“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.
“We were looking for Merrymen’s son,” I said.
Viviase slapped the desk with both hands. The coffee cup, croissant remnant, and piles of paper jumped.
“Progress. Fill in.”
“Merrymen made no sense. He didn’t know where his son was.”
“Why were you looking for his son?”
“I think he can help me track down someone I have papers to serve on.”
“Who?”
“Can’t divulge,” I said.
“How does contempt sound to you?”
“Like a word I’ve heard a lot.”
“So, you get a call from the dead guy in the morning…”
“He was alive when he called,” I corrected.
“I stand corrected. You get a call to come to his house at six. Doesn’t say why. Then you go to Michael Merry-men’s house to look for his son Mickey. No Mickey. So, in a coincidence that rivals walking into your dear departed wife on a small street corner in Budapest, you go to the house of the grandfather of the very Mickey Merrymen you’re looking for.”
“A man in Hint, Michigan, got killed by frozen human waste that fell from an airplane last week,” I said. “He was a hard hat at a construction site. Took the hat off for an instant to wipe his brow and…”
“Very enlightening,” Viviase said. “Let’s say the kid you’re looking for, Mickey Merrymen, lived most of the time in his grandfather’s house. Let’s say maybe he has inherited some of his father’s tendency toward out-of- control lunacy. Let’s say he shot his grandfather, took his money, whatever there was of it, and ran. Let’s say the kid you’re looking for is our prime suspect.”
“I’m not after him,” I said. “I’m after someone he knows.”
