“The bullet that killed Bernard Corsello,” I said.
“Good guess,” said Viviase. “Want to make some more?”
“I don’t think I’ll be so friendly with the EZ Economy Car Rental Agency boys from now on.”
“They called in when they saw the bullet hole in the seat,” Viviase said. “Good citizens.”
“A couple of frightened men with a marginal business,” I said.
“All true,” said Viviase. “Now, why would the person who killed Corsello want to take a shot at you?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Let’s take a guess or two. By the way, that’s a nice shell. You don’t find many of them that color in that condition. My guess on who took the shot and why? You asked the wrong question to the wrong person, the person who killed Corsello, so he, she, or it decided to take a shot at you.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“I didn’t check this morning, but I don’t think you got a private investigator’s license in the last day or two or even applied for one.”
He finished his donut, slurring his last few words. Mickey was finished too.
“I was just asking questions for a friend,” I said.
“No idea who took a shot at you?”
I had a few ideas, but I didn’t want to share them with the police, so I said, “No.”
“Think they were trying to kill you or scare you?” he asked.
“I think they would have been happy either way.”
Viviase suddenly turned to Mickey who had been watching and listening, detached, a little dreamy. Viviase woke him up.
“You have a gun?”
“No,” said Mickey, sitting up.
“Your father owns a nine-millimeter,” Viviase said. “Hell, he owns four of them. One of them is missing.”
“Dad gets a little… confused sometimes. You know what I mean. It could be someplace he put it and forgot.”
“For the sake of argument,” said Viviase, now finishing his coffee, “let’s say coincidence suggests that someone took that nine-millimeter, shot your grandfather, and took a shot at Mr. Fonesca here. That make sense to you?”
“I didn’t take the gun,” Mickey said. “I don’t like guns. I don’t like dogs. I don’t like my father.”
“But,” Viviase said, “you like girls.”
“Yes,” said Mickey, looking at me, anticipating.
“Your father, in a moment of coherence, said you’ve been seeing a girl named Adele Hanford.”
I blinked my eyes to let Mickey know it was all right to answer the question. Viviase noted the exchange, folded his arms, and looked back at Mickey.
“I know Adele.”
“So do I,” said Viviase. “Smart girl.”
“Yes,” said Mickey.
“She doesn’t hate guns,” said the policeman, taking in both of us.
“I don’t know,” said Mickey.
“Who told you your grandfather was dead?”
“I…” Mickey looked at me again. It was close to time for a lawyer, but I blinked and he went on. “I don’t get along with my father. Nobody gets along with my father. But I’m the one who has to live with him. So I spend lots of time at my grandfather’s. I was going to spend the night. My father had his gun out, yelling at the old lady next door, talking to the dog. I don’t like the dog. He doesn’t like me. So, I went to my grandfather’s for the night and found him dead.”
“You were alone?” asked Viviase who turned to me and said, “Fonesca, if you blink, nod, even breathe, I book him on suspicion.”
Mickey looked confused but said, “I was alone. I found him, got scared, and ran. I knew he was dead. I thought… I thought maybe my father had killed him. They didn’t like each other. My father didn’t like my going to my grandfather’s.”
“They didn’t like each other,” Viviase repeated. “Can we escalate that to ‘hated each other’?”
“Esca… hate, yeah, I guess,” Mickey said. “But my father hates almost everybody.”
“And he has guns, your father?”
“Yes.”
“What would you say if I told you Adele’s fingerprints were all over your grandfather’s house, door, window, telephone?”
“Lawyer time,” I said.
Viviase looked at me and sighed.
“You want a lawyer? Why?”
“I think Mickey wants a lawyer,” I said.
“Why? I’m just asking questions. I haven’t accused him of a crime.”
“You didn’t have the time to check out all the fingerprints that must be in Corsello’s house. And given the size of your operation, I don’t think you checked the whole place.”
I knew, for certain, Adele’s fingerprints weren’t on the phone. I had wiped the phones clean. Viviase was bluffing.
“Adele wasn’t with me,” Mickey said.
“You want a lawyer?”
“You think I shot my grandfather?”
“No,” Viviase said. “But I’m a lousy judge of human character. I even like Fonesca. You’d be surprised at how many people I was sure were innocent turned out to be guilty and how many I was sure were guilty turned out innocent.”
“Are we finished?” I asked.
“Nope,” Viviase said, picking up his cup, remembering it was empty, and putting it down again. “We have more coincidences to talk about. Early this morning, one of our cars pulled over a car weaving all over Proctor. Driver was definitely DUI. The cop saw holes in the side of the van. He opened the van and found, guess what?”
“More nine-millimeter bullets,” I guessed.
“Want to know what they match?”
“The one in my car and the one that killed Corsello?”
“Good guess. Want to guess the DUI?”
“Florence Zink,” I said.
“Good. Let’s keep it up. You know, connect the dots. Corsello gets shot, someone shoots at you, pops Flo Zink’s car full of holes. All the same gun. What’s the common denominator here?”
I sat quietly and shrugged. Viviase looked at Mickey who probably didn’t know what a common denominator was.
“You miss the thirty-two-thousand-dollar question,” said Viviase. “The correct answer is Adele. Mickey’s girlfriend, Flo’s foster kid, your adopted delinquent. So, I ask you both, where is Adele?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Me either,” Mickey said.
“I’d really like to talk to her,” said Viviase. “The way it seems, and this is just speculation, a lot of people Adele knows have pissed her off and she’s going around shooting them.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“She go back on the streets? What?”
I shrugged.
“I do sort of like you, Lewie,” he said. “But it wouldn’t be hard to make you decide to leave Sarasota, or even leave Florida. I’d classify you as a petty annoyance but this business could move you up to major pain in the ass. You don’t want to be a pain in my ass. Not when I’m having a bad day.”
“I don’t, Etienne,” I said in response to his “Lewie.” “Can we go or…”
“You can go,” he said. “Not far. It might be easier, much easier if Adele just drops by to see me.”
“Where’s Flo?” I asked.
“In the tank,” said Viviase. “I talked to her. She asked me to find Adele. She also asked me to find Gus.”
“Gus?” asked Mickey.
“Flo’s husband,” I said. “She can find him in a grave in New Hampshire.”
“Want to see her?” asked Viviase.
“Yes,” I said.
He finally pushed himself away from the desk, took the bullet back, and let me keep the seashell.
“I’ll take care of it,” Viviase said. “Fonesca, she’s a tough old lady with bad taste in music. This is her second DUI in a week. If she doesn’t get sober and stay that way, she’s going to lose Adele. It might already be too late.”
I motioned for Mickey to rise with me.
“Thanks,” I said to Viviase.
“We’ll talk again soon,” he said, moving behind his desk, sitting down, and picking up the phone.
Mickey and I left the office and went into the hallway.
“What happened?” Mickey asked.
“He’s missing a piece and he wants Adele to fill it in,” I said.
“The stolen manuscripts?”
“Right. Walk back to my office. Wait for me there.”