Retribution

12

John Gutcheon sat at the reception desk on the first floor of the three-story Building C in the complex of identical buildings marked A, B, C, and D. The complex was just off of Fruitville and Tuttle. Gutcheon sneezed and wiped his nose with a fresh tissue from the box on the corner of his desk.

Building C housed some of the offices of Children’s Services of Sarasota. Buildings A, B, and D had a few empty offices but most were filled by dentists, urologists, a cardiology practice, investment advisers, jewelry and estate appraisers, young lawyers, a dealer in antique toys, and at least three allergists. There are a lot of allergists on the Gulf Coast. John Gutcheon was in need of one or more of them. His eyes were watering and he looked ready to reach for the tissues again.

John was busy on the phone guiding people, giving advice he wasn’t supposed to give, directing calls, taking messages, or transferring them to voice mail. A computer sat on a small, precarious wooden platform that slid out of his gunmetal desk and when he wasn’t on the phone John Gutcheon folded mailings and put them into envelopes, copied handwritten reports onto the computer and printed them, or warded off people who had come to the wrong place for help.

“Do you know who that was?” he asked, hanging up the phone and looking up at me as he folded his hands on his desk like a third grader.

“Pete Ward,” I guessed.

“Pete…?” Gutcheon said, looking at me with pursed lips in the expectation of a pale punch line.

John Gutcheon was thin, blond of hair, about thirty, and openly gay. He had a sharp tongue to ward off the potential invaders of his life choice and sexual preference and a wary air of conspiracy for those he accepted and who accepted him. I had made the second list but it was difficult for John to keep the pointed words from shooting out like little darts.

“That was Thomas Warden’s assistant,” he said, proudly tilting his head down and looking up at me expecting me to recognize the name. “And who is Pete Ward?”

“Was a third baseman for the Chicago White Sox when I was a little kid,” I said. “Solid player, go for any ball hit his direction. That was in the days before AstroTurf,” I said. “AstroTurf ruined the game, football too. Hitting AstroTurf is like landing on a concrete sidewalk.”

“I’m fascinated,” Gutcheon said, sniffing back.

“Thought you would be,” I said. “Who’s Wardell?”

“Wardell Galleries on Palm Avenue,” he said as if I should now know from at least the context.

I did.

“Should I be impressed?” I asked.

“They are going to show two of my paintings during the next art walk,” he said. “You are the second person to know. Actually, you’re the fourth including Alex Wardell, his secretary, and me.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “I didn’t know you painted.”

“Sanity behooves me to paint,” he said. “They’re painting the building. I can’t breathe but I’m happy.”

“What kind of paint?” I asked.

He looked up at me and sighed.

“Sherwin-Williams or something like that,” he said.

“Something cheap. Children’s Services is putting up that eight-million-dollar building downtown for offices and meeting rooms for those who lead us in our mission to save the children of this county. The turnover rate of social workers and therapists is a mind-boggle.”

He pointed to his computer screen and blew his nose.

“None but those most in need of work or dedicated to the point of insanity stay more than a year. Their caseloads are enormous. Their salaries low. The paperwork is staggering and the work is heartbreaking. So, I take it back. They’re not using Sherwin-Williams. They’re using something mixed by ex-convicts in a basement somewhere in a vacant office of Building B. God, I sound bitter. It’s become a lifestyle even when I’ve had good news.”

“I meant what kind of paint do you use,” I said. “On your paintings.”

“Watercolors,” he said, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I specialize. Dark, gothic backgrounds, decaying buildings, castles, full moons, dark clouds, dense woods, and always a single bright beautiful flower, usually an orchid so bright in hue that it doesn’t need the sun or moon.”

“Hope,” I said.

“In the flower, yes,” he said. “Hope, a little beauty, but even the darkness and decay have a fascinating beauty, at least to me and apparently to some degree to Mr. Wardell.”

“Good luck,” I said.

“You and Sally are invited to attend, not expected to buy,” he said. “My only hope is that they don’t have that huge bowl of Hershey’s candy kisses for browsers.”

“Let’s hope. Is…?”

“You’re in luck,” he said before I could finish my sentence. “She got in about five minutes ago. I think she has a client call in, let’s see, about an hour. I’ll tell her you’re on the way up.”

He sneezed.

“Bless you.”

“That would be nice,” he said, picking up the phone as I headed for the elevator. It was open. I stepped in and pushed the button for the third floor.

Sally was at her desk. She was brushing back her hair with one hand and thumbing through a file thick with papers and reports on her desk. She and the other workers, some of whom were out, a few of whom, male and female, were huddled with clients and their parents or foster parents.

“I’m so busy, Lew,” she said. “Court in the morning and I can’t find the case study report. Gone, missing. I was sure it was here. Gone. Or maybe I’ve flipped past it ten times but my mind is among the missing.”

“Normal day,” I said, sitting next to her.

“Perfectly normal,” she said. “Adele?”

“Nothing,” I said. “You?”

“Haven’t heard from her again.”

She stopped going through the papers, put both hands to her hair to try to get it to cooperate, and sat back looking at me.

“Five minutes, Lew. I’m sorry. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Michael Merrymen is dead, Mickey’s father. Mickey’s grandfather too.”

“And?”

“I think I know who killed Merrymen and Corsello and took a shot at me and Flo,” I said.

“Who?”

I told her.

“Why?”

I told her.

“Now,” I said. “If I’m right, how do we get to Adele? How do we stop her? Ames and I can try to protect her but you’ll have to put her together when we find her.”

“Not ‘if’ you find her?”

“I’ll find her. Maybe you can help with that part, but I’ll find her,” I said.

Sally nodded. She wore little makeup, still carried a few more pounds than she would like, and had on a serious blue court suit that needed ironing or pressing. She looked serious. She looked dark and pretty, her mouth and eyes large, her cheeks and forehead unlined. Adversity, the loss of a husband, two kids to raise, and a job that could break a hangman’s heart didn’t destroy her looks or determination.

“Assuming you’re right,” she said.

“Assuming,” I agreed, leaning forward.

I listened to her talk. She let her eyes wander toward the photograph of her children on her desk as she talked, making sense, suggestions, pointing out possibilities, ways I could handle the situation with the least harm to the fewest people. She made sense. It was her job. She did it well. Then she looked at her watch.

“Got to find that case study,” she said with regret, touching my hand.

“Friday night I owe Harvey a dinner at Michael’s at the Quay,” I said. “Can you?”

“No kids?”

“If possible,” I said.

“Possible,” she said. “I need it.”

She got up and glanced around and so did I. She stepped close to me and gave me a kiss. It wasn’t long and it wasn’t deep, but it was full. There was promise.

“Soon,” she said softly.

I knew what she meant. We had been seeing each other for almost half a year. We had never gone beyond some very close fully clothed kisses. The memory of my wife wouldn’t go away. Ann was working with me but I couldn’t and wouldn’t lose those memories, the good ones and the ones of her death. Before I came into her overly busy life, Sally had decided that she couldn’t add a close relationship to a man to her existence. Celibacy might not be perfect, was her belief, but it beat the entanglements of a relationship. In some ways, I was about all she could handle or want from a man for now. We were a perfect match. A good-looking widow with two kids, and a short depressed Italian process server losing his hair. God had brought us together.

“Don’t take a chance you don’t have to,” she said.

“I’m not suicidal,” I said.

“There are suicides and suicides,” she said.

“I’ve gone a long way with Ann Horowitz,” I said. “I don’t want to die. I just want to stay depressed and hide.”

“Progress,” she said. “I’ve got to get back to the file. Call me.”

I said I would as she went back to work. I took the elevator down, waved at John, who was on the phone, and went back to my office.

Marvin Uliaks was waiting at my door. When I got out of the car after parking at the DQ I looked up and there he was waving down at me.

I hurried up the steps and was twenty feet from him when he called, “Find her yet?”

I hadn’t found anyone yet, not Adele, not his sister, but I had high hopes.

“I have a good lead on where she is, Marvin,” I said, opening my office door.

Marvin followed me in. I didn’t turn on the lights, just pulled up the cord on the blinds Ames had installed the last time my window had been broken. There was plenty of sun. This was Florida. Heat. Sun. Rain. Five months of spring. Seven months of summer. Nothing in between.

Marvin wore dark baggy pants and an oversized white T-shirt that had “ TITUS ” printed in silver, with a picture of Anthony Hopkins in a helmet staring at me when I turned.

“You need more money?” Marvin said as I sat behind my desk and looked at my answering machine. Two messages.

“No,” I said as Marvin reached into both baggy pockets. My “no” was emphatic. It stopped him.

“Where is she? I gotta talk to her. I gotta find her. You unerstan’?”

“A few days, maybe a week,” I said, thinking that I would have to go to Vanaloosa, Georgia, to find the long missing Vera Lynn to deliver her brother’s urgent message.

“A few days. Maybe a week,” he repeated softly to himself as if he were trying to commit it to memory. “A few days. Maybe a week. Okay. You sure you don’t need money?”

“A few days,” I said.

He moved to the door, turned, and stood looking at me.

“A week at most,” I said.

“A week at most,” he repeated. He kept repeating it as he went through the door. I remembered the newspaper photographs of Marvin as a baby. I didn’t feel like answering my machine, but I pushed the button and heard the voice of Adele.

“Five more, short stories, have been sent to sea on a plastic raft. Tell him. No titles this time. Let him guess.”

Then there was a pause. I expected her to hang up but she came on with a different, less confident voice.

“Lew, I don’t want to hurt Flo or Mickey. The wrong people are getting hurt. I’ll call you back.”

I was pretty sure I could hear her start to cry when she was hanging up. That was a good sign. I needed good signs.

The second call was from Richard Tycinker’s secretary. Very businesslike she said, “Mr. Tycinker has some papers for you to serve. To be precise, an additional summons for Roberta Dreemer. Come by as soon as you can.”

I hung up. All this and Bubbles too. I could turn down the job or call back and say I would need more money to take it on, but I didn’t need more money. I needed to never see Bubbles Dreemer again. But I knew what I was going to do. I would have to face Bubbles. My hand went up to my cheek. The only impression I still had of the enormous Bubbles was not the physical one she had given me but a fuzzy, dreamlike, and definitely unpleasant memory of a confrontation I would like to avoid. Why was it that I kept having to face people I wanted to avoid? Question for Ann. I wasn’t suicidal but I had to admit to myself that what I was planning to do in a few hours was distinctly a confrontation I would prefer to avoid even more than taking on Bubbles Dreemer.

I checked my watch. Nearly five. Time had grown restless. Maybe I had time to simply grab a burger from the DQ and watch a few chapters of The Shadow. It was too early for Joan Crawford or Bette Davis. They were for the nights to hold off the dreams. I needed a jolt of Victor Jory’s Lamont Cranston taking on simple evil and hiding his identity.

I called Ames, told him what I planned, and asked him if he wanted to join me. He immediately asked if he should drive over or I should pick him up. I told him I would pick him up. End of conversation.

I went out, locked the door, walked past the DQ parking lot, and crossed 301. I went into the Crisp Dollar Bill. There were a few people at the bar I didn’t recognize, both men, one in a suit looking at the drink in his hand, hoping it had answers, the other hunched over, thick, tanned arms flat on the bar. He wore a solid black short-sleeved shirt and a look that definitely said, “Leave me alone.”

My booth was empty. I sat deep in the corner listening to Country Joe and the Fish sing about Vietnam. Billy looked over at me from behind the bar where he was busy leaving the muscular guy in the black T-shirt alone.

“What have you got healthy?” I asked.

“Is a steak healthy?” he asked.

“Why not?”

“Onions?”

“Grilled?”

“You got it,” said Billy. “Beer?”

“Beck’s,” I said.

Billy nodded, happy to be doing something instead of pretending to do something. The evening group, never a crowd, was hours away. Billy brought my beer. Country Joe finished singing. The guy in the suit stopped looking at his glass, took its contents in with a single long gulp, dropped some bills on the bar, got off the stool, looked at the door, shook his head, and left.

I was alone with Billy, the bad news black shirt, my thoughts, and now a Mozart string quartet. I glanced at the black shirt whose hands and arms were still on the bar to see if he was a Mozart man. He didn’t move. I could see his face dimly in the window behind the bar.

The steak Billy finally brought was thick, rare, and covered with grilled onions. There were fries on the side. I reached for the ketchup and Billy plunked down a second Beck’s I hadn’t ordered.

“Drinks are on him,” Billy said, nodding toward black shirt. “He says he’s celebrating.”

“He looks it,” I said. “Tell him thanks for me.”

“My pleasure,” Billy said with a perfect touch of small irony.

The steak was good. I ate half the fries, drank the second Beck’s, and checked my watch.

Billy was going classical. It seemed to calm black shirt. Three more customers came in. I recognized one, the clerk at the Mexican food market across the street and four or five doors down. His name was Justo. Justo nodded at me and headed for the pinball machine. Justo was about fifty, a purist. No video games for Justo, just pinball. He stacked up his quarters and Billy kept him supplied with whiskey on the rocks.

The pinball game wasn’t loud, but it was a pinball game and it didn’t go with Mozart. Billy switched to a John Philip Sousa march by the Boston Pops after he had taken all the drink orders.

Black shirt ordered drinks around for everyone again. I didn’t want a third beer. I had a killer to deal with and a body built for no more than two beers even with a full stomach.

Everyone lifted their glasses to black shirt who turned his head toward me and said, “I’m getting married.”

I nodded.

“I’m celebrating,” he said in a surprisingly high voice.

“Congratulations,” I said, paying Billy at the bar.

“Yeah,” he said with little enthusiasm.

I left, spirits not in the least uplifted.

I had time for one episode of The Shadow. Victor Jory disguised himself as a sinister Chinese merchant. The bad guys kidnapped the lovely Margo Lane who screamed at least once a chapter and three times in this one, and a bomb was about to blow up a building where the city moguls were meeting.

The phone rang. I got to it before the answering machine kicked in and picked up. It was Adele, reasonably calm and definitely sure of what she wanted and what she had decided to tell me.

“Did you read the section in Plugged Nickels?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Good,” she said and then asked me not to interrupt till she had finished what she had to say. I told her I would be quiet. And I was. I knew or had guessed much of what she told me, but there were a few things I hadn’t been close to.

“That’s it,” she said when she was finished.

“Ames and I are on the way to Conrad Lonsberg’s now,” I said. “They’ll all be there. I’ll take care of it. Don’t destroy any more manuscripts till…”

“You trying to make a deal?” she asked.

“No, a request. Hold off. Are you someplace safe?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Call me back at eleven tonight,” I said. “Thanks for telling me. I know it was hard.”

“It was more than hard,” she said.

At ten minutes to seven I got up, zipped on my blue jacket, and went to pick up Ames.

He was standing in front of the Texas in his slicker, hatless, ramrod straight. I didn’t know what weapon was under his coat but I was sure it was large and formidable. He climbed in.

“Peacefully, if possible,” I said.

“If possible,” he agreed.

We started driving. I had explained why we were doing it this way instead of going to the police. I definitely didn’t have enough evidence for an arrest. I might be able to convince Ed Viviase that there was a reasonably good chance I was right, but the police, the lawyers, wanted evidence or something they could label evidence. And so we drove.

We drove straight south on 41 missing all the lights. Traffic wasn’t heavy but there was some. A little red sports car cut us off as we neared Stickney Point Road and then zipped past a big light blue Lincoln and cut it off. The sports car was in a hurry. I wasn’t.

We pulled up in front of Conrad Lonsberg’s gate at fifteen minutes to eight. I guessed dinner would be over. Both Brad’s and Laura’s kids were certainly there, but it was a school night. They would be heading home soon. There might be a better way of doing this but this was the most direct. I pushed the button with Ames at my side and waited.

A voice crackled on, “What?”

“Fonesca,” I said. “Important.”

The speaker went off and we waited. We could see the sun starting to set from where we stood. I tried not to dream about what could have been and to concentrate on what was.

Laura opened the door, one of her little girls at her side.

“Hi,” the girl said.

“Hi,” I answered.

Ames bowed his head and held up his right hand. The girl giggled.

“Did you find them?” Laura asked.

“No,” I said.

“We just finished dinner,” she said. “My father’s not in… well, let’s say Brad and I are seeing his dark side when the kids aren’t in the room. I’ve got to get the girls home and in bed and Brad twisted his ankle and doesn’t want to be here at all. You sure you want to walk in on this?”

“I’m sure,” I said.

Laura looked up at Ames.

“My friend Ames McKinney,” I said. “He’s keeping me company.”

“Come on in,” she said, opening the door. “But I don’t think the great man’s going to welcome this visit. He had me call the editor of the Herald-Tribune today to warn them to keep a reporter away who follows my father whenever he leaves the house.”

“Rubin,” I said, “the reporter’s name is John Rubin. He’s doing his job.”

We followed Laura. Ames chatted with the little girl who switched from a hop to a skip.

“You look like a cowboy,” the girl said.

“Never was,” said Ames. “But I take that as a compliment.”

“You talk like one too,” she said.

’Thank you.”

We were at the house. There were three vehicles at different angles in front of the house. The second of Laura’s daughters, slightly older than the one at Ames’s side, was down at the shore with a tall boy, who I assumed was Brad Lonsberg’s son Conrad Jr.

“Nice sunset,” I said.

Laura looked toward it as if she hadn’t considered this possibility before.

“Yes,” she said.

“Maybe your little girl would like to join her sister and cousin on the beach and watch it go down,” I suggested.

Laura looked at me. There was no doubting now that what I had to say was serious. I wanted the children out of the way. She paused and turned to the little girl.

“Go down with Jenny and Connie,” she said. “Contest. Whoever finds the biggest shell wins. You can search till the sun goes down.”

“What’s the prize?” she asked.

“Five dollars,” said Laura.

“Five dollars?” the girl said in openmouthed disbelief.

“Five,” Laura repeated. “Bring your biggest when there’s no more sun.”

The girl went running and Laura opened the door. We walked in. Lonsberg and his son were in the living room. So was Jefferson, who lay on the floor, looked up at us, and then put his head back down to return to his dozing. Brad Lonsberg sat in a chair to the right. Conrad stood, hands in pockets.

“Does it have to be now?” Lonsberg said, looking at Ames.

“If not now, when?” I said.

“Now then,” he said, looking at Ames.

“My friend Ames McKinney,” I said.

“Good to meet you,” said Ames, holding out his hand. “Read everything you’ve written.”

“You mean everything I’ve had published,” Lonsberg said. “Which I hope is not the extent of your reading or the extent of what will be published.”

Lonsberg and Ames shook hands.

“This is my son Brad,” Lonsberg said.

“Hello,” said the younger Lonsberg, still seated.

“Brad twisted his ankle,” Laura explained.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

Everyone looked at me. Two beers and a big steak with grilled onions were not enough for this moment and I wanted to get it over with quickly.

“You don’t think so? About what?” asked Laura.

“About your brother’s twisted ankle,” I said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Brad Lonsberg asked, sitting up.

“I think there’s a good chance you were bitten by a dog,” I said.

“Jefferson didn’t…” he began.

“Michael Merrymen’s dog just before or just after you shot him and Merrymen,” I said.

Far away, through the open window of the living room, we heard a girl shriek with delight at the discovery of a large shell.

Brad Lonsberg glared at me, almost motionless.

“I think you should leave, Mr. Fonesca,” Laura said firmly.

“I think he should stay,” Conrad Lonsberg said softly.

Taking this as an invitation either to coffee and biscotti or to continue, I continued.

“Both murders were committed by someone who apparently and desperately wanted to get your father’s manuscripts back before Adele destroyed them,” I said. “Whoever killed Merrymen and Corsello.”

“And don’t forget his dog,” Brad Lonsberg said, shaking his head.

“I’m trying to,” I answered. “So, who would benefit most by their being found? You and your sister and your children.”

“And me,” Conrad Lonsberg said.

“And you,” I agreed. “No one else could sell them or publish them. They are all copyrighted. Adele might also find a fanatic collector, which I understand exist, but that’s not what she’s after.”

I felt a little like Charlie Chan with a room full of suspects-only it wasn’t who had done it that was the mystery but why.

Ames stepped back, probably getting ready for the suspect to pull a gun. Ames was my number two son or one of Nick Charles’s alerted cops. Only I already knew who did it.

“Why would Brad kill people to get our father’s manuscripts?” asked Laura.

It was the wrong question, but she didn’t know that.

“I had a friend check both of your financial records,” I said. “Right into your bank accounts. What he found surprised me. I gave the information to your father.”

Laura and Brad Lonsberg looked at their famous father who now looked old compared to Ames who stood almost at his side. Conrad Lonsberg looked away.

“Neither of you is wealthy but neither of you is exactly facing poverty or gambling debts or a failing business. In other words, no matter how mercenary you might be, you can afford to wait for your father to die. Sorry,” I said, turning to Lonsberg.

“You don’t have to be sorry for telling the truth. You might feel sorry for its existence in certain cases.”

“What’s your point here?” Laura said. “If the manuscripts were gone, Brad and I would have no inheritance.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “but would you commit murder to save what Adele had stolen?”

“Why not?” asked Laura. “My father’s work is very valuable. What if one of us simply wanted to preserve what he has written and damn what they are worth in dollars?”

Through the window again the voice of a child, this time a boy whose voice had already changed, saying, “This is twice as big, midget.”

“Could be,” I said. “But neither of you has said anything that would support that. You still want the truth?” I asked Lonsberg.

He shook his head “yes.”

“What kind of man are you? What kind of father? What kind of grandfather?”

“A little distant,” he said. “Eccentric maybe.”

“What do you think about your children?” I pressed on, suddenly thinking about my wife, about the children she and I would never have.

“They’re very important to me.” he said.

“More important than your writing? If someone had said thirty, twenty, ten years ago. Or today. If you had to stop writing or stop seeing your children and grandchildren, what would your answer be?”

Lonsberg lilted his head just a little to the left and said, “Irrelevant question.”

“No,” I said. “I think it’s part of the reason your son wanted to kill Adele. Want to tell the truth?”

“I’d die without my work,” he said, suddenly standing straight.

Brad Lonsberg laughed and shook his head.

“There’s your answer, Fonesca. His work over his children.”

“It’s a decision I don’t have to make,” said Lonsberg.

“I could have given you the answer,” Brad said. “He writes about love, gets into the minds and even the goddamn souls of children. He respects them, almost bleeds for them. Compassion and understanding for the children he created like Zeus from his head. More than for the ones he created with the juice of his body.”

It was Conrad Lonsberg’s turn to laugh. It wasn’t much of a laugh.

“That was a damn good comparison,” he said. “You should try writing.”

“I did,” Brad said with venom. “When I was a kid. I showed you a short story. You looked as if you didn’t want to read it. When you did, you gave it back and said, ‘Your characters don’t come alive.’ That was it. ‘Your characters don’t come alive.’”

“You don’t care if Adele destroys the manuscripts,” I said.

“I don’t give a shit,” Brad said. “I’d help her if I could. So, why would I go looking for them and kill people?”

Laura looked at me curiously. Conrad Lonsberg looked at Jefferson who was sound asleep.

“You weren’t after the manuscripts,” I said. “You were after Adele. You wanted to kill Adele.”

“Why the hell would I want to kill Adele? Dad, will you get this lunatic out of here?”

“No,” said Conrad Lonsberg.

“Then I will,” said Brad, starting to get out of the chair.

He was a big man, in good condition. He would be slowed down by his leg, but I was still no match for him.

“Best sit down again,” Ames advised.

“Get the fuck out of here. Both of you,” Brad said, starting to sound more than a little frantic.

Ames stepped forward and opened his slicker just like a cowboy in an Italian western. There was a very large gun in his belt.

“You’re going to shoot me?” Brad said with a laugh.

“He’s done it before,” I said.

“He’d kill me because you think I want to kill Adele?”

“Before you got a step away from that chair,” said Ames evenly.

“I think all of you know why Brad wants Adele dead,” I said. “Why he was looking for her. Why he wanted to find her before I did. He took a shot at me. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. You were trying to scare me off. Maybe you were just trying to frighten Flo Zink away so you could check her trunk. Did you think she was in there? Maybe at that point you were just looking for manuscripts.”

“Say it,” said Conrad Lonsberg.

“Adele is pregnant,” I said. “The baby is Brad’s.”

“You’re crazy,” Brad said, squirming.

“Adele told me about an hour ago.”

“If she’s pregnant, I didn’t do it,” Brad said, pointing at himself.

“DNA,” said Conrad Lonsberg.

“DNA,” gasped Brad, “DNA? How different is yours than mine? If she’s pregnant, you’re more likely than…”

“I used to do research for the Prosecuting Attorney’s Office in Cook County,” I said. “Your father and you don’t have exactly the same DNA. And I think you know it. You wanted Adele dead and hidden before anyone found out she was going to have a baby or could prove it was yours.”

“DNA,” Lonsberg said. “I’m leaving. I’m taking Connie and leaving. Don’t bother me again and, Dad, don’t bother calling me again.”

This time he did stand up, a little wobbly, and faced Ames.

“You going to shoot me for trying to leave?”

Ames looked at me. He would have had I given him a nod.

“If the dog did bite you,” I said, “he has your blood on his teeth. More DNA evidence. And I have the two notes you pinned on my door. The police should be able to match your handwriting.”

“Notes?” Brad Lonsberg said, looking genuinely puzzled. “I didn’t leave any notes on your door.”

I looked at him. His indignation seemed real on this one. He hadn’t left the notes on my door.

“Do either of you believe any of this?” Brad went on, looking at his father and sister.

“Before your wife died she left you when she found you having an affair with a fourteen-year-old girl four years ago. My friend with the computer found out,” I said. “She filed for divorce. Civil case. Could have been statutory rape but the police never found out or didn’t care. No evidence. Your wife died. Divorce proceedings ended. You said she died of cancer. The records show…”

“Hit-and-run,” said Laura. “Never found who did it.”

“We have an idea now,” I said. “Don’t we? This time we have a damn good idea.”

“This time?” asked Lonsberg.

“My wife died in a hit-and-run accident. I didn’t want her to. I wasn’t having an affair.”

“So this is some kind of vendetta,” said Lonsberg. “Your wife gets killed in a hit-and-run and so does mine. You blame me and you want me to pay.”

“Not for my wife’s death. Maybe a little of that too,” I said. “I have some sick ideas. I see a shrink. Do you?”

“So Brad wanted to kill Adele to keep from being charged with statutory rape?” Laura said.

“I think your brother loves his son,” I said. “Just a guess. The way he feels your father doesn’t and never has loved either one of you. You told Adele that,” I said, looking at Laura. “Whatever your father has to leave, Brad wants to go to his Connie and your girls. He doesn’t want any of it to go to Adele’s child and his. That part I figured out, but so did Adele.”

“You are out of your mind,” Brad said.

The voices of the children told us they were heading back to the house. Brad looked toward the window. Jefferson woke up and looked toward the window.

“I know that,” I said. “I told you. I see a therapist twice a week.”

“You need one,” said Lonsberg.

“That’s why I go,” I said. “But that doesn’t make me wrong. The police might find that nine-millimeter you used in your house. Simple ballistics. You didn’t throw it away after killing Corsello and shooting at me. You still need it for Adele.”

“They can look,” he said and headed for the door.

His father stepped in front of him.

“He’s right,” Conrad Lonsberg said. “I believe him. I knew she was pregnant. She told me. I told her to work it out with you. I didn’t think you’d kill people. I…”

“You’re an amazing man,” Laura said to her father, holding back tears and flashing anger. “You know so much about people who don’t exist and nothing about those closest to you who do.”

“Genetics or environment,” Lonsberg said. “Possibly a combination. Like most talent. I don’t know where it came from, haven’t spent much time trying to figure it out. So, what do we do now?”

Conrad Lonsberg was looking at me.

“You agree not to disown your grandchild and Brad goes to the police and confesses,” I said. “He says he did it to get back the manuscripts. He thought Merrymen had taken them, that Merrymen had a grudge against him. He protects Adele and your grandchild.”

“And the world finds out my manuscripts have been stolen,” said Lonsberg. “I’ll be a prisoner in my house. Or I’ll have to move again. B. Traven.”

No one asked him who B. Traven was.

“I agree,” he said. “She’s destroying my family and the manuscripts not only to get back at my son, but to get to me for not protecting her, not standing by her.”

“That’s something else she told me,” I said.

“Then maybe she’s right,” Conrad Lonsberg said.

The voices of the children were right outside the door now.

“Brad?” asked Laura.

Brad Lonsberg shook his head in agreement. He had only one thing going for him, his love of his son.

“Your grandson is sixteen,” I said to Lonsberg. “What month was he born?”

Lonsberg knew where I was going but he answered.

“June,” he said.

“Adele is four months younger than Brad’s son,” I said.

“Let’s just go,” Brad said. “Now.”

“Who tells Connie?” asked Laura.

“Dad,” said Brad with some satisfaction. “He explains it all to him. I’ll talk to him later. Tell him the truth about Conrad Lonsberg. Tell him the whole truth including what you know and didn’t do.”

Brad Lonsberg brushed past his father. I nodded to Ames as the children came through the door each holding a big shell, but none was better than the one Jefferson had given me.

“Where you goin’?” asked the lanky boy who looked strikingly like his grandfather.

“Your grandfather will explain,” Brad said. “I’ll talk to you later. You can go home with Aunt Laura tonight.”

“You won’t be home?” asked the boy.

“Ask your grandfather.”

“I’ve-got the biggest shell,” the boy said, holding it out to his father.

Brad Lonsberg took it and said, “This is the most beautiful shell I’ve ever seen.”

Then he looked at his father and went out the door. I followed, barely looking at the two little girls. I would have liked two little girls, a son, a life. I didn’t look back at Laura or Conrad Lonsberg.