Stuart Kaminsky - Midnight Pass

Two minutes later I was sitting in a chair next to the desk of Mrs. Carla Free. Her cubicle in the gray-carpeted complex was directly outside of an office with a plate marked “William Trasker.”

Mrs. Free was tall, probably a little younger than me, well-groomed and blue-suited, with a white blouse with a fluffy collar. She was pretty, wore glasses, and was black. Actually, she was a very light brown.

“I have to find Mr. Trasker,” I said.

“We haven’t seen him in several days,” she said, sounding like Bennington or Radcliffe, her hands folded on the desk in front of her, giving me her full attention.

“Does he often disappear for days?” I asked.

Mrs. Free did not answer but said, “Can I help you, Mr. Fonesca?”

There was no one within hearing distance. Her voice sounded all business and early dismissal for me. I decided to take a chance.

“Where do you live?” I asked.

She took off her glasses and looked at me at first in surprise and then in anger.

“Is this love at first sight, Mr. Fonesca?” she asked.

“You don’t live in Newtown,” I said.

“No, I live in Idora Estates. My husband is a doctor, a pediatrician. We have a daughter in Pine View and a son who just graduated from Pine View and is going to go to Grinnell. Now, I think you should leave.”

“I have reason to believe that if Mr. Trasker goes to the City Commission meeting Friday night, he will vote against the Midnight Pass bill and that members of the commission will try to divert the money they would have spent on opening the Pass to helping with the renovation of Newtown,” I said.

I waited.

“Who are you working for?” she asked quietly.

“Someone who wants to find William Trasker and help Newtown,” I said.

“I was born here,” she said so softly that I could hardly hear her. “In Newtown. So was my husband. My mother still lives there. She won’t move.”

“Where is Trasker?” I asked.

“Off the record, Mr. Fonesca,” she said. “Mr. Trasker is not well.”

“Off the record, Mrs. Free,” I said, “Mr. Trasker is dying and I think you know it.”

She nodded. She knew.

“You really think he’ll vote against opening the Pass?” she asked.

“Good authority,” I said. “A black man of the cloth.”

“Fernando Wilkens,” she said with a sigh that showed less respect than resignation.

“You’re not a big fan of the reverend?”

“I’d rather say that he serves the community when that service benefits Fernando Wilkens,” she said. “Fortunately, the two are generally compatible.”

“You know him well?”

“I know him well enough.”

She looked away. She understood. The sigh was long and said a lot, that she was considering risking her job, that she was about to give away things a secretary shouldn’t give away.

“One condition,” she said, folding her hands on the desk. “You are not to tell where you got this information.”

“I will not tell,” I said.

“For some reason, I believe you,” she said. “God knows why. You’ve got that kind of face.”

“Thanks.”

“You’ve heard of Kevin Hoffmann,” she said.

“I’ve heard,” I said.

“He has a large estate on the mainland across from Bird Keys,” she said. “Owns large pieces of land all along Little Sarasota Bay.”

“So he’d make money if the Pass was opened.”

“Now boats have to go five miles past the Pass site to the end of Casey Key and then come up Little Sarasota Bay another fiveplus miles.”

“I get it.”

“Only part of it,” she said. “If the Pass opens, a lot of Kevin Hoffmann’s property, now a bog, could be turned into choice waterside home sites. Trasker Construction has done almost all of the work for Kevin Hoffmann. It’s been said that Mr. Trasker is in Kevin Hoffmann’s pocket. It’s also been said that Hoffmann is in Mr. Trasker’s pocket. They are certainly close business associates and have been for many years.”

“It’s been said,” I repeated. “You think Hoffmann’s done something to Trasker to keep him from voting against opening the Pass?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“You’ve put some thought into this,” I said.

“Some,” she admitted, adjusting her glasses. “You can check out Kevin Hoffmann’s holdings in the tax office right downtown,” she said. “Which would be more than the local media have done.”

“Thanks,” I said, getting up.

“No need,” she said, rising and accompanying me down the hall. “We haven’t had this conversation. I’ve told you nothing.”

“Nothing,” I agreed.

“Why doesn’t Mrs. Trasker like you?” I asked.

“Five years ago when I came to work here,” she said, “Mr. Trasker was looking less for a competent secretary than a possible sexual conquest. By the time he realized that he would not be permitted to even touch me, he had also realized that I was probably invaluable to the business. Mrs. Trasker is a smart woman. I’m sure she knew what had been on her husband’s mind. I’m also reasonably sure that she knew he had failed, but Mrs. Trasker is a vain woman not likely to be kindly disposed toward any woman her husband found attractive.”

When we stood in front of the receptionist’s desk, she shook my hand and said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, Mr. Fonesca, but I will give Mr. Trasker your name and number as soon as he returns.”

It was almost four, but I drove up Swift and made good pre-rush hour time. Rush hour in Sarasota was still not a big problem, compared to Chicago or even Dubuque, but it slowed me down.

I got to the parking lot in front of Building C in a complex of identical three-story buildings marked A, B, C, and D off of Fruitville and Tutle. It was just before four-thirty.

Building C housed some of the offices of Children’s Services of Sarasota. Buildings A, B, and D had a few empty office spaces but most were filled by dentists, urologists, investment advisers, a jeweler, an estate appraiser, a four-doctor cardiology practice, and three allergists.

John Gutcheon was at the downstairs reception desk, literally twiddling his thumbs. John was thin, blond, about thirty, and very openly gay. His sharp tongue was his sole protection from invaders of his life choice. His world was divided into those who accepted him and those who did not accept him.

I was on John’s good list, so I got fewer verbal barbs than a lot of Children’s Service parents, who usually sullenly and always suspiciously brought in the children they had been charged with abusing. He looked up at me and shook his head.

“That cap has got to go,” he said. “You are not a hat person and only real baseball players and gay men with a certain elan can get away with it. You look like an emaciated garbageman or, to be more socially correct, an anorexic sanitary engineer.”

“Good afternoon, John,” I said. “She’s expecting me.”

“Good afternoon,” he answered. “I’m glad you prepared her. Are you saving someone today or are you going to try to pry Sally away from her caseload for dinner? She could use the respite.”

“Both.”

“Good. I’ll sign you in.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s been drearily quiet here today,” he said, looking out the window at the cars in the parking lot. “I’m giving serious thought to moving.”

“Key West?” I asked.

John rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

“No,” he said. “Care to try for a second stereotype?”

“San Francisco,” I tried.

“You are a George Sanders-level cad, Fonesca,” he said. “Providence, Rhode Island, the city of my birth, the birth of my life which still puzzles my parents.”

“Providence,” I repeated.