Bloodfire

18

Carver had just hung up on Beth when McGregor called. His irritating voice oozed over the line and for some reason reminded Carver of the body rotting in the barrel. Corruption speaking:

“Seen Roberto Gomez lately, ass-face?”

“Not since we had our talk,” Carver said. Lying to McGregor wasn’t lying at all, more like tricking the devil out of possessing your soul.

“Well, some DEA agent name of Strait came by to talk to me about him.”

Carver watched a large and wicked-looking wasp droning against the window that looked out on the sea, restrained by a barrier it would never understand. “Why would Strait wanna talk to you?”

“ ’Cause of you, Carver. Your office is in Del Moray, and that means Gomez might turn up from time to time in my jurisdiction. The DEA keeps tabs on shitballs like Gomez, case they fuck up and leave themselves open for arrest. If that happens, Strait wanted to make sure he has the Del Moray department’s full cooperation.”

“And you assured him you were in his corner?”

“Why not? Lying to the DEA ain’t a cardinal sin. Then we talked about you. He thinks you’re an asshole just like I do.”

“Well, that’s the DEA for you.”

“Oh, I dunno, in some ways they’re pretty sharp.”

Carver said, “They usually dress nice.”

“I think they might be thinking straight here, Carver. There being an established connection between you and Gomez, he’s almost certain to return, like flies to shit.”

“Except I no longer work for him. We don’t have anything to do with each other.”

“You’ll ’scuse me if I don’t rule out the possibility you might fib, won’t you?”

Carver said, “I don’t excuse you for anything.”

“How characteristically cruel. And I was gonna inform you Gomez talked to the Orlando police. He gave them his ironclad alibi. Played dumb behind his high-price attorney. Acted shocked about his murdered sister-in-law. And he was damned worried about his missing wife. He thinks whoever killed the sister wants to kill her. Not illogical, is it?”

Carver said, “Not at all. That’s what I think, too. But I’m out of it, no longer even an interested party.”

“Just make sure you get interested if you see Gomez again or learn anything about him or the missing wife. You ever see a picture of Mrs. Gomez?”

A test. “Sure. Gomez showed me a snapshot when he hired me.

“A nigger bitch. Makes you wonder, huh? I mean, a guy with all that money, he can have any woman he wants, and he mixes it up in the sack with a black cunt.”

“My guess is he loves her.”

“What makes you say that?” McGregor acted as if the possibility had never entered his mind. Probably it hadn’t.

“He’s searching for her, isn’t he?”

“Like he’d search for a missing bag of coke. She’s something belonged to him that disappeared, that’s all.”

Most likely McGregor was right about that, Carver thought, the supposed dead son aside. Men like Roberto Gomez didn’t behave along the lines of Ward Cleaver.

McGregor said, “She probably knows lotsa tricks. Gives a great spit-shine, whatever her color. Anyway, it don’t rub off, and she’s a looker, nigger or not. Like that Vanessa Williams, used to be Miss America till she fucked up. Now, I’d go for some of that in a minute.”

“The department’s got you in the wrong job,” Carver said. “You oughta be in race relations.”

“Don’t imply I’m a bigot, scuzzball. Maybe you don’t like me just because I’m pale and blond. My only interest in Elizabeth Gomez’s color is it should make her easier to find. This is a cunt used to the big money, and a black woman like that’ll stand out like a raisin on white bread most places where big money congregates. She ain’t gonna go to ground in no inner-city slum with the rest of her kind. Not for long, anyway.”

Carver said, “Maybe she sings gospel.”

“She don’t. I checked. She’s just another greedy ghetto black bitch, interested in getting rich and getting laid, in that order.”

“You sure? She went out and got some education. She’s an honor student.”

“Probably fucked for her grades. They’re all alike.”

“Black women?”

“Women. Even Edwina Talbot, your real-estate lady friend. Someday you’ll learn.”

“Too bad you and Sigmund Freud never met.”

“The sonuvabitch was alive, I’d run him in for writing pornography. I wasted enough time talking to you, fuckface. You remember what I said. And take care of yourself.”

Carver was astounded. “You concerned about my welfare?”

“Fucking right. I want you to stay alive at least long enough to lead me to Roberto Gomez when he’s got his pants down.”

As soon as McGregor had hung up, Carver tapped the cradle button for a dial tone, then punched out Edwina’s number with his forefinger.

She still wasn’t home. He tried Quill Realty again, and the receptionist told him Edwina wasn’t there, then interrupted herself to say she was at that moment walking into the office. She asked him to wait, Ms. Talbot would take the call at her desk.

Carver waited. The wasp had given up on the window and was circling in the middle of the room. Now and then it darted angrily almost straight up, then struck the ceiling and spiraled lower. Carver could hear it droning. He wished it would go back to the window.

A minute later there were a couple of clicks on the line and Edwina’s voice said, “Fred?”

“How’d you know?”

“The receptionist recognized your voice.” Edwina sounded harried, annoyed that she’d been interrupted on the job. “I can’t make it tonight for dinner,” she said.

“I wasn’t going to ask you.”

“Oh?”

“I called to tell you I have to leave town again for a while. I’m not sure for how long.”

“Where you going?”

“It’s better if you don’t know. I don’t want you connected with this in any way.”

“More melodrama.”

Carver thought about the corpse in the barrel and said, “Just like a movie.” Except with the smell and the horror and the forever sleep of real death.

She paused, then said, “I’ll have to give Jack Lester my answer on the Hawaii job.”

“Yeah, I guess you will.”

“Fred?”

He felt his throat constrict. He couldn’t tell her he didn’t want her to go. Not if she wanted to go. “I’ll call you soon as I get back.”

“I’ll be waiting.” She hung up hard enough to hurt his ear.

He unpacked the dirty clothes from his suitcase, from his short stay in Fort Lauderdale. After tossing them in a pile on the bed, he stuffed the suitcase with clean clothes.

He dug an old plastic milk bottle from the trash, rinsed out the sour-smelling white residue, then used the bottle to fill the Olds’s radiator with water. The engine had cooled, but the split hose was still dribbling. He tied a rag around the split. Should do for a while.

After washing his hands, he put the suitcase in the trunk and drove to a service station on the highway, where he had the leaking radiator hose replaced. The mechanic was good; the job took even less than the fifteen minutes Carver figured he would have spent on it.

Carver drove to Edwina’s house on the coast and let himself in the back door with his key. He made his way to the bedroom where they’d made love so many times. The window was raised a few inches and he could hear the ocean. He limped to Edwina’s dresser and removed the top drawer.

A large, folded yellow envelope was fastened to the back of the drawer with masking tape. Inside the envelope was Carver’s blue steel Colt.38 automatic.

He removed the gun and left the empty envelope taped to the drawer. Put the drawer back, then checked the Colt’s clip and mechanism, smelling oil and metal as the gun snicked heavily in his hand. Making sure the chamber was empty and the safety on, he replaced the loaded clip and tucked the Colt in his waistband beneath his shirt. Death waiting to be used.

Before he left, he called Melanie Beame’s house and talked briefly to Beth Gomez. Told her he was on his way.