“I don’t know,” she said, looking at me. “Maybe he didn’t want me to see him die. My husband used to be a big, powerful man. As I said, tough, ruthless. He would probably prefer that I remember him that way.”
“So you think…?”
“He is dead or in some hotel room or with some friend.”
“He didn’t call you?”
“Nobody called me,” she said, straightening her back as if she had just remembered that good posture was essential to a beautiful woman.
“Any suggestion about where I might start looking?”
“You can try the people at his office,” she said. The word “people” came out with the suggestion that they were something less than what she considered real “people.” “I’ve called repeatedly. His secretary, Mrs. Free, says she has no idea where William is or might be.”
“Enemies?”
This time she did an Audrey Hepburn, narrow-shouldered, almost gamine shrug with a matching who-knows pursing of her lips.
“My husband is a politician and a contractor. Two occupations that make very few friends and very many enemies. You’d get a better sense of who his friends and enemies are from his secretary. If Bill is in a hotel or motel, she might even know that. I know he’s not in any of the hospitals in Sarasota, Manatee, or any adjoining county.”
That was all I had to ask for the moment. I liked looking at her, but I was getting a little tired of standing.
“Thanks,” I said.
She got up.
“If you find him, you will let me know.”
She was touching my arm now, her eyes searching mine. I had the feeling that performance and persona were merging for a second.
“I’ll let you know,” I said.
Outside the door in a blast of heat and humidity I put my cap back on. I knew where William Trasker’s office was on Clark just east of Beneva on the south side of the street. I’d passed the two-story white brick building dozens of times, and a few of those times the big red-on-white sign that said “Trasker Construction” had managed to register.
I stopped at a phone booth outside of a 7-Eleven on Beneva and called Dixie at the coffee shop. The manager told me she had taken the day off.
“A cold, flu, tuchisitis, who knows,” he said. “I’m up to my ass in latte orders and I’m getting a migraine from the smokers. Good-bye.”
He hung up and I called Dixie at home. She answered after three rings. Her voice was hoarse when she said, “Hello.”
“Me, Lew Fonesca.”
“Hi, Lew,” she said, the hoarseness gone. “I thought it was Creepy Cargroves, my boss.”
“You’re okay?”
“Got a good freelance hacking job for a local merchant whose name and business are confidential. You know what I’m saying?”
“I know. Can you do a quick check for me? See if you can find William Trasker’s trail. He’s missing.”
“The County Commission guy?”
“That’s the one.”
“He’s been in the shop a few times. Last time about a week ago. Looked awful. Likes his coffee straight and black with something sweet.”
“He come in alone?”
“With something straight, black, and sweet,” she said.
“Know her name?”
A massive truck whizzed by and I missed what Dixie said next.
“What was that?”
“Don’t know her name, but she’s always dressed for business.”
“Hooker?”
“Not that kind of business. Business business. Suits, serious shoes, white blouses, pearls, costume ones. I’ve got an eye. How long’s he been missing?”
“About four days,” I said.
“I’ll do the job for thirty bucks if I don’t run into complications,” she said.
“How long?”
“No more than half an hour, if I don’t run into complications.”
“I’ll call back. Dixie, you know any good jokes?”
She told me one. I wrote it down in my notebook.
Twenty minutes later I was talking to a woman who was black, sweet, and dressed for business right down to the serious shoes and costume pearls.
Before I got to her, I had to get by the receptionist at Trasker Construction, who was well-groomed, late forties, early fifties, with a nice smile. She seemed like more than receptionist material when she deftly parried my lunging questions about Trasker. I figured her for a mom who was just rejoining the workforce and starting at the bottom.
She finally agreed to talk to Mr. Trasker’s secretary, which she did while I listened to her side of the phone conversation. She handled it perfectly, saying a Mr. Fonesca wished to speak to her on a matter of some urgency regarding Mr. Trasker and that Mr. Fonesca would provide no further information. There was a pause during which I assumed Trasker’s secretary asked if I looked like a badly dressed toon or acted like a lunatic. The receptionist cautiously said, “I don’t think so,” to cover herself.
Two minutes later I was sitting in a chair next to the desk of Mrs. Carla Free. Her cubicle in the gray-carpeted complex was directly outside of an office with a plate marked “William Trasker.”
Mrs. Free was tall, probably a little younger than me, well-groomed and blue-suited, with a white blouse with a fluffy collar. She was pretty, wore glasses, and was black. Actually, she was a very light brown.
“I have to find Mr. Trasker,” I said.
“We haven’t seen him in several days,” she said, sounding like Bennington or Radcliffe, her hands folded on the desk in front of her, giving me her full attention.
“Does he often disappear for days?” I asked.
Mrs. Free did not answer but said, “Can I help you, Mr. Fonesca?”
There was no one within hearing distance. Her voice sounded all business and early dismissal for me. I decided to take a chance.
“Where do you live?” I asked.
She took off her glasses and looked at me at first in surprise and then in anger.
“Is this love at first sight, Mr. Fonesca?” she asked.
“You don’t live in Newtown,” I said.
“No, I live in Idora Estates. My husband is a doctor, a pediatrician. We have a daughter in Pine View and a son who just graduated from Pine View and is going to go to Grinnell. Now, I think you should leave.”
“I have reason to believe that if Mr. Trasker goes to the City Commission meeting Friday night, he will vote against the Midnight Pass bill and that members of the commission will try to divert the money they would have spent on opening the Pass to helping with the renovation of Newtown,” I said.
I waited.
“Who are you working for?” she asked quietly.
“Someone who wants to find William Trasker and help Newtown,” I said.
“I was born here,” she said so softly that I could hardly hear her. “In Newtown. So was my husband. My mother still lives there. She won’t move.”
“Where is Trasker?” I asked.
“Off the record, Mr. Fonesca,” she said. “Mr. Trasker is not well.”
