Bright Futures: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels) (23 page)

I knocked.

The people inside the apartment stopped talking and went silent.

“Who is it?” came Ronnie’s voice.

“Police,” Ames said.

The room went silent. The pause was long.

“Police,” Ames repeated. “Open it or step out of the way.”

The lock was unbolted as Ames stepped back against the corridor wall where he couldn’t be seen unless Dwight Torcelli or whoever was inside stepped out to look. The door opened slightly more than a crack.

“Fonesca?”

“Who is it?” a woman’s voice from inside the room asked.

“Not the police,” Torcelli said.

“May I come in, Dwight?” I asked.

“How did you find . . . ?”

He stopped after quickly and silently going through the very short list of those who would know about this second apartment and his real name.

“Sally,” he said.

“May I come in?” I asked again.

He stepped back to let me enter and closed the door behind me. Alana Legerman stood in the center of the room next to the bed on which a large brown cloth suitcase stood open. It looked full and ready to be closed.

“Sally who?” asked Alana.

“My caseworker,” he said.

His denim pants were tan, pressed, creased, and tight fitting. His shirt was a Polo pullover, green and white stripes, and not tight fitting.

“We’re in a hurry here, Mr. Fonesca,” Alana said.

“I’ll bet you are. Bail jumping, especially on a murder charge, can make someone move in a hurry. You’re going to lose a lot of money.”

“I can afford it,” she said. “You plan to tell anyone?”

“Yes, the police.”

She motioned to Torcelli to close the suitcase. He did and pulled the cracked leather straps tight.

“You still work for me, Mr. Fonesca,” she said.

“I resign. Job-related stress.”

“I have a secret you may wish to know before you make a decision,” she said.

“You’re really his mother,” I said, nodding at Torcelli.

“No,” she said, pausing to show that she didn’t appreciate my attempt at humor at her expense. “You stole something from my father.”

“What?” asked Torcelli.

“I don’t know,” she said. “He just told me Fonesca and the old man he hangs around with broke into the house and stole something.”

“The old man is my partner,” I said. “His name is Ames McKinney. And a copy of what we stole is here.”

I took the folded pieces of paper from my pocket and handed them to her.

“We have to go,” Torcelli said while she looked at what I had handed her.

“I find people for a living,” I said. “I’m good at it. It may be the only thing I’m good at. I could find you no matter where you go, and so could the police.”

“Not true,” he said, folding his arms and standing erect with his arms folded. “Alana, those things in your hand are fakes. He’s . . .”

She held up a hand to indicate that she wanted him quiet while she looked over the papers. After no more than two minutes she handed me the documents and spoke.

“Two questions, and I expect the truth: First, are you really twenty-seven years old? Second, are you married?”

The answer was a long time coming, and he looked at me with something less than friendship before answering.

“Yes, and no,” he said. “I am twenty-seven years old. At least I will be tomorrow.”

“Happy Birthday,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.”

“I can explain why I . . .”

“Are you married?”

“No,” he said. “I was. She died.”

“You married Philip Horvecki’s daughter,” I said. “Is she dead?”

“No.”

Alana Legerman was freeze-framed in a look of disappointment which turned to anger and then to acceptance with a shake of the head.

“Alana,” he said. “You know I love you.”

“You love me? Who are you?”

“His name is Dwight Torcelli,” I said.

“Mr. Fonesca, do you have any objection to my leaving?” she asked.

“No.”

“I won’t be missing anything else I should know?”

“No.”

“Good. Don’t let him get away. Good-bye.”

“If you let me . . . ,” he began, but he didn’t finish because she was out the door and gone.

I wondered what she would make of Ames in the hallway with a shotgun. There was no scream. I heard no voices through the thin door.

“I didn’t kill Horvecki or anyone,” he said. “I swear. Believe me.”

“What I believe doesn’t matter.”

“You’re taking me back to jail.”

“But not to juvenile. You’re an adult. We’ll let the district attorney’s office figure it all out.”

“No,” he said. “When you give them those documents about me, I probably won’t even be able to get a public defender who believes I didn’t kill Horvecki.”

I wanted to ask him about Sally, but I didn’t. He would either lie or tell the truth, and both would hurt.

“Let’s go,” I said.

“No,” he repeated.

“Suit yourself. Run, hide. Maybe Alana Legerman won’t turn you in. Maybe she really won’t care about losing the bond money. Maybe.”

I stepped away from the door. He picked up his suitcase and moved toward me.

“Step away,” he said.

I stepped away, but something I couldn’t control came over me. I moved in and punched him in the nose as hard as I could. I felt bone break and electric frozen pain in my knuckle.

There was no satisfaction in throwing the punch. It just felt like something I had to do.

He let out a groan and dropped the suitcase. Blood gushed from his nose. Rage was in his eyes and his fists were clenched. He was almost twenty years younger than I. I was in good shape from my almost daily workouts at the downtown YMCA, but I was probably not a match for him. The one thing I was sure of was that I could take whatever he threw and keep on coming. I didn’t know how much he was willing to take.

“You lunatic,” he screamed, doing nothing to stop the blood.

He looked like a much different person from the one who had opened the door. This was not a young James Dean sans mustache. This was Mr. Hyde played without his hair draped haphazardly down his forehead. His now inflamed nose suggested drunkenness. His eyes were wide and wild.

“You broke in here and tried to kill me,” he said.

I knew where this was going. I took a step toward him. A gun, a small gun, appeared in his right hand. He wiped blood from his nose with the back of his left hand.

“You told me that someone hired you to kill me,” he said. “Maybe Corkle.”

“Might work,” I said. “But probably not.”

He was flexing his grip on the gun which was now aimed at my stomach.

“Why aren’t you scared?” he almost screamed.

“Nothing you’d understand,” I said. “Lift the gun a little if your plan is to hit my heart.”

“You are a lunatic,” he said.

His gun hand moved down so that it was now aimed at the floor. That was when Ames came in, shotgun at the ready and aimed at Torcelli who took a step back.

“You okay?” Ames asked me. “You’ve got blood on you.”

“His,” I said.

“I’m the one hurt,” Torcelli said, pointing to himself to be sure we knew who and where the injured party was.

“Put your little gun down,” said Ames, “and we’ll get that bleeding stopped.”

Torcelli placed the gun on the bed.

Ames asked, “What happened?”

“He punched me. No warning. Just punched me in the nose,” said Torcelli.

Ames looked at me and before saying, “That a fact?”

“Yes,” said Torcelli. “It’s a fact. I’m running out of blood.”

“Let’s go save your life,” said Ames. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“There,” said Torcelli, bloody shirt pulled up to his nose.

Ames touched my shoulder as he followed Torcelli through a door. Then I heard running water. Then my legs began to shake. There was a chair against the wall next to the door. I managed to sit. My hands were trembling now. Was it because Torcelli had
almost shot me? No, that didn’t feel right. It was because I had felt something uncontrollable and powerful when I hit him. The operative word being “felt.”
Feeling
, strong emotion had come back, if only for a few seconds. I almost didn’t recognize it. I know I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it at all.

When they came back in the room, Torcelli was holding a towel to his nose. His voice was muffled, but I could understand him.

“You could have driven bone into my brain,” he said.

“You’ll be fine,” said Ames, standing behind him.

“Yeah,” said Torcelli, sitting on the bed.

“Why did you do it?” I asked.

He took the towel from his face and looked at it to see if his nose had stopped bleeding. It hadn’t.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” he said.

“No, everything else.”

“It’s a long story.”

“Make it short,” said Ames.

“What am I going to look like?” Torcelli asked. “I have to look good. It’s what I’ve got.”

“Story,” Ames said.

Towel to nose, he turned to look at Ames over his shoulder then back at me.

“I met Horvecki’s daughter in San Antonio. I was working in a Sharper Image store in a mall. She came in. She was visiting a fellow high school friend from Pine View. We started to talk. I said we should talk more. So we made a date for that night. And the next. And the next. I learned that her father was rich. Her father was a jerk. No way he would just accept me.”

“You had already discussed marriage?” I asked.

“We applied for the license the second week I knew her.”

“Love?”

“On her part. I’ve done some acting. I was convincing. I got the idea of using information she had given me to persuade
Horvecki to give me a job and pay me at a level that would suit his son-in-law.”

“That didn’t work, did it?” I asked.

“He said that he had another idea. I’d have to register as a high school student at Pine View. He would handle the paperwork. All I had to do was gather examples of how the school was screwing up. He said he wanted to bring down Pine View and the Bright Futures program. I’m sure he also wanted to see how low I would sink to be sure Rachel and I would inherit his money. He had hired a detective to look into my past. He insisted that I change my name, even told me how to do it and how to get a convincing set of documents that established me as Ronald Gerall, a transfer student in very good standing. He said he’d provide us with enough money to keep us comfortable while I accomplished what he demanded.”

“You brought these documents to Sally,” I said.

“I did.”

“What about running from a grand jury in Texas?” I asked.

“A mistake.”

“A mistake Horvecki used to keep you in line.”

“One of them. Maybe I should see a doctor about this nose. The blood is still coming.”

Ames produced a dry towel from behind his back and handed it to Torcelli, who dropped the bloody one on the floor and pressed the fresh one to his nose.

“Thanks.”

“Welcome.”

“Sally authenticated these documents,” I said.

“With a little friendly persuasion,” Ronnie said.

I should have been able to muster enough anger to at least consider another punch to Ronnie’s expanded red-and-purple nose, but I found nothing to call on. Hitting him again would not take care of what I was now feeling.

“Last question,” I said. “If you get it right, you win the prize.”

“Okay,” he said.

“What really happened the night Horvecki died?”

“I called him, told him I wanted to see him, that he was screwing me around, that he was just trying to stall until he could get rid of me, poison Rachel against me. I told him I was coming over. He said, ‘Not now. I’ve got a friend visiting.’ ”

“Did he sound like he meant it?”

“He smirked,” Ronnie said.

“Over the phone?” I asked.

“Yes. Philip Horvecki was good at that.”

“Go on.”

“When I got there, the front door was open. I went in. Someone was going out the window. Horvecki was on the floor. I could see he was dead. Rachel was in the bedroom doorway. Horvecki was on the floor. I told Rachel to get out of the house, get down to Main Street.”

“Why?” Ames asked.

“I panicked,” he said. “I had to almost push her out. She went, and I ran after her, looking for whoever had gone through the window.”

“You didn’t see anyone?” I asked.

“I did,” he said. “There was someone in a pickup truck across the street. I had seen him when I went into the house. I thought he was waiting for someone in one of the other houses. I told you all this.”

“We like hearing it,” said Ames.

“I went back in the house. I was sure Horvecki was dead, but I went over to him to be sure. I’ve seen people beaten, but nothing like this. His face was a mess. A bone in his left arm was pushed through the skin. I started to get up to call 911. The door opened. Two cops were pointing guns in my face. Find Rachel. Find the guy in the pickup truck. Rachel and the guy in the truck both saw the killer go through the window. That’s the story. It’s true.”

“You believe him?” I asked Ames.

“Some.”

“It’s the truth. Oh, shit. Is this a piece of bone?”

He pinched a small piece of something between his thumb and nearby finger and held it up.

“Can’t tell,” said Ames. “Maybe.”

“I’m going to need a plastic surgeon,” Ronnie said.

“Probably, but you can afford one now,” I said. “If Horvecki really left his money to his daughter.”

“That do it for here?” asked Ames.

I nodded. Ames helped Torcelli to his feet.

“I’m still out on bail.”

“I don’t think the police are going to want you out on the streets of Sarasota, or Rio, or Brussels,” I said. “We’ve got a place you can stay for a while.”

“You’re taking me in,” he said.

“No, not yet,” I said. “We’re taking you somewhere safe.”

“You’ll be safe,” Ames said.

“Safe from what?”

“From whoever it is who’s going to try to kill you. My guess is that if he or she catches you, you’ll decide to commit suicide,” I said.

“Why would I kill myself?”

“Guilt over killing your father-in-law,” I said.

“Remorse,” said Ames.

“Case closed,” I added.