Part 25 (2/2)
”What did he look like?” I asked the Asian woman.
She shook her head, shocked.
”A man, right?”
She shook her head yes.
”You'd recognize him again if you saw him?”
”No,” she said. ”I just saw the long metal part and a head behind it with some kind of hat. Then I-”
”He was white?”
She shook her head yes.
Francie was sitting on the floor with the little girl on her lap. The kid was still clutching her monster and eating her sandwich.
”You all right?” I asked.
”Yes,” Francie said. ”How many people did he...?”
”No one,” I said. ”He was only after me.”
”Why does he want to kill you?” she asked.
”It's a long story,” I said, looking at the little girl and asking, ”What's your name?”
”Alaska,” she said. ”Alaska Dreamer.”
The girl took another bite of sandwich.
”Pretty name,” I said.
”My mom's name. Dreamer. My grandmom's too. Not my dad's. He's in Ca.r.s.erated.”
Francie put an arm around her daughter, who smiled up at her, cheeks full of corned beef and chopped liver.
A police siren outside, coming fast. I looked at my laundry and decided to just forget it. My maternal grandmother would have said it was cursed. It had been with me both times I'd been shot at today. It was covered in shards of gla.s.s and the promise of a bad memory.
Some people had fled the Laundromat. One solitary man had gone back to smoking his cigar and waiting for his load to dry.
Then there were two uniformed policemen with rifles in their hands at front of the Laundromat and another two at the back.
”Hands, showing, up,” called one of the cops at the front door.
We showed our hands.
”Doesn't look like a hostage situation,” the cop who had shouted said to his partner. ”Anyone hurt?”
There was a mixed chorus of no's.
The cops came in slowly, carefully looking for places a raging maniac might hide.
Alaska was almost finished with the sandwich now, but she didn't stop eating. Her eyes moved between the two pairs of armed cops.
”Don't be afraid,” Francie said softly to the girl.
”It's like television,” Alaska said.
”Yes,” her mother said. ”It's like television.”
About ten minutes later I was seated in the office of Detective Etienne Viviase.
”We know one of two things about this guy,” Viviase said. ”Either he can't shoot worth a s.h.i.+t or he's trying to scare you out of Sarasota County.”
”Looks that way,” I said.
”Hoffmann?”
”He tried to bribe me twice to get me to stop trying to get Trasker out of his house.”
”He's trying to kill you because of Trasker?”
”Maybe.”
”And he killed Roberta Trasker to keep her from helping you get her husband out of his house?”
”Him or his man Stanley.”
”Just to get the Pa.s.s open?”
”Big money involved, remember?” I said.
”Big enough to murder? Doesn't sound like Hoffmann. You might want to get out of town for a while.”
”If it's Hoffmann, I'll be safe when the vote is over tonight,” I said.
”Any suggestions?” he asked, sitting back.
”Doc Obermeyer. But you'll have to get to him fast. Tomorrow will be too late. The vote will be over.”
”There's one other way we can go,” Viviase said. ”Roberta Trasker's dead, but if we can find William Trasker's next of kin and get him or her to-”
”Power of attorney,” I said.
”I'll see what I can do,” Viviase said with a sigh.
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