“His father beat him in my office,” I said.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Viviase said, looking at Ames who was blankly looking at the house. “When was this?”
“Three hours ago, something like that. I can pin it down if you need it,” I said.
“You with him all the time?” asked Viviase. “I mean since the fight of the century in your office?”
“Ames and I have been with him all the time. Took him to Sarasota Memorial ER,” I said.
“So, all three of you can account for each other’s time for the last three hours or so.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Michael Merrymen was shot about an hour ago,” said Viviase. “Care to guess about the cause of death?”
“Bullet. Nine-millimeter. Matches the bullet that killed Mickey’s grandfather and someone shot at me,” I said.
“We’ll know in a few hours but that sounds about right to me. Merrymen’s nose was smashed and he had a few other signs of getting the shit kicked out of him. That happen in your office?”
“I did it,” said Ames. “He was beating the boy. I did what had to be done.”
“Okay,” said Viviase, rubbing his hands together and looking at the sun again. “Anyone know the UV level today? I forgot my sunscreen.”
None of us knew.
“Okay,” Viviase repeated. “Let’s get back to those coincidences. If you and I are right about the bullet and the gun and you show up here about an hour after Junior Merrymen’s unloved gets shot, I’ve got to ask once again, ‘What is going on here, Fonesca?’”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
“But you have some idea.”
“Ideas,” I created. “I suspect everyone but the four of us and I’m not so sure about you.”
“Okay,” he said, “we go another way. Someone kills Merrymen, his father-in-law, and takes a shot at you. Merrymen’s son turns up in your office and so does his father. Vendetta against the Merrymen?”
“Don’t forget the dog,” I reminded him.
“Pit bull,” said Viviase. “People don’t like pit bulls.”
“People didn’t like Michael Merrymen,” I said.
“Everyone hated my father,” said Mickey. “Everyone who knew him.”
“I’ve looked at his record,” said Viviase. “We’re talking to the neighbors. I have a feeling we’ll wind up talking to half of Sarasota County before we’re finished unless…”
“Unless…” I repeated, knowing what was coming next.
“Unless you tell me what this killer is looking for?” he said. “Someone went through this house. Someone went through Bernard Corsello’s house. I’ve got a feeling whoever it is, is still out there looking. I have a feeling that you know what they are looking for. I have more than a feeling that I’m going to wind up arresting you for obstruction of justice and withholding evidence. It could be worse, your friend with the nine-millimeter might kill someone else and you’ll need a very good lawyer.”
“I’ve got one,” I said.
“Werring,” said Viviase with distaste. “You know how many times his firm has been investigated by the Bar Association for violations of everything from fixing juries to lying about jet lag?”
“I guess a lot,” I said. “But he’s a good lawyer.”
“I need my things,” Mickey said.
“Not for a few days,” said Viviase. “It just struck me. You’ve suddenly inherited both your grandfather’s and your father’s houses and who knows what else?”
“He was with us,” I repeated.
“Plenty of money to go around,” said Viviase, becoming irritated.
“Did either of them have money or own the houses?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” said Viviase. “Fonesca, I’m taking Merrymen Junior here. You and Wyatt Earp go away. One more person gets shot or shot at by whoever we’re looking for and you will not be a happy man.”
“Death doesn’t make me happy,” I said.
“I’m glad he’s dead,” said Mickey.
“Son, we have a lot of talking to do and I want to get out of the sun. Let’s go in the house and see if maybe you can tell us if something is missing?”
Then Viviase said, “I’ll let him call you when and if you can pick him up.”
Viviase turned his back on us and walked with Mickey at his side. Ames and I headed back for the Taurus. I stopped at the phone at the gas station at Beneva and Bee Ridge and called Lawrence Werring’s office and got his secretary. I told her I wanted to speak to Harvey. She told me I wanted to speak to Mr. Werring.
Werring came on almost immediately.
“Gone out of business, Fonesca?” he asked calmly.
“No,” I said.
“Good, then I have papers for you to serve on three people, today.”
I couldn’t afford to lose Werring’s business or Harvey so I said, “I’ll be right there.”
A hundred fifty dollars wouldn’t be bad either. Before I could ask Werring if he could transfer me to Harvey, he hung up. I called back. This time I was allowed to get through to Harvey.
“Lewis,” he said. “Challenge me.”
I told him what I wanted.
“Make it harder.”
“How about having it done in an hour?” I said.
“I accept the challenge,” he said.
We went back to my office, stopping at the DQ for burgers and fries. Dave asked if I wanted to finally try sailing next Saturday. Just a test to see if I might like it. Ames was also invited. We both turned him down politely and went up to my office.
Two messages on the machine.
The first was from Rubin, the Herald-Tribune reporter.
“Man named Merrymen was just found murdered,” he said. “His father-in-law was murdered, too. Merrymen’s son knows a girl named Adele Hanford. You had something to do with a case involving the death of a couple of people last year including Adele’s father. The same source who told me about the missing Lonsberg manuscripts called ten minutes ago. We’ll have a story tomorrow morning. You want to give me a call so we get it right? I’m planning to squeeze your name somewhere into it.”
Young man’s smart, I thought, and leaned back wanting to tell Ames to walk back to the Texas, wanting to unplug the phone, wanting to watch a western, an old one with John Wayne, Randolph Scott, Tim Holt, or “Wild” Bill Elliott, wanting to sleep without dreaming.
I pushed the button and got the second message. It was from Conrad Lonsberg. He didn’t give his name.
“Four o’clock, my house.”
Ames had finished his burger and was emptying a container of root beer.
“Feel like going for a ride?” I asked.
He nodded.
We went off to serve the papers. All were for the same case, a civil action about some property in Towles Park. Towles Park, not three blocks from where I lived, had been trying to make a comeback after years of being a small collection of ramshackle old houses. It was now an artist’s colony of sorts. The houses repaired and painted bright colors. Shingles over the doors with cute names, even a small restaurant I’d never been to. One of the houses that hadn’t made a comeback was the issue. I didn’t care.
The first two papers were delivered into the hands of the witnesses or litigants, I didn’t know which, within fifteen minutes. Number one was a waitress at the Sunrise Deli on Webber and Beneva. Number two was a Japanese cardiologist on Arlington. Number three had no address, wasn’t in the telephone book. Just the name, James Nuttley.
“Know him,” Ames said.
