TONIGHT I SAID GOODBYE
MICHAEL KORYTA
TONIGHT I SAID GOODBYE. Copyright © 2004 by Michael Koryta. All rights reserved.
To Bob Hammel. For his teaching, guidance, encouragement, and friendship I am deeply indebted.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks, first and foremost, go to Peter Wolverton, Ruth Cavin, John Cunningham, and everyone else at St. Martin’s Press who gave me a chance and made the process a wonderful experience, and to Bob Randisi and the Private Eye Writers of America, who, together with St. Martin’s, give new writers an unmatched opportunity.
Grateful acknowledgement also goes to:
Bob Hammel, who made it happen.
Laura Lane, an excellent writer and editor and even better friend.
Don Johnson, a first-class investigator who gave me a chance of a different sort.
Michael Hefron, who held a door open as he was stepping out of it and always motivated.
Stewart Moon, who has the best hook shot of any graphic designer in the business.
Janice Rickert, Bob Zaltsberg, and everyone else at the
David Hale Smith, who manages to be a good agent and a great guy simultaneously.
And to my family, who have always encouraged, supported, and tolerated, especially my parents, Jim and Cheryl Koryta, and my sister, Jennifer.
TONIGHT I SAID GOODBYE
CHAPTER 1
THE LAST time John Weston saw his son alive, it was a frigid afternoon in the first week of March, and John’s granddaughter was building a snowman as the two men stood in the driveway and talked. Before he left, John gave his son a fatherly pat on the shoulder and promised to see him again soon. He saw him soon—stretched out in a morgue less than forty-eight hours later, dead of a small-caliber gunshot wound to the head. John was saved the horror of viewing his granddaughter in a similar state, but the reason for that was a hollow consolation: Five-year- old Betsy Weston and her mother were missing.
John Weston told me this as we sat in his house in North Olmsted, a suburb on Cleveland’s west side, five days later. Weston’s living room was clean and well arranged but dark, with the window shades pulled, and smelled heavily of cigarette smoke. While he spoke, the old man stared at me with a scowl that betrayed no trace of grief but plenty of determination.
“Listen to me, Mr. Perry,” he said, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke in my direction, “I know my son. He did not kill himself, and he damn sure didn’t hurt his family. Have you watched the news? You hear what those bastards are saying? They’re saying my son killed his own wife and baby daughter, then killed himself.” He slapped the coffee table with his hand hard enough to make some of my coffee splash over the rim of the mug. “I will not tolerate that. I want to know what happened, and I want you and your partner to help me.”
Weston sat on an enormous leather couch across from me, and I was in a bizarre chair with a curved wooden frame and a large, rippled plastic cushion. When I leaned back in it I immediately slid down until my head was parallel to the armrests. Feeling pretty ridiculous in that position, I’d tried an assortment of others before, surrendering to gravity and the slick cushion, I leaned forward, sitting on the edge of the chair, my elbows resting on my knees. Now I looked more intense than I felt, but it beat the alternatives.
“I’ve heard the television reports,” I said. “But the police haven’t said the murder/suicide angle is a legitimate theory, Mr. Weston. That’s just some talking head in a newsroom trying to hold an audience with sensationalism.”
Weston kept the scowl. He was in his upper seventies but still a large man; when he was younger he must have been massive. His legs were skinny now and his belly soft, but his broad chest and shoulders were a testament to his former size. He still had nearly a full head of gray hair, a nose that seemed too small for his face, and calculating, edgy eyes that took everything in as if he were looking for an excuse to shout. The pinky finger of his right hand was missing, and the ring finger ended in a stump just past the middle knuckle. While I sipped my coffee, he turned and pointed at two framed paintings on the wall behind him.
“You see those paintings?” he said.
They appeared to be World War II military scenes, and they were well done. Nothing fancy, just a talented artist’s precise rendition of what he had seen. My type of painting—something you could appreciate without a master’s degree in art.
“A buddy of mine did those,” he said, and then coughed loudly, a wet, rasping hack like a shovel scraping snow off rough pavement. “Pretty good, aren’t they?”
“Very nice.” I finished my coffee and set the mug on the coffee table beside the business card I had given Weston. PERRY AND PRITCHARD INVESTIGATIONS it read. I was Lincoln Perry, and Joe Pritchard was my partner. We were just six months into the business now, but we’d already managed to accumulate a significant amount of debt. We tried not to boast about that accomplishment too often, though, especially to clients. Before going into private work, Joe and I had been partners in the Cleveland Police Department’s narcotics division. I’d been forced into resignation, and he’d retired about a year later. Somehow, Joe had convinced me to meet with John Weston alone while he handled what would probably be a routine interview. I was regretting that arrangement now.
“What you see there in the paintings are a CG-4A glider and a tow plane,” Weston said, looking back at the paintings again. “I flew the gliders.”
“That was a one-of-a-kind experience, I imagine.”
