Midnight Pass: A Lew Fonesca Novel (Lew Fonesca Novels) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online Page B

felt the blast of water on my back. She had turned the hose on me.
    I hurried out of range and got in my car. She was advancing across the lawn with her hose aimed in my direction. She had adjusted the stream on the nozzle so that the rainbow was gone and a long thin snake of water spat toward me.
    I pulled away from the curb, being careful not to hit anybody who might be walking in the street.
    My pants weren’t too bad, but my shirt was drenched. I pulled into the Gulf Gate parking lot and went into Old Navy, where I bought a blue pullover shirt that went with my pants.
    I had one more set of papers to serve. I’d worry about them later.

4
    NOW, AS I PULLED into the driveway of the Traskers’ house, I was thinking about the kids in the photograph Severtson had shown me.
    The house was big, new, Spanish-looking, with turrets and narrow windows. It was on the water at Indian Beach Drive, not far from the Ringling Museum of Art and the Asolo Performing Arts Center. I’ve seen the outside of both, never felt the urge to go in the first and look at paintings in the second.
    I rang the doorbell and waited. In about a minute, the door opened and I found myself facing Roberta Trasker.
    Flo could have done a better job of describing her, but Flo was a woman and saw her through a woman’s eyes. I was looking at her through my eyes, which might be even less reliable.
    Roberta Trasker was probably well into her sixties and maybe she looked it, but she was the best-looking sixty-plus grandmother I had ever seen. She was model slender, wearing tight black jeans and a silky white short-sleeved blouse. Her face was unlined and beautiful. She reminded me a little of Linda Darnell, except Roberta Trasker had short, straight, gleaming white hair. Plastic surgery was possible but I couldn’t detect it.
    “Who’re you?” she asked.
    “Lew Fonesca,” I said. “Flo Zink called a little while ago.”
    “What do you want?”
    “To come in and talk,” I said.
    “About what?”
    “Your husband,” I said.
    “I recognize your voice,” she said. “You called a few hours ago.”
    “I did.”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Fonseca…”
    “Fonesca,” I said. “Lots of people make that mistake.”
    “That must be annoying,” she said, now playing with a simple silver band around a slender wrist.
    “Depends on who makes the mistake.”
    “Did I annoy you?”
    “Yes,” I said. “Not because you got my name wrong but because you did it intentionally. But I’m used to that, too.”
    She looked at me with her head cocked to one side. I was being examined to see how much if any of her precious time I was worth.
    “My husband is out of town on business,” she said.
    I could hear that hint of emotion in her voice, the same hint Flo and I had heard on the phone.
    “Your husband is missing,” I said. “He is also very ill, too ill, from what I hear, to be traveling on business or pleasure.”
    “You are wasting my time, Mr. Fonesca,” she said, starting to close the door.
    “I’m here to help find him,” I said.
    “And you are…?”
    “By trade? A process server. I’m good at finding people. I can find your husband and I can do it quietly.”
    “And you want money,” she said.
    “No,” I answered. “I’ve got a client. I’m poor but honest.”
    “I can see that,” she said. “The poor part.”
    I was wearing my freshly washed black jeans, Cubs cap, and a yellow short-sleeved shirt with a collar and a little toucan embossed on the pocket. My socks were white and clean. So were my sneakers.
    “Take off your hat and come in,” she said after a long pause.
    I took off my cap and little smile lines showed in the corners of her mouth. I wasn’t sure what amused her, my receding hairline or the total picture of a less than threatening, poorly dressed creature.
    I stepped in and she shut the door. We were in a massive living room. The floors were cool, tavertine marble. The place was furnished like something out of