Tropical Heat

by John Lutz

  “Oh?” It interested Carver that Desoto had come to the same conclusion he had. “Then why does she act tough?”

  “You don’t understand the female of our species, amigo. This one has been hurt, badly.”

  “Sure. Willis left her.” Carver was prodding. He wanted to hear what Desoto had to say about this, his area of expertise.

  “No, no, I mean before that. Beyond that. She must have been. That’s why she pretends to be so cold.”

  “So you decided she should be my client,” Carver said. “Good psychotherapy for both of us.”

  “You were going to rust and ruin out there by the ocean, hadn’t worked in a month; I heard it from a lot of people. And what other kind of work do you know, huh, viejo? You’ve been a policeman almost all your so-called adult life.”

  “Even before that,” Carver said. “I was a hall monitor in school.” He gave a Cagney-like sneer and pretended he was holding a machine gun. He knew Desoto was a late-night TV buff and a Cagney fan.

  “You think when things get mean, you can get meaner,” Desoto said. “But that doesn’t always work in the real world. You can be a cruel man, Carver. Hard. But like Edwina Talbot, you aren’t as hard as you think.”

  “Oh? I know I’m not so hard. Cruel, either. I get mad when I see people jerked around. I’ve been jerked around too much myself; that’s why I use a cane and list like a sinking ship when I walk. When I get mad, I try to do something about what makes me mad. There’s nothing very complicated, or wrong, with that kind of behavior.”

  Desoto leaned back and crossed his arms. “So you get mad when you see people used, and you try to do something about it. You pick and choose. Who the fuck you think you are, amigo? Maybe Dirty Harry?”

  “No, I’m just a guy who gets mad.”

  “This is noble?”

  “Nope. But if I’m too hard and cynical for some people, that’s too bad. I don’t apologize.”

  Desoto leaned further back in his desk chair and looked satisfied. He’d probably meant to get Carver riled; it was sport. Sometimes, for Desoto, getting people mad was like testing their batteries.

  He smiled, his dashing devil smile. “So, you’re going to help Miss Edwina Talbot?”

  Carver nodded. “If Edwina can give herself blindly, so can I. Besides, you’re right: It’s something to keep me busy.”

  Desoto widened his smile to wicked. He was the amiable lothario again. “Some busy.”

  “The people who told you about me were right,” Carver admitted. “I was turning to rust because of infrequent activity. It’s time to oil up the old machinery and see if the gears still turn.”

  “They turn,” Desoto told him. “They’ll always turn. The chase is in your blood.”

  “Sure, heat-seeking missiles, beagles, and me. Tell me about Willis Davis.”

  “He’s missing,” Desoto said, straight-faced. “Other than that we actually don’t know much about him. According to Edwina Talbot, he’d been acting strangely before his disappearance, murder, suicide, whatever. And his boss says Davis was a distant kind of guy, a loner.”

  “Maybe all that was his way of laying the groundwork for a fake suicide.”

  “Or a real one.”

  Carver repeated most of what Edwina had told him, and Desoto said that was just about the way the case went.

  “Why would somebody interrupt breakfast to commit suicide?” Carver asked.

  Desoto waved a hand as if the question were almost irrelevant. “Suicides do these things sometimes, Carver; you know that. They like for their survivors to wonder what really happened to them. Or maybe a person or persons unknown came after Davis, happened to catch him at breakfast, and threw him off the drop. Wanted his bacon or the last danish. Or possibly Davis went insane and was scared over the drop. Maybe he saw people that weren’t there.”

  “Did Davis’s jacket and shoes tell you anything?”

  Desoto stood up and moved gracefully to a row of filing cabinets along the wall. He pulled open a drawer, thumbed through it, and withdrew a yellow file folder. It wasn’t very thick, Carver noticed.

  Seated again at his desk, Desoto opened the folder and scanned its contents. “That information’s not here,” he said. “You’ll have to check with Marillo in the lab.”

  Carver was surprised. “Not there? How could that be? The man disappeared over a week ago.”

  “There couldn’t be much,” Desoto said, unconcerned, “or Marillo would have phoned me.”

  “What the hell’s happened to the department since I left?” Carver asked.

  “It’s gotten busier,” Desoto said. “We’ve had to prioritize. Such a nice word, eh? Crime is on the upswing, like marriage. The drug business has moved up here in a big way from south Florida. So we’ve got more men in Narcotics, fewer in Homicide. But Homicide’s busier, too. It goes with the drug scene.”

  “Is that why they labeled the Willis Davis case a homicide?” Carver asked. “So it would get lost with a lot of other unsolvables?”

  Desoto shrugged. “You find inconsistencies in Davis’s death. Who’s to say the man wasn’t murdered?”

  Carver studied his old friend. The job would never get to Desoto; he’d be the best cop possible under any circumstances, a very good cop indeed, and probably never advance in rank.

  Carver folded his hands around each other and the top of his cane, shifted his weight forward in his chair, and stood up. The muscles in his tanned forearms rippled; his arms had gotten stronger since he’d been struggling about with the cane.

  “Will you keep me tapped into any developments?” he asked.

  “Sure, amigo. And you keep me informed. I haven’t lost interest in this case. That’s really why I sent Edwina Talbot out to see you. We’ll help each other, Carver. You’re sort of half an answer to my manpower problem; you’re still on the job, in a way, only somebody other than the city is paying you. The arrangement could benefit all concerned.”

  “If I’m the cheapest labor you’ve got,” Carver said, “maybe the department should see to it that some other cops get disabled.”

  “Ah, if only we had a suggestion box.” Desoto laced his fingers on the desk and gazed up at Carver. Glinting gold cufflinks peeked out from beneath his gray jacket sleeves like the wary eyes of concealed animals. “Where are you going now?”

  “To the lab,” Carver said, “to talk to Marillo.”

  “Don’t tell him I suggested you see him,” Desoto said. “I don’t want him pestering me unless he finds something startling, like a notebook with Mafia hit men in a pocket.”

  “What would Mafia hit men be doing in a pocket with a notebook?” Carver asked.

  “Marillo is a scientist. Scientists are boring, and I don’t want to be bored by one. He’s plain vanilla in a white dish, Marillo is.”

  “He’s okay,” Carver said. “He smells like formaldehyde but he means well. I like him.” He limped to the door and opened it.

  “See,” Desoto said behind him, “now that you’re busy, you’ve already lost some of your cynicism. Your hard edge. I miss you. You were somebody in the department who could do what needed doing, always, no matter what it was. At the same time, you have ethics and compassion. Almost like a split personality. Officer Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It’s rare, that quality.”

  “I doubt if you mean any of that,” Carver told him, stepping into the hall and slamming the door.

  Thinking this was no time to lose his hard edge.

  Sam Marillo was at his desk in the lab, in the frosted-glass cubicle that passed for his office. He was a fiftyish, perfectly groomed small man with long, bony features, an erect, fit body, abnormally flawless skin, and short-cropped iron-gray hair pomaded and combed straight back. He looked as if he’d been manufactured rather than born. When he heard Carver’s perfunctory, rattling knock on the side of the doorless cubicle, he adjusted his silver-rimmed spectacles and looked up, then smiled when he saw Carver limp in.

  He stood up briskly behind his d
esk, in a way that suggested he’d incorporated exercising into his work regimen, and they shook hands. “How’s the leg, Carver?”

  “Locked tight as the door to the Narcotics evidence room.”

  Carver noticed that the desk, as usual, was symmetrically arranged. A marble clock and a calendar were at precise angles, a stack of file folders and the “in” and “out” baskets were situated so their edges were parallel to the edges of the desk. Several sharpened pencils and a ball-point pen had been laid next to each other so that they pointed in precisely the same direction, like compass needles.

  Marillo formed a Gothic steeple with his manicured pink hands and gazed thoughtfully up at Carver.

  “I need to know about Willis Davis,” Carver said. “He’s the suicide they’re keeping open as a murder case. Or vice versa.”

  “I know who he was,” Marillo said. “It makes no difference to me what they’re doing at headquarters with his case. I just tell them what they want to know and don’t make waves.”

  Not even ripples, Carver thought. “What are you going to tell them about Davis?”

  “Not much. It’s kind of tough without a body. We just have his sport jacket and shoes.”

  “Did he have athlete’s foot?”

  Marillo didn’t smile. Most humor escaped him. “No, and the wear on the shoes’ heels and soles indicated no irregularity in his walk other than a slight tendency to turn his left foot out as he strode. Wait just a second, Carver.” Marillo stood up and left the glass cubicle. Carver patiently leaned on his cane and waited. The lab smelled more like Pine-Sol than formaldehyde.

  When Marillo returned he was carrying a results form sheet, an evidence envelope, and a blue sport jacket and a pair of black leather dress shoes encased in clear plastic. After hanging the jacket on a hook attached to one of the cubicle’s supports, he placed the envelope on a corner of his desk, then the shoes alongside it with their toes pointed the same way as the pen and pencils. True north without a doubt. Then he sat back down, adjusted his glasses, and scanned the results form. He read aloud in a precise monotone. If voices were flavored, his would indeed have been vanilla.

  “The insides of the shoes yielded some black thread, probably from Davis’s socks. Also a blade of grass and some lint and blue fibers, all probably picked up from the carpet when he was in stockinged feet before putting on his shoes.” He opened the envelope and dumped its contents onto the desk. “Found in the jacket pockets: a comb that contained three strands of straight brown hair; a wallet containing credit cards, identification, and one hundred thirty dollars; two ticket stubs from the Crown Theater dated May fifth; a wadded Kleenex tissue containing traces of mucus; and a half-used book of paper matches whose cover is lettered ‘Earl’s Market.’ ”

  “No change or keys?”

  “You know men don’t usually carry keys or pocket change in their jackets, Carver.”

  Carver had been chastised. He felt like bowing his head. “Was there anything else?”

  “When we vacuumed the coat we got lint, several strands of brown hair that matched those on the comb, two strands of medium-length wavy black hair, and some dirt on the cuff that matched the dirt where the coat was found.”

  “Are you sure the dirt matches?” Carver asked.

  Marillo glared at him. “It contains precisely the same nitrogen content. And the minerals—”

  “I’ll take your word it’s the same dirt,” Carver interrupted.

  “The shoes are size ten lace-up dress shoes,” Marillo said. “About fifty dollars a pair. The jacket is a Coast Trendsetter, mass-produced but neatly altered as if it’s been to a tailor. It was bought fairly recently, maybe a year ago at most.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Sorry,” Marillo said. “Finding its origin is your job.”

  “Used to be my job,” Carver corrected. He doubted if finding out where Davis had bought the coat or had had it altered would help much. That hair that wasn’t the color of Edwina’s could be something or nothing. “Exactly how long were the two strands of wavy black hair you found on the jacket?”

  “Five and three-fourths inches and four inches, respectively,” Marillo said. “The hairs are fine, broken off.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Could be either. They have a perm solution on them to make them wave, but that doesn’t necessarily indicate the sex. Lots of men are getting permanents these days.” Marillo’s eyes darted to Carver’s gleaming pate. “And hair transplants.”

  Carver ignored the remark; he knew that Marillo’s work had imbued him with a protective insensitivity, and the particular, precise lab man actually didn’t suspect that he might step on sensibilities while stating facts. It would be interesting if the hairs were female, if Willis Davis wasn’t as deeply in love with Edwina Talbot as she thought and was stepping out on her. Might he have left Edwina to be with his other lover? Carver doubted that. A fake suicide was a troublesome and complicated way to break off a relationship. Probably someone with wavy black hair had simply brushed up against Davis, or perhaps hung a jacket on a hook next to his.

  “How old would you say Davis’s shoes are?” Carver asked, noting the worn condition of the soles and heels through the transparent plastic bag. He used the tip of his cane to poke and shift the bag so he could see the shoes more clearly.

  “Judging by the condition of the leather, I’d say at least three years.”

  “Have they been resoled or heeled?”

  “No.”

  “Would you say a skillful tailor altered the sport jacket?”

  “No. But it’s still a better job than most department-store tailors do. And more extensive.”

  “More extensive how?”

  “The jacket’s a forty-two regular. The sleeves were shortened slightly, and the coat was taken in at the sides—not tucked, the way cheaper tailors might do it, but sewn in tighter all the way down each side seam so the coat wouldn’t bell out.”

  “That pretty well covers everything about the coat,” Carver said, impressed.

  “Not quite. There was an approximately half-inch-diameter ketchup stain on the left lapel.”

  “So Davis likes or liked ketchup and is or was an average-sized man with short arms. And a little on the thin side.”

  “Maybe not thin,” Marillo said. “Maybe just particular about the way his clothes fit. I have my own coats altered almost the way his was. And the sleeves aren’t all that short. It’s possible, too, that he’s a meticulous dresser and wants his shirt cuffs to show well below the sleeve.”

  Carver made a mental note to check with Edwina about Davis’s sleeve length. He must have left some shirts at her home along with his other clothes. Carver stepped closer for a better look at the jacket. It told him nothing; it looked as if it might fit him, Carver, without further alterations. It wouldn’t hurt to ask Edwina about all of Davis’s clothes sizes. Or look himself. A romp through Davis’s closet might prove revealing.

  “Anything else you want to know?” Marillo asked. It was his way of saying that Carver had learned all the shoes and the coat and its contents could tell him, and Marillo was yearning to return to his true love—work.

  “What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?” Carver asked.

  The question surprised Marillo. “Vanilla. Why?”

  Carver stabbed his cane at the tile floor in disappointment. “Just curious. Thanks for the help in my quest for Willis Davis.”

  “Have I helped you?”

  “Sure. I’ve narrowed it down to planet Earth.” Carver started to leave.

  “French vanilla,” Marillo said behind him. “I like crushed pecans and Kahlua liqueur over it.”

  “Ah,” Carver said, brightening, “a secret life.”

  “Huh?”

  Carver didn’t answer. He left Marillo with this small piece of the day that didn’t fit, and walked from the lab.

  On his way out of the building, he stopped at a public phone in the hall and used the directory to
find the address of Sun South, where, until recently, a man was employed who walked with his left toe pointed out and liked ketchup.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE DRIVE TO SUN South took Carver a little less than an hour. He put the top down on the Olds and let the wind dispel the heat of the sun. He was already tanned dark from his therapeutic swims; no need to worry about sunburn. The past few months had toughened him in and out, created a man not only stronger where he had been broken, but stronger everywhere. If he wasn’t careful, he might find himself getting fond of adversity.

  The Sun South time-sharing complex consisted of over a hundred apartments stacked in half a dozen circular, pale concrete-and-glass towers, stuck in the sand like so many sawed-off tubes. They were nestled together like uncomfortable aliens stranded on the flat beach. As Carver wound the Olds along the highway and got closer, he saw some smaller buildings clustered around the towers’ bases: a clubhouse, golf course, and swimming pool, tennis courts, and what appeared to be a restaurant and small shopping mall. Everything for wealthy vacationers gone to a southern respite of sand and sea, and a sun they usually too late learned to avoid. There was plenty of money here, Carver noted; Sun South had been costly to build and the time shares it sold would be expensive.

  Carver parked the Olds next to a dusty Winnebago motor home on the lot that had a visitors sign hung on chains at its entrance. He got out and made his way along a sidewalk toward the tinted-glass panels of the nearest building. The concrete walk gave way to different-colored stepping-stones and strategically led prospective buyers through a small tropical garden. For several steps nothing was visible beyond the low palms except for beach and rolling blue sea. Carver slowed his pace and breathed in deeply, giving himself to the scent and salty weight of the sea air, a heavier scent that overpowered the sweet fragrance of the garden’s wildly colored blossoms. The surf pounded regularly like a great immortal heartbeat. The suggestion of eternity was there on the edge of the vast ocean, if not eternity itself.

  The sales office was in one of the towers. It was a spacious, circular room carpeted in pale green. There were color photographs and artists’ renderings of Sun South units on the even paler green walls, and in the center of the room was a scale model of the time-share project, displayed under glass and complete with plastic model cars, trees, and pedestrians. Carver studied the models, noticed that the pedestrians were all smiling, the cars were all Porsches and Cadillacs.