Bright Futures: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B
Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
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dried leaves. Family portraits hung on the walls, and the sofa and matching chair were each covered with a bright blue knitted blanket. Beyond the living room and down a step into the one-room addition to the home was an office lined with file drawers. A computer with a large screen sat next to a printer and a fax machine. There was a duplicate of the sofa in the other room complete with knitted blanket, only this blanket was brown.
“Wife’s in town at a photography class at Selby Gardens,” Pertwee said. “Won’t be back for a long while. She’ll have a portfolio full of photographs of flowers and trees when she walks through the door.”
He nodded toward the wall over the sofa. Color photographs were mounted one after another, all around the room. All the photographs were of flowers or bright fish in a pond.
Pertwee sat in front of the computer and pressed the power button. While the machine was firing up, he rose and waddled to a file cabinet, opened it, rummaged in a lower drawer, and came up with a manila file folder.
“Cold cases,” he explained as the image of a red flower appeared on his computer screen. “Sheriff’s office lets me see what I can find. Won’t find stuff like this on the Internet.”
“Horvecki was involved in a cold case?” I asked.
Victor had sat on the sofa. Ames stood at my side looking at the screen. Pertwee’s face was red with the reflected color of the flower before him.
“Two cold cases,” said Pertwee, opening the file folder and placing it on the table next to him. “First case was back in 1968.Young Horvecki was but a stripling. “Two fourteen-and sixteen-year-old black girls were raped and beaten. They were found wandering the byways. Both girls identified Horvecki as the attacker. Both later changed their minds. Case still open. Both girls are grandmas now. One’s a great grandma. One has a son who is not fond of Mr. Horvecki and has been known to speak ill of the now deceased. Son’s name is Williams, Essau Williams. Detective in the Venice Police Department. Detective Williams has been given disciplinary warnings because Horvecki claimed Williams has been stalking him for years.”
“And the other case?” I asked.
Pertwee said, “Ah” and flipped pages until he found what he was looking for.
“Here ’tis, 1988, same year Cynthia and I arrived in the State of Florida and purchased this little bit of heaven. Costs almost as much to get an Internet hookup and dish TV as it cost to buy Buddenbrooks.”
“Buddenbrooks?” I asked.
“The abode in which we sit, away from civilization in a field of rattlesnakes, raccoons, and seldom-seen rodents of unusual size and appetite. I can shoot them at my ease from one of those chairs under the umbrella. My principal physical exercise.”
“Sounds like fun,” Ames said.
“Yes, ’tis. However, all in all, I’d rather be back in Cincinnati. Cynthia, however, longed for Paradise, and we wound up here. I’m not complaining.”
“The second case in your files,” I reminded him.
He turned the page of the stapled sheets in the folder and said, “One Jack Pepper, sophomore at Riverview High School. Attacked from behind while crossing an orange grove on his way home from school. Assailant told him to pull down his pants or die. Assailant proceeded to attempt anal intercourse. Failed. Boy stepped out of his pants and drawers and ran. Pepper turned and saw the attacker coming after him. Pepper ran faster, coveredhimself with a damp, dirty newspaper and entered a gas station. Pepper identified Horvecki but Horvecki had the best lawyers money can buy and some friends in the right places. That was nineteen years ago. Jack Pepper is now thirty-six years old and living in relative tranquility in Cortez Village. Thrice Jack Pepper confronted our Mr. Horvecki in public places, broke his nose and cheekbone with a well-placed and probably knuckle-hurting punch, and kicked him into unconsciousness. Attempted murder, but
“Wife’s in town at a photography class at Selby Gardens,” Pertwee said. “Won’t be back for a long while. She’ll have a portfolio full of photographs of flowers and trees when she walks through the door.”
He nodded toward the wall over the sofa. Color photographs were mounted one after another, all around the room. All the photographs were of flowers or bright fish in a pond.
Pertwee sat in front of the computer and pressed the power button. While the machine was firing up, he rose and waddled to a file cabinet, opened it, rummaged in a lower drawer, and came up with a manila file folder.
“Cold cases,” he explained as the image of a red flower appeared on his computer screen. “Sheriff’s office lets me see what I can find. Won’t find stuff like this on the Internet.”
“Horvecki was involved in a cold case?” I asked.
Victor had sat on the sofa. Ames stood at my side looking at the screen. Pertwee’s face was red with the reflected color of the flower before him.
“Two cold cases,” said Pertwee, opening the file folder and placing it on the table next to him. “First case was back in 1968.Young Horvecki was but a stripling. “Two fourteen-and sixteen-year-old black girls were raped and beaten. They were found wandering the byways. Both girls identified Horvecki as the attacker. Both later changed their minds. Case still open. Both girls are grandmas now. One’s a great grandma. One has a son who is not fond of Mr. Horvecki and has been known to speak ill of the now deceased. Son’s name is Williams, Essau Williams. Detective in the Venice Police Department. Detective Williams has been given disciplinary warnings because Horvecki claimed Williams has been stalking him for years.”
“And the other case?” I asked.
Pertwee said, “Ah” and flipped pages until he found what he was looking for.
“Here ’tis, 1988, same year Cynthia and I arrived in the State of Florida and purchased this little bit of heaven. Costs almost as much to get an Internet hookup and dish TV as it cost to buy Buddenbrooks.”
“Buddenbrooks?” I asked.
“The abode in which we sit, away from civilization in a field of rattlesnakes, raccoons, and seldom-seen rodents of unusual size and appetite. I can shoot them at my ease from one of those chairs under the umbrella. My principal physical exercise.”
“Sounds like fun,” Ames said.
“Yes, ’tis. However, all in all, I’d rather be back in Cincinnati. Cynthia, however, longed for Paradise, and we wound up here. I’m not complaining.”
“The second case in your files,” I reminded him.
He turned the page of the stapled sheets in the folder and said, “One Jack Pepper, sophomore at Riverview High School. Attacked from behind while crossing an orange grove on his way home from school. Assailant told him to pull down his pants or die. Assailant proceeded to attempt anal intercourse. Failed. Boy stepped out of his pants and drawers and ran. Pepper turned and saw the attacker coming after him. Pepper ran faster, coveredhimself with a damp, dirty newspaper and entered a gas station. Pepper identified Horvecki but Horvecki had the best lawyers money can buy and some friends in the right places. That was nineteen years ago. Jack Pepper is now thirty-six years old and living in relative tranquility in Cortez Village. Thrice Jack Pepper confronted our Mr. Horvecki in public places, broke his nose and cheekbone with a well-placed and probably knuckle-hurting punch, and kicked him into unconsciousness. Attempted murder, but
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