by John Lutz
“And in private?”
“That’s their business. That’s why it’s called private.” Sincliff leaned forward and picked up a paper clip from the desk. He began bending it back and forth. “I have to be honest, Mr. Carver, I don’t like it when someone assumes the worst of my business, then comes in here talking as if I’m guilty of some sort of crime. People sometimes need escorts, and I supply them and make a profit. It’s that simple and there’s nothing more to it. If you can’t see it as an exercise in capitalism, think of it as the grown-up equivalent of a date for the prom.”
“I don’t dance anymore,” Carver said.
“You will at least one more time with me,” Beni Ho hissed softly through his smile.
Ignoring him, Carver said to Sincliff, “A city the size of Del Moray wouldn’t seem to have enough conventions or trade shows to support a business like Nightlinks.”
“We don’t just do business in Del Moray. We’re linked by computer to branches in Orlando, Miami, and the Tampa area. That’s why I didn’t realize Carl Whazzisname and Enrico Thomas were the same man. I hardly know Enrico. Most of our communication is done by phone or fax.”
Sincliff dropped the mangled paperclip into a glass ashtray and stood up. Explanation time was over. “Did you learn anything useful here, Mr. Carver?”
“Probably. In time, I’ll know for sure.”
“Time’s something I’m short of today, I’m afraid. Mr. Ho will walk you out.”
Carver headed for the door, aware of Ho trailing him off to the side, like a shadow of a man with a cane.
Carver passed through the reception area, careful to keep Ho at a distance on his right, a blurred figure in his peripheral vision. If Ho moved closer, Carver was ready to act with the cane.
The toothy woman at the desk was silent as he went outside. The door opened and closed again seconds after he’d stepped out into the heat. Ho was still following him.
They played the same shadow game as Carver made his way to where the Olds was parked. As he reached the car door, he heard Ho stop walking behind him on the gravel.
He turned and faced Ho, not surprised to see that he was smiling. Leaning on his cane about five feet away and smiling.
Ho said, “We’ve become mirror images.”
Carver said, “I hope not.”
“I have a gun just as you do, Mr. Carver. Is it my turn to shoot you in the leg?”
Carver didn’t answer. He was close enough to strike Ho’s arm with the cane if the little man went for the gun inside his jacket.
“I come from a very hard place, Mr. Carver. Fear lived in me like an animal that devoured me from the inside. First my youth, then my trust, then my love and compassion, and finally my ability to feel even fear. But I have other feelings. I can and will do anything necessary to achieve my desires.”
“You sound hardly human,” Carver said.
“You should know.”
Carver didn’t ask what he meant.
“I will choose when and where, Mr. Carver, and I will make you regret you shot me. It’s a point of honor.”
“You’ve been seeing the wrong kind of movies.”
“No. You understand me, I know. Because I understand you. Though unfortunately, that understanding came too late to prevent my being shot. As I said, we are mirror images. We both know the code and live by it.”
“Then you know I’ll shoot you again,” Carver said. “And not in the leg.”
“Yes, I’m sure now that you will if you can.”
Sincliff appeared in the office entrance and waved for Ho to come back inside.
“We have our understanding,” Ho said, shifting his weight over his cane and beginning to back away. “I don’t like being hindered, having to wait to heal.”
Carver said, “Nothing in life is easy, least of all me.”
Ho nodded ever so slightly, then turned completely away from Carver and hobbled back inside with his cane.
Carver stood in the sun and watched him, for more than one reason not liking what he saw.
25
BETH HAD DECIDED not to drive into Orlando that evening and instead worked late in the cottage, bent over her Toshiba laptop computer with an elegant intensity. Carver left her alone and sat out on the porch, smoking Swisher Sweet cigars and looking out at the sea, trying to put everything together in his mind and failing.
She was still working at eleven o’clock when he went inside and said goodnight. He was unable to fall completely asleep. It was almost one when he felt her crawl into bed beside him. The springs groaned and the mattress shifted in her direction as she settled in. Still only half-asleep, he heard a steady, persistent pattering sound and realized it was raining. A semi over on the highway gave two long, lonely blasts of its airhorn as it ran through bad weather. The room was illuminated as if by a flashbulb, and a moment later thunder roared and rumbled. Glassware in the kitchen vibrated shrilly on shelves. Within seconds, more lightning washed the cottage with light.
“You asleep?” Beth whispered.
“No,” Carver said, “I was just lying here hoping for high winds.”
“I finished my Burrow article. It’s gonna make some people in the mail-order business mighty uncomfortable.”
“Good.”
Lightning glare danced over the walls and ceiling. “You get to talk with Sincliff?”
Carver waited until a sharp peal of thunder faded into a silence occupied only by the rain. Then he told Beth about his visit to Nightlinks.
She lay quietly for a while, then said, “Beni Ho’s more dangerous now than before he lost some use of a leg.”
“He’s that sort of guy,” Carver agreed.
“You need to be more careful, Fred. Since he’s temporarily crippled, Ho’s liable to use something long-distance, a gun or throwing weapon.”
“I don’t think so. He likes to see the eyes of the people he kills.” Another roll of thunder, this time without lightning. The storm was moving away. “I wonder if the women he escorts for Nightlinks suspect what he’s capable of doing.”
“On a certain level, probably. But they still might request him next time. You know how it is, Fred. Some women like dangerous men.”
He moved his hand over and felt the smooth warm surface of her bare thigh. “Is that why you and I are here together?”
She rolled onto her side and kissed him on the lips, then drew her head back and smiled seductively at him in the faint illumination of a distant lightning strike. “Maybe. On the other hand, some men like dangerous women.”
Carver awoke alone to bright sunlight.
Beth had left quietly before dawn to resume her watch on Gretch’s apartment before Gretch got out of bed.
Carver remembered last night and passed his hand lightly over the cool sheet where she’d lain beside him. He looked out the window, and another hot and glaring Florida day looked back at him. The only indication it had rained heavily last night was that the air felt more humid than usual. It was only a little past nine, and already the cottage was uncomfortably warm. He wished Beth had switched on the air conditioner before leaving.
He lay for a while gazing out the window at blue sky and darker ocean rippling with a diamond glint of sunlight, listening to the wavering snarl of a speedboat playing out of his line of sight. Then he located his cane where it had fallen on the floor during sex last night, knocked by one of Beth’s long legs from where it had leaned against the wall.
He struggled out of bed and hobbled into the bathroom, relieved himself, and splashed cold tap water over his face. Then he got down his swimming trunks from where they were draped over the shower rod, worked them on, and left the cottage for his morning therapeutic swim.
The speedboat had gone somewhere else and the sea was quiet except for the sighing, slapping sound of the swells rolling in from the eastern light and hunkering down in white foam beyond Carver as they encountered the shallows and ran for the beach. He rode the swells easily, rising and falling in t
he timeless rhythm that had worn away continents. He floated and thought again of last night and realized anew how much Beth meant to him. And how much a woman like Maggie Rourke must have meant to Mark Winship, even in the agony of guilt he’d apparently suffered knowing what he’d done to his wife. Mark and Maggie must have experienced nights like last night, yet Mark had taken his own life rather than face the dilemma of Donna’s death. Of course he’d felt grief and remorse, and perhaps he’d turned on himself, but still there was Maggie, waiting for him. Maggie, possible now for the rest of his life without complication. Mark’s Maggie, like Carver’s Beth. It wasn’t getting any easier for Carver to believe Mark Winship had committed suicide.
The sigh of the swells had become a low roar, and he saw that he’d drifted too far from shore. He rolled onto his stomach and swam with the hot sun on his back.
He’d returned from his swim and showered and shaved, and was eating a late breakfast of eggs, sausage, toast, and coffee, when the phone rang.
The abruptness of the first ring made him start and almost knock his cup over. He hurriedly chewed the bite of toast he’d just taken and reached for the phone where it sat on the breakfast counter. Swallowed and said hello.
“Me, Fred.”
He knew by the flat tone of Beth’s voice that something had happened.
26
IT WAS ELEVEN-THIRTY when Carver parked the Olds behind Beth’s LeBaron and crossed Belt Street toward Gretch’s apartment.
Hodgkins was standing outside in the hot sun, smoking a cigarette and waiting for him, watching him cross the street. The old man drew hard on the cigarette, as if it might be his last and life-prolonging inhalation, then flicked the butt off to the side in a wide arc that left a trail like a tracer bullet.
He must have been holding his breath. When Carver got near him, he exhaled loudly and the morning breeze shredded the smoke that had been in his lungs.
“We did like you said,” he told Carver, “which was exactly nothin’ and don’t let nobody else do otherwise.”
Carver sorted that out and concluded that Hodgkins and Beth had followed his instructions.
They went inside and Hodgkins led the way up the creaking wooden steps. Though he appeared composed, excitement urged him on; Carver had to hustle with the cane to keep up with him. Their footsteps and the clatter of the cane echoed in the bare, enameled stairwell, but no one opened a door to peer out at them.
“I was the one that found him,” Hodgkins said over his shoulder. “But I knew enough not to touch anything and mess up the scene. Mizz Jackson had told me she’d be watchin’ the place, so I knew she was parked across the street. I went and told her about what I found, then she phoned you.”
The door to Gretch’s apartment was slightly ajar. Hodgkins, breathing heavily from taking the stairs so fast, stood to the side and let Carver enter first.
Beth was standing and staring out a living room window whose Venetian blinds were raised crookedly. When she heard them enter, she turned. She looked older, but she was calm. The dead weren’t strangers to her.
She said, “In the bedroom, Fred.”
She led the way into Gretch’s bedroom. The first thing Carver noticed was the old blue carpet that had been on the floor, wadded now against the far wall. Sprawled on his back on the bare wood floor was Carl Gretch, his limbs in close to his body but at odd attitudes. His face was so swollen that his eyes were dark slits that looked like folds of pinched flesh. No matter. He wouldn’t need eyes where he was now.
“I seen earlier this mornin’ that his door was open,” Hodgkins said, “so I stuck my head in and called. Didn’t get no answer.” He looked apprehensive and scratched his scalp beneath his gray hair. Dandruff flakes settled on the shoulder of his blue shirt. “I know I shouldn’t have, but I figured maybe somethin’ was wrong, maybe a prowler’d been there, so I went on inside and seen nobody was home and the carpet had been rolled up in here. I knew right away somethin’ was inside it, so I lifted one end and unrolled it, and that’s what fell out.” He nodded toward Gretch’s body.
“What then?” Carver asked.
Hodgkins looked at Beth.
“I saw Mr. Hodgkins staring at my car earlier,” she said, “when he’d come out to empty some trash. So I let him know why I was there. When he found Gretch, he came and got me. That’s when I phoned you.”
Carver supported himself with his cane and leaned down to look more closely at the corpse. Gretch was wearing only white Jockey shorts. He’d fouled them in death. Carver held his breath. There were several ugly dark blotches on Gretch’s thighs and torso, as well as his face, but the skin was unbroken.
“Whaddya figure happened to him?” Hodgkins asked. He was whispering now, as if he feared waking Gretch.
“I think he was rolled up in the carpet and then beaten to death,” Carver said. “It might have taken a long time.”
Hodgkins said, “Jesus H. Christ!”
Beth said, “More likely Beni Ho.”
“Probably,” Carver said. “He could have held a gun on Gretch, or knocked him unconscious, to get him in the carpet. One turn of the carpet and Gretch would have been helpless, like being wrapped in his shroud before he was dead. Then Ho could have his sport.”
“Sick, sick bastard,” Hodgkins said.
“Could anyone have entered the building last night and sneaked into Gretch’s apartment?”
“No reason why not,” Hodgkins said. “In fact, I mighta heard someone on the stairs about two in the mornin’, but I didn’t think nothin’ of it and went back to sleep.”
“The beating itself wouldn’t make much noise, considering Gretch was rolled in the carpet, even if he screamed. But somebody might have heard. Who lives directly beneath this apartment?”
“Old Mrs. Carpenter. She’s deaf as a stone. She sleeps with her hearing aid turned off and wouldn’t have heard cannon shots right next to her bed.”
Beth said, “This building needs better security.”
Hodgkins said, “Hah!” and made a face as if about to spit. But he didn’t. He said, “Tell it to Billy. I have, often enough!”
“Who’s Billy?” she asked.
“The landlord,” Carver said. “He keeps losing Gretch as a tenant, then getting him back.”
“Well,” Hodgkins said, “he ain’t gonna get him back this time. And if he got a security deposit, it’ll be the first time he came out ahead dealing with Gretch.”
“Where from here?” Beth asked Carver, glancing down at Gretch and wrinkling her nose at the odor.
“We phone Desoto and report this to the police.”
“I gonna get in any trouble?” Hodgkins asked. “I mean, for comin’ in here like I did when I found him?”
“You’re the manager and the door was open,” Carver said. “You thought something might be wrong so you investigated. If you’d come in and saved Gretch’s life, you’d be a hero.”
“Or dead,” Beth said.
“Fella can be both,” Hodgkins told her. “I’ll tell the cops that, Carver, case they give me’ any shit.” He stared down at Gretch, looking nauseated and furious. “Gretch was no good,” he said, “but I hate to see anybody die like he did.” He stared at Carver as if angrily seeking answers. “Who’d do somethin’ like this to a man? What kinda person’d be so cold?”
“The kind who might show up as your escort for the evening,” Carver said.
He went to the phone and called Desoto.
The police were at the scene within five minutes. First two polite and efficient uniforms who asked Beth, Carver, and Hodgkins the basic crime scene questions, then requested they stay in the apartment. Then Desoto and two plainclothes detectives. The plainclothes cops took Beth and Hodgkins to Hodgkins’s apartment to take their statements separately. Desoto took Carver’s statement, then said they’d all have to go down to headquarters and repeat them all again for the recorder so they could be transcribed and signed.
Also so any discrepancies in the
three statements would be noted, but Desoto didn’t mention that to Carver. They both knew there was no need. Carver understood how the game was played.
“Beni Ho did this,” Carver said, when Desoto had closed his notebook and they were off-the-record.
“Seems that way,” Desoto agreed. The police photographer and assistant medical examiner had finished, and the paramedics passed through the living room carrying Gretch zipped tight in a body bag. Each paramedic had hold of an end of the bag with one clenched fist. Neither man was straining. Gretch had been a small man and wasn’t much of a burden. Not in death, anyway. Carver and Desoto stood silently watching.
“Let’s go outside,” Desoto said. The technicians were still vacuuming the area where the body had been found and dusting the entire apartment for prints, like a-somber and efficient maid service. “We should get outa these people’s way.”
They went downstairs and stood outside the building, where Hodgkins had been standing and smoking when Carver arrived. Two unmarkeds and a cruiser were lined at the curb. The ambulance, lights flashing in the sunlight but siren silent, was pulling away with Gretch’s body. Carver and Desoto watched it turn the corner off of Belt and disappear.
“You gonna talk to Beni Ho?” Carver asked.
“Sure, but if he did Gretch, we both know he’ll have his alibi ready.” Desoto buttoned his caramel-colored suit coat. His tie was tightly knotted and gold cufflinks winked on his white French cuffs. He wasn’t sweating and looked entirely comfortable and at ease, a darkly handsome guy who might have been one of Walton’s catalog models. He said, “Why would Beni Ho kill Gretch?”
“Because Gretch knew something about Mark Winship’s death and he wasn’t a stable character. In fact, he was a flake and a hothead. He might have talked, so killing him was the lesser risk.”
“What about Donna Winship? You think she was murdered too?”
“No,” Carver said. “Hers looks like a genuine suicide.”
“That’s what doesn’t feel right,” Desoto said. “Donna kills herself, then somebody thinks Mark has to die.”
