Stuart Kaminsky - Midnight Pass

“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 did 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.