by John Lutz
There was no car in the garage.
The old man got the broom and entered the garage, still with the same rigid, plodding walk, as if he’d never been in a hurry in his life. A few seconds later he moved back out onto the sidewalk, grabbed the trash can by its rim, and slid it inside out of sight. It made a hollow, scraping sound as it was dragged over the concrete.
Carver climbed out of the Olds and crossed the street toward the long garage. As he got closer, he could see the man’s white tee shirt in the shadows, moving like a disembodied ghost as he methodically swept the floor.
Dust was drifting out of the garage as Carver stood in the open doorway and leaned with both hands on his cane, listening to the relentless scratching of stiff bristles on rough concrete.
He said, “I’m looking for Carl Gretch.”
The sounds of sweeping ceased, and the old man shuffled into the light, holding the broom before him as if it were a flag he might carry into battle. He was well into his seventies, with liver spots on his flaccid skin. He was even thinner up close, with bony shoulders and knobby elbows, but plenty of muscle still clung to his bones, and the hand gripping the wooden broom handle was gnarled and powerful. His face seemed to be trying to collapse in on itself with age, brow lined and low over deep-set searching eyes, chin on a trajectory to meet nose. “You a friend or relative?” he asked.
Carver said he was neither.
The old man made a hacking sound, then turned and spat off to the side. “So’s the landlord lookin’ for Gretch,” he said. “Bastard didn’t bother payin’ his back rent afore he moved out yesterday.”
“You mean he left without notice?”
“Sure. That ain’t unusual in this building. But Billy Peekner still don’t look kindly on people leavin’ when they owe the last three months’ rent. Give a character like Gretch a break by carryin’ him that long, it’s a sure thing he’s gonna sting you. I told Billy that, but he was too mush-hearted to listen.”
“Billy’s the landlord?”
“Yeah. Shouldn’t be, though. Billy’s got too much kindness in him to own and manage a place like this. He oughta be runnin’ a soup kitchen, or workin’ for the U.S. mint givin’ out money.” The old man’s gaze flicked to Carver’s cane, back up to his face. “You a bill collector?”
Carver said, “Not exactly.”
“Too bad. Billy mighta gave you the job of trackin’ down Gretch and gettin’ him to pay up on the rent besides whatever other bad debts he’s got. Fella like Gretch, I know he’s gotta owe plenty of people all over town. Probably the way he paid for that fancy car of his.”
“Ever hear of Enrico Thomas?” Carver asked.
“Nope. Why?”
“It’s a name Gretch has used.”
“Not surprisin’. He’s the type that’d use different names. What are you, a cop?”
“A private one.”
“Like that Spenser on TV?”
“As opposed to Columbo,” Carver said. “I get the impression you and Gretch didn’t get along very well.”
“Nope, we didn’t. My name’s Ed Hodgkins. I manage the place for Billy, and Gretch was always givin’ me a fit about everything from leaky faucets to burned-out light bulbs. He’s a perfectionist about everything except payin’ his bills on time.”
“Does Billy live on the premises?”
“Billy? Hell, no! He’s born to money. He ain’t about to live in a dump like this.”
“Do you mind if I go up and have a look at Gretch’s apartment?”
Hodgkins smiled at Carver and raised a white, bushy eyebrow. “You workin’ for somebody Gretch owes?”
“Owes and can’t pay,” Carver said.
“You look plenty fit despite the cane. Private cops like you, do they ever get physically persuasive with deadbeats like Gretch? You know, make them wanna pay what they owe for fear of more interest buildin’ up?”
Carver knew what the old man was thinking, so he decided to let him think it. He leaned on his cane and said nothing.
“Uh-huh!” Hodgkins said, grinning. “Well, an experience such as that’d be just what a character like Gretch might need. You give me your name and I’ll call you if he turns up here again or I hear anything about him.”
Carver gave him his plain white business card with only his name, address and phone number.
Hodgkins squinted at it. “From Del Moray, huh. I got relatives over there. Cousin Charmaine and an Aunt Delia.”
“I don’t think we ever met,” Carver said.
Hodgkins glared at him. “You humorin’ me, young fella?”
Carver laughed. “Yeah, I guess I am. Sorry.”
Hodgkin’s seemed mollified by the admission and apology. He shoved a gnarled hand into one of the jeans pockets and pulled out the ring of keys again. They jingled as he worked one of the keys off the ring and handed it to Carver. “My hunch is, you’re exactly the kinda fella I’d like to see catch up with Gretch. His apartment’s number 2-W, last one on the second floor west.”
Carver thanked him, then said, “By the way, did Gretch put out any trash before he left?”
“Sure did. Lots of it.”
Carver brightened. He might be able to get a lead on Gretch by poking through what he’d thrown away.
“Already been picked up, though. Early this mornin’. It was in ripped up plastic bags. You wouldn’t believe the stench. Smelled to high heaven.”
Carver said, “I’m not sure if I’m disappointed.”
“Just lock up behind you and bring the key back to me soon as you’re done,” Hodgkins said.
Carver said he would, but Hodgkins didn’t hear him. He was already back inside the garage, scraping tracks in the dirty concrete floor with the push broom.
When Carver reached the building entrance, he glanced back and saw thick clouds of dust rolling from the dim garage out into the sunlight. Hodgkins working up a storm.
Gretch’s apartment was furnished in Salvation Army decor. A hodgepodge of scarred and threadbare furniture in the never-never land between new and collectible sat on a mottled blue shag rug that had probably been there since the seventies and never cleaned. The place was neat but dusty; Carver wondered what might be hiding in the long nap of the carpet as he crossed the room toward the kitchen.
Hodgkins had been busy there. All the cabinet doors were open, and dishes and pans were stacked in the sink, still wet from washing. The gray and white tiled floor was swept if not waxed, and the sharp smell of insecticide was heavy in the air.
Carver moved on toward the bedroom, glancing in the bathroom to see that Hodgkins had been busy there, too. Where they weren’t chipped or yellowed, the old white porcelain fixtures gleamed. The same insecticide scent was present here, but not nearly as strong as in the kitchen. Carver was gaining respect for Hodgkins, who must have been on the job since six or seven o’clock this morning to have accomplished so much.
The double bed in Gretch’s bedroom was stripped to the mattress, which, surprisingly, looked almost new. The dresser drawers were empty, and the closet rod held only wire hangers. A black palmetto bug, surprised by the light when Carver opened the closet door, scurried to a corner and flattened itself to squeeze into a crack in the back wall. Apparently it hadn’t heard about the insecticide in the kitchen and bathroom and thought the place was still safe.
There was a stack of mail-order catalogs on the closet floor, in the back corner opposite the one where the palmetto bug had made its temporary escape. They were men’s clothing catalogs, mostly. Carver examined them and found nothing unusual. All of the order forms were still inside. Apparently Gretch received them then tossed them in his closet in case he wanted to order something later. Then, like most people, ignored them. Most of the catalogs were outdated.
Carver saw that the bottom wooden shelf in the closet was empty except for the plastic cap to a spray can. The top shelf was higher than eye level. He ran his hand along its rough wood surface, being careful not to pick up a splint
er. Then his groping fingers came in contact with something flat and smooth. Paper. A magazine. He gripped it and pulled it down.
It was pornography. A bondage magazine featuring women bound with ropes, leather, or tape in various uncomfortable positions. Carver tossed it back up on the shelf, moved his hand around up there some more, and felt what he knew immediately were photographs.
The subjects, Carver wasn’t surprised to find, were women. Not bound this time, but in sexy, smiling, and apparently willing poses, some of them modest even though nude or almost nude. They were of three women, and many of the poses were similar. Most of the photos were of a skinny blond who, while attractive, appeared to be pushing fifty. Or maybe she was only forty and had lived faster than time. In a few of the photos she was wearing a silky red nightgown parted to reveal her breasts. All of the photographs were in color and were 35-millimeter, not from instant cameras. None of the shots had been taken in Gretch’s apartment; the backgrounds were sort of generic, like motel decor. Though the photos weren’t graphically lewd, they weren’t the sort that could be sent to a standard commercial developer; if Gretch had taken the photographs, he had to have developed and printed them himself, or had someone he could trust do it for him.
Carver was relieved not to find Donna Winship among the photos’ subjects. He kept one shot of each woman, then put the rest back where he’d found them.
When he returned the key to Hodgkins outside the garage, he said, “Did Gretch ever bring women up to his place?”
“I never seen it,” Hodgkins said, leaning on his broom, “but that’s not to say he never did. He looked like a goddamned lounge lizard, and he had that car always looked and sounded like a high-speed jukebox. Certain type woman goes for that stuff. Young ones, mostly, that ain’t been burned yet.”
As Carver drove away, he thought about the blond woman in the photographs.
Not so young. But maybe never been burned.
8
Desoto was in his office, on the phone. When he saw Carver, he waved for him to sit down in the hard wooden chair near the desk. Carver closed the door and sat.
“Find him, just find him, hey?” Desoto was saying into the phone. That was pretty much Desoto’s life, Carver thought. His own, too. Find him. Or her. This time, for Carver, it was Carl Gretch.
Desoto continued to exhort whoever was on the other end of the connection to find whomever was being sought. The expression on his handsome Latin features was one of bemusement; he wasn’t as upset as he must seem to whoever was listening on the other end of the line. He was elegantly dressed, as usual-pleated gray slacks, white shirt, lemon yellow tie, gold ring, wristwatch and cufflinks flashing as he paced and talked into the phone. A dandy with a badge. Carver saw the gray suit coat that matched the pants draped on a shaped wooden hanger slung over a brass hook on the wall. Clothes and women were Desoto’s passions. And Latin music, like the guitar solo leaking from the Sony behind his desk now. A slow song with a relentless, tragic beat, like life itself.
“This job is a sad thing sometimes,” Desoto said, hanging up the phone. He sat down behind his desk and adjusted his cuffs, flashing gold and sending chimeras of reflected light dancing across the office walls. “A child dies from internal injuries and the father disappears.” He shook his head. “No one will escape punishment on this one, amigo, not the guilty or the innocent.”
Carver said, “Carl Gretch.”
“One of the world’s guilty, it would seem.”
“He’s disappeared, too. Moved out of his furnished apartment in a hurry.”
Desoto tilted back his head as if tired, closing his eyes for a moment and taking in the sad guitar. “People like Gretch are always moving. Doing harm, then moving, then doing harm again. It’s in their very nature.”
Carver wished there were some way to jolt Desoto out of his blue philosophical mood. He said, “Mark Winship shot himself in the head yesterday.” Well, that probably wouldn’t help.
“I heard,” Desoto said, still seeming to concentrate on the music. “What about the little girl? Melissa?”
“Megan. She’s with her grandmother.”
Desoto nodded and looked at Carver. “You think Gretch is connected to the mother and father’s suicides?”
“Indirectly.”
“Are the Del Moray police satisfied the father’s death was suicide?”
“They’re satisfied because they want to be.” Carver heard the distaste in his own voice.
Desoto smiled, his perfect teeth flashing white in his tan complexion. “You’ve been visited by McGregor?”
“ ’Fraid so. We had a long talk after I discovered Mark Winship’s corpse.”
“You had a chance to look at Winship’s body. Do you think it was suicide?”
“Yes. Probably.”
“Then why do you want Gretch?”
“There’s more to this than what’s floating on top for everyone to see. Two people dead. Suicide, legally. But if they were pushed into it, somehow made so desperate that death was the only way out, I call it murder.”
“Ah, now you’re rewriting the law.”
“Yes.”
“Something a policeman can’t do.”
“I’m not exactly a policeman.”
“Not exactly. At times, not even remotely.”
“Mark Winship might well have killed himself out of remorse over what happened to Donna. But I need to know why she stepped in front of that truck. Need to do something about it.”
Desoto’s handsome white smile was fleeting, his brown eyes somber. “More unwritten law, hey?”
“Sometimes the written law isn’t enough. McGregor is aiming for a promotion and doesn’t want any waves made in his jurisdiction. He’s not interested in the law, or in justice. Mark Winship could have been shot twenty times and McGregor would still call it suicide.”
“You called it suicide,” McGregor pointed out.
“Yes, but I’m looking into it further. McGregor won’t.”
“And he won’t appreciate you doing his job.”
“That’s why I’m talking to you,” Carver said.
Desoto said nothing. The guitar solo was over now and a woman was singing a slow Spanish lament that had to be about lost love.
“McGregor’s going to throw up roadblocks whenever possible,” Carver said. “I might need you to help me by doing some things he won’t.”
“Such as?”
“Letting me know if Carl Gretch’s name turns up in police business.”
“A friend’s not supposed to help a friend do something foolish and dangerous.”
“I’m not asking to drive while drunk,” Carver said. “I only need a little information now and then.”
Desoto leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. The office was warm but his shirt was dry. Carver couldn’t remember ever seeing him perspire. The Spanish woman launched into a crescendo of sound and drama, muted by the Sony’s low volume. Desoto said, “McGregor has the instincts of a snake.”
“Does that mean you want to help me on this?”
“It means I want to hurt McGregor. It isn’t right he should be promoted rather than tortured and executed.”
“Whatever your reasons,” Carver said, “thanks.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a folded sheet of yellow legal paper. “There’s something else,” he said, laying the paper on the desk.
“I thought there would be.”
“This is a partial list Beth made up of the Winships’ friends and acquaintances. Can you check out the names, see if anything of interest crops up?”
Desoto unfolded the sheet of lined paper and studied it. “I don’t see any known drug kingpins or mass-murderers on here.”
“According to Beth, there wouldn’t be. The Winships were your average middle-class couple for years, then they had marital problems and were headed for divorce.”
“That’s your average middle-class couple,” Desoto said.
Carver pl
anted his cane and shifted his weight over it so he could stand up from his chair.
“Where are you off to now, amigo?” Desoto asked, refolding the list of names more crisply and neatly than it had been when Carver had laid it on the desk.
“I’m going to talk to some of the people on my copy of that list.”
Desoto tapped the folded edge of the list on his desk. It made a sharp, ticking sound. “Our arrangement works both ways, my friend. If you find out anything interesting, I’d like to know.”
“Instead of McGregor?”
Desoto shrugged. “I didn’t say that.”
Carver said, “I didn’t ask it.” He lifted his cane for a moment in a parting gesture. “Thanks for your help and understanding.”
“We’re all in the justice business,” Desoto said.
“Not McGregor,” Carver said, limping from the office into the chaos and order of police headquarters.
9
According to Beth, Donna Winship had little outside life other than aerobic workouts, which was where Beth had met her, and tennis lessons at the Del Moray Country Club. The first name on Beth’s list of Donna’s friends and acquaintances was Ellen Pfitzer, also a club member.
The Del Moray Country Club was on the ocean, just north of the marina. It was a complex of low buildings made of pale cast concrete with lots of tinted glass and with blue-shingled roofs that were the exact color of the sea on a sunny day. The grounds were neat and green, especially around the largest building, a clubhouse containing a restaurant and lounge and windows looking out on the swimming pool and tennis courts, and beyond them the ocean. On the wide sand beach was a pavilion with a thatched roof that lent shade to a bar and a dozen round tables with high-backed wicker chairs. To the right of the pavilion, closer to the water, were white lounge chairs and wide blue umbrellas with white fringe. There was a scattering of sunbathers on the beach, men in trunks and loose-fitting shirts, women in one-piece suits, a few younger ones in bikinis. A few older ones almost in bikinis. Their actions were slow and deliberate, as if they’d become drunk from the sun.