by John Lutz
“I’ll tell him,” Carver said. “The idea is for me to help Paul, remember. To save him.”
“I know. Maybe only somebody from outside the family can do that. Don’t give up on the job.”
“I intend to keep at it,” Carver said.
He hung up the phone. You weren’t supposed to feel full thirty minutes after Oriental food, but the spicy Hunan beef rested in his stomach like a stone from the Great Wall of China. Carver closed his eyes for a minute, seeing only swimming fragments of golden sun that had followed him into his room. He didn’t feel good about what he’d just told Nick Fanning. Or about what Fanning had said about Adam actually being fond of Paul.
Somebody loved even Hitler, he told himself, and picked up the phone again and played the numbers to reach Desoto, oddly comforted by the thought.
“Somebody loved even Hitler,” he said, when Desoto had answered the phone and identified himself.
“Plenty of people would still love him, amigo, if Germany had won the war.”
“A measure of how fucked-up the world is,” Carver said. “How’d you know where to reach me?”
“I called McGregor and he told me.”
“How did he know?”
“He didn’t say. He’s the kind that hoards information like a squirrel hoards nuts. Knowledge is power, McGregor figures, and he’d just as soon not share it.”
“Not share anything.”
“Except blame, amigo. He’s good at passing that around. He’s one sneaky bastardo, a watcher who plans before he moves.”
He’s watching me. Having me shadowed. Carver automatically glanced at the sliding glass doors to outside, as if expecting to see McGregor or one of his men hunkered down and staring in through the crack in the drapes, like a peeping Tom.
“I’m sorry, amigo, but I’ve got something to tell you that will only worsen that fucked-up condition you mentioned. A woman here in Orlando burned to death in her shop a few hours ago. We’re still putting things together, but there’s not much doubt it’s just like the other killings.”
The knot in Carver’s stomach got heavier; his heart moved higher in his chest and fluttered. “Fifteen minutes ago I got a phone call.” He told Desoto what the caller had said. How the man had graphically described a woman burning.
“She was burned that way,” Desoto said quietly.
“Christ!. .”
“Paul Kave’s taunting you,” Desoto said. “Making it a game. Showing he can take the play away from you and be the hunter.”
For an instant Carver saw a tiger. “Why?”
“Amusement, amigo. Twisted kind of sex thing, maybe. We’ve both seen it. This time it’s mixed up with burning people to death. Know what? — I’m afraid for you.”
“I’m afraid for me, too.”
“Ah, but you feel something more potent than fear. And that’s what worries me, Carver.”
“I’ll worry enough for both of us.”
“I sincerely hope.”
“Any witnesses to the last murder?”
“None. What was left of the victim was discovered by customers when they walked into her dress shop over on Orange Avenue.”
“Orange in downtown Orlando?”
“Yeah. Not all that far from police headquarters. You want details by phone, or are you driving here?”
“I’ll check out now and get there soon as possible.”
“I oughta be in my office till late evening,” Desoto said. “Should have an autopsy prelim by the time you get here.”
“That’s fast.”
“There isn’t much left to autopsy,” Desoto said sadly. “This was a thorough job. Not an inch of her wasn’t burned. Sacra Madre!” Soft hissing on the line was the only sound Carver heard for a while. Desoto breathing into the receiver? Carver waited. He knew Desoto was thinking about the dead woman, reliving fresh and vivid impressions. Homicide cops were bedeviled creatures.
“Amigo, you think even Hitler ever did anything like this? I mean, personally?”
“If he didn’t,” Carver said, “I bet he could have worked up to it.”
It was something he thought about most of the way into Orlando, whether a murderer of historic proportion and bureaucratic distance like Hitler was actually as evil as Paul Kave, who stood face-to-face with his victims and watched their blazing agony and death throes. Worked painlessly inside their tortured flesh as an observer and enjoyed. The nature of evil was elusive. Like the truth.
When he reached the Bee Line Expressway on the outskirts of Orlando, he wondered if the white Ford rental behind him was the one that had haunted his rearview mirror all the way up from Pompano Beach.
Chapter 16
Desoto asked Carver, “You wanna see the body?”
“No.”
“I don’t blame you.”
They were in Desoto’s office in the Municipal Justice Building. The air-conditioner behind Desoto’s desk was toiling away, humming up its miniature windstorm and elevating the yellow ribbons tied to its grille. It had its work cut out for it; though it was late evening, the temperature outside was ninety-two and the humidity was thick enough to swim in.
Desoto, in his vanilla-colored suit, white shirt, and pale mauve tie, appeared cool as always. He never perspired; maybe he didn’t have pores. But he must have felt the heat. “It’s the boiling tropics in this part of the country, amigo, despite all those Disney World commercials the tourists see on TV.”
“It’s lots of things despite Disney World,” Carver said. “And that’s a shame.”
“You’re not missing much, not viewing the body,” Desoto told him. “Just something charred that used to be a woman. It was the fire she died from; she was alive when she was torched. Like the others.”
“What about the accelerant?”
“The lab says it appears to be the same concoction that was used in the Fort Lauderdale and Pompano Beach murders. You surprised?”
“No. But where would Paul Kave get that kind of flammable mixture while he’s on the run?”
Desoto shrugged, an exquisite gesture; elegant man in an elegant suit. “Maybe he took a supply with him. He might think that way. That’s why head-case killers are especially dangerous; no way to know how or what they’re thinking. Not for sure, anyway.”
“Sometimes, if you understand how they tick, they can be the most predictable.”
“That what you been doing?” Desoto asked. “Learning about Paul Kave’s clockwork?”
“Been trying.” Carver watched the yellow ribbons for a moment. “What else do you know about this killing?”
Desoto ran a manicured hand over his dark hair in a gesture of unconscious vanity. Someone not knowing him well would never guess he was a tough cop. They’d see him as a threat to vulnerable females, and nothing more. Carver knew he was much more. Desoto fixed his somber brown eyes on Carver as he spoke: “Adelaide Finney-that’s the victim-was alone in Rags and Riches-that’s the dress shop. She was forty-seven, single, Caucasian. It’s a cubbyhole of a place, amigo, racks of clothes, couple of changing rooms with mirrors. One of the Finney woman’s regular customers went in to buy something and right away sniffed what it smells like after a person’s burned. Some of the dresses were charred, and she saw flames. The sprinkler system started spraying water all over the place, but the fire department hadn’t responded yet to an alarm network the shop’s hooked into. So the customer, a Missie Jeffries who lives out in Longwood, must have got there minutes after the murder. She ran out and phoned the police and fire department. When we got there, we found the remains of Adelaide Finney where she’d crawled under a dress rack. Her family said she was a big woman, but you’d never have guessed it by what was left.”
Carver resisted mental images and concentrated on the facts. “What was Paul Kave doing in a dress shop?”
“I’m afraid that’s obvious, amigo. It was a small shop with a woman alone. Nice and safe. He did this killing just for you, to warn you and to show you his power. Th
at’s why he phoned you about it, to let you know how easy it is for him, how simple it’d be if he decided to make you his next victim.”
“Think he’s trying to get me to back off?”
“No, no, my friend. He knows you can’t back off this one. He wants you to understand what kind of game you’re in, and that eventually you’re going to lose. You’re his plaything. That scare you?”
“Yeah, but not enough.”
“See then, he’s right about you. You’re much better than competent at what you do, amigo, but in this instance you’ve got a perilous blind spot. A kind of Achilles’ heel.”
“Achilles didn’t see with his feet.”
“Better for him if he could have, though, eh?” Desoto flashed a sad, white smile.
The air-conditioner’s thermostat clicked off, then immediately back on. The tone of the unit’s hum didn’t change, and the yellow ribbons remained horizontal. The heat outside didn’t seem to notice that the sun had set. Carver gazed out at the blackness that crowded flat against the windowpanes. “How do you think he found out I’d been tracking him?”
“Could have happened a lot of ways. You’ve been flitting all over Florida like a dazed June bug, asking questions. The Kave kid is supposed to be brilliant. It probably took him about a minute to get on to you. Probably he simply caught mention of your name in the paper; guys like that sometimes enjoy reading about themselves. However he found out, I’m sure this last performance was all for you.”
“Wait a minute. It was in the news that the family hired me?”
“On back pages. But not that you’re the father of one of the victims. You didn’t know?”
“No. McGregor must have leaked it.”
“Most likely. He wants you waiting in the wings in case something goes wrong and a sacrificial goat is needed. His style. He might also be trying to spook Paul Kave, get him jumpy enough to screw up.”
“And Adelaide Finney dies as a result.”
“That’s how it is, amigo.”
Clutching his cane, Carver watched the blood recede from his knuckles. He didn’t like the notion that he was indirectly responsible for Adelaide Finney’s death, but he realized Desoto was probably right. First the matchbook, and now this. His involvement in the case might have led to the murder. Desoto knew what he was thinking but could offer no comfort.
“A shitty business we’re in, amigo. Could it be we should be selling insurance?”
“That’s a shitty business too.”
“Something else,” Desoto said. He opened a desk drawer, reached in, and drew out a patent-leather black belt with a silver buckle shaped like a sunflower. The end of the belt was charred. There was a price tag dangling on a string from the buckle. Carver could see “12.99” penned on the tag.
“This was on the shop counter near the register,” Desoto said, “as if the killer was going to buy it right before the murder. And this was on the floor nearby.” He reached into the drawer again, then dropped a bent piece of plastic on the desk alongside the belt.
“What is it?” Carver asked.
“A partially melted credit card,” Desoto said. “Look closely and you can read Paul Kave’s name.”
Carver got up and leaned on his cane, hovering over the desk lamp. He could make out the first name and the letter K on the mangled, blackened plastic that had once been a Visa card.
“The account number makes it his, too,” Desoto said. “This places him at the scene.”
“You check with the credit company records?”
“Of course. Paul Kave hasn’t charged anything on the card for six months. Paid cash for most everything, apparently.”
“Then why didn’t he pretend he was paying cash for the belt?”
“My guess is he’s running low on money. But there’s another possibility. He might have left this card behind deliberately, so you’d know for sure who burned the Finney woman.”
“Jesus!” Carver said. “Bragging. About that.”
“Looks that way, amigo. It’s the kind of thing you stir up when you get involved in a vendetta instead of your job. What you’re doing is dangerous, maybe more dangerous than you can see through your clouded judgment.”
Carver remained standing. He said nothing.
“How about we go out somewhere?” Desoto said. “I can get away from here for a while. We could have a late-night snack and talk about this. Talk about whatever you want. It could be we’d solve many of the world’s problems.”
“No. I’m going to Edwina’s. To have a few beers and try to chase the last couple of days away, at least for a while.”
“You getting along with McGregor?”
“He’s an asshole,” Carver said.
“Since I’ve known him. Your son’s murder is his case, though. Something you need to remember.”
“But the Finney case is yours.”
Desoto smiled. Ivory teeth against tanned flesh. Crow’s feet at the corners of knowing brown eyes. Handsome matador, ready to slay a bull or a heart. “That allows some latitude,” he admitted. He knew what was coming next and waited patiently, not speaking.
“I’m asking,” Carver said. “I’ve got to.”
“Or think you do. But all right; what there is to know about the investigation, amigo, will be passed on to you. So long as you must continue with your insanity.”
Carver shifted his weight to his stiff leg for a moment, balancing with the cane. “I appreciate it.”
“Something, though,” Desoto said. “It’s you all by yourself out on a thin limb; I can’t help you if it breaks. Nobody can. I’m warning you to back away and let the law do its work. In fact, I’m telling you.”
“I’m not listening.”
“If I could, I’d put you in jail in protective custody. Protect you from yourself.” Desoto did suddenly look angry. “The law’s gonna come down outa nowhere on you one of these days, you and your ‘man’s-gotta-do-what-he’s-gotta-do’ delusion. Don’t you know the families of most murder victims feel exactly the way you do?”
“I guess that’s so,” Carver said.
“Ah, go to Edwina. And have more than a few beers. While you’re being appreciative, appreciate her.”
“I do,” Carver said, limping toward the door. “You’d be surprised how much. Sometimes it surprises me.”
Chapter 17
By the time Carver reached Del Moray, Edwina wasn’t home. Real-estate agents kept hours almost as irregular as detectives, though generally they weren’t involved with killers.
Carver called Quill Realty and the syrup-voiced evening receptionist promised to put him in touch with Edwina. He thanked her and sat down. He absently rubbed his stiff knee; it ached a little today for some reason.
Within minutes the phone rang. Edwina.
She was showing beachfront property at the only time her prospective buyers could keep an appointment, but she told Carver she’d be with him in about an hour. She’d sagely advise the buyers to examine the property by daylight. Looking out for their best interests, even though she actually represented the seller. Full of saleswoman shmaltz, was Edwina.
She was home in forty-five minutes.
Within another ten minutes they went to bed and made love. Carver was gentle with her yet intense, clinging to her at times as if she were life in the midst of death. Shelter from fear. His salvation. It was all self-delusion, he knew, but he didn’t want to release it, or release himself into her. Not yet. Not yyyet!
Edwina sensed the unusual intensity in him and caught it. Matched it. The padded blue headboard began slamming against the wall, repeating and then dictating rhythm like a muffled metronome; heartbeat and hypnotism.
When he finally climaxed, Carver heard a trailing low moan. From his lips or Edwina’s? He couldn’t be sure.
She muttered something he didn’t understand, her breath a warm, light touch on his face. Whatever she’d said, he was sure it didn’t require an answer.
He rolled to the side, aware
of the hot, stale scent of their coupling, the sweat rolling down his bare ribs. The sheet was damp beneath him and wrinkled in hard ridges. In the corner of his vision he saw Edwina run her fingertips up over her thighs and stomach, as if checking to see if he’d hurt her. Maybe he had.
“All right?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.”
Brief conversation as old as time.
He lay on his back and listened to the rush of the waves and felt his metabolism gradually work its way back to normal. After a while, he told her everything.
Like an ancient sin eater she absorbed his pain and fear. He wondered, though, if now he’d burdened her more than he should have.
What he didn’t want to share with her was the danger he was in. So he showered and dressed, then told her he was driving to his cottage.
Edwina objected, but not for long. She could read Carver’s determination, and sense when not to push. She didn’t like love having its limitations. He didn’t blame her, but he couldn’t do much about the situation. Life seldom fell into place like a late-night movie. That was why people watched late-night movies.
“Lock your door,” he cautioned her.
She shrugged. “You’ll leave anyway.”
He left her sitting on the veranda, staring out over the moonlit ocean and sipping a tall Tom Collins, her thoughts as inaccessible to him as distant clouds.
The phone was jangling when Carver walked into the stuffy heat of the cottage. He had no way of knowing how long it had been ringing and suspected he wouldn’t reach it before the caller hung up. But he clomped with his cane across the hard floor, groped for the phone in the dimness, and lifted the receiver.
“This Carver?” a voice asked. A familiar voice but he couldn’t quite place it.
“It’s Carver.”
“Emmett Kave here. Paul called me. He’s here! Well, he ain’t here exactly. But he’s in Orlando.”
Carver waited, suddenly aware of the internal sounds and movements of his body, his hammering heart, the coursing of hunter’s blood through his veins. His teeth ached; he was clenching his jaw. It reminded him of how he’d felt the first time he’d fired live rounds through a handgun. The real thing! “Where in Orlando?”