Stuart Kaminsky - Midnight Pass

“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.”

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?”