Always Say Goodbye: A Lew Fonesca Mystery by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online Page A

wood-frame house set back on a broad green lawn with a spotting of orange and yellow leaves from a nearby tree. A breeze rustled. More leaves floated down.
    “I’ve seen bigger houses with cars in garages that looked great and had to be towed because there was crapola under the hood and the owners were always afraid of what it would cost to fix ’em.”
    “You don’t like rich people,” Lew said.
    “Not until and unless I become one,” said Franco. “Then I’ll join ’em.”
    Franco reached down and touched the gun tucked in under his jacket.
    While Lew was knocking the second time, the door opened.
    Standing in front of them was the driver who Franco had pulled from the car on the Dan Ryan. He didn’t look surprised to see them. He motioned for Franco and Lew to come inside. The house smelled of something baking, something sweet and familiar.
    They followed the driver up a flight of highly polished light wood stairs. On the landing, he went to a closed door and knocked.
    “Come in,” came a deep voice with the touch of an accent. “Come in.”
    Sitting in an armchair, hands on his lap was the one-eyed young man. At the window, his back turned, was a man with white hair, wearing dark slacks and a yellow sweater over a white shirt with a button-down collar.
    The room was a combination den and office—antique wood desk and chair, two matching armchairs, a sofa that challenged the rest of the room but seemed right. There were three painted portraits on the wall to the right, all of one woman.
    “John Pappas,” Lew said.
    The man at the window slowly turned. He was lean, dapper, had a weathered face and too-perfect false teeth as white as his equally full head of white hair. According to his driver’s license, Pappas was fifty-seven years old.
    “Have a seat,” he said with a smile, pointing a hand at the sofa.
    Behind them the driver, arms folded, leaned back against
the wall near the door. The one-eyed man in the armchair looked at him and then back at Pappas.
    Lew and Franco sat. So did Pappas after hitching up his pants, a low glass coffee table between them.
    “We begin by being polite,” he said. “Though you have met, I don’t believe you know the names of my sons. This is Dimitri.”
    He turned his head toward the driver.
    “He prefers to be called Dimi. Why? I don’t know. That’s what they called the young priest in The Exorcist, right?”
    “Right,” said Franco.
    “And that,” Pappas said, looking over his shoulder at the one-eyed young man, “is Stavros. He has no diminutive.”
    Pappas raised his right eyebrow, looking for a sign of recognition at his vocabulary. He got none from Lew and Franco.
    “You’re Greeks,” said Franco.
    “Your powers of observation are quite remarkable,” Pappas said. “So, you have questions, ask.”
    “Who killed my wife?”
    “Perhaps the person who would like to kill me and would not hesitate to … please make an effort to sit still.”
    The last, delivered with a smile, had been aimed at the fidgeting Franco. Franco folded his arms, looked at Pappas and decided to make the effort.
    “Thank you. Conversation is a medium,” said Pappas, sitting back. “Like film, video, a blank canvas or an empty screen, when used with respect, it deserves our full attention. Am I right?”
    It was Stavros’s turn to say, “You’re right.”
    “See,” said Pappas. “Stavros went to college. He’s the artist who keeps our home and business running and repaired. Dimi is our heart, our emotion. I am the creator. In many
ways, I have been most magnificently blessed. In others …”
    He shrugged and continued.
    “So, the artist can engage the medium and create art. Let us strive for conversational art.”
    “Let us,” Franco said.
    Pappas raised his right hand and his sons left the room.
    “They are going to get us coffee and something special. They will also check the video monitors to see if anyone is watching the house. One does not know when an