said, “Yes.”

“Good,” Ann said. “If you’re not going to eat that biscotti…”

I broke it in half and handed one part to her.

“She reminds me of my wife in some ways. She doesn’t in others.”

“You plan to see her again?”

“Yes.”

“How would you characterize what you did on this date?”

“I made it safe for both of us by spending most of the time searching for Adele Tree.”

“She seemed to find this acceptable?”

“Yes. She said, ‘You know how to show a girl a good time.’”

“Irony,” said Ann, taking care of the last few biscotti crumbs.

“Yes. My grandmother made something like biscotti. I don’t remember what she called it. It was good.”

“And she came from Italy?”

“Yes, Rome. Spoke with an accent but her English was good.”

“You find that observation relevant?” Ann asked.

“Yes, but I don’t know why.”

“We’ll save that for another time. And now to murder and your dream. How do you feel about the dead woman, about what happened, about what the dream is telling you?”