Midnight Pass: A Lew Fonesca Novel (Lew Fonesca Novels) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

about five or six years ago.”
    “You said ‘William had’ business with Hoffmann.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “I suppose I’m…”
    “I understand. Mind if I call Hoffmann and ask him if he has some idea where your husband is?”
    “No,” she said. “I gather you haven’t gotten very far in finding William.”
    “One small step closer,” I said. “I’ll call you when I have more. You have his number, Hoffmann’s?”
    When I hung up I looked over at the Dalstrom painting on the wall, the deep dark jungle and darker mountains, the single touch of color in the flower.
    Then I dialed the number Roberta Trasker had given me. A man answered.
    “Mr. Hoffmann?”
    “Who’s calling?”
    “Lew Fonesca,” I said. “Mrs. Trasker give me this number.”
    “What do you want to speak to Mr. Hoffmann about?”
    “William Trasker,” I said.
    “What about Mr. Trasker?”
    “He’s missing,” I said. “I want to ask Mr. Hoffmann a few questions that might help me find him.”
    “You’re making this inquiry on behalf of Mrs. Trasker?”
    “Yes.”
    “You’re with the police?”
    “I’m not against them,” I said.
    I was tired. I wanted to go to a back booth at the Crisp Dollar Bill across the street, listen to the bartender’s tapes, eat a steak sandwich, drink an Amstel, get back in bed, and watch a videotape, something old, something black-and-white, something with William Powell.
    “May I have a noncryptic answer?” the man said.
    “I’m not a police officer.”
    “One moment.”
    The phone was placed down gently, and I looked at the painting on my wall while I waited. The jungle was inviting and I wanted to smell the orchid. I didn’t know if the orchid in the painting had a smell.
    “Mr. Hoffmann is busy. If you leave a number, he’ll get back to you tomorrow.”
    “Tell him I have a birthday present for him,” I said. “It can’t wait.”
    The phone went down again and this time a different man’s voice, a higher voice, said, “This is Kevin Hoffmann. And you are?”
    “Lew Fonesca.”
    “You told Stanley that you have a birthday present for me.”
    He sounded amused.
    “Yes.”
    “And you are looking for Bill Trasker?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you are representing…?”
    “Someone who wants to find Trasker.”
    “Come on over,” he said.
    He gave me the address.
    “I’ll be there in forty minutes.”
    I called the Herald-Tribune office and got a young reporter named John Rubin who maybe owed me a favor.
    “Midnight Pass,” I said.
    “I’m on a deadline,” Rubin said. “Call me back tomorrow, early afternoon.”
    “Two minutes,” I said.
    “Something in it for me?”
    “Might be,” I said.
    “Something big?”
    “A woman I know,” I said, thinking of Ann Horowitz, “says all size is relative. A hit-and-run on Webber might not be worth more than a paragraph on page ten unless the victim or the driver was someone with power, pelf, or notoriety.”
    “Pelf?” Rubin said with a laugh. “You’re a funny guy, Fonesca.”
    “I don’t try to be but I’m working on it, my shrink’s orders,” I said. “Midnight Pass.”
    “That’s your big story?” he asked. “Midnight Pass? I’m working on a double murder, guy goes nuts, stabs his wife with a screwdriver, batters her boyfriend with a foot stool, shoots himself with a speargun.”
    “A speargun?”
    “Yeah, and if you think that’s easy, try it some time.”
    “There are better ways to kill yourself.”
    “Much better, but they don’t make good stories. Any case, they’re dead, he’ll live. Midnight Pass, huh?”
    “There’s a vote on Friday on whether to start reopening it,” I said.
    “The vote will be to open it,” Rubin said. “If I count my votes right.”
    “Maybe you’re counting them wrong,” I said.
    “You know something,” he said, sounding interested.
    “You tell me something,” I said.
    “Okay,” said Rubin. “Pass started closing up when Casey Key drifted closer to