“What then, a robbery?”
“It’s complicated, sir. We’re just starting out and trying to get to know Mr. Roget.”
“Been two years but I don’t see Solly changing from the way he was when I knew him. A sweeter guy you’d never meet. You ask me, that was part of his problem. Too nice. Got taken advantage of.”
“By who?”
“Customers passing bad checks — him taking checks, period, was naive. Not getting everything up front.”
“You know all this because—”
“He told me. At the Bowl. We had plenty of time to talk. I brought snacks, he also did. We snacked and talked. So were they lowlifes, the passengers?”
“We’re still gathering information, Mr. Creech.”
“You want, Lieutenant, you can give me names, I’ll see if they ring a bell.”
“You and Solly shared clients?”
“No, but people who use drivers use drivers.”
“Okay,” said Milo, “but please keep the names to yourself.”
“Promise. Shoot.”
“Richard Gurnsey.”
“Nope.”
“Benson Alvarez.”
“Nope. We talking gay guys?”
“Don’t seem to be.”
“Just two guys in the back of a super-stretch,” said Creech. “Doing what?”
“There was a woman, too, we don’t know who she is.”
“A hooker?” said Creech. “An orgy?”
“No, sir. Like I said we’re just starting out, Mr.—”
“Sorry, sorry, Lieutenant, I’m just upset.” Creech patted his chest again. The precise spot that roofed his heart. He winced.
“You okay, sir?”
“Me? I’m fine. I’m just... this is hard to hear, guy like Solly. Easygoing — what the kids call laid-back. Nothing bothered him. His snacks were Haitian. He made them himself, didn’t have a woman to cook for him. Cornbread, that I liked. Some kind of meatball, frankly, too spicy. I gave him potato chips and apple slices. We had a pleasant time and could hear the music in the parking lot.”
I said, “Do you know anything about his family?”
“I know he had one,” said Creech. “Couple of kids, living in Florida. One’s some kind of doctor, the other’s... I think also. Son and daughter, he was proud of them. Whole family came from Haiti on boats, worked their way up, Solly’s wife cleaned rooms. Then she died.”
Creech’s voice caught. “He had it rough. But you’d never know it, always smiling.”
“How did he get clients?”
“What do you mean?”
“We haven’t found a website.”
“I have one,” said Creech, with sudden pride. “Did it last year, move into the new age. But it’s a half-half deal. You get more clients but not always high-quality and then they rate you. The kids, they don’t even know how to tip, to them it’s Uber.” Uttering the last word as if it were a disease. “Nowadays you sell a cookie at a counter, you get a tip. You drive idjits all night, you don’t. That make sense?”
I shook my head. “So if Solly had no website—”
“I asked him that, he told me he did the tear-offs. Those things on bulletin boards, little fringies with flaps? You tear them off, they’ve got a phone number.”
Milo said, “That’s it?”
“When we were at the Bowl, that’s what he had.”
“Where did he hang his tear-offs?”
“Beats me,” said Creech. “My opinion was, not smart. I told him at the time. Anyone can rip off a free piece of paper, you don’t know who you’re dealing with. Am I right? You’re here, so obviously I am.”
“Obviously, you are, sir.”
“Yeah,” said Creech. “But here’s the thing, I don’t want to be.”
Chapter 7
Doctors in Florida, uncommon surname, easy trace.
Hillaire B. Roget, M.D., FAAOS, headed the Ocala Bone Institute. Specialties: geriatric orthopedics and diabetic wound management.
Milo took a deep breath, switched to speaker, and called.
The chain of communication was receptionist to nursing assistant to nurse practitioner to physician. Sped up by Milo’s rank and explanation: “It’s about Dr. Roget’s father.”
Within moments a soft voice said, “This is Hillaire Roget. What happened to my father?”
“There’s no easy way to tell you—”
“Oh, no.”
“I’m so sorry, Doctor. Unfortunately, your father’s deceased.”
“No,” said Hillaire Roget. “God no... the police? So not natural causes?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.” Milo braced himself with one hand on the steering wheel. “Your father was the victim of a homicide.”
“My father? How? What happened?”
“We’re still trying to work that out, Dr. Roget.”
“At his house? A home invasion?”
“No, sir, he was found in his car.”
“Oh, no.” Muffled weeping. A long moment passed. The soft voice had weakened. “Sorry... I told him to stop driving. A man of his age by himself with strangers? I always worried something would happen. What, a robbery?”
Milo said, “Had he had bad experiences driving?”
“I’d assume,” said Hillaire Roget. “But he wouldn’t have told me... excuse me.”
Another break.
“Oh, my, this has knocked me over, Lieutenant. Father was a kind man. A kind father. My sister and I have always adored him. After our mother died, he raised us by himself. He never hit us. Never raised his voice to us. He always said he believed in honey, not vinegar, and believe me, we could be imps. His patience... but such a stubborn man! I wanted him to move here with us, begged him, but he wanted his independence. Why couldn’t he listen?”
Milo said, “So you’re not aware of any specific incidents?”
“He’d never have told me,” said Hillaire Roget. “He still thought of me as a ten-year-old — my age when Mother died. When I became an adult, I tried to protect him, but he never relinquished his role. He was the protector. Period. Was he taken advantage of by people he drove? Probably, because he’s — oh, this is hard — he was such a generous man. Far too trusting. And that’s after going through hell growing up — Haiti, the Duvalier times, I don’t know if you’re familiar but it was horrendous back then. The secret police would visit, people would disappear. Father never lost his good cheer. Never.”
“That’s what his friend told us.”
A beat. “A woman?”
“No, sir,” said Milo. “Did he have a woman friend?”
“He did fifteen years ago, that’s why he stayed in L.A. when we moved back to Florida.”
“Name, please.”
“Lillian Adams, but she’s deceased, Lieutenant. Cancer, just a few years after my sister and I moved — that would make it twelve years ago. That’s why we thought he’d finally join us here in Florida. But he wanted to be independent. Now look where it got him — which friend told you about him? I wasn’t aware he had any friends. Not that he was a loner, he liked people. But when he wasn’t working his pleasures were solitary.”
“Another driver his age named Leon Creech. What activities did your father enjoy, Doctor?”
“Mostly reading. English and French. He also played the violin.” Strangled chuckle. “Tried to play. When he practiced, my sister and I would smile and get as far away as possible. He was no musician but he was a highly intelligent man, Lieutenant. Wanted to be a doctor but in Haiti unless you were a planter’s son or a politician’s son, forget it.”
“So he became a driver.”
“No, that was later,” said Hillaire Roget. “When we first came to Florida on the boat, he worked as a maintenance man and went to night school. Accounting. Then Mother died and he picked us up and moved to L.A. and got a job working for the gas company. Bookkeeping. Then the gas company retired him, cost cutting, he got a pension but he was bored. So he began driving. For limo companies, then himself. This Creech, is he a good person?”