Retribution: A Lew Fonesca Novel (Lew Fonesca Novels) (26 page)

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.

AMES AND I ACCOMPANIED
Brad Lonsberg to the police station where he told the woman at the desk that he wanted to see Detective Viviase and that he wanted a lawyer. The young woman, short-haired, serious, in full uniform, told Brad Lonsberg that Viviase was off and wouldn’t be back till morning.

I suggested that she call him and tell him that the murderer of Bernard Corsello and Michael Merrymen was there to give a statement.

“The dog,” Ames reminded me.

“He killed a dog too,” I said.

“Dog?” she asked, looking at the odd trio in front of the desk.

“Merrymen’s dog,” I said. “Just tell Viviase.”

“And who are you?” she asked.

“Just describe me,” I said. “He’ll know.”

“I’m making a flat statement,” Brad Lonsberg said. “Just that I killed them. No why. Nothing more. Then I call a lawyer.”

“Suit yourself,” I said.

“If you get free,” Ames said, “I’ll shoot you dead on the street.”

“He’s fond of Adele,” I said.

Lonsberg sat quietly, his leg in obvious pain, while the young woman called Viviase. Ames and I walked out. I drove Ames back to the Texas. The late crowd was there and the voices inside were soft.

“Want to take a trip with me?” I asked.

“You need me?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Probably not.”

“When?”

“Probably tomorrow and the next day,” I said.

“What time you want me ready?” he asked.

“Early, around seven.”

“That’s not early,” he said.

“It is for me. Do you want to know where we’re going?”

“Makes no matter,” he said.

He walked into the Texas and I pulled away.

The phone was ringing when I entered my office. It was eleven on the dot.

I told Adele what had happened and asked, “What now?”