“He’s come forward now,” said Viviase.
“Want to give me that shotgun, miss, and go put on some clothes?” said Ames gently.
There was a sound of movement and she turned on a shaded table lamp.
She looked dazed.
“Ronnie said I killed my father?”
“He did,” Ames said. “We heard him.”
“It’s on tape,” said Viviase.
“Ronnie’s not a bad man,” she said. “He likes my poetry. He’s so gentle in bed. I know he can’t stay away from other women, from girls, but he always comes back to me.”
And your father’s millions, I thought.
“This is unfair,” she said. “My father was a monster. He did things to me I… it’s unfair. The police could never stop him-him and his lawyers. He deserved to die.”
The shotgun rose and pointed directly at Viviase’s chest.
“Could I have a glass of water?” Ames said.
She looked at him.
“And could I maybe sit down?”
“Water?”
“Juice would be fine, too, but not grapefruit. Doesn’t sit well in me.”
“I like your poetry,” I said.
“You’re just saying that because you don’t want me to shoot you.”
“That, too, but I like your poetry. None of it is happy, is it?”
“No,” she said. “Never was. Looks like it never will be. I’ve got fresh orange juice. Will that do?”
She handed the shotgun to Ames, who said, “It’ll do just fine.”
“So,” said Viviase while a policewoman walked with Rachel to her room to dress. “One down. Which one killed Berrigan and why?”
Ames had removed the shells from the shotgun and handed it to one of the police officers who had come into the house from all entryways.
“That’s a mystery,” I said.
“You didn’t answer the question,” he said.
“I don’t have an answer.”
“You have a pretty good idea,” said Viviase.
I shrugged.
I drove to my place and let Ames out.
“Certain you want to do this yourself?” he asked.
“Certain.”
“I’ll be here,” he said.
I knew the odds of reaching the person I had called were slight, and I was right. I left a message saying we had to meet at four at Selby Gardens.
“Walk along the path till you see me. I’ll be sitting on a bench,” I had said.
It was almost one when I got to the Dairy Queen on Clark Street. There was a huge photograph on the wall of the original DQ with old cars and long-gone people around it. I didn’t order the Chocolate Covered Cherry Blizzard. I wasn’t sure why. Instead I had a medium Banana Chocolate Oreo Blizzard. I also ordered a burger and a large fries. When my order came, I put the fries in a bag and worked on the blizzard and burger. It wasn’t the DQ I had lived behind for almost four years. The owner was nice, but he wasn’t Dave.
By three I was at Selby Gardens sitting on a bench facing the water. A white heron landed next to me, its wings flapping to a close, searching for something from the human on the bench. I did not disappoint. I placed three fries on the bench. He gobbled them up and was joined by two other small, brown, iridescent birds. After the fries were gone, the birds lingered, looking at me. They left only when they were certain I would give no more. The heron was the last to go. He flapped his wings and flew off over the bay.
At ten minutes to four, Winston Churchill Graeme sat next to me, right where the heron had been. He cleaned his glasses on his shirt and turned his eyes in the same direction mine were pointed.
“When I was sixteen, I thought about quitting school and joining the Navy.”
“What stopped you?”
“The fact that my parents didn’t object. They thought it was a pretty good idea. They thought going to college and becoming a lawyer was an even better idea.”
“What happened?”
“I didn’t become a sailor. If I had, I might be out to sea instead of sitting here with you.
“Why are we here?” Winn asked.
“So you could tell me why you killed Blue Berrigan.”
20
There was a single fry left. I had missed it, but I spotted it now as I was about to crumple up the bag and drop it in the nearby trash basket. I handed him the bag.
“For the birds,” I said. “One left.”
He nodded, adjusted his glasses, and threw the fry in the general direction of a pair of nearby pigeons.
“Why do you think I killed him?” he asked.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the white and red golf tees.
“I found these in the backseat of Berrigan’s jeep.”
“So, he played golf.”
“No, he didn’t. I looked in his room and his closet and asked his landlady. He didn’t play golf. You do.”
“Maybe they didn’t belong to whoever killed him. Maybe they had been there a long time,” he tried.
“No,” I said. “Both tees were on top of a splatter of blood. The killer lost them during the attack.”
“I’m not the only one who plays golf,” he said.
“No, you’re not, but you’re the only one who would kill Berrigan for blackmailing Greg. Greg told me that Berrigan tried to get more money out of him.”
“Yes.”
“And you told me you would do anything to protect your friend.”
His hands were shaking now.
“What happened, Winn?” I said.
He paused, looked into the DQ bag as if there might be a miracle fry in it, and then spoke. “I was with Berrigan when he went to see you at that bar. I wanted to be sure he would go through with saying he had evidence to clear Ronnie. I stayed in the jeep.”
“But?”
“He got frightened, panicked. You said something to him in the bar. He told me he wanted more money, a lot more money. He was hysterical. He said he’d tell you, tell the police that Greg had murdered Horvecki. He drove to his place and parked in front. He kept saying things like ‘What am I doing? What am I the fuck doing?’ He didn’t get out of the jeep, just sat there looking over his shoulder down the street, hitting the steering wheel hard with the palms of both hands. I told him to get out. He wouldn’t move. He kept saying he would tell the police that Greg killed Horvecki. I couldn’t let that happen.”
Winn closed his eyes.
“So you hit him with something in the backseat.”
“Yes, one of Greg’s grandfather’s mallets.”
“Then you got out of the jeep and ran before I got there.”
“Yes.”
“You went to Ronnie’s apartment and put the mallet under his bookcase. He was in jail for one murder. Two wouldn’t make a big difference, right?”
“You know, I could hit you with something and throw you in the bay,” he said.
“No, you couldn’t,” I said.
“No, you’re right. I couldn’t. What are you going to do?”
“Nothing,” I said. “You’re going to go to Elisabeth Viviase’s father and tell him what happened.”
“I can’t. My mother…”
“The odds are good that eventually, probably soon, a strand of hair, a string of cloth, a DNA trace is going to lead to you. You already left the two tees. What else did you leave?”
“I don’t know.”
“Turn yourself in, get a good lawyer. I’m sure Greg’s grandfather will pay for one. You’re still a minor. Think about it.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll think about it. Thanks. Will you turn me in if I don’t do it?”
“You’ll do it,” I said. “Do you know who George Altman is?”
“Cardinals outfielder in the sixties?”
“And a Cub before that. Here.”
I took the autographed baseball I had purchased out of my pocket and handed it to him. He took it and looked at me, puzzled.
“It’s yours,” I said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
I got up.
Winn Graeme looked down at the ball cupped in his hands as if it were a small crystal ball.
“Mr. Fonesca,” he said. “What will Greg do without me?”
At ten the next morning, I carried my tribute of coffee and biscotti into the office of Ann Hurwitz who motioned me into my usual seat. She was on the phone.
“I’m not investing in alchemy,” she said patiently. “I want secure stocks and bonds. I do not want real estate, neither malls nor parking lots nor the foreclosed property of others.”