The Columbia in Sarasota was modern with lots of light and the house special 1908 Salad, which I ordered.
Flo was hungry. She ordered the seafood paella. It took twenty minutes to prepare, but we were in no hurry. I looked through the window at the passing traffic and across the street at the large circle surrounded by sidewalks around trees and bush-lined paths with benches where tourists could eat their ice creams from Ben amp; Jerry’s or Kilwins.
A man was standing on the concrete path on the circle across from the Columbia. He was looking through the window at me. Cars passed in front of him. Through one break in the traffic, he motioned to me.
“Flo, I’ve got to do something. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“The guy on the circle?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, getting up. “He’s a client, Carl Sebastian.”
“Just happened to be there and saw you?” she asked, reaching for her second warm, crisp roll.
“I doubt it. I’ll make it fast.”
“Take your time,” she said. “I like it here. You think a glass of wine would be…”
“A good idea,” I said.
The air outside the Columbia was warm and after-rain muggy. There were puddles and patterns of water in the street and on the sidewalk. I crossed between cars and faced Sebastian on the path.
“I knew some of the people,” he said. “The ones who have stars.”
The concrete sidewalk around the circle was embedded with stars honoring famous circus performers, much like the stars on Hollywood Boulevard. These bronze stars included information on the performers.
“Knew Emmett Kelly slightly. Lou Jacobs. The Wal-lendas,” Sebastian said, shaking his head. “Looking at those stars always brings back memories. I love the circus.”
“I’m fond of it myself,” I said. “You followed me out here to talk about circuses.”
“You said you’d find Melanie,” he said.
“I said I’d find her in two or three days. This is day one.”
“It’s day two,” said Sebastian.
“Look, Mr. Sebastian-”
“Tomorrow then?”
“The next day at the latest,” I said, knowing that Melanie Sebastian might change her mind about letting me find her and that Harvey might not be able to follow her on the Internet highway to where she was hiding.
“I’ll give you a bonus if it’s tomorrow,” he said.
“You said you’d double my fee. When we talked last time you said you’d double it.”
“Double, then. Just find her. I can’t sleep. I can’t work. I can’t think.”
He put his head down and rubbed his neck. Then he looked up and said, “Sorry. You said you understood what it was like to lose your wife. You remember? You said that?”
“I remember,” I said.
“Then find her. Find Melanie.”
There were tears in his eyes. He turned away and walked up the path that ran through the middle of the circle.
I went back to the Columbia. Flo was working on her paella. My 1908 Salad sat waiting.
“This is great,” she said. “What did he want?”
“Everything,” I said. “Everything.”
14
John Detchon sat behind the reception desk at the Children’s Services office. He looked up from a pile of papers he was sorting and smiled.
“The sad detective is back,” he said.
“I’m not a detective, John.”
“Indulge me in my fantasy,” he said. “I’m trapped behind this desk eight hours a day. I need to bring home tales of corruption and intrigue to my roommates.”
“I’m a detective, John. I carry a derringer in a tiny holster near my crotch. I’ve been shot five times and killed four people. I may not look tough but I turn into a raging revenge-seeking monster when provoked.”
John grinned.
“Beautiful,” he said. “Beautiful. I don’t believe a word of it, but it’s beautiful. I didn’t think you had an imagination.”
“I’m learning;” I said.
“Can we cut the crap and get on with our business,” Flo said.
“And you,” John said, “must be Mr. Fonesca’s mother.”
Flo went tight.
“Listen, sissy,” she said. “I’m broad-minded, but I don’t take shit on a silver spoon from anyone, especially sissy boys.”
“Sissy? God, the last person who called me that was my grandfather when I was six.”
“I’ve got better words,” she said.
“Flo, don’t blow this,” I said.
She shrugged, nodded to show that she was under control and said,
“Sorry.”
“Apology accepted,” said John. “I like your sweater.”
“Thanks,” said Flo.
“Miss Flo,” said John. “The word of choice is ‘gay.’”
“I know,” said Flo.
“Sally is expecting you,” he said. “Go right up. You know the way.”
We got on the elevator. The doors closed.
“He’s okay,” she said, looking at the door. “I’m just fucking nervous.”
“Flo, if you have to, say ‘freaking.’”
“Can’t,” she said. “It’s a PG-rated coward’s word. Let’s get on with this.”
Sally stood as we approached. There was a woman with her. The woman was in her fifties, a little off in her color combinations and in need of a good hairbrush. She looked frazzled. Sally smiled at me. I liked the smile. She didn’t look like a woman who had shot a man this morning, but she might be smiling about it. I didn’t know her well enough yet.
“This is Florence Zink,” I said.
The two women stepped forward to shake Flo’s hand.
“And this,” said Sally, “is Edna Stockbridge. She’ll talk to Mrs. Zink in my supervisor’s office. She’s at a conference.”
“This way,” said Edna Stockbridge, motioning to Flo.
Flo followed, after looking at me. There was warning in my look. I hoped she read that warning.
When they were gone I sat in the chair next to Sally.
“She’ll be fine,” Sally said. “And we need foster homes so badly that she’d have to be an ax murderer to be rejected. She’s rich. She wants to deal with Adele. What more can we ask for? All she has to do is convince Edna that she can handle Adele.”
“She can handle Adele,” I said. “Dwight Handford.”
I watched her face for a sign. I didn’t see one as she said,
“I talked to our lawyer this morning. She thinks there’s a fifty-fifty chance at best of keeping Adele from him. The power of a mistaken belief that children should be with their parents whenever possible combined with the likelihood of a really expensive lawyer representing Handford make fifty-fifty look optimistic.”
“Handford’s dead,” I said.
“What?”
“Dead.”
“Really? When? Where?”
“His house. The real one in Palmetto. You want to know how he died?”
“Not really,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I’m trying to deal with the fact that I suddenly feel relieved and I don’t feel guilty.”
“Why should you feel guilty?” I asked.
She looked at me. It was a very serious look.
“Because a man is dead and and I’m troubled because I don’t care. Why else would I feel guilty?”
“He was murdered,” I said flatly.
“I’m not surprised, though death in an alcoholic stupor or a bar fight wouldn’t surprise me either. I’ve got to think about what this means to Adele, how to tell her. I’ll have to call our lawyer. Sometimes death is good news.”
“You wanted him dead,” I said. “You said you could kill him.”
She was silent. Her mouth opened slightly.
“Lewis, you think I killed him?”
“It’s possible,” I said.
“I didn’t.”
“You’re offender. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m not offended. I guess it’s a reasonable question. Do I need an alibi? When did he die?”