Stuart Kaminsky - Midnight Pass

Ames came in, standing tall and lean in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. The jeans were worn white in patches but clean and the shirt was a solid khaki that looked more than a little too warm for the weather. On his head was the battered cowboy hat he had putt-putted into town with three years ago. Once Ames must have been close to six-six. I figured age had brought him down a few inches. Age seemed to be the only thing that could bring Ames McKinney down.

“Have a seat,” I said.

Ames sat.

“How’ve you been?” I asked. “How’s Ed?”

Ed was Ed Fairing, owner of the Texas Bar and Grill and collector of antique guns that didn’t work, which were on display in the Grill, and the more modern kind, which were kept in a wall-sized cabinet in Ed’s office. Ed’s face was the color and texture of high-quality tan leather. His hair was clear, pure white and likely recently cut by himself or one of the four-dollar old-time places still trying to compete with First Choice and the other new chains and mens’ salons. Ed looked as if he had served shots of whiskey to Wyatt Earp and smiled when he poured a sarsaparilla for the rare teetotaler who wandered in. Ed, in fact, was from New Jersey and gave up a nine-to-five job in Manhattan to follow his dream of owning a saloon.

“Fine,” said Ames.

“Got something you can help me with,” I said.

“I’m here,” he reminded me.

“I’m looking for William Trasker, the county commissioner. You’ve heard of him?”

“Heard,” said Ames, taking off his hat and putting it on his lap the way his mother had taught him back when Hoover was president.

I filled him in on Trasker, Hoffmann, Hoffmann’s man Stanley, Reverend Wilkens, and Roberta Trasker.

“I make it clear?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Gun?”

He patted his brass belt buckle. It was about four inches across, had an embossed little gun on it and the letters “FA” over the word “Freedom Arms.”

Ames reached down with his right hand, clicked something on the buckle, and the embossed gun popped off the belt and into his hand.

“Five shots, 22 caliber, single-action. Stainless steel,” he said, holding up the weapon. “Uses black powder or Pyrodex. Accurate, deadly at close range.”

“Where did you get that?”

“Freedom Arms, Freedom, Wyoming. No federal forms or record keeping. Ed just charged it on his credit card and it came three days later.”

My plan was simple. Go to Roberta Trasker, try to find out why she had backed away from getting her husband away from Kevin Hoffmann, and get her to go with us to Hoffmann’s to get William Trasker out of there and, if necessary, to the hospital.

With Ames riding silent shotgun, I drove to the Spanish-style house with the turrets on Indian Beach Drive. A blue-black Mercedes was parked in the driveway. I pulled up next to it and we got out.

There was a smell of rain in the air and the clouds were starting to come darkly together.

I pushed the bell button next to the door, with Ames behind me. There was no answer. I kept pushing. I tried the door. It wasn’t locked. I opened it enough to peek in and call out.

“Mrs. Trasker?”

There was no answer. I thought for a few seconds and went in, calling out, “Mrs. Trasker? It’s me, Lew Fonesca. Your door was open. I need to talk to you about your-”

She was lying on the white tile floor, splats of blood on her neck and chest. One arm was straight out, the other at her side. She had her head turned. She looked very dead. She looked very beautiful.

I heard Ames behind me clicking his little. 22 off of his belt.

I knelt at her side to be sure of what I was already sure of. She was dead. She was also pale and cold.

“I know her from someplace,” Ames said.

“Claire Collins,” I said, nodding at the picture on the wall. “She was in the movies.”

I was still on my knees. I wanted to tell her that I’d never forget her in that one scene with Glenn Ford. I wanted to ask her who had killed her and I wanted her to answer me. I stood up.

“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-”

“Shit,” 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.