“By who and for what?”
“By a Pine View student.”
“Who is nameless?”
“No, the student has a name,” he said with a laugh.
I couldn’t open my mouth fast enough to stop him from punching his friend.
“I’m a process server,” I said.
“You find people. You help people.”
I didn’t respond. He hadn’t really asked a question. I make enough money to live by serving papers for lawyers. I didn’t want more work. I didn’t want money in the bank. I wanted to be able to pick up my duffle bag, which was always partially packed, add a few things, and walk out the door.
“We can pay,” said Greg. “What’s your fee?”
Victor got up on his elbows and looked over at us. He was wearing a red sweatshirt that had a Chicago Bulls logo and the word “Bulls” on the front. The sleeves on the sweatshirt had been roughly cut off.
Something in my face told the two boys that I wasn’t interested.
“You can listen,” said Greg, starting to rise, changing his mind and sitting again. “Ten minutes.”
“Five minutes. What’s your problem?” I asked.
“Ronnie Gerall is in jail, juvenile. He’s seventeen. They say he murdered a crazy old man. He didn’t. The police aren’t even looking for anyone else.”
Winn Graeme adjusted his glasses again and glanced at Victor.
“Okay,” said Greg. “We want you to find someone-the person who killed Philip Horvecki.”
I had read about the murder of Philip Horvecki in the Herald-Tribune a few days before. He had been beaten to death in his home. Horvecki was one of the Sarasota super rich. Semi retired, he had earned his money in land development when the market was hot. He was involved in local politics and had run without success for everything from property appraiser and tax collector to city council, and his causes were many.
His latest cause was something called Bright Futures, a program to provide financial aid to high school students going to a Florida college or university. Horvecki wanted the program abolished. He didn’t want to pay for people’s college education. The argument that the program was paid for by the Florida lottery made no difference to Horvecki.
His second most recent and continuing cause involved Pine View School for the Gifted, a public school for high-IQ and high-achievement students who could test their way in. Pine View was consistently ranked in the top ten high schools in the United States. That didn’t matter to Horvecki, who thought taxpayers shouldn’t have to pay for elitist education. He wanted to turn Pine View into an open-admissions high school like the others in the county. For this position he had a lot of support.
All of this was in the article I had read. I remembered having the feeling that more was going on.
“Ronnie didn’t do it,” said Greg, looking around the room as if he had lost something or someone.
“He was found over the body covered in blood,” I said.
“Circumstantial,” said Greg.
“He was there to fight with Horvecki about his Pine View and Bright Futures positions,” I said.
“Ronnie’s got a temper I admit,” said Greg. “But he’s not a killer.”
I looked at Winn whose accent was more pronounced now as he said, “Ronnie’s not a killer.”
“Winn’s from Australia,” Greg said with something that sounded like pride at having an exotic trophy at his side.
“He was Australian thirteen-and-under golf champ before he moved here with his mom two years ago. Winn’s a state runner-up in golf. Winn’s also on the soccer and basketball teams at Sarasota High. Pine View doesn’t have sports teams. Tell him.”
I wasn’t sure how Winn Graeme’s athletic achievements qualified him to determine that Ronnie Gerall was not a killer.
“We have a rowing team,” Winn said. “And cross-country.”
Greg started to laugh again. He held up his fist and was stopped by the hoarse morning voice of Victor Woo saying, “Do not punch him again.”
“Victor doesn’t like violence,” I said.
“How did he kill your wife?” asked Greg.
“Hit-and-run,” I said.
“Tapping each other’s just a joke with my friend,” said Greg to Victor. “It’s a joke. Don’t be lame.”
Victor was on his knees now, palms on his thighs. He was wearing purple Northwestern University sweatpants. They didn’t come close to being compatible with his Bulls shirt.
“Nonviolent hit-and-run Buddhist, right?” asked Greg. “Do you know there are an estimated seven million Buddhists in China?”
Victor was on his bare feet now, touching his face to find out if he could go another day without shaving. He didn’t answer Greg Legerman, who turned to me and said, “Well, will you take the job?”
“You haven’t told me who you want to find.”
“Horvecki’s daughter,” said Winn. “She was a witness. Ronnie says she was there when he died. Now she’s missing. Or find who killed Horvecki, or both. Charge double.”
“No,” I said.
“You haven’t heard what happened,” said Greg.
“I don’t care. I’m sorry.”
Greg looked at me, stood up, went behind his chair, and rocked it slightly. He was a short, reasonably solid kid.
“You don’t look sorry,” Greg said.
“I don’t need the work,” I said.
“We need the help,” Greg said.
Nothing he said had turned it for me, but something happened that made me open the door at least a little.
“Let’s go, Greg,” said Winn. “The man has integrity. I like him.”
Greg was shaking his head “no.” Victor walked behind the two boys and headed out the front door. He was almost certainly headed to the washroom at the end of the outdoor second-floor concrete landing. Either that or he was headed back to Chicago barefoot. It would not have surprised me.
“Wait,” Greg said, shrugging off the hand that his friend had put around his bicep.
In style and size, the two boys were a study in contrast. Greg was short, compact, and slightly plump; Winn tall, lean, and muscular.
Earlier that morning, I had bicycled over, shaved, and washed at the Downtown YMCA on Main Street. I had brushed my teeth, too, and looked at my sad, clearly Italian face.
“How old is Horvecki’s daughter?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Greg said, looking at his friend for the answer, but Winn didn’t know either.
“What’s her name?”
“Rachel,” said Winn.
“You have a car?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Greg.
“You know where Sarasota News and Books is?”
“Yes.”
“We drive over there, you get me two coffees and two biscotti to go, and I listen to your story.”
“Fair enough,” said Greg. “What about Victor?”
“He knows I’ll be back. I need to know who told you about me. I don’t have a private investigator’s license.”
“Viviase,” said Winn.
“Ettiene Viviase, the policeman?”
“No,” said Greg. “Elisabeth Viviase, the freshman daughter of the policeman.”
Sarasota News and Books wasn’t crowded, but there were people dawdling over coffee at four of the six tables on the coffee house side of the shop. A few others roamed the shelves of firmly packed rows of books and
