Burn

30

“You know the problem,” Desoto said when Carver met him for lunch the next day in Orlando. “McGregor’s right when he says there’s a limit to what he can do to prevent stalking from becoming assault or murder. It’s something law enforcement hasn’t quite figured out how to deal with yet.” He talked as if it were an administrative problem and not life or death.

They were in Ruggeri’s, an Italian restaurant on Washington, not far from Church Street Station. It was small and cool, with red carpeting, lots of dark wood, and more booths than tables. It lent itself to private conversations and was a place where deals were struck over the pasta. Carver and Desoto were in a booth next to a window, but it was stained glass and they could see only vague, shadowy forms of passersby. “What I had in mind,” Carver said, “was possibly familiarizing someone with the situation who might put pressure on McGregor by at least making him aware he’s being watched.”

Desoto paused in artfully coiling spaghetti strands around his fork. “But what exactly is the situation? Is it Marla Cloy trying to set up Brant for whatever action, for whatever reason? Or is it a simple case of a closet psychopath stalking a defenseless woman?”

“I wish I knew for sure,” Carver said. He sipped his draft Budweiser. He’d ordered only a stuffed mushroom appetizer and a side salad and was finished eating. The pungent aroma of spices and cooked garlic in Rugerri’s was almost enough by itself to satisfy his hunger. He watched Desoto fork in spaghetti and wondered how he stayed in such excellent physical condition. Desoto dined freely on sumptuous main dishes, with copious quantities of wine and rich desserts, and as far as Carver knew didn’t exercise beyond vigorously brushing lint from his elegant clothes.

Pols from City Hall frequented Ruggeri’s. One of them Carver recognized, an assistant to the mayor, noticed Desoto and nodded to him. A police lieutenant in a city the size of Orlando did have some political pull. Outside the city limits, it might be a different proposition. But Desoto wasn’t a man to view as a handsome clothes horse and underestimate. Carver had seen him in action; he was hardly flash without substance.

“I do know a circuit court judge who might drop a word in the right ear,” Desoto said. “But if McGregor is made aware that the Del Moray department’s handling of Marla Cloy’s complaint is being watched and evaluated, he’s going to guess why. He might come down even harder on you if and when he can.”

“He’ll do everything possible anyway,” Carver said, “so I don’t see making him mad as much of a risk.”

Desoto sipped Chianti and smiled. “You often have a purely pragmatic way of looking at things, amigo.”

“It works with McGregor. He’s a pure pragmatist who’ll always act in his own best interest.”

“True. But he might think destroying you is worth considerable inconvenience. You’re only a pragmatist some of the time. You have an integrity that at times causes you to act in ways McGregor sees as irrational. In fact, you sometimes act in accordance with your heart or your gut and are irrational, not to mention obsessive. People like you puzzle and irritate Mc shy;Gregor because you’re unpredictable. For instance, your client is Joel Brant, but you don’t discount the possibility he might actually be stalking Marla Cloy just as she claims. It’s inconceivable to McGregor that you might be genuinely concerned about Marla Cloy’s fate as well as Brant’s, because she’s not paying you. Yet you sometimes appear to act in her behalf. He sees altruism as a dangerous imponderable.”

“He’s right about that,” Carver said.

Desoto finished his spaghetti, sipped some more wine, then dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “You have never learned to be flexible, my friend.”

Carver was becoming annoyed. “There’s nothing wrong with having values. They give the world weight and worth. You talk as if they’re some kind of affliction.”

“People sink to the bottom of the sea clinging to their values. Are you going to have dessert?”

Carver told him no, but to go ahead and order and he’d have coffee.

Desoto settled on the spumoni, and when the waiter had left with the order said, “We managed to get a clear fingerprint from the trunk lid of Spotto’s car. We’ve run it through local computers and VICAP for comparisons, but nothing matches. It isn’t the print of any of the car rental agency employees, and we’re going to see about comparing it with prints of previous drivers. But my guess is it belongs to Achilles Jones. Lab whizzes say the finger that left it is huge.”

Carver thought about the attack in his office.

Desoto must have been thinking about it, too. “We’d like to dust your office for prints,” he said. “We might be able to determine if Spotto’s killer and your assailant are the same man.”

“It should be done,” Carver said, “but as soon as Jones came through the door he got right to work, and I don’t think he touched anything other than me. He did snap my cane in half, but Beth threw it away when I was in the hospital. If this had happened earlier, we could have compared the prints from the car with my welts.”

The waiter arrived with coffee and Desoto’s spumoni. Desoto assured Carver he’d talk to the circuit court judge about the Marla Cloy case, then carefully laid his napkin back in his lap. Carver knew that if any sort of stain marred Desoto’s clothes, there was a complete change of wardrobe waiting in a locker at police headquarters to restore him to his usual pristine condition.

“Are you still wearing the support around your ribs?” Desoto asked.

“No, I removed it yesterday.”

Desoto seemed to savor his spumoni. “Time heals everything eventually.”

“I’d like to think that,” Carver said, “but I’m not so sure.”

“Me neither, I suppose,” Desoto said. “Having been raised Catholic.”

They’d met at the restaurant and had separate cars, so Carver finished his coffee then left Desoto to enjoy the sin of gluttony.

Carver got into the Olds and started the engine, then the air conditioner. The meeting with Desoto hadn’t been the only reason he’d driven into Orlando. Beth had told him which adoption agency the Brants had visited before the fatal accident, and it had an Orlando address.

It was only ten minutes away from the restaurant on Washington.