“Adele Handford,” I said. “A student here. Pretty. Blond. Smart. Gets in trouble easily. I’ve heard her called Easy Adele. Her mother is looking for her.”
“You her…?”
“I’m a family friend,” I said.
“We have almost two thousand students here, Mr…”
“Fonesca, Lewis Fonesca.”
“I know you from somewhere,” he said, studying my face.
“Gwen’s Diner,” I said. “I eat there sometimes, early, like you.”
A look of recognition came into his eyes and he nodded with some satisfaction after having scratched the itch of recognition.
“I think I know the girl. Can’t tell you much about her,” he said. “Off the top, she’s a smart kid. She was sent to me two or three times because she talked back to a teacher and she was caught with a boy in the storage room behind the gym. I’m probably not authorized to tell you that much but I think the girl might be in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Kwan bit his lower lip and looked at the building next door. He made a decision, turned his head, pulled a pen out of his pants pocket and wrote something on the back of one of the yellow cards. I was getting a penalty. He handed the card to me. I looked at it:
“Sally Porovsky, Children’s Services of Sarasota.”
“You have an address for Adele?”
“I have an address, but it wouldn’t do you any good. I drove by it on the way home one night. It’s a golf shop. I stopped and asked for her father. Of course they had never heard of him.”
“But she’s living with her father somewhere?”
“She was. Somewhere.”
“And?”
“You have the name of someone who can give you answers. I talked to the father once. I had asked the girl to have him call me when she got her first disciplinary referral. He was calm. He was polite. He said he couldn’t come in because he had to work. He told me his daughter knew how to take care of herself.”
“That’s it?”
Kwan looked at the office window, leaned forward and said softly,
“Between you and me, there was something about the guy that scared the hell out of me.”
Children’s Services of Sarasota was in Building C of a three-story office building in a complex of red office buildings on Fruitville Road just off of Tuttle. Building A, according to the board, housed an accountant, a physical therapist, two psychologists, an accountant and a dermatologist. Building B was home to a dentist, a podiatrist, a gynecologist, a hair-removal office and a hypnotist.
Inside the small lobby was a receptionist stuffing envelopes. He was probably about thirty, lean, clean, wearing glasses and a tieless blue shirt, obviously gay and not trying to hide it.
“Sally Porovsky,” I said.
“Nice to meet you, Sally. I’m Mary Ellen,” he answered with a smile, continuing to stuff envelopes.
I looked down at him, saying nothing. He kept stuffing, stopped and looked up at me.
“It was just a joke,” he said.
“I got it.”
“You’re going to report me to Sorensen, aren’t you?” he said. “I can’t keep my mouth shut.”
“I’m not going to report you to Sorensen, Mary Ellen. I just want to see Sally Porovsky.”
“My name isn’t really… Oh, my name is John Detchon.”
“Mine is Lew Fonesca. Can you…?”
“Oh, sure. Up the elevator. Second floor. Straight ahead. Her name’s on her cubicle. You’re lucky she’s in. They’re usually out on the road, house visits, school visits, court. You know?”
“I don’t, John,” I said, moving to the open elevator.
“You’re sure you’re not going to tell Sorenson?”
“Joke stays between us girls,” I said.
“You’re straight, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all right. You’re not my type.”
The doors closed and I rose slowly up to the second floor. The elevator smelled of mold. When the doors opened I found myself facing a door marked CHILDREN’S SERVICES OF SARASOTA. I went through and found myself looking down a lane of ten cubicles, each surrounded on three sides by glass. Beyond the cubicles were offices with nameplates. There were no windows facing in. Four-foot-high piles of cardboard boxes lined the faded pink walls. Inside the cubicles, the small desks with computers on each were covered with papers, manila folders, green files and coffee cups. There were people at only two of the cubicles. Sally Porovsky’s Dilbert niche was easy to spot. It had her name on the glass.
Her back was to me as I approached. Her eyes were fixed on the computer screen and she kept adjusting her glasses and talking to herself.
“Sally Porovsky?” I asked.
She let out a gasp and did a small bounce in her chair. Then she turned and said. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Sorry.”
She was about my age, maybe forty, maybe a little younger. She was solid, ample and pretty with clear skin, short, wavy dark hair and a voice that could give Lauren Bacall’s a run for the roses. She was wearing a black skirt and jacket over a white blouse. A string of heavy, colorful beads hung around her neck.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I hope so,” I said. “My name is Fonesca, Lew Fonesca. I’m a friend of Beryl Tree. I’m representing her. She’s looking for her daughter, Adele Tree, but she’s using the name-”
“Oh Lord,” said Sally Porovsky, swiveling to face me. “Adele’s mother is dead. At least the Adele I know.”
I shook my head.
“Alive and reasonably well and worried. She’s at the Best Western on Forty-one.”
“And you can prove that?” she asked. “Prove she’s the mother of the girl we have an open case on?”
“I can bring her mother here, complete with identification and tears.”
Sally thought for a moment, bit her lower lip, glanced at the computer screen and said, “Bring her.”
“I’ve got a one o’clock appointment,” I said. “I can have her here by three.”
“Make it four,” she said. “I’ve got to finish a report now and then go out on a home visit. How did you find me?”
“Mr. Kwan at Sarasota High.”
She nodded.
“Bring Mrs…”
“Tree.”
“Tree, at four-thirty and we’ll talk,” she said. “I’m afraid I have to get back to my report now. I’m about two months behind on paperwork. So, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Two minutes more,” I said. “You can time me. It might be a lot less, depending on your answer to one question.”
“I can’t talk about Adele until I’m reassured-”
“Not about Adele,” I said. “About you.”
“About me?”
She took off her glasses and squinted at me.
“Are you married?” I asked.
“What?”
“Are you married?”
“My husband’s dead, but I don’t see-”
“I’m forty-two years old. I live in Sarasota and work as a process server and finder of lost people. My wife died in a car crash in Chicago a little over three years ago. She was a lawyer. I did research and served papers for the district attorney’s office. I have an undergraduate degree from the University of Illinois in political science. When my wife died, I quit my job, got in my car and drove as far as it would take me. It died in Sarasota. I have no children. We were going to but… I’m healthy, work out almost every morning and I bicycle a lot. My background is Italian, but I’m not Catholic. I’m not much of anything, but my mother and sister are Episcopalian. That’s less than two minutes.”
“Why are you telling this to me, Mr. Fonesca?”
“You think I’m crazy,” I said.
“That depends on the answer to my question,” she said.
“I want to know if you’d go to dinner with me tonight, tomorrow, night, any night.”