Part 32 (2/2)
”What happened here tonight?” he said. ”I mean, what really happened?”
”Someone's been shot at Kevin Hoffmann's house.”
”Who?” Rubin asked.
”A man named Stanley LaPrince,” I said.
”Is he dead?”
”He's dead,” I said.
”This have something to do with the vote here?”
”Might,” I said.
”Details?” asked Rubin.
”Ask the police,” I said.
”Thanks, Fonesca.”
He tapped his notebook with his pen, looked at Wilkens and Trasker, and I could see that he had decided that a murder in the home of a rich citizen was more important news than the aftermath of the outcome of a commission vote. Besides, he had his notes. He'd probably be up the rest of the night.
It was almost one in the morning when I got back to my office. The sky had cleared. The moon was full.
I had a breakfast in the morning I wasn't looking forward to.
15.
”SPANISH OMELET HERE is great,” said Kenneth Severtson Sr., digging into the Sat.u.r.day morning special at First Watch.
The place was bright, crowded, and noisy.
I had bacon and eggs. Janice Severtson, sitting next to her husband, was working on a ham-and-cheese omelet. All three of us had coffee.
Janice's hand rested on the table. Her husband touched it.
”How are the kids?” I asked, pouring myself a second cup of coffee.
”Fine,” Janice said with a solemn smile. ”My sister flew down from Charleston yesterday to help out. She's watching them.”
”How do we thank you, Mr. Fonesca?” Severtson asked.
”You said you had a bonus,” I said.
”Name it,” said Severtson.
”One thousand, cash,” I said. ”You have it with you?”
”One thou-No, but I think I have about four hundred. I stopped at the bank yesterday. Janice, you have any cash?”
She reached for her purse on the bench next to her, found her wallet, and came up with almost two hundred. Between the two of them they came up with a little over six hundred dollars.
”I'll settle for that,” I said, accepting Ken and Janice's money across the table.
”I can get the rest on Monday or from an ATM if you really need it soon,” Severtson said.
”No,” I said, pocketing the cash. ”This will do it.”
”Is there anything else we can do for you? We owe you so much,” Janice said, squeezing her husband's hand.
”Three things,” I said, drinking some more coffee.
”Name them,” said Ken.
”First, stop shooting at me.”
No one spoke. A woman at the table behind us said to whoever was sitting with her, ”Who knows about Virginia? She blows hot and cold. Today's a cold day. Don't ask.”
”What?” asked Severtson.
”Stop shooting at me,” I said. ”Trying to kill me. You know. Midnight Pa.s.s. The Laundromat.”
”You're crazy,” said Severtson.
”Extremely depressed,” I said. ”Close to suicidal a few times, but my therapist a.s.sures me I'm not psychotic. Dealing with people like you can bring me close to the line, but then there are people who can pull me back.”
”Why would I want to kill you?” asked Ken Severtson with a laugh, looking at his wife, who wasn't laughing.
”Because you know I've been asking questions about you and Stark, that I'd found out he has a two-million-dollar insurance policy with you as beneficiary and that the business, which grossed over a million and a half last year, is all yours now. It wasn't hard to find.”
”This is crazy,” Severtson said.
I wasn't looking at him anymore. I was looking at his wife. She wouldn't meet my eyes.
”When you knocked at my door in Orlando,” I said. ”You told me you knew who I was because you called some friends in Sarasota who knew me. Then you said your husband must have hired me.”
Janice Severtson didn't look up.
”Who did you call at three in the morning who knows me?” I asked.
She didn't answer.
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