Bright Futures: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels) Read Online Free Page A

flopped against the shore.
    Augustine pushed a white button in the wooden paneling next to the door. I heard chimes inside, deep and calm. He rang only once, stood back, clasped his hands in front of him, and rocked on his heels waiting.
    “The hat,” he said.
    I took off my Cubs cap folded it over and shoved it in my back pocket. The door opened. The woman who strode out was in a hurry. She was dark and beautiful and maybe in her forties. She wore a gray business suit over a black blouse and the necklace she wore was a string of large, colorful stones. She walked past us as if we didn’t exist, her heels clacking on the red bricks. Augustine and I watched her get into the blue Porsche and pull smoothly away.
    I didn’t know who she was. I didn’t know who I was about to see. Augustine was no help. We went through the open door that the woman had not closed behind her.
    We were in a white-tiled entryway with an open glass elevator, which was on its way down. A large man in it was wearing a pair of tan shorts, a matching polo shirt and sandals over bare feet. He had a full head of brown and white hair and a white-toothed smile of what looked like real teeth that were carefullytended. He was a well-kept sixty-five or seventy year old. I knew his name before the elevator door opened and he stepped out.
    “Mr. Fonesca,” he said, extending his hand. “Thanks for coming.”
    I took it. His grip was firm, but he wasn’t trying to win any macho hand-squeezing contest.
    “You’re welcome,” I said as he held out a hand, palm up, in invitation for us to follow him.
    He ushered us off to the right. He smelled like something slightly sweet and musky and displayed the redness of someone fresh out of the shower.
    We went through a large kitchen that opened into a family room and library.
    “Please sit,” he said, sitting on a yellow leather chair.
    Augustine and I sat on a matching yellow leather sofa.
    He poured three glasses of something dark brown from a pitcher full of ice on a low, ornately carved table with inlays of white stones. It could have been from India or Serbia. It could have been Wal-Mart.
    The drink was strong iced tea. The three of us drank.
    “You know who I am,” he said.
    “Yes, D. Elliot Corkle.”
    “And?”
    “You sell gadgets on television.”
    The tea was good and strong. I could have used a biscotti.
    “Used to. House hold aids,” he corrected, chewing on an ice cube. “For nineteen-ninety-nine, your kitchen fantasies can come true. Our products are all made of the finest durable Oriental plastics and South American metals.”
    “My favorite’s the steamer chopper,” I said.
    “You have one?”
    “No, I watch infomercials. Insomnia. I don’t get cable.”
    “Want to know why I asked Mr. Augustine to invite you here?”
    “No. I just want a ride back to my place. I’ve got packing to do.”
    “It’s taken care of. Right, Jeffrey?”
    “It’s taken care of,” said Augustine. “Mr. Fonesca is fully moved.”
    “There,” said Corkle. “Now we can have a brief but leisurely few minutes.”
    “That should be pleasant.”
    “D. Elliot Corkle will see that it is,” said Corkle. “I would appreciate your doing something for me.”
    I nodded and drank some more tea.
    “After your hospitality, how could I refuse?”
    “D. Elliot Corkle would like you to politely return whatever money may have been advanced to you this morning by Gregory Legerman. I will give you a check for double the amount plus a ten-percent bonus if you decide right away. I’m a gambler.”
    “If I act right away, you pay shipping costs,” I said.
    “And I throw in a set of four eternally sharp cutting knives with handles made from the hulls of salvaged ships—a forty-nine-dollar value.”
    He laughed. He was having fun. I didn’t laugh.
    “Why?”
    “Why do I want you to return the money and go about your business?” he asked, looking at Augustine, who smiled attentively. “Greg is my grandson. He