Flame

Chapter 24

McGregor said, “I don’t like it. You tell me the three black hats from Atlanta turn up here in Del Moray, then you drop by my office. Case you haven’t caught on, I’m not supposed to be involved in this investigation of yours.”

“Of ours,” Carver corrected.

McGregor ignored him. Swiveled in his chair to gaze out his office window, stirring the air just enough to send the cloying scent of his cheap cologne Carver’s way. Smelled like furniture wax and stale sweat. He’d been on the Del Moray police force long enough now that his fellow officers knew him and despised him. Knew him and were afraid of him. Not because he possessed greater talent or resolve, but because he’d resort to anything, no matter how unethical, to get what he wanted. What he wanted was advancement. Power. He was getting it. Using what he had to get more. That was McGregor’s life.

He’d connived his way into one of the better offices, though still not the best in the converted home that was Del Moray police headquarters. But it did have a much-coveted window, even if the view was of the pale gravel parking lot. Officers’ private cars. A few angled, dusty patrol cars, one with COPS SUCK boldly scrawled with a fingertip on a dirty front fender.

Carver said, “Stop worrying; I told you, they flew back to Atlanta. They’ve got no way of knowing I came here to see you.” He didn’t like being in McGregor’s office. Liked even less that he’d come here to ask a favor. To McGregor, favors were currency as real as folding money. Debts to be collected with interest.

McGregor swiveled back around to face him again. “They like homing pigeons? They only fly one direction, so eager they just gotta get back to Atlanta? They so careless they didn’t leave a man behind to watch you? See what kinda fuck-up you’re gonna pull next?”

“They didn’t need to leave anyone behind.”

“How ’bout those DEA assholes. Think they might not be keeping an eye on you?”

“What if they are? What if anybody is? I’m a private investigator, and this is police headquarters. You might not have noticed it, but we’re in more or less the same business. Florida’s got more crime than sand. I might be here on a matter unrelated to narcotics or Renway’s death.”

“We both know that’s bullshit. Either of your sets of friends knew you came here, they’d sure as hell lean on you to find out why. Cut off selected body parts till they found out.”

Carver figured McGregor was right, but why give him satisfaction by admitting it?

“What makes you think the Atlanta faction didn’t leave somebody behind to keep watch on you?” McGregor asked. The possibility was clearly worrying him.

“They worked it out so they don’t need to watch me; they tied a string to me. That’s why I came to see you.”

A wary look drifted into McGregor’s pale blue eyes. He brushed his lank blond hair back from his long forehead. Darted the tip of his tongue out between his widely spaced front teeth. He said, “String? What’s that s’pose to mean, you’re a yo-yo? You think you’re a hip guy talking street slang like the rest of the shitheads out there? What kinda string?”

“Edwina.” Carver explained about the photographs, the threat to Edwina if he didn’t keep Ogden informed about the DEA investigation. Then he hit McGregor with his request. He didn’t tell McGregor about Courtney Romano being DEA. That would put Courtney in worse, if not immediate, danger. She was surrounded by people hungry for money and power. If it suited his purpose, McGregor would toss her like meat to trailing wolves.

McGregor stood up, stretched his elongated body languidly, and walked out from behind the desk. Lanky and looming, hollow-chested but with a rangy, tireless look about him. He paced slowly, his fingertips caressing his jutting chin. Posing. Showing Carver he was carefully considering. He had his suitcoat off and perspiration stains formed dark crescents beneath the arms of his wrinkled white shirt. The narrow end of his tie dangled down an inch below the wide. His pants looked as if they’d been ironed with a hammer, and he’d missed a belt loop so the material bunched up in back as if his diaper needed changing. He was a tower of bad taste.

After a while he said, “Uh-uh, Carver, I ain’t gonna assign someone to guard her.”

Anger dug spurs into Carver’s stomach. He told himself he shouldn’t be surprised by McGregor’s refusal. “Why not?” he asked.

“Whaddaya mean, why not? It oughta be obvious, even to an airbrain like you. We all got our personal and intimate responsibilities.”

“Which means?”

“Means you’re the one runnin’ cock through Edwina Talbot, you take care of her.”

Carver sank the tip of his cane into the soft carpet and hauled himself to his feet. Took an awkward half-step. He mentally measured the distance between himself and McGregor. The length of his arm and the cane?

McGregor grinned at Carver’s rage; he enjoyed getting under people’s skin. “Also, there’s lotsa crime happening around here. I can’t spare the manpower.”

Carver said, “I don’t like your explanation.”

“Really? Which one?”

“Neither.”

“No shit? Well, it’s this way: I can’t take the chance. Can’t afford to have the DEA or your Atlanta buddies or the department here make any connection between me and what you’re doing. You’re a detective, fuckhead, you shoulda been able to figure that one out. So I can’t give your cunt protection. No way, Jose. Forget it!”

“You’re the one who set all this in motion,” Carver hissed through clenched teeth. “You’ve got a responsibility. For Christ’s sake, you’re a cop. If nothing else, it’s your job to protect a citizen if you know her life’s in danger.”

McGregor spread his plate-size hands and pretended to be puzzled. “Whadda we got here, the Judeo-Christian work ethic or something?”

“It’s your job,” Carver repeated evenly. Thinking, despite himself, maybe McGregor had something with that “work ethic” remark. Cynical prick! But if his work-this kind of work-wasn’t important, what was?

“I can’t know shit about a job,” McGregor said, “since we never had this conversation. And it’s a fact we never had this conversation, ’cause I don’t know a thing about what you been doing this past week or so. That’s why you should realize I got no choice but to tell you no. So send your lady friend outa town. Outa the state. If that ain’t safe, it’s at least safer than in Del Moray. Sleep alone for a while and jerk yourself off. Just don’t involve me in your problem.”

Carver had to fight the impulse to club him with the cane. “Don’t involve you in my problem? You are my problem, you kink-brained bastard! You’re why all this is happening.”

“If I’m your problem,” McGregor said, “then you got a problem ain’t humanly possible to solve.”

“That’s because the only thing human about you,” Carver said, “is that you walk upright.”

“I’m no different from you, except I’m smarter and keep two moves ahead. I don’t do dumb things and get myself in trouble because of some fucked-up sense of morality that don’t mean a thing unless I got the luxury of being able to practice it. You say I ain’t human, but you’re wrong; I’m what human beings are all about. Looking out for ourselves, that’s us. Boil it down, that’s what it’s about for all of us in this shitty world. And that’s what the world is-fermenting shit. I at least got the sense to learn to live in it. Learn to kinda like it, even. More sense than a John Wayne jack-off like you, with your box-top code of honor. Tell you, Carver, the only difference between you and me is I know there ain’t a difference between us. That’s why you’re the one caught in the middle and getting the juice squeezed outa you.”

“Oh? You think we’re not in this together? What are you gonna say if somebody asks you what we talked about here in your office?”

McGregor smiled confidently. “I got a cover story all worked out. It didn’t surprise me, you being rammy enough to come here big as a hard-on despite our agreement. I didn’t get where I am by forgetting to cover my ass.”

Carver believed him. Covering his tracks, covering his ass, that was McGregor’s game and he was the best at it. Still, there was the possibility of that tape recording when he’d put his proposition-his ultimatum-to Carver in the littered office after the car bombing.

Carver said, “What if I told you our conversation in my office the day of Renway’s death was taped?”

“I’d tell you that I don’t believe it. ’Cause I phoned your office that same day and didn’t even get a ring outa that piece of Japanese junk on your desk. So I’m willing to chance it, if it comes to push and shove. Willing to bet that you can’t prove I put you up to whatever it is you been doing. I figure it’s the word of a has-been gimp keyhole-peeper against that of a respected police lieutenant.”

“Who respects you?” Carver asked.

McGregor shrugged. “Legalese,” he explained. “That’s what I’ll be in court, a respected police lieutenant. The guy they’ll have to believe before they believe you. Otherwise where would the law and order come from in this pea-brained society, they start doubting the word of the law in court? That’s what you’ll hear, you fuck with me. The law talking.”

“Some law,” Carver said, glaring at him.

“Right now,” McGregor said, “the law says get the fuck outa my office. It’s not that I ain’t got compassion, but I also got work to do.”

“That’s your final word?”

“My final word is, if you’re afraid she’ll get photographed to death, take care of the bitch yourself.”

“Compassion,” Carver said in disgust, “is something you know nothing about.”

McGregor grinned, absently scratching his testicles like a major-league batter on TV, and said, “Nothing or everything.”