Retribution: A Lew Fonesca Novel (Lew Fonesca Novels) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

guessed.”
    “Usually sleep in a closet at one of the twenty-four-hour Walgreens,” he said. “Move from one to the other. Used to be a pharmacist. No, that’s not right. I am a pharmacist. I just don’t work as one. It’s been more than a while.”
    “That a fact?” I asked, toweling off my face.
    “True as the fact that the sun is out there waiting to bomb us to early ultraviolet death,” he said, searching his other pocket for whatever was missing. “Not good to spend too much time in the sun.”
    “I’ll remember,” I said.
    “You’re in the office about five doors down,” he said.
    “I am.”
    He failed to find what he was searching for in his second pocket.
    “I’m a bit unsteady today,” he said. “Oh, I don’t drink. Never did. No drugs either. It’s my mind. Doesn’t function right. I lose days, weeks, get headaches, fall a lot, get toknow the people over there in the emergency rooms at Doctor’s Hospital and Sarasota Memorial.”
    “Sorry,” I said.
    “It’s the way things are,” he said with a sigh. “Saw something last night might interest you.”
    “What was that?” I said, heading for the door.
    I had to come within inches of him. Decay.
    “The ghost of Martin Luther posted the bans on your door,” he said. “I stood in the shadows, and in his robes, a cowl over his head, he posted them on your door.”
    “A man dressed like a priest?”
    “Or a woman,” he said. “My eyesight is … well, years ago I had glasses but today I’m a living testament to man’s ability to endure.”
    There was a definite note of pride in his voice.
    “We endure,” I said. “You like Thai food?”
    “I consume any food. I’m a human in need of fuel. I have given up the concept of like and dislike of food, lodging, or clothes. It exists and I wander.”
    “Come on,” I said.
    He followed me to my office door and pointed to it.
    “There is where he posted his conceits,” he said.
    “You have a name?” I asked, opening the door.
    “I had one,” he said. “Now I am known as The Digger.”
    “Why?”
    “Who,” he said, putting a not clean palm on my shoulder, “the hell knows? But it seems to fit me.”
    “Wait here,” I said, leaving him in the doorway. I retrieved the two cartons of food and my plastic fork and brought it to him.
    “Thai, you say?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “It would probably settle nicely with a root beer,” he said, cradling the two cartons.
    I fished a dollar out of my pocket and handed it to him.
    “I’ll accept this food and dollar if you’ll accept my thanks,” he said.
    “I accept, and thanks especially for telling me about Martin Luther’s visit.”
    “Are you a Lutheran?” he asked.
    The phone began to ring.
    “Lapsed Episcopalian,” I said.
    “Odd for an Italian,” The Digger said.
    The phone kept ringing.
    “Root beer,” I said.
    He took the hint and wandered away. I closed the door behind him and went for the phone.
    “Fonesca,” I said.
    “Ed Viviase,” the caller said.
    Ed Viviase was a detective in the Sarasota Police Department. I liked him. He tolerated me. Considering the fact that I was a depressed process server who basically wanted to be left alone in my room, our paths had crossed more times than chance would account for. Sarasota is not a big city, but I doubted if many other noncriminals who lived and visited here were known by Ed Viviase and the rest of the force.
    “We have to talk,” he said.
    “Let’s talk,” I said.
    “In my office,” he said. “Fifteen minutes.”
    “Fifteen minutes,” I agreed.
    He hung up. Sarasota Police Headquarters is little more than a block away, north on 301, cross the street to the right, and there it is less than half a block away. Fifteen minutes was plenty of time to walk to his office and wonder why he wanted to see me.
    I put on clean slacks and a clean white short-sleeved shirt with a button-down collar. One of the collar buttons was slightly cracked. When it went,