Midnight Pass: A Lew Fonesca Novel Part 16

"What now?" Ames asked.

"We call the police," I said.

I found a phone in an office at the back of the house. I didn't think I should touch the one in the living room in case the killer had used it. The office smelled faintly of cigars, and it seemed to be the only room not a shrine to the memory of a Busby Berkeley 1930s musical. The furniture was all old wood and cracking brown leather.

I called the only cop I knew. He was in.

"Viviase," he answered when they put me through.

"Fonesca," I said.

"What now?" he said with a sigh. "Try not to tell me you found a body."

"I can try, but I'll fail. Roberta Trasker."

"Wife of William Trasker?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"You're going to tell me she's been murdered."

"Yes," I said. "She lives on-"

"Big Spanish house on Indian Beach Drive," he said. "Been there. Don't touch anything. Just sit somewhere far away from her body and wait."

He hung up.

"Might be a good idea for you not to be here when the police come," I said to Ames, who stood, cowboy hat in hand, looking down at the dead woman the way Henry Fonda had in almost any John Ford movie he had been in.

"I'll stick around if it's all the same."

"It's not," I said. "You've got a record. You killed a man. You're carrying a weapon. You're not supposed to. You'd be right at the top of the suspect list if they found you here."

"Suit yourself," he said.

"You can catch a SCAT bus on the Trail," I said.

"I'll walk it," he said.

"Sorry," I said.

"We both are," he answered, turning his eyes from the dead woman to the picture on the wall. "Handsome woman."

"I'll call you later," I said.

"You know who did this?" Ames asked.

"Probably," I said.

When Ames was out the front door, I did a quick search of the house. I found a gun in one of Trasker's desk drawers. It looked as if it had never been fired. I found letters, papers, and shelves full of books, most of them best-sellers going back twenty years. I couldn't bring myself to go through Roberta Trasker's clothes.

"What are you doing, Fonesca?" Viviase asked me as I stood with my back to the bedroom door.

"Wondering," I said, not turning.

"About?"

"People," I said, turning to face him. "Why so many of them want to turn the world into-"

"s.h.i.t," Viviase finished. Viviase was a little over six feet tall, a little over two hundred and twenty pounds, a little past fifty, short dark hair and a big nose. It said, "Detective Ed Viviase" on the door to his office, but his real name was Etienne. He had a wife, kids, and a reasonable sense of humor. He probably knew a cop joke I could use. I wasn't going to ask him.

"Come on," he said, turning his back on me and walking into the hall. I could hear voices in the living room, knew that cops were taking pictures, being sure she was dead, trying not to contaminate the crime scene too much. I followed Viviase away from the living room and into William Trasker's office. He sat in the leather chair at the desk. I sat in an upright chair of black wood, tan leather, and arms.

"So, what happened?" he asked.

"I found the body," I said. "She was shot. She was dead. I called you."

"What were you doing here?" he asked.

"William Trasker is missing," I said. "I was trying to find him."

"William Trasker is not missing," Viviase said. "He's at Kevin Hoffmann's house. And you know it."

He scratched the top of his head and looked up at me with his hands folded in his lap.

"I was getting to that," I said.

"Hoffmann beat you to it," said Viviase. "His lawyer called us, complained about you threatening him."

"And he told you Trasker was in Hoffmann's house."

"Yes. Said he was too sick to move. Gave the name of the doctor on the case, said Trasker's wife, who now lies dead in the other room, knew all about it and approved. So, I have an important question."

"Yes."

"Why were you looking for William Trasker? And don't tell me it's privileged information. You're not a private investigator. You're a process server who gets himself involved in other peoples' business."

"Sometimes," I admitted.

"Sometimes? You've come up with five dead people in the last three years."

"I don't want to get involved in other peoples' business," I said. "It just..."

"Happens," he said. "I know. So, my question?"

"Why was I looking for Trasker? For a friend."

"And your friend possesses a name?"

"Fernando Wilkens," I said. "He wants Trasker found so he can vote on the Midnight Pa.s.s proposal on Friday."

Viviase was shaking his head. To himself as much as to me, he said, "This. .h.i.ts the blotter, these names are going to jump out and be all over television and the papers."

"Any cash, jewelry missing?" he asked hopefully. "And don't tell me you wouldn't know. You've gone over the place."

"As far as I can tell, there's nothing missing. Her purse is open on the table near the kitchen. I think you'll find two hundred and six dollars in it. Jewelry box in the bedroom is full. I think it's all real."

"So, who killed her?"

"My vote? Hoffmann, to keep Roberta Trasker from changing her mind and getting her husband away from the Hoffmann house."

"Trasker's going to vote against opening the Pa.s.s?" Viviase asked, showing some interest.

"That's what I've heard. Can we get Trasker out of there?"

"If he wants to," Viviase said. "He can get up and go anywhere. He can dance naked under the moon on Holmes Beach, get drunk and make a fool of himself. He can watch a movie at the Hollywood Twenty."

"Why don't you ask him?" I said.

"I've got no cause to go into Hoffmann's house," he said slowly, as if speaking to an idiot. "If I just showed up, Kevin Hoffmann would turn me away and start pulling chains to make my life far less idyllic."

"Don't you think someone should tell Trasker that his wife is dead?"

He was listening.

"He may be well enough to give you some ideas about who might want his wife dead."

"And he might let us know that he wants out of Hoffmann's house. What the h.e.l.l? Let's do it."

He got up and so did I.

"You want me to go with you to Hoffmann's? Why?"

"Would you believe I like your company?"

"No."

"How about I want you there so Hoffmann can identify the man he says threatened him?"

"No."

"Okay, last try. You made Hoffmann nervous enough that he called his lawyer and had him put pressure on us. I'd like to see how nervous you can make Hoffmann."

"Fine," I said, following Viviase down the hallway. "But there's something you should know."

"What?"

"Kevin Hoffmann's date of birth."

9.

AFTER I TOLD Viviase about Kevin Hoffmann's name change and Social Security card switch, we drove our own cars to Kevin Hoffmann's estate. I parked behind Viviase and followed him to the gate, where he pushed the glowing b.u.t.ton on the wall.

"Yes," a voice came from somewhere.

It was Hoffmann's man, Stanley.

"Detective Viviase. I'd like to talk to Mr. Hoffmann."

"Hold on."

Viviase stood looking at me, bouncing on his heels. He was not a patient man.

"Come in," Stanley said, his voice coming out of the afternoon overcast.

The gate opened and we walked up the cobblestone walk to the open door, where Kevin Hoffmann stood in white shorts, white sneakers, and a white tennis shirt with a little black New York Yankees emblem on the pocket. A dark new Lexus was parked in the driveway.

"Viviase," the detective said, introducing himself. "You know Fonesca."

"We've met," Hoffmann said.

"You complained about Mr. Fonesca bothering you the other day," Viviase said.

Hoffmann backed into the house and motioned us forward. We entered and he closed the door behind us.

"Bygones," Hoffmann said. "If that's why you've come, there's no need. I forgive him."

"Thank you," I said.

"Did Mr. Fonesca tell you about my baseball collection?"

"I haven't had a chance," I said.

"Well," said Hoffmann. "I'll be happy to show it to you. Who's your favorite baseball player of all time?"

"Ralph Kiner," Viviase said.

"I've got a ball signed by him," said Hoffmann. "Met him twice. Nice man."

"Some other time," Viviase said. "I'd like to see William Trasker."