Flame

Chapter 16

Desoto listened carefully as Carver talked. They were in Desoto’s office on Hughey in Orlando. The window air conditioner, which supplemented the central air on particularly warm days, was humming and gurgling away, fighting the good fight against the relentless heat. There were three yellow ribbons tied to its grill, standing straight out and fluttering in the cool breeze to show the filter was clean and the blower was working fine. Reassurance that you were comfortable while you sweated.

On the sill of the window next to the one with the air conditioner sat Desoto’s portable Sony radio. He’d turned the volume low enough so it could barely be heard above the noise of the air conditioner, and Latin music seeped from the speakers into the office. Music from Evita, Carver thought. Desoto seemed to like, even need, a Latin beat to help him through his days.

Patti LuPone was singing forlornly about Argentina when Carver finished talking and Desoto leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtful. Desoto had on a white-on-white shirt with French cuffs and a wine-colored tie today. Razor-creased slacks that were beige but so pale they were almost white. A dark brown sport jacket was draped on a wood hanger that was looped over a fancy brass hook near the office door. A tough cop and a dandy, Carver thought, was an odd combination that often caused Desoto to be underestimated. But Carver had seen Desoto with his back to the wall and no longer sold him short.

Desoto said, “You underestimated me, amigo, by thinking you maybe shouldn’t have told me this. What you should do is listen more to Edwina. Should appreciate her more.”

“Dammit, I appreciate her,” Carver said. “I listen to her. That’s why I’m here.”

“She’s a rare woman.”

“She knows it and so do I. You don’t have to keep telling both of us.”

Desoto raised a dark eyebrow, looking like a matinee idol in a silent movie. The heroine had been rescued and now it was time to get down to business the censors demanded be conducted off camera. “Ah, you jealous?”

“No.”

“You see? You should be. If I had Edwina I’d be jealous of every man she smiled at.”

“Forget about Edwina. She advised me to come here and talk to you, put you on the pin. If you have to pass any of it along, I’ll understand.”

Desoto said, “Nothing you told me leaves this office.”

“Thanks,” Carver said, meaning it, hoping Desoto knew it.

“We’re friends first,” Desoto said, sounding like Edwina, “everything else second, eh?”

“Unless fingernails start getting peeled back. Then sometimes it’s best not to know things.”

“Hmm . . . I’ll think about that next time I’m getting a manicure, but not now.” Desoto idly played with the gold ring on his left hand, rotating it back and forth on his finger as if about to try slipping it over the knuckle. Light streaming through the blinds reflected off the ring and danced wildly across the desk. “You say Wesley isn’t dead, I believe you.”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t dead,” Carver pointed out, “I said he wasn’t the guy blown up outside my office.”

“Point taken. And Bert Renway hasn’t been seen since the bombing, according to McGregor. Also, you don’t think the Atlanta goons know about the Florida goons.”

“That’s my guess.”

“But you say maybe the girl knows. Courtney they called her?”

“Maybe Courtney. She’s the only one who showed any reaction stronger than surprise when they learned about the Fort Lauderdale conversation.”

“She strike you as Ogden or Butcher’s girlfriend?”

“No. But I might be wrong about that. I’m not sure why she was there, unless she’s in the same line of endeavor as Butcher. She came across as genuinely mean and tough, even through the melodrama they were putting on to scare me.”

“From what you say, this Butcher should have some kinda record even if the other two are clean.”

“If he doesn’t, they should pass a law to convict somebody for suspicion and general nastiness.”

“Those earlobes he showed you-think they were real?”

“Yeah,” Carver said, “and he had both of his still on his ears.”

Desoto stopped toying with his ring and abruptly folded his hands, as if he were a small boy in school told to stop fidgeting. “McGregor might tell you something about the three in Atlanta, but don’t count on him sharing all his information with you, I’m on better terms with the law in Atlanta and elsewhere; I can find out things people won’t tell him, figuring he’s not to be trusted. Anybody knows him five minutes, he’s an automatic loser in a popularity contest with a viper.”

Carver said, “If the autopsy report out of Miami is phony, something heavy’s happening.”

“And somebody isn’t playing by the rules, which is why I don’t mind stepping outside them. There aren’t that many people can swing their weight and get an autopsy report faked. What you’ve done, amigo, is you got me curious.”

“You think we might be into some kind of political mess?” Carver asked. “I mean, a car bombing using a plastique, that smacks of folks with turbans and dark beards, or maybe the Irish Republican Army.”

“Terrorists aren’t the only people who stash bombs in cars,” Desoto said. “Been a favorite mob method for decades. You ever watch that old TV series, ‘The Untouchables’?”

“Jesus!” Carver said. “This is real life.”

“Real death,” Desoto corrected. “Rest easy, amigo. What I’ll do is, I’ll put out feelers so thin nobody’ll notice them, but they’ll reach the right places. I’ll find out what the deal is. People owe me; I can collect. How police department politics work.”

“I don’t want to put you in a position where you’re crossing McGregor,” Carver said. “He bites.”

Desoto grinned. No doubt his predatory bedroom grin. Strong teeth stark white against his handsome tan features. “Don’t we all?”