Denial: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels) by Stuart M. Kaminsky

see:

    Richard McClory, the dead boy’s father
Yolanda Root, the dead boy’s half sister
Andrew Goines, the dead boy’s best friend
The four people who had been released from the Seaside Assisted Living Facility the night Dorothy Cgnozic had seen someone murdered

    I wanted to go back to bed.
    The phone rang.
    “Fonesca?”
    It was a woman. I recognized her voice. I closed my eyes, knowing what was coming.
    “Yes.”
    “Two today,” she said.
    “My lucky day.”
    The woman was Marie Knot. She was a lawyer. She was around fifty, black, no-nonsense face, thin and all business. I wanted to say no, but I couldn’t afford to lose her as a client. I was, according to the card with my picture on it in my wallet, a process server.
    “I’ll pick them up in a little while,” I said.
    “Need them served before five,” she said. “Shouldn’t be hard. I have addresses.”
    She hung up. My going rate was seventy-five dollars for each person served, regardless of how long it took or how much abuse I had to deal with.
    I made a few phone calls.
    Andrew Goines was in school. When I told his mother that I was working for Nancy Root, she said I could talk to her son when he got home at four.
    “I don’t really know Kyle’s mother,” she said. “Talked to her on the phone a few times. His father too. Kyle … Andrew could have been with him when it happened.”
    The familiar sound of a computer printer clacked on her end.
    “I work at home,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to get back online with a client.”
    “I’ll come by at four,” I said.
    “Mr … . ?”
    “Fonesca,” I said.
    “Hope you don’t mind, but I am going to call Nancy Root to verify that you’re working for her.”
    “You want her number?”
    “No, I’ve got it,” she said. “Got to run.”
    She hung up.
    I found the phone number of Elliott Maxwell Root in Bradenton. Sally had said Yolanda had been living with her grandparents. I called. The voice that answered was young, female.
    “Yolanda Root?” I asked.
    “Yeah.”
    Careful, slow, wary.
    “My name is Lew Fonesca. Your mother hired me to try to find out who killed your brother.”
    “What difference does it make?” she said. “He’s dead. We’re all dead or will be sooner or later.”
    “Can I talk to you about Kyle?”
    “Go ahead,” she said. “I’m waiting for a ride. When he comes, I say good-bye, private eye.”
    “I’m not a private detective,” I said. “I just find people.”
    “Interesting,” she said, making it clear that she didn’t find it interesting at all.
    “Can we talk in person?”
    “Sure.”
    “When?”
    “I’m between jobs, sort of,” she said. “I clerk a few hours at my grandfather’s hardware store on DeSoto near Fifty-seventh. I’ll be there between one and three.”
    “I’ll be there,” I said.
    I started to hang up but she said, “Wait.”
    “I’m here.”
    “What the fuck. Yeah, I’d like to know who killed Kyle. They could have stopped, called the police, given him first aid, something, instead of running away.”
    “Any idea who might want to hurt Kyle?”
    “Hurt? It was some drunk or some blind old lady or something,” she said. “Hit-and-run. Police said.”
    “We’ll talk at your grandfather’s,” I said.
    “Hey, if you—”
    I hung up.
    Richard McClory said I could meet him in half an hour at his office on Orange.
    I folded my list, tucked it in my back pocket, put on my Cubs cap, locked the door, went through the drive-thru at McDonald’s half a block away where 301 joins Tamiami Trail. I ate my Big Mac and drank my Diet Coke while I drove to Marie Knot’s office in the complex at the corner of Bee Ridge and Sawyer.
    I didn’t see Marie, just told the temp at the desk that I was Lew Fonesca. The girl was young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, round face, peach skin, long dark hair. She handed me an eight-by-ten envelope with my name on it and I was out the door checking my watch.
    When I pulled into