Part 6 (2/2)
”Midnight Pa.s.s,” she repeated, pursing her lips and looking at her portrait. ”Since he found out he was dying, my husband's interest in trampling people has turned to nearly sweet compa.s.sion, at least for him. That makes him less attractive to me than what the disease has done to his body. If he lives long enough, he might even decide to publicly declare every shady deal he's ever made, though I doubt if he'd go so far as to try to provide rest.i.tution. There are just too many he's wronged and not enough money to go around and leave me comfortable.”
”And you'll be comfortable?” I asked.
”Very,” she said. ”I like money. I like spending it and I love my husband.”
”Any idea of what happened to him?”
”I don't know,” she said, looking at me. ”Maybe he didn't want me to see him die. My husband used to be a big, powerful man. As I said, tough, ruthless. He would probably prefer that I remember him that way.”
”So you think...?”
”He is dead or in some hotel room or with some friend.”
”He didn't call you?”
”n.o.body called me,” she said, straightening her back as if she had just remembered that good posture was essential to a beautiful woman.
”Any suggestion about where I might start looking?”
”You can try the people at his office,” she said. The word ”people” came out with the suggestion that they were something less than what she considered real ”people.” ”I've called repeatedly. His secretary, Mrs. Free, says she has no idea where William is or might be.”
”Enemies?”
This time she did an Audrey Hepburn, narrow-shouldered, almost gamine shrug with a matching who-knows pursing of her lips.
”My husband is a politician and a contractor. Two occupations that make very few friends and very many enemies. You'd get a better sense of who his friends and enemies are from his secretary. If Bill is in a hotel or motel, she might even know that. I know he's not in any of the hospitals in Sarasota, Manatee, or any adjoining county.”
That was all I had to ask for the moment. I liked looking at her, but I was getting a little tired of standing.
”Thanks,” I said.
She got up.
”If you find him, you will let me know.”
She was touching my arm now, her eyes searching mine. I had the feeling that performance and persona were merging for a second.
”I'll let you know,” I said.
Outside the door in a blast of heat and humidity I put my cap back on. I knew where William Trasker's office was on Clark just east of Beneva on the south side of the street. I'd pa.s.sed the two-story white brick building dozens of times, and a few of those times the big red-on-white sign that said ”Trasker Construction” had managed to register.
I stopped at a phone booth outside of a 7-Eleven on Beneva and called Dixie at the coffee shop. The manager told me she had taken the day off.
”A cold, flu, tuchisitis, who knows,” he said. ”I'm up to my a.s.s in latte orders and I'm getting a migraine from the smokers. Good-bye.”
He hung up and I called Dixie at home. She answered after three rings. Her voice was hoa.r.s.e when she said, ”h.e.l.lo.”
”Me, Lew Fonesca.”
”Hi, Lew,” she said, the hoa.r.s.eness gone. ”I thought it was Creepy Cargroves, my boss.”
”You're okay?”
”Got a good freelance hacking job for a local merchant whose name and business are confidential. You know what I'm saying?”
”I know. Can you do a quick check for me? See if you can find William Trasker's trail. He's missing.”
”The County Commission guy?”
”That's the one.”
”He's been in the shop a few times. Last time about a week ago. Looked awful. Likes his coffee straight and black with something sweet.”
”He come in alone?”
”With something straight, black, and sweet,” she said.
”Know her name?”
A ma.s.sive truck whizzed by and I missed what Dixie said next.
”What was that?”
”Don't know her name, but she's always dressed for business.”
”Hooker?”
”Not that kind of business. Business business. Suits, serious shoes, white blouses, pearls, costume ones. I've got an eye. How long's he been missing?”
”About four days,” I said.
”I'll do the job for thirty bucks if I don't run into complications,” she said.
”How long?”
”No more than half an hour, if I don't run into complications.”
”I'll call back. Dixie, you know any good jokes?”
She told me one. I wrote it down in my notebook.
Twenty minutes later I was talking to a woman who was black, sweet, and dressed for business right down to the serious shoes and costume pearls.
Before I got to her, I had to get by the receptionist at Trasker Construction, who was well-groomed, late forties, early fifties, with a nice smile. She seemed like more than receptionist material when she deftly parried my lunging questions about Trasker. I figured her for a mom who was just rejoining the workforce and starting at the bottom.
She finally agreed to talk to Mr. Trasker's secretary, which she did while I listened to her side of the phone conversation. She handled it perfectly, saying a Mr. Fonesca wished to speak to her on a matter of some urgency regarding Mr. Trasker and that Mr. Fonesca would provide no further information. There was a pause during which I a.s.sumed Trasker's secretary asked if I looked like a badly dressed toon or acted like a lunatic. The receptionist cautiously said, ”I don't think so,” to cover herself.
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