Flame

Chapter 12

Carver had a salad for lunch in the hotel restaurant. Iced tea and a roll to go with it. There were bacon bits in the salad. He nudged them aside with his fork.

After he paid the relentlessly cheerful cashier, he limped out to the gift shop and bought an Atlanta Constitution. Settled into one of a dozen identical, comfortable wing chairs in the lobby, and wrestled with the newspaper until it was turned to the obituaries.

Ah! There was a death notice on Frank Allan Wesley, and he was important enough to rate half a column. The praise was lavish: Wesley had been a businessman and civic leader in Atlanta since 1970, when he’d moved the main operation of Wesley Slaughter and Rendering from New Orleans to Atlanta. He’d given generously to charity, organized political fund-raisers, was a member of various lodges. Had been a major booster and financial supporter of the Atlanta Falcons football team. He was survived by a daughter, Michelle, now married and living in New Jersey, and a wife, Giselle, in Atlanta. A private memorial service, the paper said, and gave no time or location. Private was the operative word. It was fortunate that Boyd Emerson had paid his visit to Wesley Slaughter and Rendering.

Carver went up to his room, stopping on the way at an alcove where there were soda machines and an ice dispenser. He paid a clinking, clunking machine too much for a can of Diet Pepsi, got some of it back by reaching into the ice dispenser and getting a free ice cube to munch on as he limped down the hall. You had to make your own justice in this world.

His room was cooler than when he’d left it. Almost cold. But it felt good and he left the thermostat alone. The maid had been in and done a nifty job, left the drapes open wide enough to provide bright but subtle light, but not so wide as to inflict him with a view of the highway overpass construction going on outside. Most of downtown Atlanta seemed to be a construction site; the New South still being born.

He sat down on the bed and used the window light to search in the phone directory for Frank Wesley. Was mildly surprised to find a Frank A. Wesley listed. Things were seldom this easy, and people like Frank Wesley often had unlisted phone numbers. The address was 218 Cabin Lane.

Time for real detective work, Carver told himself. He reached over to the dresser and snatched the Atlanta street map he’d bought down in the lobby. Spread it out on the bed and found Cabin Lane in G-7, north of the downtown area and in a wealthy community known as Buckhead.

He scooted sideways on the mattress until he could reach the phone on the nightstand. Pressed 9 for an outside line, then punched out Wesley’s phone number. Listened to the ringing at the other end of the connection.

It would be useful to know if the 218 Cabin Lane Wesley was the Wesley who’d been killed in Florida. Save Carver some driving if he wasn’t.

But there was no answer at the Cabin Lane number.

So maybe things shouldn’t be too easy; whence would come character? Carver hung up the phone, sighed, and scooped up the street map and folded it into a bulky rectangle. He crammed it into a pocket and limped from the room.

Half an hour later he was driving north on Peachtree Road. He turned on West Paces Ferry Road, then did some winding around on woods-flanked streets lined with palatial homes that were surrounded by acres of ground. He made a right turn on Cabin Lane, where the lots were so large the houses could only be glimpsed here and there through the trees.

Number 218 was a heavily wooded lot with a wide concrete driveway blocked by heavy black iron gates mounted to flanking stone columns. Beyond the columns, chain-link fence stretched into the dappled shade of the trees and disappeared.

Carver braked the Ford and nosed in to the gates, then peered through the windshield at the heavy chain and shiny brass padlock securing them. Chain and lock looked brand-new, and there were no nicks and scratches on the gates near where the chain was draped. On one of the stone columns was a gray metal intercom box with a fancy black handle that matched the curlicued design of the gates. Class, Carver supposed.

He got out of the Ford and limped over to the box. Opened it and pressed the button beneath a speaker and mike.

Waited a few minutes and pressed it again.

No reply from the house.

As he limped back to the car, he eyed the chain-link fence more carefully and saw that it was topped by a tangle of razor-sharp concertina wire. An improvement on barbed wire, if such a thing needed improvement. Barbed wire was primarily used for keeping livestock in. Concertina wire was for keeping humans out, and unlike barbed wire, its finely honed, widely spread gap-toothed surface would slice to the bone like a razor blade as long as the slightest pressure was applied. It didn’t poke holes in trespassers; it shredded them. Even with two good legs, Carver wouldn’t have tried to scale the fence.

He lowered himself back into the car and drove a few blocks down the road, studying the estates on either side. Finally he turned the car around and parked it almost out of sight in a copse of trees a few feet off the road. It was virtually invisible here to anyone driving past.

After making sure no cars were approaching, he crossed the road and limped up a blacktop driveway. Lettering on a rural mailbox said the family living here was named Vermeer. The only visible part of the house was a vast red-tiled roof with several dormers. There was a metal rooster weather vane on the peak of one of the dormers. It couldn’t seem to make up its mind which way the wind was blowing. Pointed at Carver for a second, as if he might be responsible for shifting currents, then turned away.

Halfway up the drive, Carver cut to his right, into the woods, and began making his way among slender hickory saplings. The ground was deceptively uneven, and he was careful about where he planted the tip of his cane before bringing his weight down on it. It was shady in the woods, but hot. Birds were nattering all around him, objecting to his presence. If he’d figured right, he’d be approaching the south side of the Wesley estate. He could only hope the grounds weren’t fenced all the way around the perimeter.

But they were.

After fifteen minutes of limping through low underbrush that grabbed at his ankles and cane and tried to trip him, Carver found himself face-to-face with more chain-link fence and spiraling concertina wire. Wesley had been nothing if not security-conscious. Lot of good it had done him.

From where he stood, Carver could see the side of the house. It was only one story, but it sprawled wide; a main entry with tall Greek columns and a circular drive, then vast, low wings built on each side of the soaring portico. It was constructed of beige brick and had dark brown trim and gold accents. Thick ivy twined with green lustiness up the side nearest Carver, almost reaching the roof. He wasn’t sure what kind of architecture the house represented; would have guessed neo-Grecian Ranch Glitz.

The place looked quiet. Empty. Carver wished he had the means to get on the other side of the fence and go exploring. A little B and E never hurt anyone, as long as nothing was stolen and no one was caught. He toyed with the idea of driving back into Atlanta, buying a bolt-cutter to cope with the fence, and returning. But that would be time-consuming and risky. When he got back, the house might be teeming with mourning family and friends.

Shielded by trees on either side of the fence, he made his way along the chain-link until the rear of the Wesley house came into view.

There was a beautifully landscaped rock garden back there, and he could see one end of a swimming pool. A diving board told him it was the deep end. On the other side of the pool was a redwood table with an umbrella over it. Redwood chairs with bright yellow cushions. One of the chairs had a blue towel draped over its back, moving slightly in the breeze.

Carver decided there was nothing here for him. He’d hoped to talk to an unsuspecting family member or be able to look the place over and possibly find something revealing. Neither of those things was going to happen. He turned away and had begun limping through the woods when he heard a splash.

Turned back just in time to see the diving board still vibrating and the blue, blue water in the pool rippling and playing tricks with the sunlight.

The ripples calmed, then got hectic and slapped noisily in irregular rhythm against the sides of the pool.

Someone was swimming just out of sight.

The dazzling, sun-reflecting water made his eyes ache. Carver crouched on his good leg behind the fence and waited, one hand on his cane, the other with fingers laced through the chain-link. He realized he was sweating heavily.

He was patient, but the gnats swarming around him weren’t. They got in his eyes and tried to flit up his nostrils. He brushed them away now and then but it did little good. They weren’t giving up any sooner than he was.

About five minutes passed.

Slower than root-canal treatment.

This was no fun. He was coated with perspiration and his leg was threatening to cramp up. The cane was slippery in his grip.

More splashing noises came from the pool. Silence for a minute, and then music. Though not very loud, it reached Carver clearly: the old Bobbie Gentry song “Ode to Billy Joe.” Whoever was there had turned on a radio or stereo.

Carver’s body tensed as he glimpsed a wavering shadow on the poolside concrete.

The woman who strolled into sight was blond and slender. Though it was difficult to be sure from this distance, she looked about average height. She was wearing only the bottom of a skimpy red bikini, and her small breasts bobbed energetically as she walked. Her hair was long and soaked, plastered to her naked tan back. There was no difference in the shade of her tan around her breasts; she frequented tanning salons or she was in the habit of topless sunbathing. At first, because of her slimness, Carver thought she was very young, but even from here a more careful appraisal put her at about forty-five. Middle-aged women weren’t built like twenty-year-olds, and that was that, Cher not withstanding. Carver wondered if he was looking at Giselle Wesley.

Whoever the woman was, detective work had suddenly become voyeurism, and that made him uneasy.

The woman picked up the blue towel from the back of the redwood chair and dabbed at her eyes. Dropped the wadded towel into the chair, then smoothed back her wet hair with both hands. She tilted back her head and swayed gently from side to side in time with the tragic, hypnotic music, smiling slightly into the sun. The grieving widow? Maybe the maid at play.

Carver was glad when she stepped up onto the diving board, strutted gracefully to the end, and jumped into the water feet first, folding her arms across her chest, as if she were cold, to protect her breasts. After the splash that sent thousands of glittering fragments of water flying like spraying glass, he could hear her swimming toward the other end of the pool.

He moved away into the woods and started back the way he’d come, thinking no one had seen him but knowing he couldn’t be positive. He still didn’t feel right about spying on the solitary swimmer. Breaking and entering was one thing, but it wouldn’t do to be arrested and charged with being a Peeping Tom. The worst part was, he wouldn’t have minded watching the woman for a while, if she’d stayed in view. That was perfectly natural, he told himself. Wasn’t sure if he believed it. Finally thought, hell with it. People who analyzed themselves into paralysis got on his nerves and he didn’t want to be one of them.

The Ford’s air conditioner felt great. As he drove back toward the main highway, he adjusted the dashboard vents so the cold rush of air was aimed directly at him. Felt perspiration evaporating where his shirt was stuck to his flesh.

Gave only a glance at the dusty black BMW sedan that roared around him from behind and accelerated out of sight.