Burn

by John Lutz

  When he shook hands with Carver, his grip was strong and moist.

  “You been exercising?” Carver asked.

  “Naw. Damned air-conditioning’s on the blink. It’s not so bad here, but you get back in the offices or squad room and it’s a sauna. What can I do for you, Fred?”

  “I need to know a few things about a woman who’s lodged a sexual harassment complaint. Her name’s—”

  “Sorry,” Olson interrupted. “I’m gonna have to refer you to Lieutenant McGregor.”

  The mention of McGregor’s name made Carver’s flesh creep. “Why’s that? He have a personal interest in the case?”

  Olson’s chubby features creased in a sweaty smile. “He’s got a personal interest in you. We got standing orders that whenever you come in here for any reason, you get referred to McGregor.”

  Carver wasn’t really surprised. Lieutenant William McGregor hated him with a grand and nurturing passion and had warned him more than once that he’d like to nail him with a felony count that carried a prison sentence, even if the charge was false. Maybe especially if the charge was false. Like most of the people who’d had dealings with McGregor, Carver hated him right back. McGregor preferred it that way. In a gloating, candid moment, he’d once confessed to Carver that he wasn’t really comfortable around people without the bond of mutual disgust. The sadistic, deliberately obnoxious lieutenant was the most corrupt human being Carver had ever met, in an occupation where you seldom consorted with angels.

  “I suppose he misses you,” Olson said, still smiling. A bead of perspiration dropped from his chin and left a tiny mark like a comma on the front of his white shirt.

  “Like mean little boys miss flies when they need something to pull wings from,” Carver said.

  Olson exchanged glances with the desk sergeant, who was also smiling and sweating.

  “He in his office?” Carver asked.

  “Yeah,” Olson said. “You know where it is.”

  “Better wait till I call back and tell him you’re on your way,” the desk sergeant said.

  Carver stood and watched Olson sweat while the desk sergeant started to make the call. The desk sergeant suddenly began perspiring more profusely, maybe at the prospect of talking to McGregor. The uniforms all hated McGregor, their boss, and hate was impossible without fear.

  “Lieutenant says you have permission to slink right in,” the desk sergeant said, hanging up the phone. “His words, not mine.”

  “Buzz, buzz,” Carver said. He set down the tip of his cane, turned his back on the two sweaty sergeants, and limped down the hall toward McGregor’s office.

  After taking only a few steps, he understood why Olson was soaked with perspiration. The bowels of headquarters were sweltering. A rivulet of sweat trickled from beneath the hair behind Carver’s ear and he felt its dampness as it worked its way beneath his collar. A shrill whine and chatter, like a powerful electric drill meeting resistance, cut through the hall. A muffled voice said “. . . mother-friggin’ bastard!” as the drilling stopped, then was replaced by a loud, metallic hammering that came in irritating, intermittent bursts.

  The first thing to hit Carver when he opened the door to McGregor’s office was the stench. The lieutenant was one of those people who believed cheap deodorant was an adequate substitute for bathing. In the sultry heat of the office his perfumed, stale odor was almost unbearable.

  McGregor was behind his desk, leaning far back in his swivel chair. For some reason he had his suit coat on, though his tie knot was loosened. His suit was brown and wrinkled and soiled, as usual. His severely parted, lank blond hair hung Hitler-style above one small, cruel blue eye. There was a shaving cut on a prognathous jaw that looked capable of crushing rock. He was a pale and elongated creature, well over six and a half feet tall and with the angular build and disjointed way of moving you often saw with very tall men. Despite his lankiness and concave chest, there was about him the suggestion of strength coiled and waiting.

  “I thought the heat and that fucking drilling and hammering would be the worst things about this day,” McGregor said, “until you showed up.”

  “I’d rather talk with anybody else,” Carver said. “You’re the one who left orders you wanted to see me.”

  “It’s crazy,” McGregor said, “but I just have to see you now and then. In the same way I have to glance at my own shit sometimes before I flush the toilet.”

  “Talking with you always makes the world seem cleaner and brighter,” Carver said, as he moved nearer to the desk and leaned with both hands on the crook of his cane. He took shallow breaths through his mouth, trying to ignore the corrupt stench of McGregor. McGregor noticed and smiled. There was a wide space between his yellowed front teeth that he habitually probed with the tip of his tongue, making his smile remarkably evil.

  The hammering and drilling began again. Clang! Clang! Eeeeek!

  “You guys interrogating a suspect?” Carver asked.

  “I’d like to interrogate the jerks working on that air conditioner,” McGregor said. “They been banging away on it for two hours now and it’s still hot as the inside of a pussy in here.” He swiveled this way and that in his chair, stirring the fetid air and increasing the cloying odor in the tiny office. “So let’s get to the reason you came,” McGregor said. “I got things to do here or I wouldn’t be staying in this sweatbox.”

  “A woman named Marla Cloy has filed harassment complaints against one Joel Brant.”

  “I’m familiar with that,” McGregor said. “Del Moray’s not so big a city it’d escape my notice. So what is it you need to know?”

  “How many of her complaints do you have on file?”

  “Couldn’t tell you offhand. Three or four at least.”

  Carver knew that was as precise an answer as he was going to get from McGregor. “I understand she’s filed for an order of protection to keep Brant away from her.”

  The pink tip of McGregor’s tongue probed and squirmed between his teeth like a writhing worm. “You understand right. Judge’ll probably grant her the order, too. I know him. He’s one of those bleeding-heart, politically correct assholes all hung up on the Constitution.”

  “He’s supposed to be hung up on the Constitution,” Carver pointed out, “being a judge.”

  McGregor ignored that observation. “Why are you so interested, Carver? This Marla Cloy’s just another dumb cunt some guy’s declared open season on because of something she’s done. What’s the big deal?”

  “You’ve met her?”

  “Seen her when she came in and filed her second complaint. Ordinary looking bitch, says she’s some kinda writer. Moved here recently from Orlando. Tell you the truth, she doesn’t look worth all the trouble. I mean, why’s this Brant even care about her? Why’s he want to waste his time? You can tell by looking at her she’s a loser that’ll dig her own grave soon enough.”

  “I don’t know Brant’s motive,” Carver said. “I’m not even sure he’s actually harassing her. Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. I figure the guy’s burning and wants to fuck or kill her or both. I seen it before. I also figure she’s the type that did something stupid and’s got it coming to her. Probably deep down she even wants it. Women are like that, you know. Most of them, anyway.”

  “I’m dazzled by your psychological insight.”

  “It’s from when I worked the sex crime unit, taking statements from rape victims.”

  “Have you talked to Brant?”

  “Not personally. Couple of uniforms who took Marla Cloy’s calls talked to him. He denies he’s out to get her. They all deny it. Hell, I’d deny it too.”

  “Maybe he’s telling the truth.”

  “Hah! Maybe I am.”

  “What are you doing to protect her?”

  “Nothing. If the restraining order comes through, we’ll run a few extra patrols past her house at night. You know we don’t have the manpower to stand guard over every scheming cunt that claims she’s being
stalked. What we do is, when the guy pesters her again, we take him into custody and the courts nail him to the wall.”

  “What if it’s too late and he’s already done whatever it is he’s planning?”

  “Well, that’s how it usually works out. We get the call after it all happens, then we go there and clean up the mess.”

  “Seems kind of counterproductive.”

  “Yeah, but that’s the kind of trouble women cause in this world. If they learned to dress and act with a little more good sense and respect for their husbands and boyfriends, they wouldn’t all of a sudden find themselves in such deep shit they need the police. But I guess it’s human nature, genetics or some such crap. In my job, you learn to be philosophical about these things or they drive you nuts. You know that.”

  Carver knew it, but he didn’t have quite the same slant on the problem as McGregor. “You don’t seem to have much concern for Marla Cloy.”

  “Oh, if we get the call in time, we’ll save her fucking ass. I think that’s concern enough.”

  The clang of hammer on steel became even louder, as did the ratchety scream of the drill. Carver was getting a headache, and his clothes were clinging to his perspiring flesh. It was truly miserable in the stifling office; he was glad McGregor was stuck there. “What do you know about Joel Brant?” he asked, noticing a bead of sweat dangling from the tip of McGregor’s nose.

  “The guy that wants to plant her?” The drop of sweat plummeted to his already stained tie to join coffee and gravy and maybe blood on the polyester. Clang! Clang! went the hammer. Eeeeek! screamed the drill. The workmen were persistent, probably suffering in the heat themselves and eager to finish the job. “From what I can recall, he builds houses or something. Doesn’t have a record of violence, but that doesn’t mean much in these cases.” Clang! Clang! Eeeeek! “Guy’s in his forties, probably got the hots for this Marla Cloy, then she did him dirty and now he wants to get even. Way the world works. Maybe if we knew what this cunt did to him, we’d think she deserved whatever it is he wants to do to her.”

  “You ever talk to him?”

  “Not my department. Uniforms talked to him. Gave him the usual speech, I suppose. He hasn’t done anything yet, so we can’t charge him with a crime.”

  Clang! Clang! Eeeeek! “What about Marla Cloy? What if she does something to him?”

  “That’s his problem. If she snaps and picks up a gun or knife, or if he comes at her and she kills him in self-defense, then I get involved in a professional way.”

  “You think she’s telling the truth about how Brant’s stalking her? I mean, the details?”

  Eeeeek! “Sure. They’re usually telling the truth. Sometimes they deserve to have the holy hell scared outa them, sometimes not. It doesn’t concern me until a crime’s actually committed.”

  “Then?”

  “Then I’ve got more paperwork.” He picked up a few of the papers on his cluttered desk and let them fall back onto the felt pad, where a ballpoint pen lay. “Speaking of which, it’s time for you to leave so I can get back to something worthwhile.”

  Carver’s head was throbbing with pain and he found himself waiting anxiously for the next noisy assault on the faulty air conditioner. He didn’t mind leaving. He used the back of his wrist to wipe sweat from his forehead. “Why don’t you open the window?”

  “Air conditioner works from time to time, and maybe you haven’t noticed, but it’s ninety-two degrees outside.”

  “You’d get a little breeze, maybe.”

  “The breeze I wanna feel is from you walking out the door, Carver.”

  “Me, too,” Carver said, smiling. Eeeeek! He turned around and made for the door.

  “Carver.”

  He paused and twisted his upper body over the cane so he could look at McGregor.

  McGregor was standing up now, leaning forward with his knuckles on the desk and glowering at him. “I don’t care if this Marla Cloy bitch is your client. Far as I’m concerned, she’s just another citizen gets protected or stuffed in a body bag—whatever the job calls for.”

  Carver stood silently, letting McGregor assume Marla Cloy was his client.

  “Even if that restraining order doesn’t get granted,” McGregor said, “I don’t want you meddling in this and getting in the way of the police. You just peek through keyholes like usual and hang around your place on the beach and fuck that dark meat of yours. Be the best way for you.”

  Carver knew McGregor wouldn’t let him leave without trying to infuriate him. It was a little game McGregor played with everyone. He fed on other people’s rage and frustration, his own misery seeking company.

  “It sure is hot in here,” Carver said, keeping his voice calm even though sweat was stinging the corners of his eyes and his head was pounding, “You should try not to get overwrought. You could have a heart attack—if you had a heart.”

  And he went out the door into the equally hot hall, leaving McGregor seething and stinking behind him. Clang! Clang! Eeeeek!

  He craved untainted air.

  Carver found Marla Cloy’s address easily enough in the phone directory. A freelance writer had to be listed and available for jobs from all comers. Then he picked up the phone and called his friend Lieutenant Alfonso Desoto at police headquarters in Orlando and asked him to get some information on Marla Cloy from when she lived in that city.

  Desoto agreed to help, though he sounded reluctant. Carver understood. Desoto was basically paid to solve crimes, not prevent them. Which was also true of McGregor. That was how the system worked; there wasn’t much emphasis on prevention. Perpetrators were caught and punished. Victims were finally finding much-needed help, in statutes and in support groups.

  Everyone seemed to be covered except for intended victims.

  4

  THIS WAS ONE OF those times when Carver loved the wind. It seemed to scatter troubles like leaves in its wake, though he knew that was only fancy. Trouble could hang on through a hurricane.

  But he drove with the canvas top down on his ancient Oldsmobile convertible until he neared Marla Cloy’s address on Jacaranda Lane. Then he pulled over to the curb and raised the top, but he left the windows down. The old car’s air conditioner worked only slightly better than the one at police headquarters, and since it was now late afternoon some of the heat had gone out of the day. The breeze that swirled in the car when he began to drive again felt cool when he got up enough speed.

  Jacaranda Lane was lined with scruffy-looking palm trees and untrimmed foliage, but there were no jacaranda blossoms in sight. The houses were small, relatively cheap, and not in very good repair. Most of them were stucco and some had faded red tile roofs. What residents were visible suggested the neighborhood was a mixture of whites, African-Americans, and Hispanics. Some of the houses had freshly painted shutters or well-tended lawns or flower beds, and one of them appeared to have a new porch roof. Though the area had declined, it was a long way from being a slum. It still had a chance.

  Carver drove past the Cloy house to look it over before parking and settling in to wait for Marla Cloy to make an appearance. He kept the Olds’s speed steady so as not to attract attention and took in the house with one long glance out the side window. It was small, like the rest of the houses in the block, cracked yellow stucco with a tiny concrete front porch shaded by a slanted roof. The grass needed mowing. There were several large terra-cotta pots nestled against the porch’s black iron railing. The plants in them were all brown and dead. Some of the house’s side windows had fringed green canvas awnings that drooped low to resemble half-closed eyelids. One of them was ripped and hanging crookedly. The house next door had a FOR RENT sign stuck in the front yard. Carver thought it was a good guess that many of the houses were rented, including Marla Cloy’s.

  There was no garage, but in the narrow gravel driveway that ran alongside the modest house, Carver saw a rusty maroon Toyota Corolla sedan, five or six years old, with a caved-in front fender. If Marla Cloy was a financially
successful writer, she must be putting most of her earnings in CDs or mutual funds. She might also be home, since her car was there.

  After circling the block of similar houses, Carver parked a discreet distance down from Marla’s on the other side of the street. He was in the sparse shade of a palm tree, and because of the curve of the flat street would be barely visible from the house. At the same time, he could see the front porch and most of the small front yard from where he sat. The few folks he’d seen on the sidewalks hadn’t paid much attention to him. It was that kind of neighborhood; everybody had plenty of trouble and didn’t consciously look for more. And it was still too hot for many people to be walking around in the sun.

  He leaned back on the warm vinyl upholstery and relaxed, his eyes half closed like Marla’s awninged windows, slipping into the half-awake but hyperalert mode of the reptile on the hunt and the experienced cop on a stakeout.

  It was almost five o’clock before the house’s front door opened and a medium-height, slender woman wearing black slacks and an orange and white striped T-shirt stepped onto the porch. She was carrying a large brown purse with its strap slung diagonally across her chest and over her shoulder, the way women do sometimes when they fear purse snatchers. From this distance she seemed a fairly attractive woman. Not at all the dreary number McGregor had described. But who knew what kind of female McGregor would find attractive? Something of another species, perhaps.

  After rattling the doorknob to make sure the lock was set, she bounced nimbly down the three porch steps and disappeared as she walked around to her car.

  Carver sat up straight and started the Olds’s rumbling old V-8 engine. He was ready to follow when she backed out of her driveway and headed away from him down Jacaranda Lane toward Shell Avenue.

  She didn’t drive far. The maroon Toyota turned right into a McDonald’s on Shell, jounced over a yellow speed bump, then stopped in a parking space near a Dumpster, facing a picket fence. Carver parked the Olds in a slot farther from the restaurant’s entrance and watched Marla carefully lock her car before walking inside. He couldn’t decide if she was acting like a woman whose life was in danger.