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

backed away with me and dropped the bat on the tile floor. Merrymen took a step toward his fallen club.
    “Best not,” Ames said.
    “Go, go report to the bitch that you almost killed my dog,” Merrymen shouted. “I can get another dog. Two of them.”
    “Just be sure you clean up their manure and yours,” said Ames.
    We went through the door. Ames pushed it closed behind us.
    “He might have a gun,” I said.
    “Might,” Ames agreed.
    We hurried to the Cutlass and got in. Merrymen’s door didn’t open. I made a circle in the cul-de-sac and headed away from the far side.
    “You know how to swing a bat,” I said.
    “Played some,” Ames said calmly.
    “In high school?”
    “Farm team. Pittsburgh Pirates. Didn’t have the temper or talent for it,” he said. “Long time ago.”
    I checked my watch. I still had an hour and a half before I met Sally and her kids for dinner.
    “You’ve got some time?” I asked.
    “Whatever the Lord if there is one is willing to give,” he said.
    I pulled over to the Walgreen drugstore at Tuttle and Fruitville. Walgreens drugstores seem to be about half a mile apart throughout Sarasota. The phone book was reasonably intact and I found a Bernard Corsello on North Orange. We drove, said nothing. I turned on the radio. A talk-show host I didn’t recognize was on WFLA talking about serial killers. The NPR station had the market report. I switched back to AM and found WGUL, the oldies station.
    A woman was singing, “Let me free.”
    “’Let Me Go, Lover,’” Ames said. “First song written for a television drama. Don’t know her name.”
    The woman on the radio was just singing, “If you’ll just let me go” when we pulled in front of a one-story housejust north of Sixth. The neighborhood was a couple of notches below middle class. The houses were small, in reasonable shape with neat green yards.
    A half-moon and bright stars. A nice evening. On the cool side. Some kids on bicycles, two black, one white, the kids purposely came close to hitting us and zipped away jabbering to each other.
    There was no driveway. The concrete walkway was narrow and cracked. There were lights on in curtained rooms on both sides of the door. I found the bell, pushed it, listened to it ring inside, and waited. No answer. I rang again. No answer.
    I tried the door. It opened but not much, about three or four inches. It was hitting something.
    “Mr. Corsello,” I called through the crack.
    No answer. I pushed the door again. It gave. A little. Ames pitched in. Whatever was blocking the door gave way enough for me to stick my head in. I saw what was blocking the door.
    The body was facedown, head toward the door. There were two reasons to think he was dead. The floor in front of your front door is an unusual place to take a nap. I’ve known stranger ones, but the blotch of blood and the hole in his back took whatever hope I might have had.
    “Dead man,” I told Ames.
    He nodded as if he were accustomed to finding dead men on a daily basis. I stood trying to decide which way to take this. I looked around the street. Nothing. No one. A small red car with a bad muffler zoomed down the street.
    I thought about the missing Mickey and Adele and I motioned for Ames to help me push some more. When there was enough room, we slid through the door. I closed it behind us. There was a light on in the entryway. From where we stood we could see the entire place. Small living room with an old overstuffed chair placed about four feet away from a giant television screen where an old episode of
Jeopardy!
was going forward silently. It was an old show. Alex Trebek, with no gray hairs, played with the cards in his hand.
    Beyond the living-room area was a kitchen with a tableand four chairs. To the left were three doors. Two were open. The closest one was a bedroom with a neatly made bed, a big dresser, and a giant Jesus on the cross over the dresser. The second open door was a bathroom. No light was on in