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 circled around the tables piled with new arrivals.
We sat at a table near the window facing Main Street. The television mounted in the corner silently played one of the business channels. I wasn’t tempted to watch.
“I’ve got to tell you,” said Greg. “I am not filled with confidence about you.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Well, no offense, but you’re a little bald guy in jeans and a frayed short-sleeved yellow shirt. You’ve got a baseball cap on your head and you look like someone just shot your faithful dog.”
“I’m not offended. What do you have to tell me?”
“What? Oh.”
Greg grinned and punched his friend’s arm again.
“You really are funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be,” I said.
“I think that woman on television is talking about aliens,” said Greg.
“No,” said his friend.
“I don’t mean illegal aliens. I mean the kind from outer space. Wishu-Wishuu-ooooo.”
“That sounds like an Ivy League football cheer,” said Winn.
“Get out,” said Greg.
“Hit him and I walk,” I said.
Greg, fist cocked, looked hurt, but he didn’t deliver the punch. Instead, he said, “I did one of my blogs about so-called alien visitors. There aren’t any. Aliens with two eyes and two legs aren’t coming millions of miles to pluck people out of their beds to probe their rectums with metal rods.”
A woman who had been talking to a younger woman at the table next to us looked over at the last comment.
“No aliens,” I said.
“No, they’re humanoids from the future, maybe hundreds of thousands of years in the future. They’re archaeologists or anthropologists or whatever those sciences will be like. They appear and disappear so fast because they zip in and out of time. The shapes of the craft differ because they come from different times in the future.”
“Why didn’t the ones from farther in the future go back and visit the ones from more recently and coordinate?” I said.
Greg had finished something filled with caffeine over ice and topped with whipped cream. Just what he needed to calm him down. Winn had an iced tea. I played with my coffee and looked at the two extra cups of Colombia Supremo Deep Jungle Roast and the two biscotti to go.
I learned that Ronnie Gerall had come to Sarasota in his junior year, that he was a natural leader, passionate about protecting the school from politicians and social gadflies, particularly Philip Horvecki.
“Everyone likes Ronnie,” said Greg. “Particularly the girls.”
Greg considered a punch, but his eyes met mine and he dropped his hand to his lap.
“What about his parents?” I asked.
Greg and Winn looked at each other before Greg said, “His mother’s dead. His father travels. We’ve never met Ronnie’s father.”
“I don’t think his father makes much money,” said Winn. “He drives a twenty-year-old Toyota.”
The ride over and the two biscotti and coffee was the price I had to pay for the information. I listened.
“Did you know that, in their duel, Alexander Hamilton fired at Aaron Burr first, and that Hamilton had been undermining Burr, who at the time was Vice President of the United States?”