Authors: John Lutz
He and his operatives had been watching over Edwina and observing members of the Kave family for three days now. Van Meter had phoned Carver and asked him to drop by Van Meter Investigations’ offices for a report.
“We came up zip,” he told Carver, leaning so far back in his creaking desk chair Carver thought the big man might wind up on the floor. But then it was Van Meter’s office, his chair; he should know how far he could stretch things. Leaning backward just far enough was his specialty.
Carver was in a comfortable walnut-and-leather chair near the desk. The office was large and furnished in Danish modern; an atmosphere of comfort and efficiency. He waited for Van Meter to continue, watching the sun’s defeat as it tried to beat its way in through the tinted triple-pane glass and heavy fishnet draperies behind Van Meter’s huge desk. Like many very fat people, Van Meter loathed heat. The office was about sixty-five degrees and might as well have been in Finland as in Florida. From an outer room came the muted chattering and intermittent screeching of a super-speed computer printer, as if a high-strung typist had gone mad.
“Paul Kave didn’t make any attempt to contact his family,” Van Meter said, his blunt fingers toying with the corner of a yellow file folder. There was a massive silver-and-turquoise pinkie ring on his left hand, the kind of jewelry Indians slapped together for twenty dollars and sold for two hundred, gaining some small revenge on white America. “Or vice versa.”
“Might he have phoned?”
Van Meter smiled. “No.”
Carver didn’t ask how he knew that. There were all sorts of wiretap gizmos and electronic listening devices, some of them legal, some of them not.
“Here it all is,” Van Meter said, handing the file folder across the desk to Carver, “but what it says essentially is that Nadine spent most of her time with Joel Dewitt, away from the estate. She did have an argument one night with a young fella named Mel Bingham, about the aforementioned Dewitt. Adam Kave spent his hours involved in business. The wife, Elana, seemed to stay cooped up in her room like a recluse; woman lives in seclusion. Emmett Kave’s the only one that was any fun; he drove to a motel out near the Orlando airport and met an elderly woman registered as Mary Jones. They spent two hours in the room. Hans, my operative who observed all this, says he checked with the maid and the bed had been used, though this was the middle of the day. It was a prostitute-client arrangement, most likely. ‘Jones,’ no less! A lotta Joneses register at that motel; it’s a favorite place with the local pimps and their ladies of all ages.” Van Meter shook his head. “These old folks in Florida never fail to amaze, Carver. Dr. Ruth should be tuned in on what goes on down here; she’d learn something. Hans said the old gal was still a looker, too. Wouldn’t have minded knocking off some of it himself. I gotta talk to Hans.”
“Emmett Kave doesn’t seem the type to visit a hooker,” Carver said. But on second thought, Emmett did. One of those “simple pleasures” he’d mentioned. It was just another difference between Emmett and Adam Kave; Adam would probably consider it a point of honor and business acumen to talk a prostitute into paying
him.
One brother was all too human, the other not human enough.
“Know anything about Dewitt?” Carver asked. “He’s got a motorcycle-and-car dealership down in Fort Lauderdale.”
“He’s a car dealer, so he’s probably a crook,” Van Meter said.
“Now, now. You’re thinking like Elana Kave.”
“Show me one dealer doesn’t roll back odometers or put on phony promotions. Sell you a car for thousands more than it’s worth, then finance it for you at two percent instead of ten. Bastards!”
“This sounds personal,” Carver said, amused by the big man’s ire.
“I got one of them little foreign piles of crap out there only runs half the time,” he growled. “Tilted sideways and stayed that way the day after I drove it out of the dealer’s. When it ain’t running, I drive a rental. When it
is
running, I’m usually waiting for some part or other from Southeast Asia so I can keep it running. Got a whale of a deal on it, though. It was whispered to me in confidence that the sales manager hated letting it go for what I paid.”
“So count yourself shrewd.”
“You’re a bastard, too, Carver.”
“I know.”
Van Meter gulped down a deep breath, calmed himself, even grinned. He had a gold-rimmed tooth in front. “Some guy named Nick Fanning spent a lot of time at the Kave estate. Funny-looking little dude with a mop of curly black hair. Reminded me of a chimp dressed up in an expensive suit.”
“He’s the CEO for Adam’s Inns,” Carver said.
“I eat there now and then,” Van Meter said. “They got a helluva barbecued kraut dog.”
Carver had heard enough. He hadn’t expected much other than what Van Meter had told him, but he couldn’t help feeling deeply disappointed. He set the cane in the thick carpet and stood up.
“Want us to stay on the job?” Van Meter asked. “Help you out on this?”
“For another few days,” Carver said. “I don’t think Paul Kave’s the type that can stand pressure for long. He’ll try to contact somebody. And the kid’s a loner; family’s all he’s got.”
“They always say that about a serial killer,” Van Meter said. “ ‘Guy’s a loner. Never caused any trouble, but he’s a loner.’ ”
“They usually are. Paul Kave fits the psychological profile like he was the model. He’ll keep killing, more and more frequently.”
“Sounds so classic,” Van Meter said.
“Maybe it is.”
“I mean, everything fits so snug.”
“That’s what classic’s all about.”
Van Meter adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “You want this one a lot, don’t you, Carver?”
“Worst way, I guess.”
“I can understand that. I mean, with your son and all. But you gotta watch yourself in a situation like this, use good judgment instead of thinking with your gut.”
“You been talking to Desoto?”
“Sure. He and I get together all the time. He said you were all saddled up and charging like the cavalry on this one. He’s worried about you. Guess he remembers General Custer.”
“He oughta remember Cortez,” Carver said. “Incidentally, you know a lieutenant over in Fort Lauderdale name of McGregor?”
Van Meter’s fleshy face writhed in a grimace. He smoothed his Old Testament beard with his hand. “McGregor’s a scum-ball, Carver.” Then he shrugged, his massive shoulders heaving beneath the tentlike suitcoat. “An efficient cop, though, and one that plays a clever game with the higher-ups. Not a guy you want to butt heads with. Desoto told me your son’s murder was his case. Thing about McGregor is he can be a relentless bastard, make the Mounties look like wimps when it comes to tracking down the man on the run. Especially if it means a possible promotion. He’ll get Paul Kave, Carver, any way he can, no matter what it costs other people. Kind of guy he is; it’s in his chromosomes. He’ll probably be police chief of the world someday.”
“The world won’t be a better place when that happens,” Carver said.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe society needs people like McGregor, like it needs spiders to eat the flies. But that don’t stop spiders from giving you the creeps.”
Van Meter stood up to show him out. The vast expanse of striped brown material was startling, a towering mountain of wool and polyester that needed pressing.
“There’s something else in that report,” he said, stepping out from behind the desk. He moved with great smoothness and coordination for such a fat man; somewhere in there was an athlete. “A woman named Laura Nelson visited Edwina last night.”
Carver stood still for a moment, trying to figure what that could be about. “Laura Nelson’s my former wife,” he said.
“Yep,” Van Meter said, studying him. “She’s staying at the Andrew Johnson Motel not far from your cottage. Been there two days and spends most of her time in her room or moping around the pool. She went to your place twice yesterday and once this morning, but you weren’t there. My man latched on to her and followed to find out who she was. I had him nose around awhile. She made a couple of phone calls to a fella named Sam Devine in Saint Louis. She’s taken all her meals at the motel restaurant.” Van Meter hitched up his giant’s pants, giving a glimpse of yellow suspenders. “No charge for the additional shadow, Carver; a personal favor. You got real serious woman trouble, pal, on top of your other problems.”
“What makes you say that, other than the obvious?”
“Long time ago I took part in some parapsychology tests at Duke University. You know, ESP. I could guess cards that were facedown on a much higher percentage basis than any of the other student volunteers. I’d have made a terrific professional gambler, Carver.”
“So why aren’t you betting in Vegas?”
“ ’Cause I had a hunch I’d make an even better detective. My hunches are like my guesses at cards: hardly ever wrong.”
Carver limped toward the door. “I suppose I’d better find Laura and see what she wants.”
“Don’t trip over her,” Van Meter said.
L
AURA WAS ON THE
porch of his cottage waiting for Carver. Score one for Duke University. She was sitting in the aluminum lawn chair facing the ocean, wearing white thigh-length shorts, straw sandals, and a bright flower-print blouse. She had on a wide-brimmed straw hat with a blue ribbon around it tied in a big bow. The upper half of her was in the deep shade of the porch roof, the sun beating on her tanned calves and emphasizing the neat turn of her ankles. She was shorter than Edwina and not as leggy, but her body was still attractive in a lithe, compact way reminiscent of cheerleaders. And of youth. Carver’s youth.
She didn’t move when he stepped up on the porch. “I was by here earlier looking for you,” she said. She crossed her legs and one brown calf began a rhythmic pendulum motion.
“I know. A psychic told me. How are you?”
She smiled beneath the wide brim. “Your psychic didn’t tell you that?”
“No. He’s limited.”
“I’m as good as you can be two weeks after the death of a son. Probably better than you are.”
“Well, you always had more spring to your soul.”
A large fly lit on the plastic arm of her chair. She didn’t try to brush it away, but watched it until, of its own accord, it spiraled away into the sunlight. “I’ve been every day to the county library in Saint Louis to read the Florida papers,” she said, “so I could follow the hunt for Chipper’s killer. I read that a young man named Paul Kave is the leading suspect, and the family hired you to help find him. Is that how it is?”
“That’s it,” Carver said.
“Does the family know who you really are?”
“Of course not. They think I’m trying to find him so I can protect him from overzealous law officers with itchy trigger fingers. They go to the movies, watch television; they understand what can happen.”
“But you want him to die. You want to kill him.”
“He should pay with his life,” Carver said. He considered telling Laura about that night outside the Mermaid Motel, but he decided it was something he didn’t want to share with her. “Paul Kave’s a threat to kill again any time or place. I want him found and stopped. He’ll keep on burning people. People like him can’t help what they’re doing even if they try.”
“People like him, huh?”
Carver wondered what she meant by that, but he didn’t ask.
“The police don’t need you to find him,” Laura said.
“They think they do.” The surf hissed on the beach.
“I talked to Alfonso Desoto. He told me about the arrangement you have with that Fort Lauderdale policeman. Jesus, Fred, what are you thinking of?”
“Desoto should have kept quiet.”
“No. He’s your friend. So am I.”
Carver thumped across the porch so he’d be in the shade, too. The sun was vicious, glancing blindingly off the sand. “You also talked with Edwina Talbot,” he said. He couldn’t see Laura’s eyes beneath the hat’s wide straw brim, but her lips drew tight, shadowed at the corners.
“Sure. I didn’t know how else to go about trying to find you as soon as possible. But she wouldn’t tell me where you were. The loyalty of love. She’s an attractive woman, in her way, though there seems to be some ice floating in her blood.”
“There is,” Carver said.
Now Laura’s lips arced in a smile. She’d acquired permanent lines, indentations where he thought he’d seen shadows. “I suppose you know how to melt that occasionally.”
Carver didn’t acknowledge that one. “Why are you here, Laura?”
“To stop you from finding and killing Paul Kave.”
“I don’t understand. He murdered our son.”
“Of course you don’t understand. You don’t see much beyond your own personal wants. Never did.” Anger now, lips drawn back from strong white teeth perfect for ripping meat. Sexy, Carver realized. Middle-aged, like him, but still as sexy as she’d been years ago.
Don’t think it, not for a second!
“I don’t want our daughter to suffer the loss of her brother
and
her father within weeks of each other,” Laura said. “Or doesn’t her welfare enter into your calculations?”
Carver stood sweating, squinting out at the surf. She had him; how
would
it affect Ann if he were killed by Paul or taken into custody for murder? There was an angle he hadn’t considered.
“It’s something I’ll think about,” he said. It sounded weak even to him.
“Thanks so much,” Laura said wryly. “That makes it worth the trip.” She stood up and moved close to him. “I came here because I don’t want you hurt any further, either, Fred. And that’s the way it’s headed. Sam tells me the legal ramifications of what you’re doing are a tangle that might snarl you up and maybe send you to prison.”
Carver was uncomfortable with her so near. He could smell her perspiration and perfume; it wasn’t unpleasant. Something tightened at the core of him.
Christ!
“Sam, huh? How are you and Sam getting along?”
“Getting along,” she said. “That pretty well sums it up.” She looked out at the sea again. “This is peaceful, with the ocean and the boats and gulls. Are you at peace here, Fred?”
“No.”
“At peace when you’re with Edwina?”