Read Online Retribution: A Lew Fonesca Novel (Lew Fonesca Novels) by Stuart M. Kaminsky - Free Book Online

Adele …?” I asked.
    “No questions,” he said. “I get my manuscripts back and press no charges.”
    “I’ve got questions,” I said.
    He nodded.
    “Why would she do this?” I said, looking around at the empty shelves in the vault.
    “I don’t know,” he said.
    I had a feeling he did, but there are right and wrong times and ways to deal with lies. It takes a feel for the person who is lying to me. I can call someone a liar, which results in grief, almost always mine. Or I can wait till I find the truth myself or the right time to ask the question again. I usually wait.
    “Holding them for ransom?” I asked.
    “No,” he said.
    “Why?”
    Lonsberg moved to the wooden box, took it down, and brought it to me.
    “Open it,” he said.
    I took the box and opened it. It was filled with cash. Fifties, twenties, hundreds, tens, fives.
    “Forty-six thousand four hundred in that box. Adele knew it was there. There are other places in the house with a lot more money. I don’t use banks. Adele knew where it all was. There’s not a dollar missing.”
    He looked at me and took the box back.
    “Makes no sense, does it?” he said.
    “So she took them to hurt you,” I pushed, knowing I could push only a little further, but I decided the moment was right. He looked just a bit bewildered by the emptiness of the vault. “Did you and Adele ever?”
    “Sex?” he asked. “No. Would I have liked to? Yes, I’m old but I’m not dead. I also know what statutory rape is. I never touched her, never even kissed her. I have a grandson older than Adele. I turn seventy in two weeks. Letting my ancient libido go at the risk of losing Adele’s talent would have been stupid. Do you think I’m stupid?”
    “You’re not stupid. Then …?” I asked.
    “You’ll have to ask her,” he said. “Well?”
    “One short story,” I said.
    “What?”
    “If I find her,” I said, “and you get your manuscripts back, you give me one short story, any one.”
    “No. I’ll give you the five thousand dollars,” he said.
    “One short story,” I answered. “Full rights.”
    Lonsberg looked at me. So did Jefferson.
    “I can’t do that,” he said.
    “You keep any copies of those stolen manuscripts?” I asked
    “You know I didn’t.”
    “Adele, or whoever took them, could be taking your name off now and sending them out under their name to agents, publishers, Internet sites.”
    “They’d be worth nothing,” he said. “Or at least not very much. Their value has nothing to do with whatever quality they may have. Their value lies in the fact that they were written by Conrad Lonsberg. Find me some scribbles and stick figures, junk by Picasso on a sheet of paper, and I’ll get you half a million dollars as long as it’s signed and authenticated. No, it’s more likely they could all be getting shredded or thrown into a bonfire right now,” he said.
    He shook his head.
    “Okay, someone doesn’t like you, Lonsberg,” I said.
    “And her name is Adele. Ten thousand dollars,” he said. “I’ll pay you ten thousand to get them back.”
    “What does money mean to you?” I asked.
    “Food, shelter, paper, postage, a few clothes, security for my family,” he said.
    “What does your writing mean to you?”
    “I get your point. You want me to give up something important to me,” he said.
    “Something that means something to you. Adele means something to me. Not money.”
    “You’re a remarkable man, Fonesca,” he said, smiling again. “You may also be a stupid one or you’ve read too many romantic novels.”
    “Movies,” I said. “I got it from movies.”
    He looked at me for a long time and came to a decision. “And from life. All right. You can have the rights to a story if you get all my manuscripts back.”
    “Plus one thousand dollars for expenses, in advance.”
    “I pick the story,” he said. “Adele said you’re a good man. She thought I was a good man. She was wrong about me. Her judgment does not