Bright Futures: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels) (17 page)

“Come in,” said Corkle. “The library. You remember the way Mr. Fon . . . Fonesca.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Beer? Lemonade?”

“Lemonade?” Ames asked as I started toward the area with the yellow leather furniture.

“Yes, thanks,” I said.

“Three glasses,” said Corkle.

Ames and I sat on the uncomfortable leather sofa and waited. Corkle appeared in a few seconds with a tray on which rested a pitcher of iced lemonade and three glasses.

“Best lemonade in the world. Made with whole lemons from the tree right outside, seed and rind turned to a smooth pulp. More nutritious than the juice alone and it can be made in my D. Elliot Corkle Pulp-O-Matic in five seconds. Of course, you have to add sugar. I’ll give you a Pulp-O-Matic when you leave.”

All three of us drank. He was right. The lemonade was the best I had ever tasted.

“Blue Berrigan. Name mean anything to you?”

“No,” he said. “D. Elliot Corkle has never heard of him.”

“He was an entertainer,” Ames said. “Sang kids’ songs, had his own television show.”

“Didn’t know the man,” Corkle said, holding up his glass of lemonade to the sun to watch the tiny pieces of pulp swirl like the snowy flecks in a Christmas bubble.

“You knew Philip Horvecki,” I said. “You said . . .”

I paused to pull my index cards out of the day planner I kept in my pocket. I flipped through the cards and found the one I wanted.

“You said, ‘Horvecki is not a nice human being.’ ”

He sat back, folded his hands in his lap and looked up at the ceiling for about ten seconds before saying, “D. Elliot Corkle is considering lying to you. I could do it. I can sell almost anything, especially a lie.”

“But you won’t,” I said.

“I won’t. I knew Philip Horvecki. He had a three-acre lot at the fringe of downtown. He wanted me to buy it from him. I wanted to buy it, but not from him. D. Elliot Corkle did a background check. He was a weasel. I told him so. He didn’t like it.”

“You didn’t happen to kill him?” I asked.

“No.”

We all had more lemonade.

“Did you ever threaten to kill him?” I asked.

“No. Am I a suspect in Horvecki’s murder?”

“Ask the police that one,” I said.

“Then why are you still looking for someone else besides Gerall for the murder? Gerall is a smart-ass and a . . . a . . .”

“Weasel?” asked Ames.

“Weasel,” Corkle confirmed. “He bamboozled my grandson and my daughter. Neither has the good judgment of a John Deere tractor, which, by the way, is one of the finest pieces of machinery ever invented.

“You know what happened to Augustine?” he asked. He was looking directly at me, lips tight.

“I think he went back to acting,” I said.

“He’s a terrible actor. I used him on some of my infomercials
because he looked tough and had muscles and D. Elliot Corkle wanted someone who could try to open The Mighty Miniature Prisoner of Zenda Safe, which can go with you wherever you go and is housed inside a candy or cigar box you could leave in plain sight.”

“I remember that,” said Ames.

“I’ll give you one when you leave,” said Corkle. “The Mighty Miniature Prisoner of Zenda Safe could not be opened unless you had a blow torch, but it had two defects. Want to guess what they were?”

“You advertised the safe on television,” I said. “People know what the safe looked like.”

“Several million people,” Corkle said, proudly pouring us all more lemonade. “Yes, it was hard for D. Elliot Corkle to come up with someplace the little safe could be hidden in the average house. And then, how was I to let them know where the safe should now be hidden? What’s the other problem with it?”

“The safe might be hard to open, but it can be carried away and opened somewhere else later,” said Ames.

“On the button,” said Corkle, closing one eye and pointing a finger at Ames. “Still sold enough to make a small profit on them.”

“I’ve got some questions,” I said.

“Shoot,” said Corkle.

“Do you know who killed Horvecki?”

“I believe in our justice system, in our police,” he said emphatically. “It’s the sacred duty of any citizen to help the police in any way that citizen can. People should not commit murder. Evidence should never be withheld.”

“Are you withholding evidence?” I asked.

“There are secrets inside the office of D. Elliot Corkle. Next question.”

“Secrets? Evidence?” I asked.

“Next question,” he said.

“No, that’ll do it,” I said. “Sorry about the intrusion. Thanks for your hospitality.”

At the front door, Corkle said, “Wait.”

We stood there until he returned with two boxes for me and two for Ames.

“You each get a Pulp-O-Matic and a Mighty Miniature Prisoner of Zenda Safe.”

“Heavy,” said Ames, holding a gift box in each arm. “You could beat a man’s head in with either one of these.”

“Wait,” Corkle said hurrying off, ducking into the closet and popping right back out with two more packages, both small. “The Perfect Pocket Pager.”

He stuck one in one of my pockets and did the same for Ames. We left the house and started down the path. It wasn’t until we hit the street that we heard the door close.

“Secrets,” Ames said. “Believe him?”

“Strongly suggests that he knows who did it or has a pretty good idea,” I said.

“Think he has something?”

“Maybe we can find out,” I said.

I had some trouble getting the trunk of the Saturn open, but when I did we placed our gifts inside, got in the car, and drove away from the Bay and from Corkle.

“Where to now?” asked Ames.

“Ronnie Gerall.”

R
ONNIE GERALL AGREED
to see us when I sent him a message saying that I had something important to tell him. Ames stayed in the waiting area of juvenile detention with his book, and I took off my Cubs cap and followed the guard down a brightly lit corridor that smelled of Lysol and bleach.

Ronnie Gerall was waiting for me when the door to the visitors’ room was opened. Ronnie was getting special treatment because he was accused of murder—and murder of a prominent, if not much loved, citizen.

Ronnie, his hair freshly combed, looked good in orange and a sullen pout. He did not offer to shake my hand, and I wasn’t about to be rejected.

“I have a new client,” I said as I sat.

I got an impatient look at this news.

“A client who’s willing to pay for a new lawyer,” I said.

“Why would I want to replace the guy from the public defender’s office? He’s inexperienced, stupid, and has no confidence. I was thinking of representing myself. Who’s my benefactor?”

“A woman who thinks you’re innocent.”

He stiffened and I knew he would come up with the right name if I pushed him.

“I thought you were going to find out who killed Horvecki and set me free to enjoy the sunlight, baseball, and pizzas.”

“It’s always good to have well-paid backup,” I said.

“What do you want to tell me?” he asked.

“Do you know Blue Berrigan?”

“Blue Berrigan? The dolt who used to have the stupid kid show on television?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know him,” Gerall said.

“Someone murdered him yesterday.”

“I’m sorry, but I have problems of my own.”

“I’m pretty sure he was killed because he knew who killed Philip Horvecki.”

This got Gerall’s interest.

“Then nail him,” Gerall said. “You know what it’s like in here? You have any idea of what kind of people are in here, people I have to be nice to when I want to punch their few remaining teeth out?”

“I’m still trying to find Horvecki’s killer. But I need you to answer one question.”

“What?”

“Does Corkle or Greg know about you and Corkle’s daughter?”

“Know what?”

His fists were clenched and he started to rise from his chair. I sat still and looked at him. I was getting to know his moves. I met his eyes. The menace slipped away.

“No, they don’t know,” he said sitting. “But when this is over, they’ll be told.”

“Why?”

“Because Alana and I are going to get married,” he said.

It didn’t have to be said, and I didn’t say it, but the observation hung in the dusty room. Either Corkle or Greg might prefer to have Ronnie in prison than living as Corkle’s son-in-law and Greg’s stepfather.

“I know what you’re thinking. She’s old enough to be my mother, but you’ve seen her,” Ronnie went on as if he were announcing the new issue of a Salmon P. Chase postage stamp. “She loves me.”

“I’m happy for you both,” I said.

There was nothing else to say. Ronnie folded his arms and watched me head for the door.

Ames and I split a medium moussaka pizza—eggplant, cheese, sausage, and extra onion—at Honey Crust on Seventeenth Street. We were celebrating our partnership.

“Too many suspects,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

He was right.

“Who’s your pick?” I asked.

“Don’t know, but Corkle’s looking ripe for it.”

“His grandson, daughter, Pepper the Preacher, Williams the Cop, and Ronnie Gerall. Just because he’s in jail it doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”

“And maybe Gregory’s friend Winston,” said Ames.

“And half the students at Pine View.”

The next line should have been one reflecting incredulity that someone might murder over retaining a high school educational program. But both Ames and I knew that people had been murdered over a lot less. A few days earlier a Bradenton police officer had interrupted a ninety-dollar drug sale, and the buyer killed him. Two homeless men in Sarasota had fought, and one had died from a jagged Starbucks Frappuccino bottle to the throat. The fight had been over who had more teeth.
Homeless Man Number One had more teeth, but Number Two said his were in better shape. Number Two pushed Number One into the concrete arch of a medical office building on Bahia Vista. Number One lost most of his remaining teeth and his life, blood and Frappuccino dribbling down his chest.

“What do we do now?” Ames asked.

“I’m going home to bed.”

“It’s three in the afternoon.”

“A good time to close my door, pull down the shade, take off my shoes and pants, and go to sleep.”

But such was not to be.

My cell phone sang “Help!”

The number of people who had my cell phone number, at least the ones I wanted to have it, was four: Ames, Flo, Adele, and Sally.

“Yes,” I said.

“Lew,” said Sally. “Darrell walked out of the hospital less than an hour ago.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Bad,” she said. “He put on his clothes and walked out before he was discharged. He’s supposed to be at home resting.”

“You try his mother? Their apartment?”

“I called her. He isn’t at the apartment and he didn’t call her.”

“We’ll find him,” I said.

“Call me when you do, all right?”

“I’ll call you,” I said.

Sally hung up. So did I.

“Darrell?” asked Ames as he stood up with a box holding the last three slices of the pizza.

I nodded and put a twenty-dollar bill on the table. I was on my feet now and heading for the door. Nothing had to be said. Both Ames and I would have given twenty-to-one odds that we knew where Darrell was.

And we were right.

When I opened the door to my new home, Darrell Caton was sitting in the chair behind my desk. Victor Woo sat across from him. They had been talking. I tried to imagine what the two of them would have to say to each other. Then I saw the small photograph in front of Darrell. I knew what it was. I had seen it before, on a table in the booth of a bar in Urbana, Illinois. Victor had shown me the photograph of his smiling wife and two small, smiling children.

“Mind reader, Lewis Fonesca,” said Darrell. “Knew where to find me and knew I was hungry. What kind of pizza you bring me?”

“Moussaka with extra onion,” I said.

Ames placed the box on the desk. Darrell opened it and examined the pizza.

“What the f . . . hell is musical pizza? Beans?”

“Let’s get you back to the hospital,” said Ames.

“Hell no,” said Darrell, handing a slice of lukewarm pizza to Victor. “They’ve got diseases and all kinds of shit in there. Worst place to be when you’re sick. I read about it.”

“Let’s get you back,” Ames said again.

“Your mother’s worrying about you. Sally is worried about you,” I said.

“Think about it, Lewis Fonesca,” said Darrell. “Four people may be worrying about me. Four. You. Big Mac here. My mother and Ms. Porovsky. Him?” he added looking at Victor. “I don’t know what he’s thinking.”

“What about Flo and Adele?” I said.

“They know I escaped from Alcatraz?”

“No.”

“Then they can’t be worried, can they? Pizza’s good. What’s that yellow thing?”

“Eggplant,” I said.

“Woo,” Darrell said. “I’ll wrestle you for the last piece.”

Victor shook his head no. Darrell picked up the last slice of pizza. He tried to hide a wince as he brought it to his mouth. Darrell was fifteen. No father. His mother had kicked a crack habit two years earlier and was holding down a steady job at a dollar store.

“You’re going back to the hospital,” Ames said.

“Don’t make me run,” said Darrell chewing as he spoke. “You won’t catch me and running could kill me. Besides, if you do get me back in the hospital, I’ll just get up and leave again.”

“Why?” Victor asked.

We all looked at him.

“Why?” asked Darrell. “Because I’d rather die than be hooked up to machines waiting for Dr. Frankenstein and a bunch of little Frankensteins to come in and look at me.”

“Fifteen,” said Victor.

“Fifteen little Frankensteins?” asked Darrell.

“You are fifteen. You wouldn’t rather die.”

Victor looked at me. There were times after Catherine died that I wouldn’t have minded dying, but I never considered suicide as an option. There were times, I knew, that after he had killed Catherine, Victor had considered death as an option.

“Mr. Gloom and Mr. Doom,” said Darrell. “You didn’t answer your damn phone. I broke out because I have to tell you something, Lew Fonesca.”