Stuart Kaminsky - Vengeance

“Here,” I said. “Right?”

We were standing in a plot of tall grass. Ames looked up at the building.

“Yes,” he said.

“A lot to look through,” I said.

“Seems so,” said Ames.

We bent and started to go through the grass with our hands. In twenty minutes of looking, I managed to find a golf ball, a soggy eyeglass case and an ant hill. I got two bites on my hand. My stomach was feeling better, but far from healed. Bending was not easy.

“Nothing,” I said, looking at Ames.

“Still light,” he said, looking at the sky.

Fifteen minutes later Ames found it, about fifteen yards from the building, next to a short palm tree, in plain sight. He pointed to it and I took the plastic zippered bag from my pocket.

I lifted the gun by the barrel and carefully dropped it into the bag.

Half an hour later we were back downtown. I was constantly thanking Ames, but I did it again.

“Anytime,” he said as I got off the scooter and handed him the green helmet. “I owe you.”

“You’ve paid me back,” I said.

“I like you,” he said.

“I like you too, Ames,” I said.

He looked at me, gray eyes serious.

“We’re friends,” he said. “I haven’t had more than three real friends in my life.”

“Friends,” I said.

He drove away. A crowd of people waiting in line at the movie theater for the early-bird show looked at him as he shot into traffic.

I walked to the DQ, got a Diet Coke to go from Dawn and went to my office, moving past the blue Buick.

My window was boarded up. I went in, locked the door, turned on the light, put the bag with the gun on my desk and sat down. I was pretty sure what it could tell me. I didn’t need a lab report.

I made a call and set up an appointment.

Then I put the bag with the gun under my dresser and lay on my bed. The sound of traffic on 301 put me to sleep. I didn’t dream. At least I don’t remember dreaming.

I woke up to the sound of people arguing.

Moist and groggy, I rolled over, got on my knees and reached under the dresser to convince myself I hadn’t dreamed the day. The gun was there, inside the bag. I moved to the window near my television set, pushed the drapes aside and saw a couple in their twenties standing in the parking lot of the DQ. They were arguing.

The woman, bedraggled, probably pretty beneath defeat, was carrying a child about a year old in her arm. The child had a pacifier in its mouth. The child was looking at what I assumed was its father, who was pointing a finger at the woman as he shouted. The young man’s neck was stretched in anger, tendons taut. He was wearing a baseball uniform sans cap.

I moved away from the window and checked my watch. I had to hurry.

Five minutes later I was in my car. The gun was tucked under my seat. Angel was close behind. We didn’t have far to go. I wasn’t sure where the room I was going to might be, so I just parked on the street, locked it and went in. I left the gun behind. I knew there was a metal detector in the building.

Sally was waiting in the lobby.

“What is this, Lew?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m pretty sure. I don’t think you should know. Not yet. Maybe never.”

“Susan thinks you might be a little crazy,” she said. “My daughter likes you but-”

“Ten-year-old girls have a sense of things like that,” I said. “She may be right. Don’t trust people who say ‘Trust me,’ but, Sally, I’m asking you to trust me.”

She sighed, checked her wristwatch and said, “All right. Let’s go.”

We went through the metal detector and signed in at the desk. We had an appointment. Sally was known at the Juvenile Security Center. If I could have gotten in without her, I would have.

“You told Adele that Dwight is dead?”

“I came to see you right after you left my office,” said Sally. “She didn’t know how to react. She just stood there for a while. Then she cried for a bit while I held her. When the crying stopped, she gave a deep sigh like she was letting go of something. I think she’s relieved and isn’t ready to admit it to herself. She may never be.”

“And Flo? You told her about Flo?”

“I told her. She agreed. I don’t think she can take it all in yet.”

I followed Sally to an elevator. We went up three floors and were met by a woman in uniform who was waiting for us. She led us down the hall to a room with a sofa and some chairs. There was a single window. It was covered by metal meshing.

We stood while the woman went away and returned in about three minutes with Adele.

The girl looked smaller than I had remembered. In fact, she didn’t look like the same girl at all. Her face was pink and fresh. Her hair was combed out, hanging back and touching her shoulders. She wore a sleeveless summer dress, green with little white flowers. She looked at least a year younger than fourteen. It was her eyes that looked forty.

She looked at me and then at Sally, who stepped to her and gave her a hug.

Adele ticked a smile, a very small, cautious one.

“Remember me?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “Denny’s. What you want?”

“To talk to you,” I said.

“‘Bout what?”

“Sally, can I talk to Adele alone for five minutes?”

I could feel the word “Why?” forming inside of Sally.

“Something you don’t think I would want to hear?”

I nodded.

Sally looked at Adele. Adele was looking at me warily.

“Adele,” Sally began, “if you…”

“It’s okay,” Adele said. “Nothing he can say can make things worse than they are and I might as well have it all in one day.”

“Five minutes,” said Sally. “I’ll be right outside the door.”

Sally left, closing the door behind us. I walked to the steel-meshed window and looked down. There was a drive-in spot for trash pickup. Two large green Dumpsters sat waiting. One was bulging with garbage. Fat green plastic bags looked as if they were creeping out.

“Let’s sit,” I said.

“I like standing.”

She moved to the wall, put her back against it and folded her arms. I moved about five feet from her and put my back against the same wall.

“I know who killed Tony Spiltz,” I said.

“Mr. P.,” she said.

“You,” I answered.

She shook her head and said, “You are somethin’. My mom and dad get murdered. I get thrown in here and you come… You are sick. I’ve seen ’em sick. But you are really sick.”

“I can prove it,” I said.

“You can’t, because I didn’t.”

“I’ve got the gun,” I said. “Found it below Pirannes’s balcony, near a palm tree. Took Ames and me about half an hour, but we found it.”

She shook her head no.

“Smith and Wesson thirty-eight. Silver barrel.”

“I don’t know nothing about guns,” she said, looking at the ceiling.

“You didn’t have to. You just pulled the trigger. I’ve got the gun in my car. It has your fingerprints on it. When I leave here, Sally will stay so you can remain in this room. You walk to the window, look down. I’ll be parked right in front of the Dumpsters. I’ll hold up the gun.”

“I didn’t shoot him,” she said weakly.

“Your story was terrible,” I said. “You’re a smart girl. You could have done better. You could have done all kinds of things. You could have wiped your prints off the gun.”

“You think I wanted to get caught?” she said, turning to me with a look, a typical teen look, that said, Are you nuts?

“I think so. I can make up a story to fit, but it would be faster if you just told me what happened. I’m not out to get you, Adele. I’m out to help you.”

“No,” she said, back to the wall again, arms folded, eyes looking up at the ceiling.