Scorcher fc-2

by John Lutz

  Carver raised the Colt level. “You have the right to get the hell out of here,” he said.

  Gibbons did, without looking back.

  Carver decided not to search for the rifle that wouldn’t be there. He’d done enough scrambling around in the rough.

  He slapped at and missed a mosquito about to sting his left arm, then he stood still until he heard Gibbons’s car start and drive off. The sound of the white Ford’s engine wavered and died as it headed south toward Fort Lauderdale.

  Then the only sounds were the gulls screaming, and the drag of Carver’s footsteps and cane as he made his way down to the cottage.

  After draining a cold Budweiser, he called McGregor.

  “I been expecting to hear from you,” McGregor said. “I just got done talking on the phone with Gibbons.”

  “There’s a man I don’t want to see again,” Carver said.

  “Shouldn’t talk that way about him. He’s a nice fella, though he does give the impression he’s on his way someplace to hijack an airliner. All he’s really doing is the job I sent him on.”

  “I want you to give him another job instead of having him shadow me. Gotta be some traffic somewhere needs directing. Aren’t I always hearing how you guys are short of manpower?”

  “Don’t act like such a vigilante jackoff, Carver. Maybe you hadn’t noticed, but Paul Kave went on the attack today. You oughta be glad to have Gibbons in the background. He might have saved your bacon this morning. You better keep in mind you’re looking for a guy even crazier than you.”

  “I do the job my way or I don’t do it,” Carver said.

  “We both know you don’t mean that, sweetheart. You’re just zapping me with this late-night movie talk to scare me. We need each other like Bogie and Bacall. Gotta work together in concert, you might say.”

  “You sound confident,” Carver said. “You shouldn’t be. I can chuck this arrangement, tell everything to the media, and take another approach.”

  “Not an approach that’d net you the guy french-fried your son.”

  Carver felt an almost palpable loathing for McGregor. The Fort Lauderdale lieutenant saw only opportunity in death, not the justice he talked about to rationalize his actions outside the rules. “You said it, though: I’m emotional about this investigation. I’m not thinking any more clearly than Paul Kave. He’s running scared, I’m running hot. Hell, I might do just about anything; it doesn’t have to make sense.”

  “I know your history, Carver. You’re too good a cop to do something stupid.”

  “1 wasn’t a good cop last night at the Mermaid Motel.”

  McGregor was silent for a long time. Then he laughed but it sounded hollow.

  “Okay, Carver, no more Gibbons. You’re a solo act the rest of the way. And I hope to Jesus for both our sakes you got this thing figured out so it happens the way we planned.”

  Carver hung up. He knew McGregor was probably lying. He wondered how deeply Gibbons was involved with Mc shy;Gregor, and if McGregor was careful and ruthless enough to snip any loose ends after Paul Kave was killed.

  That was how people like McGregor climbed to eminence, over the graves of people like Carver. It was the kind of world where anything might happen. Anything.

  He drank another beer, then went outside and moved the Olds so he could change the tire with his back to the ocean.

  Chapter 21

  Joel Dewitt’s car and motorcycle dealership was on a bend on Haven Avenue in Fort Lauderdale. It was flanked by two used-car lots, each with strings of red, white, and blue vinyl pennants draped above the front row of cars that were facing the street with headlights and grilles shining and eager, like puppies vying for adoption. About half the businesses in the block had American flags flying, or suspended in display windows. Patriotism for sale; Commie kisser if you didn’t buy. Most of the cars on the lots were Japanese or European. The pennants fluttered and flapped like crazy when the wind barely breathed.

  There were no pennants at Dewitt Motors. It was a neat, square brick building squatting on a blacktop lot. Late-model used cars were arranged in two rows in front of it, with an aisle wide enough so that the small showroom was visible from the street. Some of the cars had prices soaped on their windshields, along with Cream Puff, Virgin, or Low, Low Miles. The offices, where deals were consummated, were in back of the showroom, in which half a dozen new motorcycles were displayed. Besides Honda cycles there were a few larger and heavier American-made Harley-Davidsons. Apparently Dewitt didn’t sell used cycles.

  When Carver entered the cool showroom he saw Dewitt immediately. Nadine’s fiance was standing by a Coke machine, sipping from a red-and-white can and talking to a short, dark woman with bangs that almost completely concealed her eyes. He had on a pastel green shirt, striped aquamarine tie, and pleated blue slacks; he looked like an animated Picasso from his Day-Glo period. For neutrals he was wearing a white belt and white loafers. Carver thought a checked sportcoat would make it an ideal outfit for selling used cars. Maybe Elana Kave disliked Dewitt because of the way he dressed. Or maybe he had a few toned-down outfits especially for wearing to the Kave estate.

  He noticed Carver, excused himself from his conversation with the woman with bangs, and walked across the showroom. The machine-gun chatter of an air wrench popped off out of sight behind him. Must be a service bay out back.

  Dark green opaque plastic shades had been strategically lowered so that the sun was blocked everywhere but where it was needed to make the chrome on the motorcycles glitter. Dewitt squinted as he crossed a sunny patch and smiled. He extended his hand. He was quintessential salesman here in his showroom, a creature of his environs. Possibly the flashy clothes were his work uniform.

  Carver shook the hand, glanced around at the empty showroom, and asked how business was.

  “Most of our customers come in evenings,” Dewitt said, “when they’re off work and looking for ways to spend their money. You here because you’re interested in that cycle we talked about? I can put you on that big Harley at a better-than-fair price.” He pointed to a sleek silver-and-black machine that looked capable of creating sonic booms.

  “I’m past the age for cycles,” Carver said.

  Dewitt smiled handsomely and his alert blue eyes flicked up and down Carver as if he were sizing up a trade-in. “Some guys hit forty and they get paunchy and soft. For some reason, others get tough. You could still handle a big cycle, despite the bad leg. Bet you’d enjoy hell out of it.”

  “Maybe someday when I’ve got something to outrun,” Carver said. “I thought I’d drop by and ask you about the Kave family when we were alone and you could talk.”

  Dewitt rested a hand on the chrome handlebar of a Honda. “What about the Kaves?”

  “Why’s Elana so set against you marrying Nadine?”

  Dewitt laughed and waved his free hand to encompass the showroom. “Maybe she doesn’t consider this a respectable way to turn a buck. Not like getting rich selling hot dogs pumped full of chemicals.” He suddenly got serious. “Sometimes I catch Elana looking at me oddlike, Carver. I mean odd for her. Like Nadine looks at me. So maybe she likes me a little after all.”

  Carver put that one down to male ego. “Is Nadine concerned about her mother’s resistance to the marriage?”

  “Sure. But it isn’t going to stop us. Nadine’s a girl with her own stubborn streak. I’ll tell you, a kind of bullheadedness seems to run strong in the Kave family.”

  “Hard not to notice. Would she marry you because of her family’s disapproval?”

  “Not a fair question, Carver. But the answer is no. Anyway, Adam doesn’t really disapprove of me. One entrepreneur respects another. Maybe eventually there’ll be as many Dewitt Motors as there are Adam’s Inns.” Dewitt stood away from the cycle and crossed his arms, smug in his vision of grandeur. Carver got the impression he thought a lot about that projected golden future. “But what’s all this got to do with you looking for Paul?”

  “I’m wonderi
ng if Nadine would tell you if Paul contacted her.”

  Dewitt thought about that, shifting his weight from leg to leg. “If I asked her to she’d tell me. But that doesn’t mean she’d volunteer the information without my asking. Nadine and Paul are close. They gotta be, the shitty way Adam treats them. Especially the way he treats Paul. Letting him know one way or another all the time how useless he is. Wouldn’t surprise me if Paul’s innocent of those murders and just made up his mind to get the hell away from the family.”

  “Was Adam really that hard on him?”

  “Any dog in its right mind would run away from Adam.”

  “What did Elana think of Adam’s treatment of their kids?”

  “She doesn’t live in the real world, Carver. She’s got her own problems. Way Nadine describes it, that’s how Elana always was, even before the cancer.” Dewitt glanced to the side, as if to make sure no one had wandered into the showroom to overhear. “You know about Elana’s cancer, Carver?”

  “Yeah, I was told.”

  “Well, I’m not supposed to know. Nadine told me anyway. She’s not supposed to know how serious it is, but she does. Keep quiet I mentioned it, okay?”

  “Sure.” Carver wondered if the cancer was why Dewitt didn’t particularly care whether Elana approved of his engagement to Nadine. In another year or so, how she felt wouldn’t matter.

  “I feel sorry for Elana,” Dewitt said, “though she’d never believe it if I told her.”

  “Would Paul run away without telling Nadine where he is?” Carver asked.

  “No, that doesn’t ring right.”

  Carver hadn’t thought it would. He noticed the short woman with the bangs seated at a desk in a small office with the door open, talking on the phone and jotting something on a note pad with a long yellow pencil. Talking, erasing, talking, jotting. A salesperson making it all possible for someone with a dream of new paint and chrome. Out on the lot a man in a blue suit, with a skinny teenage boy wearing a black sleeveless muscle shirt, was looking over the cars. The boy yanked on a door handle and found it locked. The man kicked a tire. Actually kicked a tire.

  “How close to the family is Nick Fanning?” Carver asked.

  “Not close to the family at all, but close to Adam. Fanning’s the guy who makes the day-to-day decisions for Adam’s Inns. He’s a damned sharp executive. Brains up the ass. Adam trusts him.”

  “Think he should?”

  Dewitt shrugged. “Sure. Don’t see why not. And Adam isn’t the sort to trust anyone without good reason.”

  “He might have something on Fanning?”

  “He might. But that’s not what I meant. I was only saying Adam’s nobody’s fool. He couldn’t be, to have made it the way he has.”

  “He doesn’t seem to have been very bright where his children are concerned.”

  “True enough. But Nadine turned out all right. Paul. . well, he’s a nice enough guy but kinda odd. A genuine loner. I guess somebody like me doesn’t really understand that, huh? Maybe Nadine doesn’t really understand it either. Tell you, Carver, Nadine’s the cream of that clan.”

  “Will you ask her?” Carver said.

  Dewitt grinned. “Already did. She said yes.”

  “I mean, every once in a while, will you ask her if she’s talked with Paul? Find out for me where he is?”

  “No, I can’t do that,” Dewitt said, shaking his head. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Your decision.” A loyalty point for Dewitt. “But anything you do feel you can tell me,” Carver said, “I’d appreciate it.”

  “All right,” Dewitt said, “that’s a deal. But Nadine’s gotta know.”

  “We’re talking about murder,” Carver told him, pressing again.

  “Nadine’s gotta know,” Dewitt repeated, unmoved.

  Carver nodded. “Okay, if that’s how it has to be.”

  “That’s it. I guess I’m a little bit stubborn like Nadine.”

  “No,” Carver said, “not like Nadine.” He limped across the neat square showroom toward the glass doors to the lot, thinking Elana should get to know Dewitt better. Nadine could do worse.

  As he pushed out into the sun he glanced back. Dewitt was watching him and held out his hands palms down and fingers curled, as if he were riding a motorcycle. He twisted his right hand, the throttle hand, and said, “Vroom! Vroom! Sure you’re not interested?”

  “You ride a cycle?” Carver asked.

  “Not me,” Dewitt said. “I got too much to lose.”

  Chapter 22

  Carver drove to Edwina’s house but she wasn’t home. A call to Quill Realty established that she was out selling real estate. She was holding open a house on the good side of town; going for a big commission. The job Edwina had originally taken as therapy after a disastrous marriage continued to lend sustenance to flesh and mind. All Carver really knew for sure about her former husband was that his name was Larry and he’d beaten her on a regular basis. Every few weeks, usually after making love with Edwina, thoughts about Larry disturbed Carver’s sleep.

  He helped himself to cold cuts with sliced olives in them, and lettuce from the refrigerator. Then he laid two slices of wheat bread on a paper towel, and put together a sandwich with too much Miracle Whip, the way he liked sandwiches. He’d never tasted a cold slab of processed meat that wasn’t stomach-turning anyway, so why not overpower the loathsome stuff with condiments? Make assuaging his hunger bearable as well as quick.

  Eat to live, he told himself, not the other way around. The sandwich was gone in four or five bites; that oughta hold him for a while. He suspected the strange meat might have been tasty if he’d taken time to notice.

  He washed down the sandwich with a glass of ice water, then went out on the veranda and sat in a webbed lounge chair, looking out to sea and smoking a Swisher Sweet cigar. Though the sky was blue in the direction he was facing, there were low, dark cumulus clouds creeping in behind him, lead-colored and laden with rain. The kind of clouds weather forecasters loved because they were so obvious.

  The seabirds had already found cover, and small boats were making for shore into the brunt of the wind. Carver watched a tiny sailboat sporting black-and-yellow canvas tack laboriously toward the marina on the other side of Del Moray. The craft described a slow, zigzagging pattern, using the wind to propel it at angles toward its destination. The boat’s dogged antics reminded him of his progress in finding Paul Kave.

  Where was Paul now and what was he thinking? Planning? Where had he gotten the rifle to take a shot at Carver? Was he driving a stolen car? Was that how the police would trace him before Carver could get to him? And was Joel Dewitt leveling? Was a barbecue-sauerkraut hot dog really as scrumptious as Adam Kave implied?

  The last was the only question Carver could easily answer to his satisfaction, and the one that provoked the least curiosity.

  Suddenly the veranda was in shadow and a few cool raindrops struck his bare forearms. He looked down at the moisture glistening like dew among the dark hairs above his wrist.

  The veranda stonework was spotted with rain now, and the wind was kicking up feisty and cool at Carver’s back. It was pleasant sitting outside and observing the increasing number of whitecaps among the blue-gray incoming waves, but the rain would get serious within a matter of seconds. The long fringe on the umbrella over the table by the swimming pool swayed seaward. The water in the pool rippled and danced like a miniature ocean. He could hear it lapping like laughter at the sides of the pool.

  Carver felt his back getting wet as the rain gradually fell harder. He stayed outside until the little sailboat had tacked out of sight to safety, then he stubbed out the unsmoked half of his cigar in an ashtray with a tiny puddle in it. The wind quickly carried the acrid scent of the wet, smoldering tobacco out to sea. He stood still for a moment, relishing the coolness of the storm, then he limped into the house.

  He removed his wet shirt and his shoes and stretched out on the sofa. The rain was beating on the west windows n
ow, and wind was playing a comfortable low tune on the tile roof. The inside of the house smelled musty and close but not unpleasant. Cozy, in fact. Shelter from life’s bad weather.

  Carver glanced at his watch. Three-fifteen. This was the usual July late-afternoon Florida storm that blew in suddenly from the Gulf and would just as abruptly bluster out into the Atlantic. Edwina would probably be home before long. Carver’s car was in the garage, out of sight and dry with its canvas top down. If Gibbons had been at least temporarily pulled from the task of shadowing him, no one knew he was here. The world was on hold, and without Muzak.

  Something metal was snatched by the wind and clanked across the veranda or driveway. Outside; nothing to do with Carver. What was happening beyond the walls didn’t concern him.

  He closed his eyes and allowed himself to sleep.

  He awoke to Edwina’s kiss on his lips. His body jerked and she leaned back where she was kneeling beside him. Then she smiled and kissed him again, taking her time about it. He had an erection. How long had she been there and what had she been doing?

  Carver blinked. Not a bad way to wake up. The room was dim.

  “Whazza time?” he asked.

  “Seven-thirty.”

  “How come it’s so dark out?”

  “Still storming. The rough weather turned around and drifted back to shore. There are tornado alerts all over central Florida. People in mobile homes have been advised to put on their lead shoes.”

  Carver sat up. He heard a drumroll of thunder that suggested trumpets might follow. Close. Lightning illuminated the living room like a dozen flashbulbs going off. More thunder, much louder this time. Something glass sang on a hard surface.

  “I’m afraid of tornadoes,” Edwina said, but there was no fear in her voice. “They pick up people and put them down somewhere else. And I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

  “Then we better get under those heavy beams in the bedroom ceiling,” Carver said.

  The beams in the bedroom were probably no heavier than in the rest of the house, but Edwina nodded agreement to his suggestion.