Scorcher fc-2

by John Lutz

  “Not under my nose,” Van Meter said. “Not so much anymore.”

  “Point is,” Carver said, “she wouldn’t worry about her reputation or family if she went to meet Dewitt in the early morning hours. Not Nadine Kave.”

  Van Meter sighed into the phone. “Yeah. That attitude went the way of fins on cars. Looks like she might have gone someplace to meet her brother.”

  “Your guy get the cab number?”

  “ ’Fraid not,” Van Meter said. “He was too far away, and it all happened fast. The cab let her out at the base of the drive and she walked to the house. I can check with the cab companies, though, and probably find out where she went. Don’t know how much that’ll tell us. My guess is she’d meet Paul Kave someplace other than where he’s holed up. Some bar or all-night restaurant, maybe.”

  “Better check anyway,” Carver said. “She and Paul might set up another meeting at the same place-if that’s who she went to see.”

  “Yeah. Listen, I’m sorry we fucked up, Carver.”

  “S’okay.”

  “It’s not, but that’s how it goes sometimes. Imperfect world. Sorry I had to wake you, but I thought you’d want to know about this as soon as possible. In case you wanted to act on it right away.”

  “Right now, I’m too tired to act on anything short of an alligator chewing on my good leg.”

  “Get back to bed, why don’t you?”

  “I will,” Carver said, and hung up.

  But he was finished sleeping. He lay awake and watched the black patch of the window, waiting for the sun.

  He’d decided not to tell Nadine he knew about her nighttime excursion, but he wanted to talk with her anyway, in case she might volunteer information.

  A part-time maid, in for the day from Fort Lauderdale, answered Carver’s ring at the Kave estate. He waited just inside the door amid mock-Spanish splendor while she disappeared down the hall to announce his presence. Her footfalls made no noise.

  A few minutes later she returned and showed him to the large room off the veranda. As they approached the closed door, Carver heard loud, argumentative voices. He glanced at the maid, a middle-aged Latin with a closed stone face. She might have smiled-but no, that was simply the cast of her features. She had a great face for a maid, with a permanent wry expression perfect for deflecting trouble.

  She knocked lightly on the door, and the voices were abruptly stilled. She pushed the door open and shuffled soundlessly aside for Carver to enter.

  The entire family was there. Adam Kave was standing near open French doors, holding a ceramic coffee mug. Elana, looking pale and distraught, was curled on the sofa, also gripping a coffee mug. She’d spilled coffee on her pink robe, leaving two small but distinct wet spots on her lap. Nadine was standing next to Joel Dewitt, her expression tight and stormy. Dewitt looked mad, but not as mad as the red-haired Mel Bingham, who was standing a few feet from him on the other side of Nadine. Not many people could look as angry as Bingham. He resembled a skinny modern-day Viking consumed by the red rage. A berserker with wild eyes and clenched fists. A large vein pulsed and writhed like a blue worm trapped beneath the taut flesh of his forehead. Ugly, ugly.

  Adam Kave cleared his throat loudly; he was embarrassed. He nodded and said, “Carver.” Nadine glared at Carver. Elana regarded him remotely, as if from behind soundproof glass. Dewitt and Bingham hardly noticed him; they were glaring at each other. Carver felt like a servant in a British movie: part of the scene yet not a part, existing in a lower-level universe of manner and meaning. He wished just then that he had a face like the maid’s.

  “We were discussing where Nadine went last night,” Adam said. “I happened to hear her leave a few minutes after two and then return several hours later. She refuses to tell us why she sneaked out in the middle of the night or where she was going under cover of darkness.”

  “I don’t see why I should have to tell,” Nadine said. She was wearing yellow shorts and a sleeveless white top. Her thick, tennis player’s thighs flexed powerfully as she shifted her weight. Her black hair was skinned back and braided with a yellow ribbon. A healthy and vigorous girl who looked ready to play time to a draw and always have her own teeth and live to be two hundred.

  “We assumed you went to meet Joel,” Elana told her. “Since you and he are seeing each other anyway, we simply wondered why you felt the need to sneak away behind our backs.” She talked as if they weren’t engaged and were merely casually dating. There was something about her daughter’s involvement with Dewitt she couldn’t even come close to acknowledging as reality. Or maybe she figured that, with her limited time left alive, she could accept or reject whatever she pleased and ultimately it wouldn’t matter whether it had been fantasy or fact.

  “But when it was mentioned this morning at breakfast in Joel’s presence,” Adam said, “it was obvious he knew nothing about it.”

  If either of them suspected Nadine had sneaked off to meet her brother, they weren’t saying so.

  “I think she went to meet this turd,” Dewitt said, pointing at the seething Bingham, “but she’s afraid to admit it, and so is he. Why’s he always hanging around the house, anyway? He’s got no business here.”

  “I come to see Nadine,” Bingham said, “whether you like it or not. We’ve been friends since childhood, and I’ve come and gone here whenever I wanted for years.”

  “Only to see Nadine?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, that’ll soon be over.”

  Bingham fumed and Elana smiled. It was as if she were pleased at seeing Dewitt’s true personality exposed under stress. Will the real sleazy seller of doctored engines and tired transmissions please stand up? Yet there was a kind of regret in her eyes.

  “If you want to think I met Mel, fine,” Nadine said. “There’s no way either of us can convince you otherwise, so fuck you.”

  Dewitt said, “I notice our friend Mel’s not trying very hard to convince me that it wasn’t him you sneaked out to meet.”

  “I wish she had met me last night,” Bingham said in a strained but controlled voice. “Or met anybody else but you. She’d have been doing herself a favor. And who needs to convince you of anything?”

  The tension level in the room was electric, tickling the nape of Carver’s neck. It must feel that way where lightning was about to strike.

  Nadine said, “Hey, calm down, Mel,” and moved closer to him and gently rested a hand on his shoulder.

  That seemed to burn Dewitt’s fuse all the way down. He reached around her and grabbed the taller but thinner Bingham by the shirtfront. Nadine ducked low as Bingham pulled back, popping buttons. “For God’s sake!” Nadine said. Bingham raised an arm, elbow crooked, and awkwardly angled a punch over her head at Dewitt. Not with much force. Dewitt blocked it and yanked Bingham around Nadine, who took two off-balance steps and dropped hard to her hands and knees, jarring the room.

  “Joel! Stop it!” Adam Kave yelled.

  But it was Bingham bringing the fight to Dewitt. The lanky redhead was hurling windmill punches, landing one in four. Not a lot of skill, and too much righteous fury. Each time he threw a punch he grunted with effort and the mindless joy of combat. Forward was the only direction he knew.

  Dewitt was all icy determination now, infuriated but calm, slipping punches and weaving and conserving his energy and waiting for Bingham to wear himself out. His blue eyes never blinked, even when Bingham landed a punch.

  Finally Bingham stepped back, his scrawny chest heaving. He’d had enough action, worked away his rage. Reason had returned.

  Dewitt smiled and said, “My turn,” and neatly kicked him in the groin. A short, economic flight of the foot. Must have had karate lessons somewhere along the line.

  Bingham went white and dropped in a hunched position on the floor, his hands cupped between his legs. He rocked forward until his nose touched the thick rug. Dewitt, still with that nasty calm smile, began systematically kicking him, starting with the ribs and workin
g toward the head.

  Carver knew Bingham would soon be hurt seriously, if he didn’t already have some broken ribs or bruised internal organs. Dewitt was wearing pointy-toed leather loafers that could do genuine harm; Italian-import Mafia shoes.

  Reaching out with the cane, Carver hooked Dewitt’s arm and pulled him away from Bingham. Dewitt whirled and tried to wrest the cane from Carver’s grip. It took him only a second to realize Carver’s superior strength; a man’s upper body developed powerfully from pushing around with a cane, from hours of swimming against strong ocean current.

  “You’re gonna hurt him in a way you’ll regret,” Carver said, holding the cane tight and leaning into Dewitt to keep from falling. If he went down, he knew he’d have to drag Dewitt with him; he didn’t want to be kicked like Bingham.

  Dewitt let out a long, trailing breath and released the cane. He looked around, his eyes dull and his mouth slack. Blood was dripping from the point of his chin onto the floor. Carver listened to it plup! plup! plup! onto the rug. One drop sounded different; it had landed on the toe of Dewitt’s right shoe.

  He stepped over Bingham and stalked out.

  “Joel!” Nadine cried, and ran after him, leaving Bingham whimpering on the floor. “Dammit, come back, Joel! Please, honey!” Not hard to see where her loyalty lay. Carver knew she hadn’t met Bingham last night. Or Joel Dewitt.

  He and Adam Kave helped Bingham to his feet.

  “You hurt bad?” Adam asked.

  Bingham, still pale, shook his head. “. . Be okay,” he mumbled. “Pain going away. A little sick to my stomach.”

  Adam helped him walk to the sofa. Bingham slumped down on the cushions, clasping his right side where Dewitt had scored with some well-placed kicks. Pain was bending his body forward in a tight coil.

  Elana stood up slowly, almost as if she were bored, and without speaking left the room. The lilac scent of her perfume followed her.

  “You should get upstairs and rest, dear,” Adam called after her unnecessarily. “Try not to worry about all this.” She didn’t answer. He turned toward Carver. “She seems calm, but inside she’s upset, sucked dry of energy. This kind of scene can. . well, it takes a toll on her.”

  “I imagine,” Carver said.

  “The bastard!” Bingham groaned, feeling better and getting mad again. “He kicked me in the balls!” As if mayhem were a sport and there were rules.

  Carver limped over to the sofa. “I’ll drive you to get those ribs X-rayed,” he said.

  “I can drive,” Bingham snapped, acting as though Carver had insulted him. He struggled to his feet. His tall, lanky body swayed, then steadied. His long face was still pinched with pain. He couldn’t quite believe what had happened. The good guys were supposed to win. This was an aberration and an outrage.

  “Mel, you need help,” Adam told him. “Go have yourself looked at by a doctor. Promise to do that?”

  “A doctor and a lawyer,” Bingham said. Man of the eighties. He hobbled bent-over out the door.

  Carver and Adam said nothing while they waited, then they listened to the sound of his Jeep starting and screeching away. Tires counted for nothing in his budget.

  “Shit!” Adam said, uncomfortable with this new silence and what had gone before it. “For something like this to happen. .” He glanced up at the beamed ceiling, as if suddenly he’d heard thunder and remembered there was a storm in the forecast. “You’ll have to excuse me, Carver; I better go upstairs and see to Elana.”

  “You should. We can talk later.”

  Adam clenched and unclenched his fists, as if exercising with invisible devices to strengthen his grip. His spring-trap jaw moved silently; he wanted to say more but couldn’t formulate adequate words to direct Carver’s way. He gave up and shambled from the room with his head bowed.

  Carver put weight on the cane and moved out to the veranda; he needed fresh and less vibrant air.

  Nadine was seated at the glass-topped table that was still cluttered with dishes and flatware and wadded napkins from breakfast. She was staring at the mess as if it were the remnants of her ruined young life. When she heard the clack of Carver’s cane she looked up at him, and then away. Her eyes were black with a nameless fear. “How’s Mel?”

  “I think he’ll be all right,” Carver told her. The steady pulse of the ocean and the vastness of the sky made everything seem more placid out here. Eternity close by. Waiting.

  “God, I thought Joel was gonna kill him!”

  “He might have.”

  Far out at sea hundreds of gulls were circling in the wake of a fishing boat, like a cloud of fleas following an indifferent dog.

  “Joel’s in the bathroom washing blood off his shirt,” she said. “Mel hit him and cut his lip.” She talked as if a split lip were as serious as a cracked rib or ruptured spleen. “Despite what Mother says, Joel’s an honest and honorable man. I mean, just because he’s in a business where there are some crooks. .”

  “I know,” Carver said. “In fact, I sympathize. Private investigators suffer from an unfair stereotype just like used-car dealers.”

  “A couple of times I’ve driven down to Miami with Joel to pay back money his grandfather lent him. That old man’s Joel’s only relative; his mother deserted him when he was an infant. Joel’s always repaid the loans, and on time. That’s how he’s kept his business going through rough times, not by stealing people’s money like Elana or Mel Bingham would have you believe. His grandfather himself told me that. Joel’s a man who feels the responsibility of his debts.”

  And Nadine was a woman who knew how to avoid an uncomfortable subject. Carver leaned with both hands cupped over his cane and looked deep into her dark eyes, trying to understand what was staring back at him and making him uneasy. “You met Paul last night, didn’t you, Nadine?”

  She’d been waiting for him to ask. She pushed away from the table and stood up, not realizing her arm had brushed crumbs from the smooth glass onto her pale yellow shorts, where they clung like tiny insects.

  She said, “Let’s go down to the beach, Mr. Carver. We need to talk where no one can overhear us but the fishes.”

  Chapter 27

  Carver was having difficulty walking with the cane on the damp sand, near where the surf foamed on the beach. Nadine looked over at him and stopped. He turned, and supported himself gingerly with the cane, facing her. She was wearing white Reebok jogging shoes that were wet from waves that had crawled far enough up on the sand to reach them. She didn’t seem to care that her shoes were wet. The mind was where she lived.

  “I didn’t meet Mel Bingham last night,” she said. “I did meet Paul.”

  Surprise, surprise, Carver thought. “Where?”

  “At a marina in Fort Lauderdale. And if you’re thinking of trying to figure out which one, forget it. We won’t meet there again.” Her voice was taunting, as if she were playing a game and had gone one up on Carver.

  “How’d you know where to go?”

  “Paul swam to the boathouse here and left a note for me where we used to hide things when we were kids. It told me where and when to meet him. We talked for over an hour, Mr. Carver. I mean talked about everything, really deep. The way we used to confide in each other when we were in grade school. Nothing but the truth.” Her strong Kave features, half in bright sunlight, became serious. “Paul didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Paul would say that.”

  “Of course. Because he’s innocent.”

  “The evidence says he’s guilty.”

  She tilted her head to the side and stared at him with the mocking tolerance of youth. Wisdom time. “Isn’t that for a judge or jury to say?”

  Carver matched her trite for trite. “I’d like to help Paul so he’ll stand in front of a jury instead of police guns.”

  “That’s bullshit and we both know it.” Really, she was grown-up. At times, anyway.

  Carver wasn’t sure how much she knew. He let her remark go by. He guessed she was letting her emotions
talk for her. Like every other kind of love, sibling affection had a flip side that could cause pain. She’d learned, like everyone else; vulnerability was part of love’s bargain.

  Then she said, “Paul didn’t kill your son.”

  Carver felt his stomach dive.

  Nadine had found him out and knew who he was and what he was doing, and there was nothing below him but space and a haunted future. Haunted by things interrupted. Incomplete. His son’s life. Justice and balance after death. Even simple revenge. He wondered with dismal detachment if he could live with that.

  “How did Paul know one of his victims was my son?” he asked. His own voice sounded unfamiliar, muted by the sibilant roll of the surf.

  Nadine spread her feet wide and propped her fists on her ample hips. Long-legged and sturdy, she stood as if nothing in the universe could budge her. She was a female colossus in complete charge of the conversation now. Or thought so. Information could do that to people. “He first knew you were. . stalking him when he learned you were asking about his car at Scuba Dan’s. You were all over the beach, asking about the murders, so he followed you and learned your identity and your relationship to the boy who was burned to death in Fort Lauderdale. He read in the papers that you were working for the family, trying to locate him, and he knew you must have lied to us about who you were.”

  “Where’s Paul now?” Carver asked.

  Her dark eyes were level, calm yet defiantly candid, as if it were only Carver who should fear the truth. Strength through naivete. “I don’t know. He doesn’t want me to know. It has to be that way.”

  Carver believed her. Paul Kave was turning out to be wilier than he’d anticipated. Not to mention more persuasive. But then, Paul was supposed to possess a stratospheric I.Q. It would be easy for someone like him to take advantage of a sister’s unquestioning, simple love. To sense weakness and exploit it.

  “He wanted to meet with me,” Nadine said, “to assure me he was okay, and to convey to you that he’s innocent.”

  “And to ask you to bring him some of his antidepressant medicine?”