by John Lutz
Vincent Walton was standing behind his desk and smiling. He was a tall man with a long, handsome face and coarse dark hair with wings of gray combed straight back above his ears. He had a bristly, neatly trimmed mustache like a toothbrush that was also going gray. His eyes were genial but with a sparkle of the sort that suggested it was camouflage for what might be going on inside his head. His chalk-striped, double-breasted gray suit, pinched at the waist, looked like something from one of the catalogs in Gretch’s closet.
He said, “You a photographer?”
“Detective.” Carver decided to let Walton assume he was with the police.
“Private, I’ll bet,” Walton said, his gaze flicking to take in the cane.
Oh, well. “I’m trying to locate Carl Gretch.”
“He’s inherited some money, right?”
Carver was beginning to dislike Walton a lot. “He owes some people.”
“Well, can’t say I ever heard of him.”
“How about Enrico Thomas?”
Walton laughed. “Him I know. Enrico’s one of my models.” He sat down in the brown leather swivel chair behind his desk. On the wall behind him were framed photographs of more of his clients. Carver looked but didn’t see Gretch. “It’s not unusual for a model to use a pseudonym, especially if it makes him seem more ethnic. Enrico hasn’t been sent on a job for quite a while. It’s been so long, in fact, that I no longer know how to reach him.” He sat forward and rotated a large black knob that flipped cards in a huge Rolodex. “Last address I have on him is on McCrea Avenue. When I tried to call him about six months ago to go on a shoot, his phone had been disconnected. A letter I sent him came back to me, and I was told by the post office he’d moved and left no forwarding address.”
“Was he in much demand as a model?”
“For a while, until he became difficult. Ethnic male models as well as female are in demand these days, and Enrico has great personality and attitude.”
“Is that necessary in still photos?”
“Very much so. He carries himself with a kind of natural poise and arrogance that transfers well to film.”
“How did he become difficult?” Carver asked.
“Temper. He’d get in arguments with the photographers, sometimes the other models, and upset the mood on sets. A couple of times he threatened people. Once with a knife. You don’t last long in this business that way.” Walton winked at Carver. “I bet that’s why you’re looking for him, right? He lost his temper and punched somebody, maybe cut them. Got his ass sued and lost.”
“Something like that. Was he especially friendly with any of the other models?”
“Nope. Enrico sort of kept to himself. And this is a job. Most of my models barely know each other. They get called, they go on a shoot, they work hard while they’re there, then they go home and wait for another call. You should see how a lot of them dress at home. You’d never guess they were models. Most of them can’t afford the clothes they wear in front of the camera. Quite a few of them hold down other jobs.”
“Did Enrico have another job?”
“Not that I know of. Until he ran into problems, he got enough work to make a living. Like I said, he’s ethnic, and he’s good at what he does when he isn’t making trouble. The camera loves him.”
“Was he a favorite of any particular photographer?”
“Hold on a minute.” Walton stood up and walked to a black file cabinet and pulled open a drawer. He drew out a folder, opened it, and stood studying it for a few minutes. “Drew Kirk requested him several times. His studio’s over on Sixth Street.” He replaced the folder and slid the drawer shut on its smooth, noiseless tracks. He took a few steps toward his desk and stood still, making no move to sit back down.
Carver read the signal and stood up. He leaned on his cane and got one of his business cards from his pocket, handed it to Walton. “If Enrico gets in touch with you, I’d appreciate it if you’d call me.”
“Why should I do that?” There was no hostility in Walton’s voice. It was a simple, logical question, the “What’s in it for me?” asked by millions of businessmen every day. A guy like Walton wouldn’t dream of not asking it.
“Money,” Carver said.
Walton nodded. “Okay, I’ll call.”
Carver thanked him and started to wade through the carpet toward the door.
He stopped when he noticed the arrangement of photographs on the wall that had been behind him. They were all eight-by-ten head shots of male and female models. The second one from the left was of Maggie Rourke. She was wearing a low-cut something with puffed sleeves and smiling as if she’d just been pleasantly surprised by the photographer.
“Who’s that woman?” Carver asked, moving closer and pointing with his cane at Maggie, almost touching it to the photograph.
“Margaret Rourke,” Walton said without hesitation. “Maggie. She hasn’t worked for me for quite a while. In fact, she no longer models. I sent her out on a couple of shoots for a swim-wear catalog about ten months ago, then she quit the business and went into something else. I leave her photo up there because she looks so good.”
“That’s why she drew my eye,” Carver said. “She should be in movies.”
“Shouldn’t they all,” Walton said. “That’s what most of them think, anyway. As if looks is all it takes.”
Carver continued on toward the door.
Walking beside him, Walton said, “It’s a shame Enrico can’t get it together. He has the potential to be a top earner in this business.”
“Potential is for last-place ball clubs.”
“Yeah, I get your point,” Walton said.
Carver doubted it.
He said goodbye to Verna on the way out and she favored him with one of her sly, carnivorous smiles.
20
Drew Kirk’s studio was on a residential block of Sixth Street and looked like a house. It was, in fact, a large house, white stucco with a red tile roof and enameled red iron balconies and shutters. It was old like the rest of the houses on the block, but unlike many of them it was well maintained and the lawn was green and had been recently mowed. Kirk probably lived upstairs, where lace curtains showed at the windows.
The only indication that the ground floor was a studio was a small black and white sign that read DREW KIRK, INC at the bottom of one of the beveled windows that flanked the front door. A smaller sign said ENTER, so Carver did.
He found himself in a large, cool foyer that held the faint chemical scent of developer. A wide blue-carpeted staircase curved to the second floor, but there was a blue velvet rope strung across it. An arrow on a sheet of thin white cardboard pointed to the left, where a door was lettered DREW KIRK, INC in the same bold black print as the sign in the window. To the right were two closed doors, richly grained wood with white porcelain knobs.
Carver pushed open the DREW KIRK door and found himself in a reception room with a polished hardwood floor, black file cabinets, a long red sofa and matching chair, and a large desk that held an Apple computer. The computer’s screen was blank. There was no one behind the desk. The window looked out on the street; Carver could see the Olds squatting in the shade of a palm tree. The rust was barely evident from this distance.
Behind the desk was another door, and above it a green light and a red one, side by side like mismatched eyes. The green one was glowing, so Carver assumed it was okay to enter what must be the studio proper.
No one paid any attention to him when he opened the door and stepped into a surprisingly spacious studio littered with sets and equipment. The entire first floor of the house beyond the reception area had been made into one vast room broken only by supporting pillars and a walled-off corner that was probably the darkroom. At the far end of the room, a blond woman in a one-piece red swimming suit was standing in front of a pull-down backdrop of a beach with blue ocean and breeze-bent palm trees. A thin, intense-looking man wearing dark slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up above the elbows w
as standing beside a tripod-mounted camera, saying something to the model and signaling her with short, choppy hand motions to move this way and that. A younger man with shoulder-length brown hair was standing off to the side, near one of several brilliant lights also mounted on tripods. He had on a gray tee shirt and wide red suspenders that weren’t necessary to hold up his tight, faded Levi’s. There were two large white umbrellas situated on each side of the set, carefully angled to reflect softened light onto the subject, who was holding a wine bottle.
The suspendered assistant stared at Carver, making the intense-looking guy aware of his presence. He turned around, waved Carver over toward him, then went back to instructing the model, who fluffed her hair and glanced at Carver with disinterest.
“. . . can’t just look surprised, gotta put a little fear into your expression, Jane. Shock. And remember, there’s just been an explosion.”
Jane said, “Look at me! I’m all fucking wet.”
“You’re at the beach, baby,” the intense guy said. He had to be Kirk. He was skinny enough to look unhealthy and resembled a young Sinatra except his face was badly pockmarked from long-ago acne.
The assistant grinned at Carver. He was in his twenties and already had terrible teeth. Carver saw now that he wore a silver skull-and-crossbones earring in his left ear. That and the long hair and the yellowed stump-toothed grin made him look like a pirate.
Carver leaned on his cane and watched. He noticed that the bottle in the model’s hand had a champagne label, and a cork stuck on a thin wire that extended straight up from it was bouncing around about two feet above the neck. A clear plastic hose ran from the side of the bottle over to near the assistant with the earring. Carver noticed the model was standing in a shallow metal tray about five feet square. A hose ran from the tray over to a drain. Carver was spellbound.
The pirate switched on a large floor fan and the model’s blond hair took on the desired windblown look, a strand of it trailing seductively across her face.
“Good. Just that way,” Drew Kirk said. “Drop your arm a little more so it hides the hose. Okay, good. Perfect. Remember-shock, fear, all the while smiling.”
The woman glanced at him curiously.
Kirk flitted around with a light meter, then crouched behind the camera. “Hit it, Wilbur!”
Wilbur the pirate turned a handle over at the sink and water rushed through the clear plastic hose. A little compressor kicked in and churned it up with air. Wilbur ran to the compressor and punched a button.
Air-foamed water burst from the neck of the bottle in a mini-geyser that made the cork on the end of the wire dance. It was impossible to see the wire in the rush of water. Water kept fizzing out of the bottle to meet the bobbing, suspended cork. The model kept smiling. The camera kept clicking and whirring. In the photo, it would appear that the woman had just popped the cork on the bottle and foaming champagne was gushing out, propelling the cork before it.
“ ’Atta baby!” Kirk yelled. “Don’t hide the label with your fingers. Good.” Click, whirrr. Click, whirrr. “Good, good, good. More shock!” The blond widened her eyes over her dazzling white smile. Click, whirrr. Click, whirrr. Click, whirrr.
“Good, good. Perfect! Got it, Wilbur,” Kirk said, straightening up from peering through the camera.
Wilbur turned off the compressor and the fan, then the spigot at the sink, and the only sound was water draining from the tray where the model stood ankle deep in mock champagne.
“I’m all fucking wet!” she pointed out again.
“You did a great job, Jane,” Kirk told her.
“Right on, babe,” Wilbur concurred. “We all did a great job.”
The model stepped out of the water and wrapped herself in a white terrycloth robe, then walked toward the room Carver had assumed was a darkroom. Wilbur began disassembling the set.
Kirk grinned at Carver and said, “Sorry to make you wait, but we were in the middle of a shoot.”
“That’s okay,” Carver said, “it was interesting. I’ll change my brand of champagne.”
“The company’s gearing up for a big promotion.”
“I meant to a brand different from that one,” Carver said, tilting his head toward the bottle. “That one will always taste like water to me now.”
Kirk grinned again. He looked amazingly like a pockmarked Sinatra when he did that.
Carver told him who he was, where he’d gotten his name, what he wanted.
Kirk rubbed his chin. “If Walton sent you over here, it must be all right.”
Carver didn’t tell him that Walton hadn’t exactly sent him. He said, “Walton told me you use one of his models a lot. Enrico Thomas.”
“I did at one time. But Enrico hasn’t been around for quite a while. Last time I requested him, Walton told me he wasn’t available.”
“Enrico ever give you any problems?”
Kirk raised his eyebrows. “Me? Naw! I know what you’re talking about, though. I heard some stuff about Enrico.” He turned toward the busy Wilbur. “Hey, Wilbur, Enrico ever give you any trouble?”
“Not me,” Wilbur said, coiling a cable.
“Do you have an address or phone number on him that might be different from Walton’s?”
“I don’t have that kinda info on any of the models. We deal direct through the agency. That’s how this business works. Walton wouldn’t like it if we started cutting deals on the side with his employees. Not that we’d do such a thing.”
“Never ever,” Wilbur said.
“Enrico ever say anything that might lead you to know what he did when he wasn’t modeling, where he hung out?”
“No. Not as I can recall.”
“Nightlinks,” Wilbur said.
Kirk and Carver stared at him.
He stood there with the coiled cable and repeated, “Nightlinks. I don’t know what it is, but I remember Enrico mentioning to one of the other models about working at Nightlinks.”
“Walton told me Enrico didn’t work a second job,” Carver said.
Kirk smiled. “I suspect a lot of the models don’t tell their agencies everything about their lives away from the camera. Agents can be pushy and demanding if another job gets in the way of their commissions.”
“Is all of your work with Walton models?”
“Nope. Jane there”-he made a vague backhand motion toward where Jane had posed with the champagne bottle-“is with an agency over in Orlando. We deal with half a dozen agencies. It all depends on the types our clients want.”
Jane came out of the room wearing jeans and a sleeveless blouse and carrying a flowered duffel bag. She seemed much shorter, and Carver realized she must have been wearing high heels in the water to make her legs look longer, even though they obviously wouldn’t be visible below her ankles in the champagne photograph. All of her makeup had been removed and she looked like a teenager. She waved and said, “See you, Drew. Take care, Wilbur.”
They both waved back, and all three men watched her stride from the studio, a shapely little woman who didn’t at all resemble the sleek blond beauty who’d be uncorking champagne on the beach in the photograph. So much of life and love and advertising was illusion.
Carver left his card with Kirk, and Kirk assured him he’d phone and let him know if Enrico showed up at the studio.
“Let’s set up for the sailboat shoot,” Kirk was telling Wilbur as Carver left. “We’ll need more wind to make spray.”
Photography in Florida, Carver decided, could be a wet business.
As he crossed Sunburst toward the Olds, he looked around for Jane but she was nowhere in sight.
21
Carver drove to his office and looked up Nightlinks in the phone directory. It was listed as an escort service and had an address on Telegraph Road on the southern edge of Del Moray. It appeared that Carl Gretch-Enrico Thomas worked as a paid escort, perhaps a male prostitute. Something Donna Winship undoubtedly didn’t know.
Or did she at least suspect? Carver wo
ndered if Gretch had used the Thomas name when working for Nightlinks. He sat back behind his desk and looked out the window at two skinny teenage girls waiting for a bus across Magellan. One was wearing amazingly tight red shorts, pretending to be annoyed when passing motorists stared or honked their horns.
Or was she pretending? Laura, his former wife, would call him a sexist for wondering that, and maybe she’d be right. Still, looking at the girl across the street, he was curious. Carver wished he understood women; it might make what he was working on easier. Might make his life easier.
Desoto, way over in Orlando, probably wouldn’t know anything about Nightlinks. But Carver knew someone who almost certainly would know, a retired Del Moray police sergeant named Barney Travers who was living now in a residential hotel in Miami. Travers had worked on the vice squad for fifteen years and knew more than anyone about the dark side of sunny Del Moray.
Carver flipped though his Rolodex and came up with Travers’s number, a bit surprised that it was there, then remembering he’d jotted it down and inserted it last year after Travers had sent him a Christmas card. The card had to do with elves and reindeer and was a jarring example of what fifteen years of vice squad duty could do to a cop’s sense of humor.
He was about to reach for the phone and call Travers when the door opened and McGregor strutted in.
The tall man was grinning lewdly, the pink tip of his tongue oozing out between his front teeth as if struggling to emerge completely from his mouth. He was wearing the same wrinkled, ill-fitting brown suit he’d had on the last time he’d aggravated Carver, and the smell of stale perspiration mingled with cheap perfumed cologne or deodorant was still with him. He stood with his fists on his hips, staring down at Carver, his suit coat shoved back so the butt of his gun was visible in its shoulder holster.
“Why don’t you ever knock?” Carver asked. “Why do you always burst in here like you expect to interrupt a Mafia conspiracy?”
