Part 11 (2/2)
”I'm happy for him,” I said.
”You might want to give him a present,” she said, and told me why.
When I hung up with Dixie, I called Roberta Trasker. She answered after three rings.
”It's Lew Fonesca,” I said.
”You found William?”
”You know Kevin Hoffmann?”
The pause was long. I opened the phone book and searched the pages for Hoffmann's number while I waited. He wasn't listed.
”Yes,” she said. ”Socially. He and his wife, Sharon, and William had business with him. Sharon left him 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 Pa.s.s,” I said.
”I'm on a deadline,” Rubin said. ”Call me back tomorrow, early afternoon.”
”Two minutes,” I said.
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