Midnight Pass: A Lew Fonesca Novel (Lew Fonesca Novels)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “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 Pass proposal on Friday.”

  Viviase was shaking his head. To himself as much as to me, he said, “This hits 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 Pass?” 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 hell? 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 button 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.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible right now,” Hoffmann said. “But it just happens Dr. Obermeyer is here right now, with Bill. Would you like to see him?”

  “I’d like to see Trasker,” Viviase said.

  “Well, we’ll have to talk to Dr. Obermeyer about that. This way,” said Hoffmann, moving to the stairs and taking them two at a time.

  Viviase and I came up at a decidedly slower pace. Hoffmann went past the open door of a bedroom and through the open door of a second bedroom. A man, Trasker, lay in the bed in blue pajamas, a paisley quilt pulled up to his chest. He was clean-shaven. His eyes were closed. He was thin, pale, sunken cheeks, mouth slightly open, skin almost white.

  Beside the bed stood a man who was also wearing tennis shorts. His were blue and his shirt was an even lighter blue. There was no emblem on his pocket, just an understanding smile on his face. He was slightly overweight, probably slightly over sixty, and only slightly balding with a professional-looking gray thatch.

  “Dr. Obermeyer,” Hoffmann said, softly introducing the man near the bed.

  Obermeyer shook our hands.

  “Can Mr. Trasker be moved to a hospital?” Viviase asked.

  “I wouldn’t advise it,” said Obermeyer in a very professional baritone.

  “We might want a second opinion,” said Viviase. “I’d like to talk to him.”

  “Mr. Trasker is sedated,” the doctor said. “I’ve also given him a rather high dose of pain medication. I don’t think he’d be very coherent if we did manage to wake him up.”

  Hoffmann was leaning against the wall near the door, his arms folded in front of him. His eyes met mine and he smiled.

  “Mr. Trasker asked that he remain here,” Obermeyer said gently but firmly.

  “Unless his wife tells me otherwise,” Hoffmann said. “Whatever Roberta wants is fine with me, but she’s already said she thinks it’s a good idea.”

  “Let’s go in the hall,” Viviase said.

  We all moved to the hall and I closed the door on the sleeping commissioner.

  “When did you last see or talk to Mrs. Trasker?” Viviase asked.

  “Roberta?” said Hoffmann. �
��This morning. I told her to come over and see Bill after Dr. Obermeyer said it was all right.”

  “She’s dead,” Viviase said.

  “Roberta?”

  Hoffmann sounded genuinely surprised, but surprise was only part of it. There seemed to be a real touch of shock or even grief. The man was either innocent or a good actor. I bet on the good actor.

  “What happened?” he asked as Obermeyer put his hand on Hoffmann’s shoulder to steady him.

  “Shot,” said Viviase.

  “Robbery?”

  “No,” the detective said. “Nothing taken. Where’ve you been today?”

  “Me? Softball game in Venice early in the morning. Then tennis tournament at the racquet club. Jim and I are partners.”

  “Jim?”

  “Dr. Obermeyer,” Hoffmann explained. “We’re partners.”

  “In tennis,” I said.

  “Yes, tennis,” Hoffmann said, turning unfriendly eyes to me. “We started at eleven and finished just half an hour ago. We haven’t even had time for a shower.”

  “Who was watching Trasker?”

  “My assistant, Stanley. She’s really dead?”

  “Yes,” Viviase said. “I’ve got a question for you and then I’d like to talk to Stanley. He’s here?”

  “Probably in his room, the next bedroom,” Hoffmann said, nodding his head down the hall.

  “We can talk to him in a few seconds,” said Viviase. “First, my question. How old are you?”

  Hoffmann closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “Why doesn’t that question surprise me?” he asked. “Fonesca here told you about my Social Security number.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve paid all my taxes,” Hoffmann said.

  “What’s your real name?”

  “I’m not wanted for anything,” Hoffmann said.

  “How about a direct answer? The question is simple.”

  Hoffmann thought for a moment and shook his head no.

  “I’ll talk to my lawyer first,” he said.

  “I think getting a lawyer is a good idea,” said Viviase.

  “You think I killed her? Why would I kill…I wouldn’t hurt her, but I will guarantee that if you don’t find the person who did it, I will, and I have the distinct intuition that the murderer will…I didn’t kill her.”

  The man was good. If we were in a movie, I’d give serious consideration to nominating him for a Best Supporting Actor Oscar.

  “Let’s talk to Stanley,” Viviase said.

  “I’ll stay here,” Obermeyer said, looking down at his patient.

  Hoffmann stepped past us and knocked at the closed door of the room next to the one where William Trasker lay sleeping.

  “Come in,” Stanley called.

  In we went.

  The room was less a bedroom than a library with a bed tucked in one corner. Every wall had a bookcase from floor to ceiling. Every bookcase was full. There was a small space in one bookshelf for a computer and oversized screen. On the screen was a view from a video camera showing the front gate of the house. There was also a window, dark curtains closed.

  Stanley sat in a worn armchair near the window, an old wooden floor lamp next to him glowing down at the book on his lap. The room was cool. Stanley wore dark slacks and a yellow cotton shirt with a lightweight dark sport jacket.

  “Stanley,” Hoffmann said. “This is Detective…”

  “Viviase,” Viviase completed.

  “And you know Mr. Fonesca,” Hoffmann continued.

  Stanley didn’t nod. I didn’t say anything.

  “Mrs. Trasker has been murdered,” Hoffmann said with a steely steadiness that was clearly supposed to send a message to Stanley, but I wasn’t sure what that message might be. I had an idea, but I wasn’t sure.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Stanley said, putting a leather strip in his book and placing the book on the table next to him.

  Stanley was looking at Hoffmann. He took off his glasses, held them up to the light to be sure they were clean, and put them back on again.

  “Where’ve you been all day?” asked Viviase.

  “In and around the house, keeping an eye on things, taking care of Mr. Trasker,” he said.

  “Never left him alone for long?” Viviase said.

  “Checked in on him every ten or twelve minutes except for the forty-five minutes in the weight room to work out, use the treadmill, weights, steps.”

  “And when you weren’t working out or in and around the house?” Viviase continued.

  “I was reading.”

  He held up the thin paperback book he had placed on the table to show us what he had been reading. I could see the cover clearly. It was A Coney Island of the Mind by Lawrence Ferlinghetti.

  “You were reading this today?” Viviase asked.

  Stanley looked at Hoffmann and said, “‘Cast up, the heart flops over gasping “Love.” A foolish fish which tries to draw its breath from flesh of air. And no one there to hear its death among the sad bushes where the world rushes by in a blather of asphalt and delay.’”

  “Ferlinghetti?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Stanley, turning his gaze from Hoffmann to me. “There’s one in here about depression.”

  “And don’t forget ‘Junkman’s Obbligato,’” Viviase said.

  Stanley blinked at the detective with respect.

  “I read a lot of that crap when I was a kid,” said Viviase. “I grew up. You read a lot?”

  Viviase looked around the room.

  “I don’t like television, and I’m not all too fond of people,” Stanley said with a small twitch of a smile aimed at the detective first and then at me. He ignored Hoffmann.

  “You have a last name?” asked Viviase.

  “LaPrince, Stanley LaPrince. Cajun.”

  “You own a gun, Stanley LaPrince?” Viviase asked.

  “Three,” he said, opening his jacket to show one in a holster. “A shotgun and a rifle in the rack in the den downstairs. All registered.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Mind if I look at your gun?”

  Stanley removed the weapon from his holster and handed it to the detective. Viviase smelled the barrel and shook his head slightly at me to indicate that it was not the weapon that murdered Roberta Trasker.

  Stanley accepted his gun back and returned it to the holster.

  “You walk around with a gun all the time?”

  “I’m Mr. Hoffmann’s assistant. That includes protecting him.”

  “From who?”

  “Enemies,” said Hoffmann, his eyes on Stanley. “Thieves. Someone tried to break in the house four years ago. You can check your records. Stanley caught them before they could get to the house. I think he may have shot one of them when they got away.”

  “What were they trying to steal?”

  “What do thieves try to steal?” Hoffmann said with some exasperation. “Money, jewelry, electronic equipment, maybe my baseball collection, and the house is filled with antiques.”

  It was Viviase’s turn to nod.

  “Enemies, Mr. Hoffmann?”

  “Detective, I am a philanthropic son of a bitch,” he said. “The philanthropic part of me gets me awards. The walls of my den are covered with them. Sarasota’s charities love me. I’m invited to everything. I speak with passion and conviction about the plight of the homeless, the parentless, the children suffering from diseases both known and obscure, women who’ve been abused and Habitat for Humanity.”

  “You’re a saint,” I said.

  “No,” said Hoffmann. “I’m really the son of a bitch who undercuts business on deals and uses his connections among what passes for high society to obtain what I want. I like money. I like power. But I love baseball.”

  Viviase was clearly unimpressed. He turned back to Stanley.

  “You have a record?”

  “Four years, Folsom,” said Stanley.

  “What d
id you do?”

  “I read.”

  “What did you do that got you those four years?” Viviase asked. “Overdue library books?”

  “I almost killed a man,” Stanley said evenly. “We had a political disagreement in a friend’s house.”

  “Political disagreement?”

  “Over drugs,” said Stanley. “Neither one of us wanted them legalized, but for different reasons. Mine were libertarian. His were personal and economic.”

  “I don’t care for your sense of humor, Mr. LaPrince,” Viviase said.

  “I don’t think I have one,” Stanley said.

  “How did an ex-con get a license to carry firearms?” the detective asked.

  Stanley looked at Hoffmann. Viviase turned to Hoffmann, who said, “With the support of some friends in the government and my persuasiveness, special dispensation was given after evidence was presented to show that Stanley was totally rehabilitated.”

  “Mind if I have a doctor look at Trasker?” asked Viviase.

  “Yes,” said Hoffmann. “I do. Bill Trasker and I have complete faith in Dr. Obermeyer.”

  “Any other questions for me?” Stanley asked, picking up his book.

  “Later,” said Viviase, letting Hoffmann lead us out of the room.

  I was last. I glanced back at Stanley. When our eyes met, I felt cold. I was sure that was exactly what he was trying for.

  “Anything else you’d like me to do?” Hoffmann asked.

  “Get that lawyer we talked about,” said Viviase.

  “I’ll do that. Normally, I’d offer you a drink or something I’ve baked. I was a chef for a few years, cordon bleu. Pastries are my specialty.”

  We were walking down the stairs.

  “I’m watching my weight,” Viviase said.

  “And I am watching my back,” Hoffmann answered. “That’s why Stanley is in the house.”

  “You have that many enemies?” asked Viviase.

  “I have that many people who either consider themselves my enemies or want something I have and are willing to do foolish things to get it.”

  There wasn’t much else to say to him, so Viviase and I went through the front door and headed down the driveway. Hoffmann stood in the doorway watching us.

  “You believe that crap about his being a chef?” asked Viviase.

  “No. You really think Ferlinghetti is crap?”