Midnight Pass

9

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?”

“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.

Stanley looked at Hoffmann. Viviase turned to Hoffmann, who said, “With the support of some friends in the government and my persuasiveness, special dispensation was given after evidence was presented to show that Stanley was totally rehabilitated.”

“Mind if I have a doctor look at Trasker?” asked Viviase.

“Yes,” said Hoffmann. “I do. Bill Trasker and I have complete faith in Dr. Obermeyer.”

“Any other questions for me?” Stanley asked, picking up his book.

“Later,” said Viviase, letting Hoffmann lead us out of the room.

I was last. I glanced back at Stanley. When our eyes met, I felt cold. I was sure that was exactly what he was trying for.

“Anything else you’d like me to do?” Hoffmann asked.

“Get that lawyer we talked about,” said Viviase.

“I’ll do that. Normally, I’d offer you a drink or something I’ve baked. I was a chef for a few years, cordon bleu. Pastries are my specialty.”

We were walking down the stairs.

“I’m watching my weight,” Viviase said.

“And I am watching my back,” Hoffmann answered. “That’s why Stanley is in the house.”

“You have that many enemies?” asked Viviase.

“I have that many people who either consider themselves my enemies or want something I have and are willing to do foolish things to get it.”

There wasn’t much else to say to him, so Viviase and I went through the front door and headed down the driveway. Hoffmann stood in the doorway watching us.

“You believe that crap about his being a chef?” asked Viviase.

“No. You really think Ferlinghetti is crap?”

“No,” said Viviase. “I just don’t like smug, pretentious sociopaths like Stanley LaPrince.”

“They don’t like each other,” I said.

“Hoffmann and Stanley? You’re right,” Viviase said.

“Think you can get Trasker out of there?” I asked.

We went through the iron gate and it swung closed behind us.

“I’ll check with legal, but I don’t think so. I doubt if we can even get a doctor in there for a second opinion.”

“So there’s nothing you can do?”

I walked him to his car.

“I can check on Stanley LaPrince’s story, find out Kevin Hoffmann’s real name. I’m sure there’s a federal law against using someone else’s name and Social Security number even if you don’t profit from it.”

“Identity theft,” I said.

Viviase opened his car door.

“Something, but we’re a long way from getting Trasker out of there, definitely not by tomorrow for a commission meeting. Even if we did get him out, he’s not in any condition to vote. Hell, he’s not in any condition to drink a chocolate shake.”

“I guess not,” I said.

Before he closed the door, Viviase looked at me and said, “Fonesca, I don’t really care if he votes or doesn’t vote tomorrow. I’m looking for Roberta Trasker’s murderer and between you, me, and Derek Jeter, I think the killer is in that house.”

Viviase drove away.

I stood for a few seconds looking back at the house through the gate. The front door was closed now. I got in my car and waited. I waited over half an hour before Obermeyer came through the front door, got into his Lexus, and hummed down the driveway toward the gate, which opened for him.

He turned right. I followed him.

He drove north on Midnight Pass Road and made a right turn at Stickney Point. He pulled into the mall on his right just before Tamiami Trail, parked, and headed for a bar. I got out of my car after he went through the door and followed him.

There was no music coming from inside when I opened the door. There was a hockey game on the television over the bar. The sound wasn’t on. The place wasn’t full but it wasn’t doing badly.

I spotted Obermeyer. He was seated by himself in a booth toward the back near the rest-room sign. I found a seat on the other side of the room where I could watch him with no chance of his seeing me.

A waitress brought me a beer and a plate of nachos with salsa. I looked up at the television screen and watched two men on skates go after each other with wooden sticks. One of the men had a very bloody nose.

I had a beer and a half and two plates of nachos while Obermeyer had four drinks of something something dark and brown with no ice in the next forty minutes while he watched the hockey game. He watched, but I had the feeling he wasn’t seeing it. When he put the fourth drink down and looked as if he were trying to decide to go for number five, get up and drive home, or asked for a designated driver, I decided it was time. I took my almost flat second beer and moved over to sit across from Obermeyer, who looked up at me. I could see he was trying to place me.

“You were at Kevin’s,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I just stopped for a drink,” he said, as if there might be any other reason for being in a bar even if you did like nachos.

“Me too,” I said, holding up my glass to show him. “Trasker’s really sick,” I said somberly.

“Very sick,” Obermeyer agreed. “A very sick man. He’s lucky to have friend like Kevin.”

“Who needs enemies?” I said.

“What?”

“With a friend like Kevin Hoffmann, who needs enemies?” I explained.

“Oh,” said Obermeyer, finishing his drink. “You’re wrong.”

Obermeyer held his liquor well, but I wondered what his blood-alcohol level was. Something was bothering him. The man had needed a drink. The man had needed four drinks and he looked toward the bar as if he might be considering number five.

“Trasker is dying,” I said.

“Everybody is dying,” Obermeyer said with a knowing doctor’s smile. “It’s the one fact my profession has to accept as a certainty. All we can do, if we don’t screw up, is forestall the inevitable.”

“Some of us take more time dying than others,” I said. “Trasker…”

“Days, weeks, maybe even a month or more, but if I were one who bet on morbidity, I’d say he’s closer than a few days to the end.”

“He in pain?” I asked.

“Nothing we can’t control.”

“You mean shots?”

“We’ve got painkillers that could make you ignore a cannonball hole right through your stomach.”

“That doesn’t happen very often, though, does it? I mean a cannonball hole through someone’s stomach.”

He grinned and waved at the bartender, deciding another drink would be a very good idea.

“We’re in Sarasota, Florida,” Obermeyer said. “I’ve seen people who’ve lost their arms to sharks, had sunstroke that sent their temperature to one hundred and eight and survived, children hit by cars driven by ancient drivers who should have been declared legally blind.”

“So Trasker is sedated.”

“He is, to put it clinically, so far out of it that he can look back at the earth and see with clarity the floating eyeball of a corn snake.”

“Colorfully put,” I said.

“Thanks,” Obermeyer said, looking up to hurry his drink. “Stanley recite any poetry for you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Smug little prick,” said the doctor as his drink was delivered.

“So if Trasker wasn’t sedated, his pain could be handled with something, morphine maybe?”

“Maybe,” said Obermeyer.

He took a large sip.

“Normally, I don’t drink like this,” he said. “Normally, I drink a hell of a lot more when I’ve got something to drink about. But medical science is a wonderful thing. I’ve got a variety of options that keep me functional.”

A group of people at the bar groaned. I looked back over my shoulder. The television was flashing the score. The Tampa Bay Lightning were losing to Boston, four to one.

“So, if you took Trasker off of sedation and gave him a shot or two, maybe one of your options, he could walk around, talk?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” he said.

“But…” I began as he lifted his glass again and held up his free hand to stop me.

“I’m drunk,” he said. “I’m not a fool. Ask me now. Ask me in the morning. Ask me on the witness stand and I say I’m treating William Trasker properly. And given his condition, it would be the truth.”

“Kevin Hoffmann’s got a lot of money,” I said.

“One hell of a lot of money,” Obermeyer agreed, holding his glass and looking at the contents he swirled in a small circle. “And he gives it generously.”

“Any causes you’re particularly interested in?”

“A campaign to build a center for state-of-the-art treatment of heart disease near the airport,” he said. “A state-of-the-art center which I will have the honor of heading and for which I am already a leading candidate as first patient.”

I dropped a five-dollar bill on the table to cover my two drinks and tip and stood up.

“You understand?” Obermeyer asked, as if he really needed understanding for whatever he was doing for Hoffmann.

“I understand,” I said.

“I’ll tell you a secret, Mr…”

“Fonesca.”

“Mr. Fonesca. I’m really a good doctor, but that’s not what I was going to tell you. I’m a little overweight. I drink too much, have a slight cardiac problem, and I’ve got an arthritic knee but I could come close to shutting Kevin Hoffmann out every time we get on the court. He has no backhand. His forehand has no power and my nearsighted eight-year-old niece could return his serve. I have to cover for him in doubles to keep us in most matches and I have to do it without letting him know. Now that, Mr. Fonseca-”

“Fonesca.”

“Fonesca, sorry, that is hard work. Kevin Hoffmann is not the athlete he thinks he is and maybe, some day, when I think I have nothing left to lose, I’ll wipe his ass on the tennis court so badly that he’ll realize I’ve been kissing that ass for years and he…Enough.”

I left him and went back out to the parking lot.

Stanley, hands folded in front of him, stood in front of my rented Nissan, watching me.

“You read?” Stanley asked as I stopped in front of him.

There was traffic in the parking lot and the lights were bright.

“I’m basically literate,” I said. “But I prefer old movies.”

“Never could get into movies,” Stanley said, adjusting his glasses. “Books? You can lose yourself in a poem, in a book, go to another space, time, world, a place better or worse than the one we’re in, but definitely far from it.”

“Kevin Hoffmann a reader?”

“A patron of the arts,” Stanley said. “Theater, opera, symphony, ballet.”

“And baseball.”

“And baseball,” Stanley agreed. “Dr. Obermeyer drinks a little.”

“Dr. Obermeyer drinks a lot,” I said.

“And when he drinks he talks.”

“He talks,” I agreed.

“Mr. Hoffmann would prefer that you not talk to Dr. Obermeyer.”

“I can appreciate that.”

“Mr. Hoffmann will be upset if you talk to Dr. Obermeyer again.”

“Upset?”

“‘Who wills to know what weal awaits him, must first learn the ill that God for him hath wrought.’ Benvenuto Cellini wrote that in his autobiography.”

“And it means?”

“Simply put,” Stanley said, “if you talk to the doctor again, you’ll discover something bad waiting for you.”

There really wasn’t much more to say.

Stanley walked toward the bar. I had the feeling Dr. Obermeyer was about to have a new drinking partner. I wondered what Stanley’s drink of choice might be. I guessed Diet Sprite.