“Robins and some others want the Texas to go upscale or move out,” I said. “A friend of mine owns it, another friend who helped me get Trasker here tonight lives and works there.”
“And you want me to…”
“Talk to Robins,” I said.
“He doesn’t necessarily represent the feelings of the majority of members of the association,” Wilkens said. “I’ll discuss it with him. I’m sure reason will prevail.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’ll have to excuse me now,” Wilkens said, touching my shoulder.
John Rubin was at my side, notepad out.
“What happened here tonight?” he said. “I mean, what really happened?”
“Someone’s been shot at Kevin Hoffmann’s house.”
“Who?” Rubin asked.
“A man named Stanley LaPrince,” I said.
“Is he dead?”
“He’s dead,” I said.
“This have something to do with the vote here?”
“Might,” I said.
“Details?” asked Rubin.
“Ask the police,” I said.
“Thanks, Fonesca.”
He tapped his notebook with his pen, looked at Wilkens and Trasker, and I could see that he had decided that a murder in the home of a rich citizen was more important news than the aftermath of the outcome of a commission vote. Besides, he had his notes. He’d probably be up the rest of the night.
It was almost one in the morning when I got back to my office. The sky had cleared. The moon was full.
I had a breakfast in the morning I wasn’t looking forward to.
15
“SPANISH OMELET HERE is great,” said Kenneth Severtson Sr., digging into the Saturday morning special at First Watch.
The place was bright, crowded, and noisy.
I had bacon and eggs. Janice Severtson, sitting next to her husband, was working on a ham-and-cheese omelet. All three of us had coffee.
Janice’s hand rested on the table. Her husband touched it.
“How are the kids?” I asked, pouring myself a second cup of coffee.
“Fine,” Janice said with a solemn smile. “My sister flew down from Charleston yesterday to help out. She’s watching them.”
“How do we thank you, Mr. Fonesca?” Severtson asked.
“You said you had a bonus,” I said.
“Name it,” said Severtson.
“One thousand, cash,” I said. “You have it with you?”
“One thou—No, but I think I have about four hundred. I stopped at the bank yesterday. Janice, you have any cash?”
She reached for her purse on the bench next to her, found her wallet, and came up with almost two hundred. Between the two of them they came up with a little over six hundred dollars.
“I’ll settle for that,” I said, accepting Ken and Janice’s money across the table.
“I can get the rest on Monday or from an ATM if you really need it soon,” Severtson said.
“No,” I said, pocketing the cash. “This will do it.”
“Is there anything else we can do for you? We owe you so much,” Janice said, squeezing her husband’s hand.
“Three things,” I said, drinking some more coffee.
“Name them,” said Ken.
“First, stop shooting at me.”
No one spoke. A woman at the table behind us said to whoever was sitting with her, “Who knows about Virginia? She blows hot and cold. Today’s a cold day. Don’t ask.”
“What?” asked Severtson.
“Stop shooting at me,” I said. “Trying to kill me. You know. Midnight Pass. The Laundromat.”
“You’re crazy,” said Severtson.
“Extremely depressed,” I said. “Close to suicidal a few times, but my therapist assures me I’m not psychotic. Dealing with people like you can bring me close to the line, but then there are people who can pull me back.”
“Why would I want to kill you?” asked Ken Severtson with a laugh, looking at his wife, who wasn’t laughing.
“Because you know I’ve been asking questions about you and Stark, that I’d found out he has a two-million-dollar insurance policy with you as beneficiary and that the business, which grossed over a million and a half last year, is all yours now. It wasn’t hard to find.”
“This is crazy,” Severtson said.
I wasn’t looking at him anymore. I was looking at his wife. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“When you knocked at my door in Orlando,” I said. “You told me you knew who I was because you called some friends in Sarasota who knew me. Then you said your husband must have hired me.”
Janice Severtson didn’t look up.
“Who did you call at three in the morning who knows me?” I asked.
She didn’t answer.
“And I told you I was in Orlando with my wife and kids,” I went on. “When you came into my room you didn’t look around for anyone else. You didn’t ask where my wife and kids were.”
“I was…I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“You did know,” I said. “You knew.”
I turned to her husband.
“There was a little girl in that Laundromat,” I told him. “She was standing a few feet away from me. Her name is Alaska Dreamer. She’s got a toy monster with a big eye that lights up. She could have been killed.”
Janice Severtson’s eyes looked at her unfinished omelet.
“Wait, I don’t get anything if Stark committed suicide,” Kenneth Severtson said.
“No, but you do when your wife admits to killing him to protect your daughter from being molested. You set me up, Severtson. You both did. Stark didn’t seduce your wife. She seduced him. He never touched your kids, did he?”
Neither of them answered this time.
“How long were you going to wait before Janice supposedly got conscience-stricken and called the Orlando police? Monday? Then they’d call me and you’d tell me to tell the truth. It wouldn’t take much of a lawyer to get her to walk, but you can afford a good lawyer now.”
“But why kill you?” he asked. “You’re our witness.”
“You found out I had checked on your business and Stark’s insurance. It wasn’t hard. You just called your office and they told you about my coming there. Once I knew about the insurance and your getting control of the business, you’d be better off without me testifying to anything. Maybe you even wondered how long it would take me to ask myself who your wife had called at three in the morning from Orlando and she’d remember that she hadn’t asked about the family I supposedly had on vacation. In fact, you couldn’t afford to have me tell the Orlando police what I know.”
“This is crazy,” he said.
“You already said that twice. You didn’t miss me on purpose. You’re just a lousy shot. The only other person who might have wanted me dead was a man named Stanley who wouldn’t have missed.”
“You haven’t any proof,” Janice said.
“I know. That’s why I wrote a letter last night and mailed it to a cop in Orlando. If I get killed now, I don’t think he’s going to buy your story and I don’t think you’ll stand a chance in hell or on earth of collecting your money. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe a good lawyer can make me look bad on the stand. Probably can. Maybe you can get away with it. Probably not. The insurance company won’t give up. They’ll take you to civil court and your business is going to go to hell fast. Great headline: ‘Wife Seduces and Murders Husband’s Partner in Insurance Plot.’”
“You broke the law,” Janice reminded me. “You advised me to say it was suicide.”
“And you made the mistake of going along with it,” I said. “You thought fast. You’d go along with my suicide story and then break down and tell the police you had killed Stark to protect your children.”
“It was self-defense,” she said, her voice shaking. “He hit me, said he was going to kill me and the children. I believed him.”
Ken Severtson was shaki
ng his head yes. That was going to be their story.
“It’s got big holes, especially me, but stick with that. It’s probably the best you can do.
“I think my testimony will keep me from being charged for obstruction. I may be wrong. I’ve got a good law firm to represent me. You know Tycinker, Oliver, and Schwartz?”
They didn’t answer.
The waitress brought the bill.
“I’ll take it,” I said.
“Don’t do this to our children,” Janice pleaded.
“With parents like you? I think I’m doing it for them.”
“Look, Fonesca,” Severtson said, leaning toward me. “We can—”
“No,” I said. “We can’t.”
They got up and left without another word. I hoped Janice’s sister was a decent human being. I hoped she’d take Kenny Jr. and Sydney. I hoped they wouldn’t wind up on the desk of Sally Porovsky or someone in her office.
“Hey, Lew,” someone said, as I played with a strip of bacon.
I looked up.
Dave from the Dairy Queen sat down across from me with a mug of coffee in his hand.
“Got the kids over there,” he said, nodding toward a table across the room where his two children sat across from each other, drinking large glasses of chocolate milk.
He lifted his mug.
“Nice-looking couple you were having breakfast with,” he said.
“Nice-looking,” I agreed.
“So, tomorrow I take the kids to Disney World.”
“I was there the other day,” I said.
“You?”
“Yeah.”
“Have fun?” Dave asked.
“I’ll never forget it,” I said.
Dave smiled, glanced at his children. His eyes went moist with a vision of happy kids and magical rides and singing dwarves. Or maybe I imagined it.
I went back to my room and erased the four messages on my machine without listening to them. Then I called Ann Horowitz’s answering machine at work.
I hoped she wouldn’t answer on a Saturday. She didn’t. Her machine said I could leave a short message and she would get back to me quickly or I could call her emergency number if I had an emergency. I didn’t have an emergency. What I had to tell her would take a while.
There was a knock at the door. I didn’t want a knock on the door unless it was a special delivery from a God I no longer believed in telling me that the last three years of my life had only been a dream.
“Come in,” I said.
Digger came in. He was smiling sadly. He needed a shave.
“How was last night?” I asked.
“Perfect. You should have seen me. Tripping the light fantastic. What does that mean, ‘tripping the light fantastic’?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Well, I did it. I charmed old ladies, didn’t eat too much from the buffet if you know what I mean, and got paid in cash and asked to come back on Monday to maybe talk about teaching dance lessons part-time.”
“Congratulations,” I said.
“I’ll try it,” he said, sitting in the chair across from my desk. “But I don’t know if I can handle real life.”
“I know what you mean,” I said.
“How was your night?” he asked.
I could have said, Digger, I saw a man shot to death, got up this morning and had breakfast with two murderers, but I said, “Fine.”
“You look tired.”
“I am.”
“I was going to offer to buy you breakfast at Gwen’s.”
“Another time, Digger.”
He got up to leave.
“Wait,” I said. “I’ve got something for you.”
I dug into the brown paper bag on my desk, the one from Mickey’s, and came up with a button. I handed it to him.
On the button was a photograph of Dick Van Dyke on a rooftop in Mary Poppins. In quotes above Van Dyke’s head were the words “Steps in Time.”
Digger grinned at the button and carefully pinned it to the buttonhole on his pocket so he wouldn’t make a hole in his shirt.
“I’m a working man,” Digger said with a deep sigh, and left the office, closing the door quietly as he left. I hadn’t slept much the night before. I pulled down the shades, climbed into bed around two, and turned on a tape of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. I watched Walter Huston do his dance on the mountain and call Curtain and Dobbs damned fools for not knowing they were standing on top of gold. I watched Emilio Fernandez say, “Badges, badges, we don’t need no stinkin’ badges.” I said it along with him.
I made it to the end of the tape and immediately fell asleep.
I had closed the door between my room and the office but I was vaguely aware that the phone rang while I slept. The second time it rang something in the dim female voice got through to me. It rang more times. I slept. Then one of the rings got through to me in the middle of a dream I lost when I opened my eyes. I checked my watch. I had slept three hours.
I staggered to the phone and played the messages back. All of them were from Detective Etienne Viviase. All of them said I should call him as soon as I got in. He left his office and cell phone number.
I tried the office. He didn’t answer. I tried the cell phone.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Fonesca,”
“I talk, you listen,” he said. “Understand?”
“I understand.”
“Kevin Hoffmann shot Stanley LaPrince last night. He told the officers who were dispatched by 911 that Stanley had killed Roberta Trasker and was about to shoot him. He also told them that you and two other people saw it all and that you had left the house with Trasker. When I got there, Hoffmann was tossing an autographed baseball in the air and watching a Yankees game. He wouldn’t talk to me. He wanted his lawyer. Questions. Were you there?”
“Yes.”
“Did Stanley admit he killed Roberta Trasker?”
“Hoffmann said he did. Stanley didn’t deny it.”
“And Stanley was going to shoot Hoffmann?”
“Looked that way,” I said.
“Who were the other two witnesses?” he asked.
I didn’t answer.
“McKinney?”
I didn’t answer.
“Who was the black guy?”
I didn’t answer.
“You took Trasker,” Viviase said.
“He went with me willingly,” I said. “You can ask him.”
“I heard about the commission vote,” he said. “I will ask him. I want you to come in and sign a statement. Today. You understand?”
“Perfectly,” I said, and hung up.
The phone rang before I could take my hand from it. I picked it up and listened to the voice on the other end. Then I hung up and called Sally.
Fifteen minutes later I had parked in the emergency-room lot at Sarasota Memorial Hospital and was taken to the little room where I now sat.
Sally walked in.
“How does it look, Lew?”
She took my right hand in both of hers.
“He’s going,” I said. “Doctor says it’s a miracle he made it through last night. Obermeyer was probably right.”
We looked at William Trasker, his eyes closed, mouth open, tube in his nose, tendons in his neck blue against white skin.
“What I don’t understand,” I said to Sally, looking down at the dying man, “is why he asked for me.”
“Maybe because he knew his children couldn’t get here in time,” she said.
“Wilkens then,” I said.
“You know why,” came Trasker’s faint voice from the bed. His eyes fluttered open. “Unless you’re a dumber son of a bitch than I thought you were. If I had the time, I’d call my lawyer and have him change my will. I’d make you a rich little wop bastard, but you wouldn’t want it, would you?”
“No,” I said.
“No,” he said, eyes trying to focus now, voice failing. “I didn’t think so. Trying to do the rig
ht things before I die, but there are too many.”
“Maybe you’ll get better long enough to do a few more,” Sally said.
“You a nurse?” he whispered.
“No,” she said. “A friend.”
“Whose?”
“Lew’s,” she said. “Now yours.”
“Is there anyone we can call for you?” she asked.
Before he could answer, two people in blues, one man and one woman, came in the room and said they had to take him now. They were in a hurry.
“You can wait here or in the waiting room,” the man said.
Sally and I got cups of coffee from the vending machine and went into the lobby. It was Saturday but it was early and the weekend horror had slowed down until night came, but there were still people waiting.
“A kid named Alaska Dreamer ever make her way across your desk?” I asked.
“Alaska Dreamer? No, I’d remember, but I’ll ask around. Why?”
“I’ve got a present for her in the car.”
“Lew, are you all right?”
“Getting better all the time,” I said.
Sally drank some coffee.
“Maybe this is a bad time,” she said. “But remember the woman who was in my office the last time you came? Son named—”
“Darrell,” I said.
“She’s trying hard, Lew. How’d you like to be a Big Brother?”
“I wouldn’t,” I said.
“Think about it? You’re good with kids, Lew. You’re good with my kids.”
“I…”
The nurse in blue who had wheeled Bill Trasker out of the Emergency Room came through the sliding doors and approached us.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “He’s gone. Dr. Spence will talk to you, if you like. We’re getting in touch with Mr. Trasker’s children.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” the nurse said again, and walked solemnly back toward the emergency-room sliding doors.
“Let’s go, Lew,” Sally said.
I wondered if the Traskers’ kids would come. They could make it a double funeral. Mother and father. After all this time, almost strangers. I knew I would not be going.
We dropped our coffee cups in the parking-lot trash can and faced each other.
“Big Brother?” I asked.
“Darrell’s not easy,” Sally said. “Lew, if you do it, I wouldn’t hope for a lot from him.”
Midnight Pass: A Lew Fonesca Novel (Lew Fonesca Novels) Page 22
