Bloodfire

5

Desoto’s office was cool. His window unit that supplemented the central air was toiling away, gurgling and humming with gusto so that the yellow ribbons tied to its grillwork were perfectly horizontal, rigid and trembling in the breeze. On the sill of the window next to the air conditioner sat Desoto’s portable Sony radio. When Carver limped into the office, Desoto swiveled in his desk chair and turned down the volume. A female vocalist’s lilting Spanish lament became faint; the drums of the band backing her up continued to throb like a heartbeat through the office.

Desoto laid aside a yellow file folder whose contents he’d been reading. He flashed his dashing smile and motioned elegantly for Carver to sit down in the ladder-backed oak chair in front of the desk.

Carver positioned his cane, leaned on it for support, and sat. The chair creaked beneath the sudden descent of his weight.

“Still hot outside?” Desoto asked. He was wearing his suit coat and had his mauve tie firmly knotted. He looked a long way from breaking a sweat.

“What do you care?” Carver asked. “You’re never bothered by the heat.”

Desoto said, “All mental, amigo. You wanna talk about the weather, or about the Jackson woman’s murder?”

“Murder,” Carver said, not bothering to mention it was Desoto who’d brought up the subject of the weather.

Desoto leaned back but kept his hands on the desk, causing his coat sleeves to ride up slightly so his cuff links glinted in the light angling through the mini-blinds. “Victim was Belinda Louella Jackson of Indianapolis. Age thirty-live, employed as a cocktail waitress. The slug that killed her was a.30–06, fired from the roof of one of the buildings that angles so it allows a clear shot through the window. Gravel on the roof was disturbed where the gunman had sat or kneeled to take aim. No ejected casing, though. If there was one, whoever shot Belinda Jackson took the time and trouble to pick up the shell before ducking through a service passage from the roof and fleeing down the fire stairs.”

“One shot. No casing. Sounds like a professional.”

“Yeah. No doubt used a scope. There’s a mark on the roof tiles where he probably rested the barrel for support. Wanted the rifle steady because he knew he’d probably only have one shot.”

Carver said, “Learn anything else about the dead woman?”

“Several things. Among them, she was the sister of the woman who lives there.”

Carver folded both hands on the crook of his cane and leaned forward in his chair. “Jackson was Elizabeth Ghostly’s maiden name?”

“Elizabeth Gomez’s,” Desoto said.

Carver said, “Explain.”

“There is no Elizabeth Ghostly. No Robert Ghostly, either. But there’s a Roberto Gomez, and he fits your client’s description. This Roberto Gomez, amigo, he gave you a line of shit. But you’re not the first. I been talking with the Miami Police; Gomez is a drug kingpin in southern Florida. Has connections in South America and deals any kinda stuff he can wholesale. Got houses and apartments all over the place. Only one the Miami police or DEA say they didn’t know about was the condo here in Orlando, where he had his wife Elizabeth stashed the past eight months.”

“Because she was pregnant,” Carver said, “and he wanted her out of any danger because of his business.”

“You’re speculating.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And you accuse me of being a romantic.”

“You are. And maybe Gomez is, too.”

“Most likely. His wife’s pregnancy’s another thing the authorities in south Florida didn’t know about Gomez.”

“Tell me some of what they do know.”

“He’s second-generation American, of Cuban descent. His father was a burglar in New York, shot to death by police nine years ago. Gomez got into narcotics trafficking up east. Arrested three times for dealing, convicted once. Did four years at Attica. Earned a reputation as a bad-ass up there. Tough con who ran his cellblock.”

It was difficult for Carver to reconcile this description with the ordinary, cocky little man who’d passed himself off as a medical supply salesman. Medical supplies, all right. He’d flirted with the truth when he said he sold heroin. “Any warrants out for Gomez?” Carver asked.

Desoto shook his head no. “He’s gotten clever since he’s moved south. Miami Narcotics and the Drug Enforcement Administration keep a watch on him, though, waiting for him to screw up. They know he’s one of Florida’s major dealers, but they need more than they got if they wanna prove it in court. He’s also one ruthless cookie, amigo. He’s got a longtime lieutenant name of Hirsh does the mean work. Gomez enjoys watching, they tell me. But he’s still capable of most anything himself. He doesn’t do drugs and he doesn’t allow any of his employees to use the stuff. Last year, in the Keys, he found out one of his men was carrying a habit. Gomez cut off the guy’s fingertips with a machete and towed him behind the boat. Got a charge outa what happened when sharks were attracted by the blood.”

“No proof, though?” Carver asked.

Desoto smiled faintly. “Not unless you can get sharks to testify. DEA knows who else was on the boat, but nobody’s talking.”

Carver couldn’t blame them. Seeing sharks make a meal of one of your co-workers would stick in the mind and prompt loyalty to the employer.

“So what we have,” Desoto said, “is Gomez wanders up to you on the beach, pretends to be someone else, and hires you to find his wife.”

“His real wife,” Carver said.

“So far, anyway. But he neglects to tell you she’s pregnant.”

“She might have already had the baby,” Carver pointed out.

“True. Nobody knows how pregnant she is-or was. Anyway, you go to the address Gomez gives you-where he actually did spend time with his wife and where she’s been more or less living much of the past year-and the wife’s sister walks in and gets shot by a sniper.” Desoto leaned back into the breeze from the window unit. His wavy dark hair didn’t budge in the flow of air. “Amigo, tell me what it all means.”

Carver had been sitting there wondering exactly that. He said, “Well, I don’t think I was used to set up Gomez’s sister-in-law. It doesn’t connect. She must have arrived at the apartment unexpectedly.”

“Uh-huh. But why, do you figure?”

“To get some clothes and personal items for her sister, who’s in hiding.”

“Hiding from?”

“I don’t know. Gomez?”

“Maybe from Gomez. But I don’t think so. And the unfortunate Belinda Jackson?”

“Shot by mistake,” Carver said. “Because the killer, firing from a distance, thought she was Elizabeth Gomez.”

“That’s how it coulda been, all right.” Desoto sat forward again. He placed his elbows on his desk and clasped his neat, tanned hands together. “What if somebody’s trying to kill Elizabeth Gomez, and hubby Roberto wants to find her so he can protect her, eh?”

“That the way you’re leaning?”

“For now, amigo.”

“She’s more likely running from Gomez, which is why he hired me to find her.”

“Except he stashed her out of harm’s way in the Orlando condo to begin with. My impression is he was trying to protect her and the baby they were expecting.”

“Then Gomez really thinks somebody snatched her-or them,” Carver said. “According to your hypothesis.”

“It falls that way,” Desoto said. “An abduction.”

Carver considered it. Didn’t like it. Didn’t say anything.

Desoto said, “By the bye, sooner or later a DEA agent name of Dan Strait will wanna talk to you. He’s naturally interested in anything concerning Gomez.”

“Reasonable.”

“Considering what happened, you probably won’t see Gomez again. But if you do, let me know. It’s not just the DEA that wants a word with him.”

“You see him as a suspect?”

“Oh, no. Even if he shot the woman, he’ll have an alibi a team of high-powered lawyers couldn’t budge in a year.”

“A careful man, huh?”

“Miami tells me he’s awful nifty as well as psychotic. DEA says the same thing. What drug money can do to people, it’s done to Gomez. Guy’s major-league dangerous, so you be careful yourself.”

“You know me.”

“Sure do, my friend. Once you get involved in something, you can’t let go. Give some dogs a rag to chew on, and when they get a tooth-hold they’ll tug at it till they drop. That’s the way you are.” He reached back and turned up the Sony’s volume. A tango was playing; very dramatic. “Anything you wanna add before you go into an interrogation room and make your official statement, amigo?”

Carver leaned forward over the cane and stood up. He said, “Belinda Jackson was a slender, well-built woman. Even through a telescopic sight and a window, there’s no way she’d look to be in the late stages of pregnancy.”

“I noticed that about her,” Desoto said.

“Figured you would,” Carver said, and went out.

Hoping he’d never see Roberto Gomez again, but knowing better.

Dogs and rags.