“What were they trying to steal?”
“What do thieves try to steal?” Hoffmann said with some exasperation. “Money, jewelry, electronic equipment, maybe my baseball collection, and the house is filled with antiques.”
It was Viviase’s turn to nod.
“Enemies, Mr. Hoffmann?”
“Detective, I am a philanthropic son of a bitch,” he said. “The philanthropic part of me gets me awards. The walls of my den are covered with them. Sarasota’s charities love me. I’m invited to everything. I speak with passion and conviction about the plight of the homeless, the parentless, the children suffering from diseases both known and obscure, women who’ve been abused and Habitat for Humanity.”
“You’re a saint,” I said.
“No,” said Hoffmann. “I’m really the son of a bitch who undercuts business on deals and uses his connections among what passes for high society to obtain what I want. I like money. I like power. But I love baseball.”
Viviase was clearly unimpressed. He turned back to Stanley.
“You have a record?”
“Four years, Folsom,” said Stanley.
“What did you do?”
“I read.”
“What did you do that got you those four years?” Viviase asked. “Overdue library books?”
“I almost killed a man,” Stanley said evenly. “We had a political disagreement in a friend’s house.”
“Political disagreement?”
“Over drugs,” said Stanley. “Neither one of us wanted them legalized, but for different reasons. Mine were libertarian. His were personal and economic.”
“I don’t care for your sense of humor, Mr. LaPrince,” Viviase said.
“I don’t think I have one,” Stanley said.
“How did an ex-con get a license to carry firearms?” the detective asked.
Stanley looked at Hoffmann. Viviase turned to Hoffmann, who said, “With the support of some friends in the government and my persuasiveness, special dispensation was given after evidence was presented to show that Stanley was totally rehabilitated.”
“Mind if I have a doctor look at Trasker?” asked Viviase.
“Yes,” said Hoffmann. “I do. Bill Trasker and I have complete faith in Dr. Obermeyer.”
“Any other questions for me?” Stanley asked, picking up his book.
“Later,” said Viviase, letting Hoffmann lead us out of the room.
I was last. I glanced back at Stanley. When our eyes met, I felt cold. I was sure that was exactly what he was trying for.
“Anything else you’d like me to do?” Hoffmann asked.
“Get that lawyer we talked about,” said Viviase.
“I’ll do that. Normally, I’d offer you a drink or something I’ve baked. I was a chef for a few years, cordon bleu. Pastries are my specialty.”
We were walking down the stairs.
“I’m watching my weight,” Viviase said.
“And I am watching my back,” Hoffmann answered. “That’s why Stanley is in the house.”
“You have that many enemies?” asked Viviase.
“I have that many people who either consider themselves my enemies or want something I have and are willing to do foolish things to get it.”
There wasn’t much else to say to him, so Viviase and I went through the front door and headed down the driveway. Hoffmann stood in the doorway watching us.
“You believe that crap about his being a chef?” asked Viviase.
“No. You really think Ferlinghetti is crap?”
“No,” said Viviase. “I just don’t like smug, pretentious sociopaths like Stanley LaPrince.”
“They don’t like each other,” I said.
“Hoffmann and Stanley? You’re right,” Viviase said.
“Think you can get Trasker out of there?” I asked.
We went through the iron gate and it swung closed behind us.
“I’ll check with legal, but I don’t think so. I doubt if we can even get a doctor in there for a second opinion.”
“So there’s nothing you can do?”
I walked him to his car.
“I can check on Stanley LaPrince’s story, find out Kevin Hoffmann’s real name. I’m sure there’s a federal law against using someone else’s name and Social Security number even if you don’t profit from it.”
“Identity theft,” I said.
Viviase opened his car door.
“Something, but we’re a long way from getting Trasker out of there, definitely not by tomorrow for a commission meeting. Even if we did get him out, he’s not in any condition to vote. Hell, he’s not in any condition to drink a chocolate shake.”
“I guess not,” I said.
Before he closed the door, Viviase looked at me and said, “Fonesca, I don’t really care if he votes or doesn’t vote tomorrow. I’m looking for Roberta Trasker’s murderer and between you, me, and Derek Jeter, I think the killer is in that house.”
Viviase drove away.
I stood for a few seconds looking back at the house through the gate. The front door was closed now. I got in my car and waited. I waited over half an hour before Obermeyer came through the front door, got into his Lexus, and hummed down the driveway toward the gate, which opened for him.
He turned right. I followed him.
He drove north on Midnight Pass Road and made a right turn at Stickney Point. He pulled into the mall on his right just before Tamiami Trail, parked, and headed for a bar. I got out of my car after he went through the door and followed him.
There was no music coming from inside when I opened the door. There was a hockey game on the television over the bar. The sound wasn’t on. The place wasn’t full but it wasn’t doing badly.
I spotted Obermeyer. He was seated by himself in a booth toward the back near the rest-room sign. I found a seat on the other side of the room where I could watch him with no chance of his seeing me.
A waitress brought me a beer and a plate of nachos with salsa. I looked up at the television screen and watched two men on skates go after each other with wooden sticks. One of the men had a very bloody nose.
I had a beer and a half and two plates of nachos while Obermeyer had four drinks of something something dark and brown with no ice in the next forty minutes while he watched the hockey game. He watched, but I had the feeling he wasn’t seeing it. When he put the fourth drink down and looked as if he were trying to decide to go for number five, get up and drive home, or asked for a designated driver, I decided it was time. I took my almost flat second beer and moved over to sit across from Obermeyer, who looked up at me. I could see he was trying to place me.
“You were at Kevin’s,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I just stopped for a drink,” he said, as if there might be any other reason for being in a bar even if you did like nachos.
“Me too,” I said, holding up my glass to show him. “Trasker’s really sick,” I said somberly.
“Very sick,” Obermeyer agreed. “A very sick man. He’s lucky to have friend like Kevin.”
“Who needs enemies?” I said.
“What?”
“With a friend like Kevin Hoffmann, who needs enemies?” I explained.
“Oh,” said Obermeyer, finishing his drink. “You’re wrong.”
Obermeyer held his liquor well, but I wondered what his blood-alcohol level was. Something was bothering him. The man had needed a drink. The man had needed four drinks and he looked toward the bar as if he might be considering number five.
“Trasker is dying,” I said.
“Everybody is dying,” Obermeyer said with a knowing doctor’s smile. “It’s the one fact my profession has to accept as a certainty. All we can do, if we don’t screw up, is forestall the inevitable.”
“Some of us take more time dying than others,” I said. “Trasker…”
“Days, weeks, maybe even a month or more, but if I were one who bet on morbidity, I’d say he’s closer than a few days to the end.”
“He in pain?” I asked.
“Nothing we can’t control.”
“You mean shots?”
“We’ve got painkillers that could make you ignore a cannonball hole right through your stomach.”
“That doesn’t happen very often, though, does it? I mean a cannonball hole through someone’s stomach.”