by John Lutz
“Murder,” Carver muttered. “For nothing but trying to do her job.”
Benedict glanced over at him, more defeated now than angry. “Tell me about it,” he said bitterly.
Carver knew what he meant. In the past week, Benedict had lost his fellow physician and friend in an act of futile terrorism. Now the people who had perpetrated that act, killing an innocent patient in the process, had directly or indirectly caused another, periphery death. The circle of violence was expanding.
A flurry of motion caught Carver’s attention as the lobby doors burst open and McGregor, followed by several grim uniformed officers, stormed into the lobby and strode toward the elevators. McGregor’s lanky, coiled body was tense and his prognathous jaw was thrust even more forward than usual as he moved with loping strides across the tile floor. His demeanor, and the look in his tiny blue eyes, caused people to stare at him and step aside.
When he caught sight of Carver and Benedict, the procession suddenly stopped. McGregor motioned curtly for his men to continue without him, swiveled on the heel of one of his giant brown wing-tip shoes, and headed toward Carver.
Neither Carver nor Benedict stood up. Benedict, staring at the floor again, might not have noticed McGregor’s approach, although Carver could not imagine anyone failing to pick up the lieutenant’s scent of stale sweat and cheap deodorant.
McGregor, looming over them, moved to the side so Benedict was staring directly at the huge brown shoes.
“Dr. Benedict, funny finding you here,” he said as Benedict looked up.
“This is a hospital,” Benedict said in a somewhat puzzled voice. “I’m a physician.”
“Oh, yeah,” McGregor said. “What with your clinic blown all to hell, this is the place where you open the oven door and pop ’em out before they’re done.”
Benedict stood up, his face dark with anger. “I don’t like your sense of humor, Lieutenant.”
McGregor smiled, gratified. “You should go somewhere else then, Doctor, where maybe you can tune in a ‘Gilligan’s Island’ rerun.
“Don’t let him bait you,” Carver advised Benedict.
“I’ll take no shit at all from you,” McGregor told Carver. “We got a cop killing now. One of my men’s been killed by these crazies because that asshole Wicker and his feebs can’t do their job.”
“She was a woman,” Carver pointed out.
“A cop’s sex don’t matter,” McGregor said in a sudden burst of political correctness. “She was a uniform under my command. Her death reflects on me.”
“On you?” Benedict said in disbelief. “Is that what you’re so upset about?”
“He’s partly responsible,” Carver said. “He assigned her to a shit job and then forgot about her.”
McGregor’s face flushed and his tiny piglike eyes widened until they were almost square. Then he breathed out so hard that spittle flew. “You won’t get under my skin, dickhead. To me you’re nothing but a mosquito—you can cause an itch every now and then, but that’s all.”
“Mosquitoes carry yellow fever,” Dr. Benedict said, as if calmly informing an intern or curious patient. “They can cause misery and death.”
McGregor stared at him, pointing the pink tip of his tongue at him from between his front teeth. Then he laughed. “Well, well, a medical insult.” He motioned with a quick jerk of his thumb. “Leave us, now, Doctor. I wanna talk alone to the rat that carries the plague.”
Benedict looked over at Carver.
“Never pass up an opportunity to avoid this man,” Carver said.
It took Benedict a few seconds to make up his mind, then he gave McGregor a look of disgusted incredulity and walked quickly toward the lobby exit.
McGregor stared after him, grinning. “Probably on his way to play a few rounds of golf. Or maybe drive the Mercedes someplace and have a few martinis. That’s what doctors do, drink and play golf. When they’re not fucking the nurses.”
“Hardly leaves time for billing,” Carver said.
“They find time. This murder’s in my jurisdiction, and the victim’s one of my people. That means it’s my case alone, without FBI interference. So I expect complete cooperation from you.”
“My guess is that you’re trying out your twisted legal theory on me to see if I agree with you. I don’t. I would think Lapella’s death is legally linked to the clinic bombing. That means FBI involvement in the investigation.”
McGregor gave him a level stare. “Was Lapella pregnant? No. Was she at the clinic when it went bang? No. Is her alleged killer connected to the bombing? We don’t know that he is. This isn’t FBI territory, it’s mine. Now that we got that settled, what do you know about Lapella’s death?”
“Only what Dr. Benedict just told me.”
“Which was?”
“What he would have told you, if you’d asked him nice.”
“Or officially. Like I’m asking you.”
“Complications set in,” Carver said. “It was her head injury; the doctors can’t always tell for sure about them, and they were wrong this time. Lapella’s brain started to bleed, there was pressure, damage. She died.”
“Because that bastard kicked her when she was lying on the floor.”
“We agree on that,” Carver said.
“What do you know about him?”
“Probably less than you do. His description, not much else. Other than that he quotes scripture while he’s breaking fingers and committing murder.”
McGregor ran a plate-size hand down his stained tie, as if smoothing it in preparation for a photograph. “The goddamn media’s gonna be all over my ass because of this.”
“Send them to Wicker.”
“I told you, this is my case, and when I solve it, the same media dorks’ll be knocking on my door and calling me and throwing themselves in front of me with their recorders and cameras. Meantime, I’ll just have to put up with ’em and tell plenty of lies.”
“They’ll probably want to talk to me, too,” Carver said. “Certainly they’ll want to interview Beth.”
McGregor’s eyes flared for a moment in sudden alarm. Here was a vulnerability he hadn’t anticipated. “I’m gonna be out to your place to talk to your dark-meat friend, Carver. Get her official statement. And whatever she says either to me or to the media jerk-offs better fit with the facts. She witnessed this murder, and she’s got a legal responsibility.”
“And ethics.”
“Don’t be so sure. Ethics are for naive assholes like you. Only reason she’s sleeping with you is so she can take advantage of you some way. You just haven’t figured it out yet. Probably won’t until it’s too late.”
Carver simply stared at McGregor, refusing to be provoked.
“I can tell you ethics aren’t gonna stop me from setting this thing right,” McGregor said. “Neither are dumb fucks like you and Wicker. Nobody makes a media patsy outa me. This religious nut that killed my officer, he just thinks he knows about being crucified! I’m gonna nail him to the cross like he never dreamed of, in or out of church!”
“I hope you’re right,” Carver said. “If anybody can make the biblical Romans seem like nice guys, it’s you.”
McGregor ignored the compliment as he stalked away toward the elevators.
Humble, maybe.
24
WHEN CARVER ENTERED the cottage, the sack of dog food slung beneath one arm, the other straining with the cane, he saw Wicker sitting on one of the stools at the breakfast counter, sipping from a glass of ice water.
Beth, who’d been seated in a chair facing Wicker, stood up and came over to Carver, taking the dog food from him.
“Heavy,” she said. “Did you remember the nail clippers?”
“In my pocket,” he said as he nodded to Wicker.
Wicker remained on his stool and leaned back, propped with his elbows on the counter behind him. The posture caused his pot belly to protrude and made him look particularly unkempt. A trace of stubble showed on his chin. He even needed a
haircut, something you couldn’t often say about an FBI agent.
“I don’t know about this kind of dog food,” Beth said, leaning the sack against the wall by the door. “It doesn’t look very tasty.”
“The guy at the store said dogs love it,” Carver improvised. He pulled the nail clippers from his pocket and laid them on a table near the sofa. He had to poke the lining back into his pocket before sitting down. The clippers had shifted as he walked and poked a small hole in the pocket, maybe even in the material outside the lining. Chalk up a pair of pants to Al. Then it hit Carver: where was Al?
“Why didn’t Al bark when I drove up?”
“He’s out,” Beth said in a tone of voice suggesting that Al was a doctor not presently in his office. The watchdog is out.
“For a guard dog,” Carver said, “he spends a lot of time away from the person and place he’s supposed to protect.”
“He’s new to the job.”
Carver suspected Al was visiting Agent Anderson again for another impromptu meal.
“You having a guard dog here,” Wicker said, “that’s a good idea.”
“For the dog,” Carver said.
Wicker removed one elbow from the counter to take a sip of ice water. “I understand you’ve been in Orlando. What did you think of Reverend Freel?”
“He’s a true believer.”
“Could be.”
“I’m not so sure about his wife, though.”
Wicker appeared interested. “Oh? She struck me as just as fanatical as her husband. The ideal helpmate in the service of hubby and heaven.”
Carver shrugged. “Maybe I’m wrong. Just an impression. As for Freel and Operation Alive, I can see the organization being behind the clinic bombing. Apparently Norton was an involved member and a regular demonstrator.”
“Thing to remember,” Wicker said, “is that a lot of Freel’s congregation aren’t Operation Alive members, and not all Operation Alive members endorse bombing the abortion clinics they picket.”
“What I’ve read about them,” Beth said, “describes an extremist organization.”
“Being an extremist and advocating murder are two different things.”
Beth looked at Carver. “Could this be an FBI agent who’s undergone sensitivity training?”
Wicker smiled. “You’d be surprised. We’re not the stiff-backed, stereotypical outfit of Hoover’s era.”
Carver tried to imagine Wicker as a cross-dresser but couldn’t. But then Hoover was a stretch, too.
No one said anything while Beth went into the kitchen, then returned with a cold can of Budweiser and handed it to Carver.
“She seems to be feeling better,” Wicker said, nodding in Beth’s direction.
Beth sat down beside Carver. She had on a yellow blouse, faded Levi’s, and black sandals. Her hair was combed back and braided and she was wearing makeup and gold hoop earrings and a matching gold bangle bracelet. She thought that in an hour or so she’d be leaving to visit Lapella.
Carver hated to tell her the reason why she wasn’t going. Even more, he hated the idea of someone else telling her. He wished the lump in his throat were in someone else’s and that it were someone else’s heart taking on an irregular rhythm and growing heavier by the second.
“I stopped by the hospital on the way here,” he said. “Linda Lapella died from her head injury.”
He heard Beth’s sharp intake of breath, almost a sob.
Wicker removed his elbows from the counter and sat up straighter on the stool. “When did this happen?”
“She died just before I arrived, maybe two hours ago.” Carver put his arm around Beth. Her back and shoulders were trembling with each breath. “McGregor came into the hospital when I was there talking to Dr. Benedict.”
“So we’ve got another murderer.”
“McGregor considers it his murderer to catch. He doesn’t seem to think the link with the bombing is strong enough to involve the FBI.”
“McGregor’s wrong,” Wicker said. “Lapella was killed while guarding a victim of the clinic bomber.”
Beth slipped from beneath Carver’s arm, stood up, then went over to the window that looked out on the ocean. “I don’t care who catches him,” she said, “but I want the bastard caught.”
“I talked to Desoto when I was in Orlando,” Carver said. “He doesn’t have a line on the WASP either.” He glanced at Wicker. “Lieutenant Desoto’s an old friend. He mentioned the bureau had talked to him.”
“We know about him,” Wicker said. “And we know all about the history you two share.”
Carver felt a twinge of uneasiness. The positioning of Anderson to watch the cottage might not be nearly the extent of the bureau’s covert intrusion in his and Beth’s lives. Maybe Wicker was more like Hoover than he was saying.
There was noise out on the porch.
“Al coming back,” Beth said, turning away from the window.
Wicker downed some more ice water. “Not unless he’s wearing shoes with leather soles.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Carver said.
There were obvious footfalls on the plank porch then, and a solid knock on the door,
“Not Al,” Beth said, opening the door.
Al walked in.
“The way he was acting,” a male voice said, “I figured he had to be your dog.”
“He is,” Beth said, and stepped back to admit a tall man with angular features and a full head of gray hair. He was a nice-looking guy and had a little brush mustache and reminded Carver of an older Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.
When he saw Wicker, he smiled. “Evening, Agent Wicker.”
Wicker returned the smile and slid down off his stool. “Mr. Duvalier and I have met,” he said to Carver.
“I’m Gil Duvalier,” the man said. From a pocket in his brown-and-cream-checked sport jacket he drew a white business card and handed it to Beth. “That’s sure a nice dog. He looks as if he has eyebrows.”
“Future Rock Fidelity,” Beth read.
“That’s an insurance company,” Wicker said. “It has nothing to do with popular music.” A beeper on his belt shrilled and Al trotted over to within ten feet of him and sat staring. Wicker opened his coat, pressed a button on the beeper, then tucked in his chin and squinted down so he could read the return phone number to call.
“Phone’s right behind you on the counter,” Beth said.
Wicker shook his head. “I’ll call from my car. I imagine the latest murder was finally brought to our attention.”
“Latest murder?” Duvalier repeated, looking confused.
“Officer Linda Lapella,” Beth said.
“Isn’t that the woman who was attacked at the hospital?”
“I’m afraid so,” Wicker said, detouring around the watchful Al and moving toward the door. “I think you’re going to have the same conversation with Mr. Duvalier I had this morning,” he said to Carver. He waved a hand as he went out. “Evening, all.”
Carver looked at Duvalier. “What conversation is that?”
“About Nate Posey,” Duvalier said. “My company’s making preliminary inquiries.”
“I can’t tell you much about him, other than that he tried to hire me to find out more about the clinic bombing. I refused the case, didn’t want to take the kid’s money for something I was going to do anyway.”
Duvalier looked interested.
“Maybe you can tell us more about Posey than we can tell you,” Beth said, saying what Carver was thinking.
“Two months ago,” Duvalier said, “Posey’s fiancée Wanda
Creighton made him the beneficiary of her hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy.”
Carver remembered his conversation with Posey. “So he wasn’t kidding when he said he could afford to hire me.”
“He could hire you twenty times over,” Duvalier said. “The policy provides for double indemnity.”
Carver remembered the old movie of the same title, Fred MacMurray murdering
Barbara Stanwyck’s husband and faking an accident, making it look as if the husband had fallen from the back of a moving train. The insurance company didn’t want to believe it was an accident but considered the possibility that the husband had committed suicide. Keys, the brilliant claims investigator played by Edward G. Robinson, had scoffed at the notion and asked his and MacMurray’s dense boss if he knew the actuarial odds of a man committing suicide by leaping from the back of a train.
Duvalier had seen the movie, too. He smiled at Carver and said, “What are the odds of a heavily insured woman being blown up in an abortion clinic bombing?”
Al stretched, yawned, and noticed the sack of Bow-Wow-WOW! leaning against the wall.
He ambled over to it and lifted a leg.
25
CARVER LEFT BETH AT the cottage the next morning, in the care of Al and the stealthy and continual presence of Anderson.
He hadn’t checked for Anderson’s presence yet without finding the FBI agent on duty in or near his government-issue blue Dodge. Carver never revealed himself and talked to Anderson, though he was sure Wicker had informed him that Carver knew of his presence. But he made it a point to make sure Anderson saw him leave the cottage, so he’d know Beth was alone except for the questionable company of Al. Beth had come to believe more and more in Al’s abilities as a protector, while Carver had developed some doubts.
Beth was itching to leave the cottage and to become more involved in trying to prove or disprove Norton’s guilt and whether he’d acted alone in the clinic bombing. Duvalier’s revelation that Nate Posey was the beneficiary of Wanda Creighton’s life insurance policy had prompted Beth to voice the theory that Posey had been the bomber, using Norton as the fall guy and the Operation Alive demonstration as a cover and a possible motivator of Norton. Carver had differed with her, but he knew she might be right.
