No one had an answer, but Alana Legerman had a question.
She looked at Augustine and said, “Are you all right? Are you going to lose your eye?”
She tried to say it nice, but it was as if she were asking if the dime dropped on the floor was his. I couldn’t be sure if she was just saying the right thing or if she had shown concern to her father’s employee beyond that of an heiress.
“I’m all right,” Augustine said. “I’ve still got one twenty-twenty eye.”
“I’m all right too,” I said.
There was no way even a casual glance would have failed to reveal the scratches on my face and neck.
“I’m sorry,” said Alana Legerman. “How are you, Mr…”
“Fonesca,” Ames supplied. “Mr. Lewis Fonesca. And my name’s Ames McKinney.”
“And what have you got to do with my father and Jeff?”
“Your father has asked me to look into the murder of Philip Horvecki.”
“You’re a private investigator?”
“No, a process server.”
She was unimpressed.
“You think my son’s friend killed Horvecki?”
“The police think so. The television stations, the newspaper and most of the people in Sarasota probably think so.”
“Why don’t you just ask Ronnie Gerall what happened?”she asked.
Jeff Augustine’s left eye was open wide and looking at Alana Legerman. I moved toward the door, Ames at my side.
“I think we’ll do that,” I said.
3
The problem was immediately clear after we talked to Ronnie Gerall across a table in the visitors’ room in the county jail. I got the impression that he worked at being independent, superior, and unlikable, but I could have been wrong. He could simply and naturally be what my uncle called a Merdu, which roughly translated from the Italian means “dickhead.”
Ronnie was about six feet tall and had the build of an athlete, the drawn-back, almost blond hair of a teen movie idol, blue eyes, and a look of total boredom. He could easily have passed for twenty-one, which I was sure he did when it suited him.
It had started badly. Gerall had been ushered in. He wore a loose-fitting orange jail suit and a look that said, “Look at what those jerks sent me.” He didn’t offer his hand to Ames and me or ask or say anything at first; he just sat in the wooden chair with his right leg extended and half turned as if he planned to escape at the first sign of ennui.
Ames and I took seats. The full-bellied, uniformed guard, who looked almost as bored as Ronnie Gerall, stood with his back to the door, arms folded. The room was large enough that the guard wouldn’t hear us if we whispered. Ronnie had no intention of whispering.
“Greg Legerman told me you were coming,” he said.
That required no answer so I just kept sitting and watching him.
“Please do me a favor before we have anything that resembles conversation,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Would you mind taking off that dopey baseball cap.”
“Yes, I would.”
“I watched you and an old man drive up on a motor scooter,” he said, ignoring my answer.
“And…?”
“You can’t afford a car?”
“Don’t want the responsibility,” I said.
“How did Greg Legerman find you?” he asked shaking his head and looking first at Ames and then at me.
“Luck,” I said.
We sat in silence for about a minute, during which he found his fingernails fascinating and the palms of his hands, particularly the right one, profound.
“I did not kill Philip Horvecki,” he said, looking up.
“Tell us what happened.”
“Why not? I’ve got time. It was Thursday night. He called, said he would meet with me. Horvecki said he wanted to talk.”
“You sure it was Horvecki?” I asked.
“Old men all sound alike, either like sick hummingbirds or gravel pits. This was gravel pits. Pure Horvecki.”
He looked at Ames, who could have been number five on Mount Rushmore.
“Go on,” I prompted.
“I went to his house.”
“Right away?”
“Yes.”
“You told someone you were going?”
“No. Can I go on?”
“Yes.”
“I rang the bell. No answer. I tried the door. Open.” I went in. The place is a nightmare. Black wood, black tile floors, white walls. Even the paintings are almost all black and white. No wonder someone killed him.”
“I don’t think you should say that,” I said.
“You don’t think so?” Ronnie said with a smile.
“He doesn’t think so,” said Ames. “And you’d best heed what Mr. Fonesca tells you.”
“Or what, old man?”
“Or I reach across this table and slap you three or four times. And you won’t stop me, because even though I just warned you, you won’t be able to,” said Ames, eyes fixed on Ronnie Gerall’s face.
“He’ll do it, too,” I said.
“Then he’ll be in here with me,” said Ronnie.
“Is that where you want him? Respect means a great deal to Mr. McKinney.”
The uniformed guard slouched a little more. He wasn’t interested in what we had to say.
“You found Horvecki,” I said.
“On the floor in the hallway. Definitely dead. Lots of blood on his face and shirt. Mouth open. I thought I saw someone in an open doorway on the right. Then I saw someone go out the window.”
“And you followed him,” said Ames.
“No. I mean yes. I went out the front door looking for him. Whoever it was was gone.”
“You saw nobody?” I asked.
“No… wait. There was a man in a pickup truck, but it wasn’t the one who was in the house. The guy in the pickup was there when I got to Horvecki’s. I thought he was waiting for somebody.”
“Could he have seen the man who jumped out of the window?” I asked.
“Could have? He would have had to,” said Ronnie.
“Can you describe the man or the truck?” I asked.
“It was a small pickup, not old, not new. Guy in the truck had on a baseball cap. Couldn’t see his face. I think he was black. Maybe. Couldn’t tell you how… Wait, I had the feeling he wasn’t an old guy like Stokes over here.”
Ames did not take kindly to the remark, but he held his tongue.
“And I don’t know how tall he was,” Ronnie went on. “He never got out of the truck. I only saw him for a few
