by John Lutz
“Not very revealing,” Carver said. But he knew eyewitnesses seldom gave accurate descriptions, even when a crime was committed three feet in front of them. Or even against them. He looked out the window where the radio sat; the sky was pale blue and cloudless, as if bleached by the fierceness of the sun.
“It means we’re not looking for someone obese, much over six feet tall, or instantly recognizable,” Desoto said. “Or with orange, spiked hair. Mr. Average. Not a former presidential candidate. Narrows things down.”
“Any fingerprints?”
“Hundreds. The souvenir shop did a brisk business in shells, suntan lotion, and Florida T-shirts. You know the kind of place: Visa-card heaven for tourists.”
“How about at the restaurant where Chipper died?”
“Nothing to fix on there, either. Guy walks in with a small scuba diver’s air tank; not so unusual that near the ocean. Whoosh! and two people are dead. Nobody notices him going in or out from the street, or if they do they don’t pay particular attention to him. Except . . .”
Carver felt his heartbeat accelerate; he leaned forward, bracing himself with a hand on his extended stiff leg. He knew Desoto, knew he had something.
“Not a thing on the restaurant killings,” Desoto said, “but a couple of people at the murder in Pompano Beach say they saw a car leaving the area about that time, driving fast. A navy blue, late-model Ford with a white roof and a bashed-in right front fender, they think. They’re not sure. Nobody’s sure of anything yet. Maybe nobody should ever be sure of anything.”
Carver ignored Desoto’s musings. At times the lieutenant could be too philosophical for a cop. It grated.
“There might be no connection here, Carver. Coincidence. But then, coincidence is a policeman’s friend and enemy.”
“What style Ford?”
“Big. The regular sedan, judging by the scanty description. Nobody noticed its plate numbers.”
Carver sat still and thought about that. From outside the office came the faint staccato undercurrent of a dispatcher’s voice directing units to various reported crimes, reminding Carver of when he started on the force as a patrol-car officer. His future had seemed clearly charted then, before his life underwent a series of abrupt and tragic changes of direction. The divorce, the bullet, and now this. A bad stretch, all right.
“What about the lab report on whatever was used as flammable material?” he asked.
“As near as they can tell so far, it was a naphtha cleaning solvent, probably jetted by compressed air or propane. That’s a petroleum product, amigo, and this one was turned to a thick, sticky consistency with the addition of chemicals.”
“What kind of chemicals?”
Desoto rooted through some papers on his cluttered desk, singled out one, and said, “Aluminum soaps, is what it says here. Added to a liquid hydrocarbon—that’s the naphtha.”
“Aluminum soaps. That’s what they add to gasoline to make napalm.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Nobody sells something like that in a diver’s oxygen tank,” Carver said. “Or in a propane tank.”
“No, but it would be possible to fill part of a reusable tank with the naphtha mixture, then take it somewhere and have the propane pumped in without anyone suspecting. Or somebody with rudimentary knowledge—say, a scuba diver—could transfer the propane or oxygen from another tank to supply the propellant. We figure an ordinary welder’s igniter was used to create the spark. The guy could twist the valve, snap the igniter for fire, all in about two seconds. Presto! Flamethrower.”
“Christ!” Carver said.
“Scary, eh?” Desoto said. “And sick. We’re running checks to find area people with histories of mental illness that might conceivably result in that sort of action.”
“How long will that take?”
“Not long. The computer can be a marvelous tool as well as a pain in the ass.”
“You’ll keep me tuned in on this?”
“I don’t want to, Carver, because you’re my friend. But I will, because you’re my friend. Life is complicated; something for you to remember.”
“Sometimes life can be simple,” Carver said. “Sometimes knowing what you need to do is easy.”
“Or seems that way.”
“I need the names of the witnesses in the Pompano Beach souvenir shop,” Carver said.
Reluctantly, Desoto jotted the information on a sheet of memo paper and handed it to Carver. “A man and his wife,” he said, “Jerry and Margaret Gepman. Vacationing here from Chattanooga. They were upset by what they saw and returned home the day after the murder. They won’t help you much, I’m afraid, even if you travel to talk to them.”
“They the ones saw the Ford driving away?”
“No, they stumbled on the crime scene right after the murder. The shock put them in a fog; they won’t add to your knowledge.”
Carver stuffed the paper into his shirt pocket. It made a crackling sound going in. “As you pointed out, we can’t be sure of anything.”
Desoto swiveled inches this way and that in his chair, holding up the pen he’d used to write the witnesses’ names and staring at it. As if something printed on it intrigued him. “Has Laura returned to Saint Louis with Sam Devine?”
“I don’t know. She’s going to call me about the funeral.”
“You think she loves this Devine?”
“Yeah. A lot.”
Desoto dropped the pen on the desk. “Well, that’s a good thing for her, maybe.”
Carver got his cane, placed its tip on the floor, then folded his hand over the curved handle and levered himself to a standing position. The air-conditioner breeze played coolly over his arms.
“Where to now, vigilante?” Desoto asked.
“Haven’t made up my mind.”
“Ah, Carver. We both know you’re going to check out places that sell or rent diving equipment, hangouts for scuba divers along the beach. You’re going to ask about a white-over-blue late-model Ford with a dented fender, and who owns it. Don’t you know the police are doing that? Do you think you can do it better?”
“Maybe. I’m more motivated.”
“I won’t try to stop you,” Desoto said. “Or even remind you that interfering in an open case can endanger your investigator’s license and your rather precarious way of earning a living.”
Carver released a long breath and decided he’d better try not to be such a hardass here in the office. Desoto really was a friend. “I’m sorry if I cause you trouble. I mean that.”
Desoto’s liquid brown eyes were sympathetic. “I know. But this line of work is trouble. And remember our conversation cuts both ways, amigo; keep me informed about whatever you learn.”
Carver promised that he would and limped to the door.
“As soon as you learn it, Carver,” Desoto said behind him in a firmer, cautioning tone. “The Fort Lauderdale police, they won’t be enthused about your participation in this.”
Carver turned at the door and leaned heavily with both hands on his cane, his back stiff and his shoulders slightly shrugged, like a song-and-dance man about to do a number. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Where might I send flowers?”
Chapter 5
CARVER SPENT THE NEXT two days doing as Desoto had predicted, making the rounds of charterboat docks and shops that specialized in diving equipment, asking about a dark-blue-and-white late-model Ford. He felt like the Ancient Mariner, stopping one in three. Only he didn’t want to tell a story; he wanted to hear one.
Many of the people who hung around the marinas and boat owners’ haunts had heard about the burnings and sympathized with Carver, but no one knew anything that might help. It was as if salt water eroded memory.
At Scuba Dan’s, on Route A1A just south of Fort Lauderdale, Dan Mason, who ran the shop, told Carver that he did recall a young guy who drove a blue-and-white Ford—at least Mason thought it was a Ford—and bought diving and snorkeling equipment now and then.
And sure, the car might have had a dented right front fender. It had been awhile since the guy had been in, though, so it was difficult to be hardrock sure of anything.
Scuba Dan’s, a mock-driftwood building that was larger and more modern than it appeared from outside, had the facilities in back to recharge diving tanks, and Mason said that the man with the Ford had had a twin tank setup refilled there several times. Bought some flippers once, too. But he hadn’t charged them, and Mason had no record of the sale, no receipt that might give Carver a name. He could only describe the customer as young, maybe in his early twenties, with sandy hair and dark eyes, average height and weight but muscular. There was nothing distinctive about the man, Mason said, and apologized for not being able to help Carver more.
That afternoon Carver phoned Desoto from his cottage and told him what he’d learned.
“We talked to Dan Mason yesterday,” Desoto said, rather laconically.
That got Carver irritated; the deal had been to share information. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Didn’t think it was solid enough to pass along. Probably nothing. Mason’s uncertain about what he remembers. Don’t grab hold of things and twist them into more than they really are, amigo. That’s the danger of working a case where you’re so intimately involved.”
“You people who aren’t so intimately involved,” Carver said, “what are you doing?”
“We’re still checking area residents with histories of mental illness, and we’re tying that in with the white-over-blue Ford, matching names with auto registrations.”
“Looking for the homicidal maniac with the right car.”
“Exactly. Which is also what you’re doing, amigo, only we’re going about it more systematically and efficiently. Our wheels grind slowly but very fine.”
“What about places that sell the chemicals used to thicken the flammable solvent? Or stores that sell the naphtha itself?”
“We’re investigating along those avenues, too, Carver.” Desoto suddenly sounded impatient, harried. He pitied Carver, but Carver was being a pest. “The naphtha is sold a lot of places as a household cleaning solvent. The thickening-agent chemicals might provide more of a lead. We’re talking to manufacturers and suppliers. Trouble is, a good amateur chemist could fool around in a well-equipped lab and concoct a lot of this stuff himself. And that’s something else we’re investigating.”
“Can some of the chemicals be bought by mail order?”
“Yeah. In small quantities. That makes our job tougher, but not impossible. You know we have the machinery to conduct this kind of investigation, amigo, so why don’t you try to relax as best you can and let us do the job? Get your tax dollars’ worth.”
“This is me relaxing,” Carver said, “trying to find the man who killed my son.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry for you.” Desoto wasn’t being sarcastic; he meant it.
Carver hung up the phone, then limped behind the folding screen that divided the sleeping area from the rest of the cottage.
He stood for a moment, feeling a pressure deep within him build until his body shook. It took a while for the trembling to stop. Weeping might be the only way he could find temporary relief from how he felt, and he chose not to weep.
He began packing to go north for his son’s funeral.
Chapter 6
CHIPPER’S FUNERAL WAS HELD ON a sunny day in south Saint Louis. Laura had decided Ann was too young to attend. There was a stiff and tearful ceremony at a chapel in Clayton, where most of Laura’s family chose not to speak to Carver, then the long drive in the funeral procession to a cemetery scattered with old tombstones and ancient trees. A tall, ornate iron fence bordered the acres of graves, and jays and sparrows cavorted and chattered in the green, overhanging limbs of the spreading elms. Carver liked the cemetery. It was the only thing about the morning that he did like.
After the funeral he said his good-byes, shaking hands and accepting condolences. But he was curiously without emotion, cut off from what was happening. A visitor from another world. His mind had disassociated itself from the pain and would face it little by little, as time passed. For now he’d concentrate on finding the man who burned people.
Laura and Devine invited him to come to the apartment, where some of the relatives were going to gather and have something to eat, but Carver refused. The day felt more like a beginning to him than an end. He had things to do.
He’d arranged a layover in Chattanooga on his way home so he could talk to the Gepmans, the couple who’d witnessed the Pompano Beach murder.
After a connecting flight from Nashville, he found himself in a sputtering rental car in Chattanooga, studying a street guide and trying to find the Gepmans’ house on Starlight Lane.
Chattanooga was a clean and compact city huddled at the base of Lookout Mountain, where a Civil War battle had been fought, and few people outside Tennessee remembered which side had won. Said something about battles, Carver thought. He drove away from the looming, misted mountain, following his map.
Starlight Lane was north of the downtown area, a cul-de-sac lined with similar low frame houses. The Gepmans’ home was painted lime green, with dark green shutters, and was almost completely hidden behind a large magnolia tree.
Carver parked the car, then made his way up the walk, ducking the tree’s branches with their thick, waxy leaves. He used the tip of his cane to ring the doorbell and heard its muffled chimes deep in the house’s interior, like the bell of a ship far out at sea.
He’d thought about phoning the Gepmans to make sure someone was home, but he’d rejected the idea. It was better to talk to people cold, without them having a chance to form preconceptions. He was hoping, after the passage of time and a change in locale, that one of the Gepmans might remember something they hadn’t told the police in Pompano Beach. Memory was unpredictable; time passed and hidden moments sometimes bobbed to the surface.
Mrs. Gepman opened the door. She was a tanned brunette about thirty, with a full and well-proportioned figure and dark, inquisitive eyes. She was wearing blue shorts and a red blouse with brown stains on it. She smelled like peanut butter. “I’m awful busy,” she said with a smile. “So if you’re selling something or taking a survey . . .”
“My name’s Fred Carver, Mrs. Gepman. I’m not taking a survey, but I’d like to ask some questions. My son was killed in Florida. The way you saw somebody killed.”
That found a nerve and the smile twisted into a grimace on her soft, handsome features. “I’m Margaret Gepman, Mr. Carver. C’mon in. You’ll have to excuse me, though; I’m feeding the kids right now.”
Carver stepped into a small, neat living room with glass-topped end tables and lots of potted plants. Above the sofa was a vast print of a snowy landscape, bought more for size and color coordination than for artistic merit. A Bible lay open on a tall walnut dictionary stand in a corner. The air-conditioning was humming away softly; it was cool in there. “Is your husband home?”
“Jerry? Sure. He’s in his royal chamber. This way.”
He followed her from the tranquil neatness of the living room into a large den that was a riot of toys and children’s books scattered over the floor and furniture. A chunky wooden truck large enough for a small child to ride rested on its side near the sofa. Identical bright blue plastic parts of some kind of construction toy were spread haphazardly over the oval area rug. They were all the diameter of a pencil, about half as long, and had tiny protrusions at each end so they could be linked together at angles. They were mixed in with spilled pieces of what looked like an impossibly difficult jigsaw puzzle.
In the middle of all this, leaning back in kingly repose in a brown vinyl recliner and munching a grilled cheese sandwich, was Jerry Gepman. He was dressed as informally as his wife, in ragged jeans and a plaid, short-sleeved shirt. He had a stomach paunch and a simple, friendly face. He looked like the kind of guy who’d command a Boy Scout troop until he was seventy.
“This is Mr. Fred Carver,�
�� Margaret Gepman said. She had dimples not when she smiled but when she talked. “He wants to ask us some more about what happened in Florida. It concerns his son.”
“Sure.” Around a bite of cheese sandwich.
A shrill scream cut through the house, like a fingernail and blackboard demanding something at high volume.
Margaret Gepman shrugged. “I’m sorry, I gotta go feed the kids or they’ll tear the place asunder.”
“How many do you have?” Carver asked, wincing as another scream raised the hair on the backs of his hands.
“Three. All under nine years old. We went to Florida thinking we were going to get away from all the stress, left them with their grandparents. And then . . .”
“I been to Vietnam,” Jerry Gepman said, “seen me some things. But I tell you, nothing like what was done to that fella in the shop. All blistered and black. Damned piece of bacon overcooked.”
“This is Mr. Fred Carver, concerning his son,” Margaret Gepman reiterated, as if Gepman were slow-witted. He was the dominant force in the household, but she was a guerrilla who sniped. It was a pattern a lot of marriages fell into. “He’s the father of that poor boy that died the same way in Fort Lauderdale.”
“Oh, Lord, sorry,” Gepman said leaning forward in his chair. It made a ratchety, grinding sound and conformed to his new position. “I mean, it must be rough.”
“It is,” Carver said. “What I want to ask you is, did either of you notice a dark blue Ford with a white top in the area of the shop?”
“Not that I can recall,” Margaret Gepman said immediately.
But Gepman wasn’t so quick to deny. He rubbed his unshaven chin with obvious pleasure; office worker relishing playing slob during a weekend with the family. “Might have been,” he said. “Not a Ford, though. I do recall seeing a big blue Lincoln parked a ways down the street. I remember admiring it before we went into the shop, because it was in such good shape. Except for a dinged right front fender. It might not have stuck in my mind, only restoring cars is my hobby. Working on a ’sixty-five Mustang now.”
