Stuart Kaminsky - Vengeance

“That’s a lot,” I said, finishing my now cold coffee.

“Jump in. Are you angry?”

“Yes, but I think I should be more angry. She seemed to be a decent person. I should have helped her more. She was murdered where I live. She… I’m still having trouble feeling. Even with this, I’m still having trouble feeling. My wife…”

I stopped and went silent.

“You want to tell me what you think the dream means?”

I shook my head no.

“Then I’ll try. Is the Joker a messenger? Is the Joker a jester? He is certainly handing the dead Mrs. Tree a box with a message for you, a message she gives you, an overflowing box of red pieces of paper. Anything?”

“Blood,” I tried.

“Why not? She gives you the gift and wants you to accept it. She wants you to feel, to find the person who killed her. She wants you to find her daughter, to help her daughter. The three men in shawls are people you know who want to help, who want you to help find this murderer, to help find the girl, the child, Adele.”

“And that’s what my dream means?”

Ann sat back, shrugged and said,

“In the absence of an interpretation by you, that’s what I want the dream to mean. I had a big breakfast. I shouldn’t have had that last piece of biscotti, but…”

“No offense, but isn’t there something unprofessional about telling me what you want my dream to mean?”

Ann touched the right earring.

“I’m old and can say what I wish to say. I want to cut through the baloney and get you jump-started. I want to prod you. That’s what you came here for, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“Then go get something to eat, find out who killed Mrs. Tree and find the girl.”

“What about Melanie Sebastian?”

“Who needs finding more?” Ann asked.

“Adele,” I said.

“That’s your answer. Now, go forth, accept the help of your three men in shawls and when you get a chance, call Sally Porovsky.”

“I will,” I said, getting up. “I think I know who one of my men in shawls is.”

“Who?”

“You.”

“Good,” she said, reaching for the phone. “I have an opening the day after tomorrow at nine. You have twenty more dollars?”

“I’ll be here,” I said, moving for the door while she dialed.

“There’s probably a frightened young man in my waiting room,” she said. “Tell him I’ll be with him in a few minutes.”

The young man was there. He looked very frightened but he didn’t look at me when I told him Ann would see him in a few minutes.

I went out the door and into the sun to have breakfast and look for Adele.

There’s a Mennonite restaurant on Main, a small one, open mostly for breakfast and lunch to serve the downtown office workers, city government people and professionals-doctors, lawyers, therapists-in the area. The food was cheap, plentiful and, if you didn’t mind the prayers in the menu, bright and cheerful.

When I finished, I left a good tip and headed for my office-home thinking about what Ann had said and about what I had said, thinking about a Joker with a box of red secrets.

I walked down to 301 and then the three blocks or so to the DQ parking lot. Dave was behind the open porthole serving customers, and the Geo was sitting where I had parked it. I checked it out. The file on Adele wasn’t there. Either the police had it or left in my office when they had copied it or someone else had it.

I went up to my office. The drapes were closed and so was the door, but it wasn’t locked. I went in. The contrast between sun and semidarkness took a few seconds to get used to. I started to reach for the cord to open the drapes and stopped. My eyes were getting used to the dim shadows.

In those dim shadows, I could see Beryl Tree sitting where I had left her body. She had one of my files open on her lap and she was looking up at me.

My hand was shaking but I reached for the drapes.

“No,” she said. “Just turn on the light.”

It wasn’t Beryl Tree’s voice. My hand was shaking a little less when I flicked the switch and the overhead tinkled on.

The resemblance to Beryl Tree disappeared. She was much younger, much better looking, and her dark green dress was much more stylish than anything Beryl Tree had worn in her life.

“You know who I am?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

There was a floppy sun hat and a pair of sunglasses on my desk. The blood had been cleaned up. I moved behind my desk and sat looking at Melanie Sebastian. I knew two reasons why Carl Sebastian might want her back. She was as beautiful in person as she was in her photographs and the painting in his apartment. She also had a mellow voice that promised the possibility of music.

She closed the folder in her lap and handed it to me.

“You read in the dark?” I asked.

“There was enough light if I tilted it just a bit toward the window.”

“And?”

“When I picked it up, I thought it was about me,” she said. “Then I found the one about me. It wasn’t very interesting so I went back to this one on Adele Tree.”

“And this one is interesting?”

“And… there are really people like her father out there,” she said. “You really think he-he sexually abused her?”

“Yes.”

“The world can be a truly awful place,” she said.

“Worse than that,” I said. “It can be a low level of hell. Beryl Tree is dead, murdered right where you’re sitting, probably by her husband. And Adele has been sold by her father to a high-class pimp named John Pirannes. You’ve heard of him?”

“No,” she said. “You’re joking.”

“No.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“You were reading the file. You seem interested.”

“There are too many Beryl Trees. Too many Adeles. And far, far too many Dwight Handfords,” she said. “I’ve seen them. I’ve… is Adele strong? Can she…?”

“She’s strong. Why are you here?”

“My husband is looking for me. He hired you to find me. You talked to one of my friends, who told me. I don’t want you to find me, not yet. When the time comes…”

“Not yet? You’re going to let me find you?”

“When I’m ready,” she said.

“Look, all I’m interested in is telling you your husband wants to talk to you, try to make things right,” I said.

“I need a few days,” she said. “I’ve spent a lifetime taking care of people. At least that’s how it feels to me. I’ve taken care of my mother and father, children like Adele, my husband. I don’t think many people can be saved and I certainly don’t think I’m the person to save them. I don’t know if you can understand or if I’m making myself clear.”

“I understand,” I said. “But you won’t talk to your husband at this point?”

“I’ll make that decision in a few days,” she said. “I’m not ready. I just want some time for myself. I… Go find Adele Tree. When you do, then come looking for me. If you’re good, you’ll find me. I have a feeling you’re good. I’ve left a trail.”

“So,” I said. “This is a rich lady’s game with her husband and the dope he hired to find you.”

“No,” she said earnestly. “This is no game and I don’t think you’re stupid.”

She meant it. I could tell that she meant it. I could feel it. I had questions.

“Just tell me-”

“No,” she said, still sitting. “I can do a much better job of hiding than I’m doing now if I wish to. I can leave Florida. I’ll stay if you promise to give me a few days.”

“Is my promise worth anything to you?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

“Okay. I promise. You have Caroline Wilkerson’s driver’s license. Did she give it to you?”