Burn

by John Lutz

  “What’s left of it, you mean.”

  “I know most of what happened,” he said.

  “’Course. It was in the papers, on the TV news. And you were there, right?”

  “You were there, too.”

  She didn’t say anything. The eye didn’t change.

  “Am I coming in?” Carver asked.

  She nodded. He moved the cane out of the way quickly as she closed the door to remove the chain, then opened it just wide enough for him to enter.

  She looked even worse than she had the last time he’d seen her, like someone who’d gotten dressed in a hurry at gunpoint. She was wearing wrinkled jeans that made her bony figure appear even more angular, and a stained white blouse that was buttoned crookedly. Her mousy hair was in disarray as usual. She was barefoot and holding a cracked water tumbler with ice and gin in it.

  Carver moved past her into the apartment. The place was a mess. Unfolded and creased newspapers were scattered on the floor, as if she’d been reading the news so frenetically she hadn’t had time to refold the pages. Her gun magazines were littered over the coffee table, next to an almost empty gin bottle. Carver saw that the display case with the Russian handgun was gone from the wall. Only the plastic crucifix remained.

  Willa closed the door and reattached the chain lock. Then she walked unsteadily to the center of the room, not seeming to notice that one foot was on the front page of the Gazette-Dispatch, and stood staring at him. She unconsciously waved the glass around as she talked, almost spilling out gin. “You said I was someplace you were last night.” A note of fear rang in her voice; the booze couldn’t insulate her from reality completely.

  “Where’s the Russian handgun?” he asked, motioning with his head toward the faint, clean rectangle on the wall where the gun’s case had been.

  “What’s the difference?”

  He drew the 7.62-millimeter shell casing from his pocket and held it up for her to see. “I found this on Marla’s front porch this morning.”

  She stared at it, her pinched features screwing up in fear, then in desperate defiance. “It doesn’t mean anything. Not without the gun.”

  “That’s true,” Carver agreed. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Three reasons. You’re safe from the law. I need to know. And most of all, you need to tell somebody.”

  She stared at the floor, then tugged at a strand of her lank hair and laughed sadly. “She liked me, too, you know. No, it was much more than that. We were fond of each other as more than friends.”

  “I know.”

  “She told me she was going to leave me. For a man. She didn’t tell me his name.”

  “You had to know it wasn’t Brant.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then how did it happen?”

  “The evening of—the evening after she told me she was going to Orlando so she’d be safe, Brant came here. I’d never seen him, didn’t know who he was. But he was sneaky. He used a different name, acted as if he and Marla were close. He told me he was searching for her, had to find her. What was I supposed to think? I figured he was the one Marla was leaving me for. He wouldn’t have known about us, wouldn’t have dreamed he wasn’t the only one with a relationship with Marla.”

  “You were jealous of him,” Carver said.

  “Oh, I was more than jealous. I wanted to kill him. To kill both of them. I’m not—I mean, Marla was the first woman I’d ever been intimate with. She needed money and I worked free for her, did anything for her. Maybe she was only using me, but it killed me that she was deserting me for one of them ... a man. I phoned her in Orlando and arranged to meet her at her house that night, told her it was important. I took Brant with me, still not knowing who he really was, thinking he was Marla’s other lover. I didn’t find out I was wrong until the next day.”

  “Wasn’t Marla surprised to see Brant when she opened her door? Didn’t she say anything?”

  “She was astounded, but I thought it was the shock of seeing me with the man she was leaving me for. She just stood there with her mouth open, and as soon as we were in the house, I shot both of them to death before I could change my mind. She never really had time to do anything but stammer. I used the Tokarev because I knew it would be difficult to trace, and I could dispose of it without arousing suspicion or having to replace it. Then I fired some rounds with the gun I’d talked Marla into buying and knew she kept in her nightstand, hoping that in the aftermath of the fire it would appear the two of them had become locked in a struggle for it and killed each other in a burst of gunfire.”

  “The thirty-two-caliber revolver the police found,” Carver said.

  “Yes. I meant for them to find it. I thought if the fire was hot enough, the bullets would melt and become misshapen so there couldn’t be any ballistic tests, and the police would think they all could have come from Marla’s gun. After planting the gun, I went outside and got the spare gasoline can I kept in my car.”

  “You left the can behind, along with the brass casing from the Russian gun.”

  “I’m not an experienced arsonist, Mr. Carver. I was planning as I went. The flames shot up faster than I imagined and I panicked and ran. I didn’t realize until later I’d dropped the gas can in my flight. And I thought I’d picked up all the 7.62-millimeter shells ejected by the Tokarev. But I counted them later and realized I’d missed one.”

  “You’re not an experienced killer, either,” Carver said.

  “Experienced now,” she said sadly, and shivered.

  “Tell me the truth about Marla and Brant,” Carver said. “Was he really stalking her?”

  Willa seemed to be talking to the floor, her head still bowed, her voice a dull monotone. “No. Marla was rejected by her adoptive family, especially her father, and it left a void and a restlessness in her, a yearning. She told me once she’d been molested by her father, but she never talked about it again. She’s a journalist and knows how to do research, so she decided to find her real family. She contacted Portia Brant and identified herself as her sister shortly before Portia’s death. Portia was frightened, and because Marla was her sister she confided in her. She told Marla she suspected Joel was planning to murder her for her life insurance money so he could pay off gambling debts.”

  “That’s Marla’s version. Did you believe her?”

  “Of course. But before Marla could learn more, Portia was dead. Marla did some investigating. She was sure the air bag on the passenger side of the Brants’ car had been tampered with so it inflated a precious second too late after impact. The driver would be relatively safe in a head-on collision, but the passenger would die.”

  “Why didn’t she go to the police?”

  “She probably would have, but while she was considering it, the salvage yard crushed the car and destroyed the evidence.”

  “So Marla decided to avenge her sister’s death,” Carver said. “She was going to murder Joel Brant by setting him up, convincing the police he was fixated on her and stalking her, so she could make it look as if she’d killed him in self-defense.”

  “Marla was the one with the fixation,” Willa said. “She lived with the conviction that Joel Brant had murdered her sister, but she did nothing about it. Then, three months ago, a woman named Gail she was involved with in Orlando died in a fire. First her sister, then her lover, gone. I think that’s when Marla became mentally unhinged with grief and obsessed with Joel Brant’s execution. She never called it murder. She was going to shoot him. I gave her the gun, taught her how to use it. I guess I was going to be a murderer either way.” She raised her head and stared at him beseechingly, as if she craved absolution. He couldn’t give it to her. “Do you understand now?” she asked.

  He nodded silently.

  She saw that he wasn’t going to forgive her. “I’m basically a good person,” she said, her voice an agony of guilt and a plea for understanding if not mercy. “Deeply religious.” She glanced w
ith a terrible longing at the crucifix on the wall. “A good person. Nothing like any of this ever happened to me before. I lost my way. I only made one, horrible mistake that I’ll never be free of inside. But I disposed of the murder gun, and the shell casing you found doesn’t mean anything by itself. There’s no way you can prove what I just told you. No way a jury could convict me even I did have to go to trial.”

  He knew she was right.

  About everything but justice.

  “In your case,” he said, “I don’t think it matters about the law or the jury.”

  He gently removed from her hand the half-full glass of gin that was tilting sharply and about to spill, then he placed it next to the bottle on the table. On a glossy copy of Shooter’s World.

  Then he left her to the truth.

  43

  “I TALKED TO THE detective in charge of the Portia Brant accident investigation,” Carver said. “He told me there was no reason for Marla Cloy to think Joel had tampered with the passenger-side air bag. Portia’s death was an accident.”

  “He could be wrong,” Beth said.

  “It’s possible.”

  They were sitting side by side on the plank steps of the cottage’s front porch, watching sky and ocean darken as the sun set behind them. Far offshore the lights of a cruise ship became faintly visible in the void, a distant, self-contained world of soothing delusion.

  “You think she was paranoid about Joel?” Beth asked.

  “I don’t know. A lonely woman, forsaken by her adoptive family, a victim of childhood molestation. Then she discovers she has a sister. A lifeline. Then she suddenly loses the sister. Easy to understand how she might have blamed Joel Brant.” Carver stared out at the distant lights that seemed motionless. “Or maybe she really did have some reason to suspect him.”

  “Might she have lied to Willa Krull?” Beth asked.

  “Anyone might lie to anyone.”

  “Then Willa might have lied to you.”

  “Yes,” Carver said, “you can call this one whichever way you choose, however your mind colors it. You were right. Sometimes the truth’s impossible to discover. Life’s about irresolution, and learning to live with it.”

  “But you,” Beth said, “you discover some of the truth, then you figure out the rest as accurately as possible. You find a faint thread woven through the tapestry and you follow wherever it goes, no matter the consequences. That makes you special, Fred.”

  Special? Or simply good at his work? Or maybe it was the same thing. He knew the only kind of proof he had was Willa Krull. He’d believed her story, believed her pain. She was living with the truth.

  “You solved your case,” Beth said. “You found the killer and the motive. The rest is always shadow.”

  Carver’s stiff leg was extended so the heel of his moccasin dug into the sandy earth beyond the steps. He and Beth were sitting so close together that their arms touched. In the dying heat they continued to watch the darkness close in. The wavering snarl of a speedboat drifted in on the night, then faded as the boat made its way south along the shoreline.

  “I’ve been thinking some more about the baby,” Beth said. “Trying to come to a decision.”

  “It’s your call,” Carver said. It sounded lame, but he didn’t know what else to tell her. He was with her either way. And either way, it wasn’t the kind of decision a woman made then walked away whistling. Whatever she decided, he knew he might lose her if she thought he’d pressured her into it. She’d talked to the doctor, who’d quoted her the odds on giving birth to another dead child. She knew her chances but hadn’t told Carver. With something like that, what did the odds mean, anyway, if you were the one taking the risk?

  “Let’s try it,” she said.

  He couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. “You sure it’s what you want?”

  “No. But I’ve made up my mind.”

  He touched her hand in the dark and she squeezed his fingers hard, digging her nails into his flesh. Then her grip loosened and he heard her quiet sobs and felt their subtle vibrations.

  Carver knew the truth now. She needed him.

  The cruise ship’s lights had disappeared. A cool breeze came out of the night with a sound like a sudden intake of breath. Gazing into unbroken blackness, he thought of Portia and Joel Brant, of Charley Spotto and Achilles Jones, of Willa Krull sitting alone in her apartment with her gin and her Shooter’s World subscription, her guilt and her guns. With her time running out.

  He pulled Beth to him and held her close.

  Death was in the air, and she was life.

  A Biography of John Lutz

  John Lutz is one of the foremost voices in contemporary hard-boiled fiction.

  First published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine in 1966, Lutz has written dozens of novels and over 250 short stories in the last four decades. His earliest success came with the Alo Nudger series, set in his hometown of St. Louis. A meek private detective, Nudger swills antacid instead of whiskey, and his greatest nemesis is his run-down Volkswagen. In his offices, permeated by the smell of the downstairs donut shop, he spends his time clipping coupons and studying baseball trivia. Though not a tough guy, he gets results. Lutz continued the series through eleven novels and over a dozen short stories, one of which—“Ride the Lightning”—won an Edgar Award for best story in 1986.

  Lutz’s next big success also came in 1986, when he published Tropical Heat, the first Fred Carver mystery. The ensuing series took Lutz into darker territory, as he invented an Orlando cop forced to retire by a bullet that permanently disabled his left knee. Hobbled by injury and cynicism, he begins a career as a private detective, following low-lifes and beautiful women all over sunny, deadly Florida. In ten years Lutz wrote ten Carver novels, among them Scorcher (1987), Bloodfire (1991), and Lightning (1996), and as a whole they form a gut-wrenching depiction of the underbelly of the Sunshine State. Meanwhile, he also wrote Dancing with the Dead (1992), in which a serial killer targets ballroom dancers.

  In 1992 his novel SWF Seeks Same was adapted for the screen as Single White Female, starring Bridget Fonda and Jennifer Jason Leigh. His novel The Ex was made into an HBO film for which Lutz co-wrote the screenplay. In 2001 his book The Night Caller inaugurated a new series of novels about ex-NYPD cops who hunt serial killers on the streets of New York City, and with Darker Than Night (2004) he introduced Frank Quinn, whose own series has yielded five books, the most recent being Mister X (2010).

  Lutz is a former president of the Mystery Writers of America, and his many awards include Shamus Awards for Kiss and “Ride the Lightning,” and lifetime achievement awards from the Short Mystery Fiction Society and the Private Eye Writers of America. He lives in St. Louis.

  A two-year old Lutz, photographed in 1941. The photograph was taken by Lutz’s father, Jack Lutz, who was a local photographer out of downtown St. Louis.

  A young Lutz with his little brother, Jim, and sisters, Jacqui and Janie.

  Lutz at ten years old, with his mother, Jane, grandmother, Kate, and brother, Jim. Lutz grew up in a sturdy brick city house that sat at an incline, halfway down a hill; according to Lutz, this made for optimal sledding during Missouri’s cold winters.

  Lutz in his very first suit, purchased for his grade school graduation.

  Lutz’s graduation photo from Southwest High School.

  Lutz sitting on the front porch of the first house he and his wife, Barbara, ever owned. According to Lutz, the square footage rendered the house smaller than his last apartment; nevertheless it was an important milestone and tremendous relief—there was no one upstairs to abuse their stereos or bang on the floor (or to complain when they did the same).

  On January 6, 1966, Lutz officially became a “professional writer” with his first story sale to Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. After the publication of his first story, Lutz quickly became a regular contributor to the magazine. Lutz has said that he enjoys writing, “as much as when I began. It’s a process th
at lives and grows.”

  Lutz in St. Louis with his daughter Wendy.

  Lutz in his home office in the early eighties. When asked about his discipline and writing practice, Lutz has said that “being a writer is like being a cop; you’re always on, even off duty.” In the late sixties and early seventies, he published four books and many celebrated short stories.

  Lutz in the mid-eighties, crafting the first twists and turns in the Fred Carver series. Lutz published a Fred Carver novel nearly every year from 1986 to 1996, steadily building a cult following for the series. In his younger days, he wrote all of his fiction on an IBM Selectric typewriter nestled next to his most prized possession: a 1904 roll top desk.

  A photo of Lutz’s Edgar Award, won in 1986 for his short story “Ride the Lightning.” This year was also the publication of Tropical Heat, the first novel in the Fred Carver series.

  Lutz with his wife, Barbara, at a family celebration in 1990.

  A photo of Lutz’s Lifetime Achievement Award, received from the Private Eye Writers of America (PWA) in 1995 for his inimitable stories and masterful contribution to the genre.

  A photograph of Lutz celebrating his honorary degree with his wife, Barbara. In 2007, he was awarded a Doctor of Arts and Letters degree by the University of Missouri - St. Louis. In reflecting on the degree, Lutz said, in his characteristic wry humor, that it “establishes my bona fides as an absent-minded professor. It’s OK now to lose the car.”

  Lutz enjoying a bright, warm day in Sarasota, Florida, where he and Barbara take respite from the cold, harsh winters of St. Louis.

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