“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 Pass,” I said.
“I’m on a deadline,” Rubin said. “Call me back tomorrow, early afternoon.”
“Two minutes,” I said.
“Something in it for me?”
“Might be,” I said.
“Something big?”
“A woman I know,” I said, thinking of Ann Horowitz, “says all size is relative. A hit-and-run on Webber might not be worth more than a paragraph on page ten unless the victim or the driver was someone with power, pelf, or notoriety.”
“Pelf?” Rubin said with a laugh. “You’re a funny guy, Fonesca.”
“I don’t try to be but I’m working on it, my shrink’s orders,” I said. “Midnight Pass.”
“That’s your big story?” he asked. “Midnight Pass? I’m working on a double murder, guy goes nuts, stabs his wife with a screwdriver, batters her boyfriend with a foot stool, shoots himself with a speargun.”
“A speargun?”
“Yeah, and if you think that’s easy, try it some time.”
“There are better ways to kill yourself.”
“Much better, but they don’t make good stories. Any case, they’re dead, he’ll live. Midnight Pass, huh?”
“There’s a vote on Friday on whether to start reopening it,” I said.
“The vote will be to open it,” Rubin said. “If I count my votes right.”
“Maybe you’re counting them wrong,” I said.
“You know something,” he said, sounding interested.
“You tell me something,” I said.
“Okay,” said Rubin. “Pass started closing up when Casey Key drifted closer to Siesta Key. In 1983 two property owners got permission from the county to fill in the Pass and reopen it a little bit south. They filled Midnight Pass and tried to open it a little south. It didn’t want to reopen. Two very small armies lined up across from each other, sometimes literally. One cried, Open the Pass for traffic and nature. The other cried, It was too expensive to open it and keep it open and nature was doing just fine without it.”
“And?”
“Both sides tried to line up environmentalist backing, but that hasn’t led to much. One pack of environmentalists didn’t like the fact that man and not nature had closed the Pass. That pack didn’t like the fact that the closing created a dark-watered and not always fragrant-smelling Little Sarasota Bay the Gulf waters couldn’t flush out.”
“And that is bad,” I said.
“Some say it was good, that nature was about to close the Pass anyway and will close it again if it is opened. New ecosystem for marine life, a rare Florida ecosystem they think makes it worth keeping the Pass closed. Then came the studies ordered by the county commissioners. Bottom line and a quarter of a million dollars later, the county was told it could reopen the Pass for five and a half million dollars and keep it open for another two hundred sixty thousand dollars a year.”
“The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers?” I prodded.
“Right, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers reviewed the study and weren’t all that happy with it. Now, before the commissioners can apply for state and federal money to open the Pass, there would have to be another study, a big one, estimated cost, one million plus.”
“And the commission is voting tomorrow on whether to have another study,” I said.
“And if they vote to have it, they’re pretty well locked in to going ahead with opening the Pass if the study says they should. And I think that’s just what the study will say if it’s approved. That answer your question?”
“Yes,” I said. “And who makes money on this?”
“Besides the company being paid for another study? Landowners. People with land in Little Sarasota Bay if the Pass opens. People with land on the Gulf Coast if it stays closed. But money’s not the only issue. A lot of people with plenty of time and money look for religions to invest their time, heart, and money in. Midnight Pass is nearly a religion for a lot of people in South County.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Welcome. So what do I look for?” he asked.
“Be at the commission meeting,” I said. “Stay till it’s over. Then you might want to interview one or two of the commissioners after the vote on the Pass is taken.”
“And the commissioners will talk to me about it? I mean talk and say something with shark teeth?”
“At least one will be quotable, possibly more.”
“You’re sure?”
“Since I have no reputation, I can’t stake mine on it. It won’t cost you anything but a few hours sleep.”
“I’ll be there,” Rubin said. “I gotta get back to my suicidal speargunner. You still smiling, Fonesca?”
“Always,” I said, and we hung up.
I put on my blue slacks, my only white shirt, and my only tie, blue-and-red striped. I put on blue socks and my ancient black Rockport shoes.
I was going to a party.
Hoffmann’s fortress was on the mainland opposite Bird Keys. The sun was just going down when I got there. I had stopped at Walgreen’s on Bahia Vista and Tamiami Trail to pick up Hoffmann’s present.
I parked next to the ten-foot-high brick wall. I could hear the surf somewhere in the distance behind the wall. The black steel gate was locked. I pressed the button in the wall to the right of the gate and waited. The gate opened a few seconds later. I walked up to the house on the inclined, cobble-paved driveway. The house, big, Spanish-looking, was on a small ridge, a few feet of added protection from rising bay water when a hurricane or gale storm hit.
The door was open. The man standing in it was a little over six feet tall, lean and well-muscled, a little younger than me. He was wearing dark slacks and a short-sleeved green polo shirt. He was also wearing glasses.
“Fonesca?” he asked.
“Stanley?” I responded, recognizing his voice.
He stepped back to let me in, closed the door, and led me into a gigantic living room with a long bar to the right and an open French door to the left, facing the water. A man stood with his back to me, looking out at the water. He was about my height but broad across the shoulders. His white hair flecked with black was cut short and glistened as if he had just gotten out of a shower or pool.
He turned. Kevin Hoffmann’s face was unlined, handsome. I had seen his picture in the Herald-Tribune. He looked even better in person. He was wearing white slacks and a short-sleeved New York Yankees shirt. On his feet were white deck shoes. No socks. I was overdressed.