Part 16 (1/2)

”What now?” Ames asked.

”We call the police,” I said.

I found a phone in an office at the back of the house. I didn't think I should touch the one in the living room in case the killer had used it. The office smelled faintly of cigars, and it seemed to be the only room not a shrine to the memory of a Busby Berkeley 1930s musical. The furniture was all old wood and cracking brown leather.

I called the only cop I knew. He was in.

”Viviase,” he answered when they put me through.

”Fonesca,” I said.

”What now?” he said with a sigh. ”Try not to tell me you found a body.”

”I can try, but I'll fail. Roberta Trasker.”

”Wife of William Trasker?” he asked.

”Yes,” I said.

”You're going to tell me she's been murdered.”

”Yes,” I said. ”She lives on-”

”Big Spanish house on Indian Beach Drive,” he said. ”Been there. Don't touch anything. Just sit somewhere far away from her body and wait.”

He hung up.

”Might be a good idea for you not to be here when the police come,” I said to Ames, who stood, cowboy hat in hand, looking down at the dead woman the way Henry Fonda had in almost any John Ford movie he had been in.

”I'll stick around if it's all the same.”

”It's not,” I said. ”You've got a record. You killed a man. You're carrying a weapon. You're not supposed to. You'd be right at the top of the suspect list if they found you here.”

”Suit yourself,” he said.

”You can catch a SCAT bus on the Trail,” I said.

”I'll walk it,” he said.

”Sorry,” I said.

”We both are,” he answered, turning his eyes from the dead woman to the picture on the wall. ”Handsome woman.”

”I'll call you later,” I said.

”You know who did this?” Ames asked.

”Probably,” I said.

When Ames was out the front door, I did a quick search of the house. I found a gun in one of Trasker's desk drawers. It looked as if it had never been fired. I found letters, papers, and shelves full of books, most of them best-sellers going back twenty years. I couldn't bring myself to go through Roberta Trasker's clothes.

”What are you doing, Fonesca?” Viviase asked me as I stood with my back to the bedroom door.

”Wondering,” I said, not turning.

”About?”

”People,” I said, turning to face him. ”Why so many of them want to turn the world into-”

”s.h.i.+t,” Viviase finished. Viviase was a little over six feet tall, a little over two hundred and twenty pounds, a little past fifty, short dark hair and a big nose. It said, ”Detective Ed Viviase” on the door to his office, but his real name was Etienne. He had a wife, kids, and a reasonable sense of humor. He probably knew a cop joke I could use. I wasn't going to ask him.

”Come on,” he said, turning his back on me and walking into the hall. I could hear voices in the living room, knew that cops were taking pictures, being sure she was dead, trying not to contaminate the crime scene too much. I followed Viviase away from the living room and into William Trasker's office. He sat in the leather chair at the desk. I sat in an upright chair of black wood, tan leather, and arms.

”So, what happened?” he asked.

”I found the body,” I said. ”She was shot. She was dead. I called you.”

”What were you doing here?” he asked.

”William Trasker is missing,” I said. ”I was trying to find him.”

”William Trasker is not missing,” Viviase said. ”He's at Kevin Hoffmann's house. And you know it.”

He scratched the top of his head and looked up at me with his hands folded in his lap.

”I was getting to that,” I said.

”Hoffmann beat you to it,” said Viviase. ”His lawyer called us, complained about you threatening him.”

”And he told you Trasker was in Hoffmann's house.”

”Yes. Said he was too sick to move. Gave the name of the doctor on the case, said Trasker's wife, who now lies dead in the other room, knew all about it and approved. So, I have an important question.”

”Yes.”

”Why were you looking for William Trasker? And don't tell me it's privileged information. You're not a private investigator. You're a process server who gets himself involved in other peoples' business.”

”Sometimes,” I admitted.

”Sometimes? You've come up with five dead people in the last three years.”

”I don't want to get involved in other peoples' business,” I said. ”It just...”

”Happens,” he said. ”I know. So, my question?”

”Why was I looking for Trasker? For a friend.”