“It’s your dream, Dave.”
“Think about it,” he said.
There were customers behind me, a pair of old women.
“I will,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t as I stepped away and headed for Detective Ed Viviase.
6
The door to Viviase’s office was open. His name was Etienne. No one called him Etienne, not, according to him, even his wife. He was Ed. That’s what it said on the small plaque on his desk: “Detective Ed Viviase.”
The last time I had been in the office, there were scaffolds against two walls that were going to be painted the same shade of detective brown as the other two. This time there was no scaffolding, just a large office with very little furniture, three metal desks, a couple of chairs, and a line of file cabinets. Each desk held a computer and stacks of papers and reports threatening to tumble or already tumbled.
Viviase was the only detective in the room. I guess he had seniority. He was closest to the window in the room.
“Lewis,” he said, shaking his head as he looked up at me from behind his desk over the glasses perched on the end of his ample nose.
It was getting to be our regular routine.
Viviase was a little under six feet tall, a little over fifty years old, and a little over two hundred twenty pounds. His hair was short, dark, and his face was that of a man filled with sympathy, the smooth pink face of a man whose genes were good and who probably didn’t drink. He was wearing a rumpled sports jacket and a red tie. He looked like a policeman, a cup of coffee in front of him, an already tired look on his face though it was a little before ten in the morning.
I knew he had a wife, kids, worries about his older daughter’s tuition and bills at the University of Florida, and an inability to resist carbohydrate intake. Ergo, the oversized chocolate-filled croissant on a napkin next to his coffee cup.
“Have a seat,” he said. “We’ll play a game.”
I sat across from him. He held up his cup, wanting to know if I’d like some coffee. I had drunk some of the coffee from the machine down the hall once before. The pain had been bearable.
“Okay,” said Viviase, “let’s play.” He took a long drink of coffee making a face that suggested he was ingesting prison-made whiskey. “I describe two men. You tell me if they resemble anyone you know.”
I nodded.
“One man is short, on the thin side, balding, looks like his pet turtle just got mashed on McIntosh Road. With him is a tall old man, denim, flannel, maybe even cowboy boots. Old man stands tall, looks like a cowboy.”
I shrugged.
“You want to use a life line? Call a friend who might have an idea?” he asked.
“It sounds like me and Ames,” I said.
“That your final answer?”
“Sounds like me and Ames.”
“Then,” he said, looking at his coffee and donut and settling on a bite of donut, “that would place the two of you at the home of a man who was murdered last night. Man’s name was Corsello, Bernard Corsello, sixty-nine, retired shoe salesman from Utica.”
“Someone said Ames and I killed this Corsello?”
“No,” Viviase said with a shake of his head and a cheek full of croissant. “Three kids driving by Corsello’s house said they saw two men go up to Corsello’s door. They were on bikes. The kids, not the men. When they drove past the house about five minutes later, they saw two white men fitting yours and Ames McKinney’s description getting into a white car, an old white car with a blue top. You renting a car, Lewis?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Happen to be white with a blue top?”
“Yes.”
He swiveled his chair, took off his glasses, and looked out the window. His back to me now he said, “Corsello was shot, bam, once, right through the stomach, tore a hole in his heart. Bullet dug its way through his back into the hallway wall. Shaeffer hasn’t had much time but he thinks it’s a nine-millimeter from a Glock. Nice gun, the Glock. Costs a lot but you get your money’s worth. Lightweight, easy to shoot, no kickback, almost indestructible. Know anyone with a gun like that?”
“No,” I said.
“If your friend Ames were to carry a weapon, what would you guess it would be?” Viviase swiveled back to face me and adjusted his glasses. His right hand reached for the donut and then clasped his left instead. He began tapping his thumbs together.
“Ames isn’t allowed to carry a gun,” I said.
“I know. I said ‘if,’” Viviase reminded me.
“Something old, heavy, noisy, reliable,” I said.
Viviase shook his head.
“What did you find in Corsello’s house?” he asked.
“I wasn’t at Corsello’s house,” I said. “It was another tall cowboy and short Italian.”
He unclenched his hands and downed more coffee.
“Maybe this will help,” he said. “We know you didn’t kill Corsello, at least not the time the kids saw you. He’d been dead for hours. But you were in there with the body for at least five minutes.”
“No,” I said.
“Lewie, don’t make me bring those kids in here for a lineup,” he said. “Waste my time, your time. And I don’t like one of the kids. Smart mouth. X-rated mouth. Seen too many movies with that black guy, what’s his name, Martin Lawrence.”
“We knocked,” I said. “The door was open.”
“Progress,” Viviase said with a very false smile, reaching for his coffee. “Go on.”
“We went in, found him dead. Got out and I called nine-one-one.”
“Didn’t leave your name,” Viviase said. “Tape sounds like someone doing a bad imitation of Rex Harrison.”
“James Mason,” I said.
“You left the scene of a crime, a homicide.”
“I panicked. I called the police,” I said.
Viviase was shaking his head now. When he stopped, he adjusted his glasses and said, “Why were you there? What were you looking for in his house? What did you find?”
Viviase was well acquainted with Adele, former child prostitute, abused daughter, suspect in a murder. He knew Adele lived with Flo now. He knew a lot but he wasn’t going to get anything more from me.
“He called me,” I lied. Lying is no problem for me. I have a good memory. It takes a good memory to be a successful liar.
“Why?” Viviase asked, sitting back with his hands behind his head in an I-know-you’re-lying pose.
“Don’t know, just asked me to come over about six.”
“When did he call?”
“Morning,” I said to give myself as much room as possible to be sure he hadn’t died before my created phone call. “Early morning.”
“Why would he ask a depressed process server to come to his house?” Viviase asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Why did you agree to see him?”
“He said it was important.”
“What did you find in those five or ten minutes you and McKinney were alone in the house?”
“We weren’t in there four or five or ten minutes,” I said. “Maybe two minutes to be sure he was dead and another minute to be sure the killer or someone else wasn’t still in the house.”
“Michael Merrymen,” he said. “Recognize the name?”
“Ames and I went to see him yesterday,” I said. “What does he have to do…”
“He’s the dead man’s son-in-law,” explained Viviase. “See this file?”
He held up a green folder about two inches thick with papers creeping out. “Michael Merrymen is a lunatic. He has sued and been sued by some of the best and worst people in Sarasota. He has threatened bodily harm, frightened children, and is suspected of destroying the lawns, automobiles, vegetation, and small animals of neighbors. So, question three. Why did you go see Merrymen? He says you did. You and Ames and that Ames almost killed his dog with a baseball bat.”
“You said the man’s crazy,” I said.
“Crazy, not blind. The dog’s almost dead.”
“Why does Merrymen say we were there?” I asked innocently.
“To spy on him for his neighbors. He claims you represented yourselves as police officers.”
It was getting deep now. I almost considered asking for a cup of coffee, but I wasn’t that desperate yet.