committee, Spanish Club, Poetry Club, Chess Club, Drama Club, cross-country team; did three years at Manatee Community College, where she was on no club, went to a small school called Plain River College in a small town in West Texas. Her major was English Lit. No extracurricular interests or clubs. Plain River College registrar records show she dropped out. Reason stated: Getting Married. Sarasota Memorial Hospital records show she had an appendectomy when she was seventeen and came into the ER once, when she was fourteen, for a broken arm and bruised ribs. Hospital reported possible abuse, but Rachel insisted she had fallen down some stairs. Want me to keep looking?”
“Yes. See if you can find out who, if anyone, she married.”
“Will do.”
We hung up. I called Winn Graeme’s cell phone and told him I wanted to talk to him without Greg at his side pummeling him. He had something to do at school but would call me when he could get away.
I called the home of D. Elliot Corkle and left a message when he didn’t pick up. Since he said he never left the house, I wondered where he was. Maybe he was taking a shower or a swim or just didn’t feel like being connected to someone beyond his front door. I gave my number to the machine and said, “Please call me soon. What’s the ‘D’ in your name for?”
I called Sally. She answered. I said nothing.
“Lew?”
Cell phone. Caller ID. She knew who was calling.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I hoped that words would come when I heard your voice, but they’re not coming.”
“We can talk later,” she said. “I’m with a client now.”
“How is Darrell?”
“Better, much better. I’ll call you later. Promise.”
She ended the call, and I tried to think of other people to call. I wanted to wear out the charge in my phone so it would go silent, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I was tempted to launch into baseball metaphors.
Victor drove me to the Fruitville Library, where I got my bike out of his trunk.
“I can come back for you,” said Victor.
“No, thanks,” I said.
Ames said nothing, just looked at me and nodded. I nodded back. They drove off. The sun was high, the air filled with moist heaviness and the smell of watermelons from a truck vending them on Fruitville, just beyond the parking lot.
I chained my bike to a lamppost and went inside.
The cool air struck and chilled for an instant.
Two minutes later I had an oversize book of World War II airplanes open on my lap. I didn’t want to look at it. I wasn’t interested. It was a prop to keep a vigilant librarian from making a citizen’s arrest for vagrancy.
No more than five maybe six, minutes later, Blue Berrigan sat down across from me.
Stuart M. Kaminsky
Bright Futures: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels)
8
You just happened to see me hiding here behind the fiction,” I whispered.
He was wearing a pair of dark corduroy slacks and a short-sleeved green and white striped polo shirt.
“I… I followed you.”
“From where?”
“You’re going to get angry,” he said. “It can’t be helped. We’re talking about my life here.”
He looked over his shoulder and out the window and gently bit his lower lip.
“You’re talking,” I said. “I’m listening.”
“I put an electronic tracer under the rear fender of your bicycle,” he said. “I removed it before I came in. They’re really cheap now. You can get them online.”
He held up both hands in a gesture designed to stop me from rising in indignation. I didn’t rise. I wasn’t indignant.
“I was afraid you didn’t believe me when we talked in the park.”
“I didn’t,” I said.
“I do lie a lot. People always say you should tell kids the truth; you shouldn’t lie to them. But there are truths you want to keep from children. There are truths they are better off without. What are you reading?”
A thin woman with wild hair came down the aisle perpendicular to us carrying a load of books she wouldn’t be able to read in a generation. The books at the top and in the middle of the pile threatened to fall. Blue Berrigan was silent until the woman rounded the corner, went up the next aisle, pulled out two more books, and balanced them on top of her heap. Then she went out of sight.
“I’m looking at pictures of old airplanes,” I said.
“Good.”
I wasn’t sure why he might think that was good.
“You’re not being blackmailed,” I said.
“No.”
“Then…”
“I’m being paid to distract you,” he said with a great sigh.
“From what?”
“Whatever you’re working on.”
“Who’s paying you?”
“A man who called me, said he knew my work, knew I was down on my luck. I’m supposed to keep bothering you, sending you on wild grouse hunts, tell you someone tried to kill me. Improvise.”
“How much is he paying you?”
“Five thousand dollars in advance. I’ve got it back in my room.”
“But you’ve decided…”
“The guy sounds nuts, is what I’m saying. I’m keeping the money, packing up, and moving west. I’m only renting a room here. He’s got someone keeping an eye on me. I’ll have to lose whoever it is.”
I was tempted to say I’d join him in his getaway, but it wasn’t temptation enough.
“Don’t go yet,” I said.
“Don’t go?”
“He calls you?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him you have me looking for grouse.”
“Ah, I see,” he said.
“What’s a grouse?” I asked.
Neither of us knew for certain.
“Let’s leave separately,” I said. “He might have followed you. I’ll get back to you.”
He got up without certainty and said, “I’m really very good with kids. I just, you know, got lost.”
“I know,” I said.
“You don’t live near here.”
“No. I come here when I want to be alone, where no one can find me unless they plant tracking devices on my bicycle. You want to give me a ride home?”
“No, can’t,” he said standing quickly. “I’ve got to go.”
He strode away quickly. I waited about ten seconds and then followed him to the glass doors at the entrance to the library. I stayed against a wall inside, watching him find his car in the lot and leave. It was a well-used Jeep
