“No.”
“Because we talked about life. Because you are slowly rejoining the living, building new friends, a family.”
“I’m not sure I want to,” I said.
“And that,” she said with an air of conclusion, “is what we must work on.”
She went back to her chair, picked up the phone, and gave me a small smile of encouragement as I went out the door.
When I got back to my office, Ames was standing against a wall, arms folded. Mickey was sitting in the folding chair holding a see-through bag of ice against his face.
The blood was off the wall and everything was in place. Ames had cleaned up. I would have been surprised if he hadn’t. There was no sign of the supposedly adult Merrymen.
“Got some calls,” Ames said.
The little red light on my answering machine was blinking and the counter showed three phone calls.
“Any sound important?”
He shook his head “yes.” I got my pad and Nation’s Bank click pen and pushed the PLAY button.
A man’s voice came on, young, serious.
“This is John Rubin at the Herald-Tribune. We just got a call from someone who wouldn’t leave a name. Caller said that Conrad Lonsberg had all of his manuscripts stolen and I should call you. Please call back.”
He left his number, repeating it twice. I wrote it on my pad.
The second voice was Flo’s, not quite sober but contrite and possibly coming out of it. In the background I could hear Frankie Laine singing the theme from Rawhide. I didn’t think it really qualified as country or western, but it wasn’t an issue I wanted to take up with Flo who said, “Lewis, Adele called again, said she was all right. Said she was sorry for what she was doing to me but she had to do it if she expected to have any respect for herself. Said she’d come back to me if she lived or didn’t get locked up by the cops. I think, overall, that’s not a bad sign, is it? I couldn’t get her to listen to me. If you want details, give me a call. You know where to find me since my wheels are gone.”
The third call was from Brad Lonsberg and he was calm, level-voiced, and mad as hell.
“Fonesca, I just got a call from the Herald-Tribune. A man named Rubin asked me if there was any truth to the story that my father’s manuscripts have been stolen. I did what I always do when I get calls from people who track me down trying to get to my father. I told him I had nothing to say. He said he was about to get confirmation on the story from you. I don’t use foul language. If I did, I’d be using it now. If you’re trying to gain fame and a little fortune from my father’s relationship to that girl, I’ll use whatever power I have in this town to have you… Let’s just say I would be very displeased if you are talking to the press. I don’t like publicity related to my father. It’s my rear end I’m trying to protect, not his just so you know this is personal. My guess is if this Rubin has called Laura, he got her number from you. There aren’t many people who know who or where she is. So, simply, shut up.”
There was a double beep and the tape rewound.
I looked at Mickey whose jaw was swollen and at Ames who stood in the same position he had been in.
“Who do I call first?” I asked Ames.
“Flo,” he said. “I’m thinking about paying her a visit. She might be up for a little company.”
I nodded and punched in the buttons for Flo’s number. She came on after two rings with an anxious “Yes.”
“Me, Lew. Ames is going to pay you a visit. You up for it?”
“Ames? Anytime.”
I put a thumb up for Ames. The melting ice in Mickey’s bag shifted with a tiny clack. Mickey groaned.
“Adele say anything else? I mean besides what you put on the machine?”
“One or two things. Just talk about going back to school if she could. Something about not looking for her. She was in a place no one would look. That’s it. What’s going on?”
“I’m working on it,” I said. “If someone from the Herald-Tribune calls you, and I don’t think they will, just hang up on them.”
“I always do,” she said.
“This guy’s not selling subscriptions. I’ll talk to you later.”
I hung up, put a little check mark next to Flo’s name on my pad, and hit the buttons for Brad Lonsberg. There were four rings before Lonsberg’s voice on the answering machine came on and said, “Lonsberg Enterprises. I’m sorry I’m not available at the moment. Please leave your name and telephone number.”
“Lonsberg,” I said after the beep. “This is Fonesca. My guess is you’re sitting there listening to this message. If you want to pick up, we can talk.” He didn’t pick up so I went on. “I didn’t tell this guy Rubin or anyone else about your father’s missing manuscripts. He was playing you. Rubin called and left a message for me while I was out. I’m back now and I’m going to call him and tell him nothing. Just so we’re clear, I’m working for your father, but my goal in this is to find Adele and be sure she is all right. If the paper or the police connect Adele with the missing manuscripts, she might be in trouble I couldn’t get her out of. If you want to call, you’ve got my number.”
I hung up, checked off Lonsberg’s name, and looked up at Mickey.
“I’m not going back to his house,” he said painfully. “Never.”
“I don’t know who your grandfather’s house goes to or if it’s paid for but it might be you,” I said.
“Might,” he agreed. “I could live there but…”
It struck him.
“The cops might think I killed him to get the house?” he groaned in obvious pain.
“Cops think whatever works for them,” I said. “It’s possible.”
“I’ll go to Adele,” he mumbled, looking down.
“I thought you didn’t know where she was?” I said.
“I don’t. I’ll… I’ll just find her and we’ll stay in the house for a few days and go to St. Louis. I have an aunt in St. Louis.”
“You said ‘house,’” I said. “She’s not at your grandfather’s. It’s a marked-off crime scene and she’s too smart for…”
Then it hit me. I looked at Ames. He had the same thought I had. Adele actually owned a house. When Ames and I had found her father’s rotting body there less than a year ago, the little stone house in Palmetto had smelled of filth, rotting corpse, and decaying food. The walls were cracking. I knew a realtor was trying to sell it, but it wasn’t much of a prize and the neighbors would be only too happy to tell what had happened there, maybe even show prospective buyers a clipping from the Bradenton Herald with the house in uncolorful black and white. My guess, given that it was in a poor neighborhood of the very old and very black and the house was ready to commit suicide and collapse, the asking price was probably around thirty thousand, maybe less. Legally, I guessed, the house belonged to Adele now. I found it hard to imagine her going to it after all that had been done to her by her father in that place, but it made some sense. Or maybe it didn’t.
I called the Herald-Tribune number Rubin had left and he picked it up after one ring.
“City Desk, Rubin,” he said.
“You called.”
“What is your connection to the missing Lonsberg manuscripts?” he asked.
Good question. He assumed the manuscripts were missing and I was connected. He wanted an answer, but first he wanted confirmation.
“Conrad Lonsberg, the writer?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“What makes you think I have anything to do with Lonsberg?”
“A reliable source,” he said.
“Your message says the person who told you about all this didn’t leave his name,” I said.
It was my turn to be clever. I was looking for gender. Rubin, however, was good.
“The caller left no name. Is it true?”
“I’m a process server. Someone’s playing games with you. Why don’t you just ask Lonsberg?” I asked, knowing there was no chance of getting Lonsberg to say a word, even a single word if Rubin or some TV crew tracked him down at a hardware store or Publix.
“We’re expecting confirmation from Lonsberg’s son in a few minutes,” said Rubin confidently.