“I am.”
“So am I,” I said.
I dropped Ames back at the Texas and told him we hadn’t been to Palmetto, hadn’t found the body.
He nodded, took out his key and went into the door of the grill. I went back to my office. There was no reason to stay away any longer. John Pirannes might still be a bit upset with me, but there was nothing much I could do to him. He was a prime candidate for Dwight’s murder, he or Manny or someone he paid a few dollars to.
In spite of the overhang that ran along the concrete outside my door, the wind had been strong enough to tear down the drapes inside the broken window. The floor was slick and wet with blown-in rain. Blood, rain. When this was all over, I’d seriously consider finding another place to live, if I had enough money and energy for it. But then again, these two rooms were beginning to feel like home.
It was only nine. People were getting to work. Some had been there a while. I was hungry. The DQ wasn’t open and I was soaked through and didn’t feel like changing and going back out into the rain.
I did take off my wet clothes, throw them in the general direction of a far corner and put on dry ones.
Then I called the office of Tycinker, Oliver and Schwartz. Harvey was in.
“Harvey, I’m glad you’re there.”
“I’ve been here since seven. I’m trying to track the bastard who put a real killer virus on-line. It’s called Buga-Buga-Boo.”
“I thought you couldn’t track the source of an Internet virus,” I said. “You told me that.”
“Well, I may be the first. I’m close. When I track him, I’m going to shut him down.”
“Great,” I said. “How about the search you were doing for me?”
“Finished it last night,” he said.
I could hear the clack of computer keys as his fingers reached into cyberspace to hunt the virus planter.
“And?”
He gave me the information. I wrote down what I needed of it. It wasn’t much, but Harvey loved to describe the chase. I didn’t disappoint him by cutting him off.
“Thanks, Harvey,” I said.
“I’m shredding the hard copy of what I just told you,” he said.
“Fine.”
“And tell your friends, don’t download Buga-Buga-Boo.”
“I’ll tell them,” I said.
We hung up. I needed time to think, not conscious thinking, but deep down, almost the dream state. I had a feeling that I’d probably fail because I wanted and didn’t want to know who had killed Handford. Maybe I could convince myself that it was Pirannes since it probably was.
I had another case, another client. I looked at the number of Caroline Wilkerson and punched the buttons. Six rings, the machine.
“It’s Lewis Fonesca,” I said. “I’ve got to talk to you about Melanie. If you-”
She picked up.
“Yes?” she said, panting.
“Sorry to wake you,” I said.
“I’ve been up for hours,” she said. “And, at the moment, I am on my StairMaster. What’s this about?”
“Geoffrey Green thinks you have something to tell me that will help me find Melanie.”
“Geoffrey Green is a quack,” she said. “A charming quack, as quacks should be. I have nothing to tell you. I wish I did. Carl and Melanie belong together. Without her… don’t know what will happen to him.”
“I have something to tell you,” I said.
“What?”
“In person. I guarantee you’ll be interested.”
She gave me her address and told me to come over in half an hour. She had a doctor’s appointment, a facial and shopping to do. I told her I’d be right there.
I hung up. I already knew her address and phone number, but it didn’t hurt for her to be cooperative. I found an old crumpled London Fog coat, back in my small closet. My wife had given it to me. Not a birthday or holiday gift. Just something she thought I needed.
I went out, down the stairs with the rain waterfalling off the roof and from the sky. Rolls of thunder, flashes of lightning. It would have been nice just to sit and watch and listen.
The Geo was at the rear of the lot, as close to the stairs as I could get. I had left the doors unlocked so I didn’t get too wet when I climbed in. There was just enough time for a quick breakfast. I had the feeling that the advances I had been given by Beryl Tree and Carl Sebastian were almost gone. I didn’t want to check.
I found a space right in front of Gwen’s Diner a minute away from the DQ. I ran in. There weren’t many customers. The go-to-work rush was long over. Old Tim from Steubenville was at the counter, in the same seat he had been in the last time I was here. There was no Corky Spence, the trucker who had thought I had served him with papers. I sat next to Tim, who looked up from the magazine and coffee in front of him.
“Process server,” he said, pointing a finger and smiling.
Gwen Two said, “Eggs, bacon, hash browns, coffee?”
“Right,” I said.
She brought coffee immediately.
“Reading something interesting here,” Tim said. “About the Sargasso Sea. Hundreds of miles of floating sea plants in the middle of the Atlantic.”
He pointed east toward the Atlantic.
“Filled with little animals, weird fish, big worms, turtles.”
“That a fact?”
“A fact,” Tim said. “People used to be afraid centuries back, thought they’d get tangled in the plant life, but it’s thin stuff. Off of Bermuda out there. Animals, plants. They die. Drop down thousands of feet. Animals down there eat it. Food chain.”
“Just like on land,” I said.
“Cynical comment,” he said. “Place I’d like to go is Galapagos Islands. You know Darwin was always seasick on a boat?”
“No,” I said.
Gwen Two put the hot plate of food in front of me. The eggs were over very easy. Orange marmalade for my rye toast. I had become a semi-regular. Listening to Tim, having Gwen Two know what I wanted, helped take some of the horror out of the morning. I ate, paid attention to Tim and checked the clock.
Caroline Wilkerson had a less than modest house just over the north bridge leading to Siesta Key. Siesta is smaller, more ambling and less upscale, less high-rise and less resort-lined than Longboat Key. Siesta still has the sense of lush greenery and the memory of village. That’s not to say Siesta has less wealth that the longer, thinner finger of its rival to the north. Siesta’s money, generally, is more tastefully secluded.
The home of Caroline Wilkerson was big and new. Eight steps led up to a large double door with frosted-glass square windows etched with fleurs-de-lis. On each side of the doors were two white pillars, which probably did nothing to hold up the floor and enclosed balcony above. The house itself went for a balance between almost- orange brick Florida and Mount Vernon. It was about the right size and shape to decorate the back of a new U.S. Mint coin. Yes, a commemorative pink, Florida half dollar, the Wilkerson house on one side, a flamingo on the other.
It was still raining and thunder rolled, but far away inland.
I parked in the brick driveway behind a red Jaguar, hurried up the steps and pushed a well-hidden white button. A hum, somewhat like the musical sound made when Harvey turned on his computer, sounded inside the house.
Caroline Wilkerson opened the door. She was in pale blue tights, a towel around her neck, her white hair a bit frizzled, her face pink, handsome and without the trace of a line or wrinkle. She hadn’t gone to any trouble anticipating my visit.
“Come in,” she said.
