Kiss

by John Lutz

  “Always a pleasure,” Carver said, and limped toward the door. He knew McGregor wasn’t concentrating on the folder’s contents. Might as well have been Shakespeare.

  Outside in the relentless sun, he made his way toward where the Olds was parked and thought about his conversation with McGregor. If Sunhaven had brought Carver to the law’s attention to discourage him from investigating, someone out there must feel he was on track. And feel that whatever was being covered up was serious enough even to risk using the police as a temporary ally. They might also be trying to spike Carver’s guns before he turned over any evidence to the law. Portray him as a nosy nuisance bound to try causing a fuss sooner or later. Not to be taken seriously. That way the denial of any accusations would seem more plausible. No one knew Desoto had hired him. Here he was, working for nobody, a character hanging around and stirring up the old folks. Drawing wrong conclusions and planting dangerous ideas in age-eroded, suspicious minds.

  But McGregor knew better, and it worried him.

  And McGregor worried Carver.

  13

  CARVER DECIDED HE’D stay away from Sunhaven for a while, starting with that evening. Instead, he’d wait for Nurse Rule to leave work and then follow her. Whatever was going on, she seemed deeply involved. Judging by the fear and respect she engendered around Sunhaven, the dominant force of her personality, she might very well be one of those in command. All Carver had to figure out now was what and whom she was commanding.

  His armpits were sweating and his pullover shirt was stuck to him. The sun had made it across Florida and hung poised to drop into the Gulf, and the temperature had plunged all the way to eighty-five; it was miserable sitting in the parked Olds and becoming molded with perspiration to the leather seats.

  Where Carver was parked, well off the side of the road, he could see the top of Nurse Rule’s black Peugeot sedan gleaming in the sun like polished onyx. She was still at Sunhaven, even though it was almost eight o’clock. Working late. Maybe taking blood just for the hell of it, or flogging one of the attendants who’d spilled a bedpan.

  On Carver’s right, beyond a stretch of weedy land that fell away and became barren as it got sandier, the blue-green ocean rolled, darkening gradually as the sun sank. He wasn’t in position to see the beach, and from this distance the surf sounded like a series of contented sighs. He knew there were a few expensive private homes down along the shore. And not far north a large condominium project was in the initial stages of construction. It would no doubt be another of those drab, stacked architectural clones repetitious with balconies that do wonders for the skyline. There was probably a condominium built every minute in Florida. The damned things multiplied like bionic bunnies.

  A gull swooped in low, screamed, and soared out toward the ocean, jeering at Carver. He was hobbled and confined to land, and it could goddamn fly! A breeze kicked up and rustled the palm fronds, but it only sent warm air through the parked car. Carver licked the salt of perspiration from his lips and glanced as he had a hundred times toward the Sunhaven staff parking area.

  The black curve of the Peugeot’s roof was gone.

  Damn! He slammed a fist against the steering wheel, causing a dull pain in the heel of his hand. It was pain he knew he deserved. He’d been sitting here in the heat sweating and feeling sorry for himself and Nurse Rule had managed to drive off without him seeing her. She must have made a right turn, away from Del Moray. Wrong business! I’m in the wrong business!

  But even as he was admonishing himself, the black Peugeot emerged from the Sunhaven driveway, slowed, then nosed onto the highway in his direction and accelerated. It had been out of sight beyond the gentle rise of ground near the lot. Nora Rule was staring straight ahead; she seemed preoccupied and didn’t notice Carver’s car.

  Feeling a rush of relief, he started the engine, U-turned, and stayed well back of the Peugeot as he followed.

  Nurse Rule drove fast and with a sure touch. She braked firmly at stop signs, and when it was her turn to cross intersections she did so with smooth acceleration. If there was any polite hesitation it wasn’t on her part; driving was a chore to be dispensed with as soon as possible. The whole idea was to get from A to B.

  When she reached the Del Moray city limits, it took Carver only a few minutes to realize she was driving toward her apartment. He’d figured on that, but there was no way to be sure, so he’d had to pick up the tail at Sunhaven.

  Now he decided to take a chance. He ran the Olds up to forty-five and made a left and then a right turn, so he was traveling parallel with Nurse Rule’s car. This way he reduced the chance of being seen by her, and he’d be parked near her apartment waiting when she arrived. He hoped Raffy Ortiz wouldn’t also be waiting.

  Nurse Rule pulled into her private parking slot, climbed out of the Peugeot with a flash of chunky white thigh, and still with her preoccupied, self-important air strode into the building. She was wearing her white uniform with the blue collar and sleeves and carrying a small black vinyl portfolio. She was the type who’d take work home.

  When it was almost dark, the blond, spike-haired woman Carver had seen diving at the pool yesterday emerged from the building. She kept herself in shape, all right. Her dark skirt was tight and showed off slender, rounded hips. Her stiltlike high heels lent her nyloned, athlete’s calves and slim ankles a muscular but attractive turn. Yummy. Leg art of the highest order.

  She lowered herself into a red Porsche convertible parked two spaces down from Nurse Rule’s slot in the carport, and half a minute later sped past where Carver was parked in the Olds. He scooted low in the shadows so she wouldn’t see him and maybe recognize him. Didn’t straighten up until he heard the Porsche hit third gear down the block.

  When it was almost ten o’clock, Carver figured Nurse Rule had decided to spend a quiet evening doing her homework and then going to bed. That’s what he should be thinking about, getting into some air conditioning and then into bed. Edwina should be home by now.

  Tonight hadn’t panned out. He wasn’t really disappointed. That was what his job mostly consisted of, waiting in quiet places for people who never showed and things that never happened. Much more boring than in detective novels and TV shows. Except maybe “Barnaby Jones” reruns.

  The Peugeot was past him almost before he knew it.

  Caught daydreaming again. Nightdreaming.

  He started the Olds, pulled into the street, and rode the accelerator hard until he caught sight of the Peugeot’s distinctive horizontal taillights.

  Nurse Rule drove to the coast highway, then north along the shore. Yellow moonlight played off the black ocean, and shadowed clouds towered like dark-stained cotton mountains above the sea. Carver held a constant distance behind the red slashes of the Peugeot’s taillights. The Olds’s powerful engine throbbed as if it loved speed, sending a steady vibration through his buttocks and up his spine.

  They drove for almost an hour. Then the Peugeot slowed and made a right turn beneath a gold neon sign made to look like an antique Spanish coin or medal engraved with a helmeted conquistador. Carver knew it wasn’t an authentic reproduction, though, because it had red letters across it that spelled MEDALLION MOTEL.

  He turned the Olds into the seaside motel’s parking lot, killed his headlights, and skirted the perimeter of the lot until he could park where he wouldn’t be noticed observing Nurse Rule.

  The motel was new, but it was built to look old and featured small individual cabins that appeared to have been constructed out of driftwood. The office, however, was modern, as was the swimming pool with its two diving boards and curved plastic slide. There were only two people, a man and a woman, splashing around in the softly illuminated pool, and only a few cars parked in front of the cabins. Carver suspected the Medallion Motel hadn’t been here long and business was still slow.

  Nurse Rule didn’t stop near the office. Instead, she drove the Peugeot to the end cabin and parked next to a black or midnight-blue late-model Lincoln. Carver w
as relieved it wasn’t a white Cadillac.

  Even before she’d climbed out of the Peugeot, the door to the cabin opened.

  In the light streaming from inside stood a slim, dark-haired woman in a severely cut blazer and skirt, probably a business suit. Carver couldn’t discern her features but suspected she was a knockout. She held herself with the unconscious poise and self-confidence of women who’d been venerated for their beauty since childhood.

  Nurse Rule approached the woman and stood close to her. They tentatively touched hands. Nurse Rule, who was four inches the shorter of the two, raised her right hand and gently clasped the back of the slim woman’s neck, then drew her head down not so gently and kissed her on the mouth. There was something so blatantly possessive about the maneuver that it embarrassed Carver, made him feel like a voyeur. Which he guessed he was. Nurse Rule’s sex life—and the other woman’s—should be nobody else’s business.

  The kiss lasted a long time. One of the women kicked out a leg and closed the door. It made no sound when it shut. A few seconds later one of them lowered the blinds.

  Carver got out of the Olds and limped silently through the darkness to the blue Lincoln. He could smell the ocean and hear it crashing over and over behind the cabins. The temperature was still high, but the breeze off the sea was cool now.

  Cars occasionally swished past out on the highway, and there were lights in two of the other cabins, but there was a sense of isolation about the motel. There was something lonely, something sad, about using it as the site of a furtive romantic rendezvous.

  He committed the Lincoln’s license-plate number to memory, then on impulse he tried the gleaming passenger-side door. It opened and the interior of the car lit up brightly, startling him.

  Carver looked over at the pool. The two swimmers were paying attention only to each other. He stooped low, his stiff leg almost beneath the car, and wedged his cane between the ground and the steel doorframe so it held in the button that allowed the interior lights to blink on when the door was open. The car was dark again.

  The Lincoln had the new-car scent people always talked about; probably didn’t have more than a couple of thousand miles on it. In the moonlight, he opened the glove compartment and groped inside. Felt a pair of glasses—probably sunglasses—and some papers and a small box of tissues. A pen or pencil. A cheap plastic disposable lighter. He pulled out a few folded papers and studied them in the faint light.

  They were service records made out to the Lincoln’s owner, Dr. Lee Macklin.

  When Carver returned home he found Edwina sleeping deeply in their king-sized bed, with the ceiling fan slowly revolving and the window open. He was exhausted but he wasn’t quite ready to join her. After standing for a moment watching her sleep, he backed out of the bedroom and soundlessly closed the door.

  Using the living-room phone, he called Desoto, who’d gone to bed and seemed irritated about being awakened at midnight.

  “Need to ask a question,” Carver explained.

  “One that couldn’t wait till morning, amigo?”

  “Could have, but I’m curious.”

  Desoto yawned. “ ’Bout what?”

  “Ever see Dr. Macklin’s wife?”

  Desoto didn’t answer for a moment. “Huh?”

  “Dr. Macklin’s wife. Dr. Lee Macklin, the chief administrator out at Sunhaven. You told me he was married.”

  “Married, yeah,” Desoto said. “But Dr. Macklin doesn’t have a wife. Thought you knew—Lee Macklin’s a woman.”

  Carver was quiet for a while. “With a husband,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Nothing odd about that. Other than the husband. He’s a former flower child, rumored to be into drugs. As a user, not a seller.”

  Drugs. Florida. Carver wondered, if suddenly all illicit narcotics were made legal, would the state’s economy collapse?

  He apologized for waking Desoto and hung up.

  14

  WEST PALM DRIVE was dark, but there was a light glowing in Birdie’s window. After his brief conversation with Desoto, Carver had immediately gone back to his car and driven here. It was 12:30 A.M. but he knew the young kept late hours. And this time of night—morning—it was unlikely he and Birdie would be disturbed. The respectable Mrs. Horton was probably fast asleep.

  Carver parked the Olds a hundred feet beyond the rambling apartment building and made his way over the shadowed pavement to Birdie’s door.

  West Palm could have used a few more streetlights. The main source of illumination on the deserted block was the yellowish floodlight peeking through a thick growth of bougainvillea clinging to the corner of the old apartment building. Moths circled about the dim light, occasionally flitting too close and bouncing off it with enough force for the tap of impact to carry to Carver. The dim bulb wasn’t exactly the flame that lured and devoured, but it would have to do. And it gave the moths a second chance to flirt with destruction. More than most people got.

  Fearing the arrival of the protective and suspicious Mrs. Horton, Carver pressed the button alongside Birdie’s door and heard a sputtering buzzing from the depths of the apartment.

  The door opened on a chain and Birdie peered out. She squinted up at Carver and recognition flared in her blue eyes. “Why, you’re Mr. Carver, from out at Sunhaven.” She said this as if it were quite amazing. Made him feel like Marley’s ghost in A Christmas Carol.

  “I know it’s late, but I’d like to talk to you, Birdie.”

  She frowned; it made her look at least twelve, the little dickens. “Nurse Rule pointed right at you and said to let her know if you came to Sunhaven again. I dunno if we oughta talk, Mr. Carver.”

  “We’re not at Sunhaven.”

  “Well, that’s a fact.”

  “You do everything Nurse Rule tells you?”

  “Heck, yeah. It’s my job.”

  “Let me in, Birdie. Nurse Rule won’t find out. Nobody’ll find out. And my intentions are honorable.”

  “I’m kinda uneasy letting strangers into my place this time of night, Mr. Carver. I mean, it’s not like you’re really a stranger, but still it don’t seem a fitting thing to do. I mean, I don’t know a blessed thing about you.”

  “I know things about you, Birdie. But I won’t use them to harm you, I promise. I know about Indianapolis. Listen, all I want’s a conversation. Nothing more.”

  She stared at him with eyes gone wide and then gone narrow and cold. The door eased all the way shut and he heard the muted rattle of the chain against wood. She opened the door all the way and stepped back to let Carver enter.

  She was wearing a blue terrycloth robe with a sash yanked tight around a waist that couldn’t measure more than twenty inches. He was sure he hadn’t awakened her. She was barefoot and her red hair was mussed and still damp. Her freckled face was pale but it glowed. She looked and smelled fresh, as if she’d just stepped from the shower, or maybe been born only a few hours ago.

  What he knew about her past couldn’t be true; a fifteen-year-old with her kind of wear should show scars. The things that had been done to her—Christ! Carver knew how Mrs. Horton felt; he also wanted to protect little Birdie, pat her on the head and tell her comforting lies about the world that had dumped so much shit on her. Carver reminded himself there was a fighter inside the frail figure before him. There had to be. Here she was, supporting herself and living out an independent existence when most girls her age were thinking about getting braces removed or whether some boy whose voice hadn’t changed had a crush on them.

  She backpedaled to a worn-out, sprung gray sofa, as if doing a dance step, then bent gracefully sideways from the waist to toss an old National Enquirer on the floor. Carver caught a glimpse of headline: DI SECRETLY GIVES BIRTH TO CHILD WITH GOAT’S HEAD. Those things happened in the best of families.

  Birdie hadn’t taken her young eyes from him. “Wanna sit down, Mr. Carver?” There was something intense and slightly irregular about the rhythm of her speech, as if she were pumped up from gulpin
g half a dozen cups of coffee.

  Carver sat where the Enquirer had been and propped his cane against a sofa cushion. Sitting, he’d be less intimidating to Birdie. In front of him was a produce crate, painted bright green and serving as a coffee table. There was an ashtray on the crate, and a plate crusted with dried egg yolk. Birdie wasn’t the neatest of housekeepers, but then she was young and had problems more pressing than floor-wax buildup.

  She sat down in a wood-and-canvas director’s chair facing the sofa. Clasped her hands tightly, welded her knees together beneath the robe. Her bare toes were white and scrunched down into the carpet. There was a hairpin on the floor near her left big toe. In a voice that held the slightest quaver, she said, “You mentioned Indianapolis.”

  “Where you ran away from,” Carver said. “From what I know about the situation, I don’t blame you for leaving, and I wouldn’t act to send you back there. You seem to be making your way okay here in Florida.”

  Her lower lip trembled, then she gnawed on it and stared hard at him, sizing him up. He could feel himself being categorized and cubbyholed. Though he’d used Indianapolis mainly as leverage to get in the door, he realized he wanted to know more about what had happened to Birdie there.

  “You want something in return for not telling on me, don’t you?” she asked, as if she knew the answer. She drew up her legs until she was hugging her knees, as if she wished she could curl herself into a tighter and tighter ball and then disappear. “I didn’t come here to harm you or make a deal,” Carver said. “I only want to find out some things.”

  “Such as?” She was suspicious; men the age of her father and foster father didn’t act this way. Wasn’t normal.

  “Tell me about what happened in Indianapolis.”

  She seemed puzzled. “Because you wanna know, or because you’re kinky?” The question was matter-of-fact and serious.

  “I want to know,” Carver said. He smiled. “I’m usually not kinky with women under thirty.”