“Sure?”
“No.”
Lew picked up the phone, punched in the numbers and waited two rings.
“Hi,” he said. “I found him.”
“Good, and-,” said Milt Holiger.
“That’s all,” said Lew.
“That’s all? Who is it? Did you kill him? Is there…?”
“No more,” said Lew. “If I told you and something happened that led to an investigation-”
“Then all I could say was you told me you found the person who killed her, but you didn’t tell me anything about him.”
“Or her,” Lew added.
“Got it.”
“One more thing,” said Lew. “Andrej Posnitki was found dead in a car parked across the street from my sister and brother-in-law’s house. Can you find out when it happened and what killed him?”
“Not a problem,” said Milt. “I’ll tell whoever’s handling the case that it might be linked to the killings of Santoro and Aponte-Cruz.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll call you when I have something. You’re going back to Florida?”
“Yes. Tomorrow.”
“Cup of coffee and a couple of sinful donuts before you go?” asked Holiger.
“Let’s see how the day goes,” said Lew.
“Call you later.”
Lew said, “Goodbye.”
12
The man across the desk was James Edward Simms. Lew didn’t have to ask him. The name was embossed on his office door and the brass plate on the desk. Simms, slim and smiling, looked like a white-haired doctor in a magazine ad for overcoming erectile dysfunction. He put the printout sheets in an envelope, and handed the envelope to Lew.
“Thank you,” said Lew.
“Please call me directly if you have any questions or need anything,” said Simms.
It wasn’t the right time or place to ask for a joke. Simms probably had some good ones, ones Ann would appreciate. Simms probably had a safety deposit box filled with jokes. Lew didn’t ask. He stood up and Simms came around the desk, guided him out of the office and escorted Lew to the front door.
“I’m glad you came by, Mr. Fonesca. Have a good trip back to Florida. Goodbye.”
Franco was parked to his left in a bus stop. When Lew got in the truck, Franco handed him the phone.
“Holiger,” he said.
“Lew? I just got off the phone with a guy in the P.D. The body in the car may have had Andrej Posnitki’s wallet in his pocket, but he isn’t Posno. Traced the fingerprints. Dead guy’s name is Terrance Chapel, fifty-five, picked up twice for panhandling using some very aggressive persuasion, two more times for petty theft, meaning grabbing fruit and potato chips from street-vendor carts. No known address. Chapel was homeless. Conclusion: Posno is still out there.”
“Maybe,” said Lew.
“The dead man isn’t Posno, Lew,” said Holiger.
“Three o’clock good for you?” asked Lew.
“Three? Fine. Where?”
“Dunkin’ Donuts on Jackson,” said Lew.
“See you then. Maybe I can come up with something more? Lew?”
“Yes.”
“How are you holding up?”
“Just fine,” Lew lied. “See you at three.”
When he put the phone back on the charger pad, Franco reached past Lew, pushed open the glove compartment and took out two Snickers bars. Lew managed to catch a Milky Way that tried to escape. He put it back in the compartment, and accepted the Snickers bar from Franco.
“Where to now?” asked Franco tearing the wrapper.
“The Dark Tower,” answered Lew.
Franco understood.
“Suits me,” he said, pulling into traffic.
There were no cars on the street in front of the Pappas house. The sun was bright, air cool. Lew remembered reading about the note left by a Mexican poet who jumped off his apartment balcony twenty years earlier: “The sun is bright. The clouds are beautiful. The air is warm and I am in a good mood. It is the perfect time to die.”
The door opened about fifteen seconds after Lew had pushed the button. The smell that met them was a temptation. Bernice Pappas stood in the doorway. She looked at them, wiped her hands on her dress and said, “We’re celebrating. Come in.”
Lew and Franco followed her inside.
“The door,” she said.
Franco closed it. It locked automatically.
The woman started walking to the left.
“I’m still cooking,” she said. “John and the boys are upstairs. Tell them lunch is in half an hour.”
She took two more strides, put her hand on the kitchen door, turned her head toward them and said, “You’re Christians, right?”
“Yeah,” said Franco.
“Then you’re invited to lunch.”
She went through the door. Lew and Franco went up the stairs toward the music. The door to Pappas’s sanctuary was closed. Lew knocked.
“Come in. Come in,” Pappas called.
Pappas was standing with Stavros and Dimitri in the center of the room. Each held a wineglass. The wine was white. The music was a man singing in Greek.
“We’re celebrating,” Pappas said, looking at Lew.
“We know,” said Franco. “Your mother told us.”
The three Pappas men looked somber.
“We’re invited for lunch,” Franco added. “Because we’re Christians. But to tell you the truth…”
“Posno,” Lew said.
“I heard he’s dead,” said Pappas, holding up his glass in a toast. “I know. We’re celebrating his demise and we’re respecting his memory. We were partners, even friends for a long, long time. Well, maybe not friends, but close.”
“I know,” Lew said.
“I can go outside now,” said Pappas, taking a full sip of wine. “Maybe. Maybe I’ll try tomorrow. Oh, manners. Stavros, get our guests some wine. Karipidis winery. They still make it like it was made six thousand years ago.”
Stavros blinked his good eye at Lew and moved to the bottle and glasses on the desk.
“Can we talk in private?” Lew asked.
“Private? I’ve got no secrets,” said Pappas.
Lew met his eyes.
“All right. My sons, Mr. Fonesca and I will talk in here. Give Mr
