Flame

Chapter 25

Carver decided he had to go see Lloyd Van Meter. The man was bizarre, but he had resources and he’d help. And he was a friend, which was a good reason both to confide in him and to leave him out of the action. McGregor had left Carver little choice but to bring Van Meter into the game. That could be like inviting Howard Hughes to sit in on Monopoly.

Carver had first met Van Meter when, as an Orlando patrolman, he’d arrested a burglary suspect who happened to be the wayward lover of Van Meter’s client, a wealthy New York society woman who ran an exclusive call-girl operation. Van Meter had been small-time back then, but he’d gotten the help of a local high-powered lawyer and created enough smoke and confusion to get the suspect returned to New York in a tangle of red tape. Carver had never seen the burglar again. The unconventional but effective Van Meter, with the money-laden gratitude of his wealthy New York client, had soon become head of one of the largest private-investigation agencies in Florida. Within five years he had offices in Miami and Tampa, as well as new and impressive offices in Orlando. Crime paid, even if indirectly.

He sat now in his main office on Orange Avenue in Orlando and listened to Carver. The office was furnished in Danish modern, no doubt by a decorator who’d never seen Van Meter. He was the only thing in the plush office that didn’t fit the decor. His bulk seemed to threaten to break everything. Especially the spindly straight legs of his desk chair. The desk itself was a pale oak creation that sort of resembled the state of Florida painted by Picasso. It was as sharply angled as the obese Van Meter was rounded. On one of its many corners was an ornate walnut pipe rack containing only one curve-stemmed pipe with a huge blackened bowl. A comfortable-looking accessory that also seemed foreign to the room but not to its occupant.

Van Meter, who claimed to be the illegitimate son of famous Prohibition-era gangster Homer Van Meter, was more massive than when Carver had last seen him. His features were sharply defined despite his fleshiness, and his thick white hair and flowing white beard gave him a Biblical look that inspired certain clients with confidence, especially in central Florida. He dressed as if he’d had all his clothes made from fabric bought at an awning-factory sale of material that wouldn’t move. He was wearing a yellow-and-white-striped suit. White shirt with yellow flecks in the material. Brown tie with what appeared to be a yellow mermaid painted on it. Perched in his dainty little chair, he looked like a huge scoop of lemon-vanilla ice cream about to melt over the sides of a dish.

After listening to Carver, he waved a hand bearing a massive silver-and-turquoise ring and said, “Sounds like you’re in deep and sinking toward the bottom to join the whale shit.”

Carver said, “I came here to see if I could borrow some buoyancy.”

Van Meter grinned and patted his huge, protruding stomach. “Came to the right man, old buddy.” He leaned forward; the frail little chair squealed in fright. Van Meter glanced around the office. “I wish somebody’d come in here one night and break all this crap into sticks. I paid a fortune to have it decorated last year; put it all in the hands of my secretary, Marge. It’d hurt her feelings if I told her I didn’t like it and was afraid someday it’d break under me and give me splinters.”

“Must be some secretary, that Marge.”

Van Meter shrugged beneath the yards of yellow material. It was like watching a sail billow. “Well, she’s an old man’s pleasure, you might say.”

Carver figured Van Meter was only about fifty, not much older than Carver, but he let it go. He wondered if Marge was the one who’d ushered him into the office, a tall, noble-looking gray-haired woman, probably older than Van Meter. The sort of woman who’d be attractive all her life. Good bones. Good everything.

Something hissed like a snake in the corner. Carver turned his head and saw one of those automatic scent dispensers timed to emit periodic sprays of fragrance into the air. He sniffed and recognized the scent of cinnamon.

“Another one of Marge’s ideas,” Van Meter said. “She don’t like it when I smoke my pipe in here. Says it smells up the place for a month.”

Carver said, “Maybe you oughta try some cinnamon-scented tobacco.”

“They make that kinda crap?”

“Sure.”

“Hmm.”

The little square scent-dispenser clicked and whirred. Something in it had rewound.

“Women and money,” Van Meter said, shaking his head, “they cause us to do things we wouldn’t ordinarily.”

Carver said, “That’s what keeps you and me in business.”

Van Meter stroked his long beard. Looked wise as Moses behind his peculiar angled desk. “Why you’re here, in fact, would be my guess.”

“That’s right,” Carver said, “Edwina. I want to hire you to put an operative on her for protection, but it’ll have to be without her, or anybody else who might be shadowing her, knowing about it.”

“Okay. Just leave me a can of that powder makes people invisible.”

“C’mon, Lloyd.”

“What you’re asking won’t be easy.”

“Possible, though. And the only way I have to go.”

“You could tell her about this,” Van Meter suggested. “See what she wants to do.”

But Carver knew what Edwina would want. What she’d do. She’d stay in Del Moray. And if she knew she was under surveillance she’d act as if she knew. Might even confront whoever was watching her. She’d lost herself during a disastrous marriage. Became even more lost after her divorce when she’d rebounded into a crippling love affair with a con man. Found herself only after the death of the con man and the help of Carver. Would never run from herself or anything else again. Carver had taught her that and he couldn’t argue now that she should run. She’d stick despite anything he might say; she’d developed the territorial possessiveness of a bull terrier. He thought that was fine-usually.

But he had to protect her from Vincent Butcher. Christ, Butcher with his string of human earlobes.

“Carver?”

“I can’t tell her,” Carver said. “I know her, and that’d only make things worse.”

Van Meter lifted his wide shoulders again. Held them raised for a few seconds and then let them fall. “Like I said, things we wouldn’t ordinarily do. I can put Hans on this. He’s a damn good operative and sneaky as a cat burglar. ’Tween you and me, I think he can make himself invisible.”

“I hope so,” Carver said. “I wouldn’t want to understate the danger.”

“Hans can manage. He has before. But I gotta tell you, there can’t be a guarantee in anything like this. I mean, Edwina might be on melting ice, judging by what you say. And you’re playing in the big leagues of drugs. The worst people on earth. The camera that took those photographs could just as easily have been a gun. If something should happen to her despite Hans …”

“I’ll understand,” Carver said. Will I?

Van Meter picked up a ballpoint pen from the desk. Clicked the spring-loaded mechanism. “Where you gonna be so I can get in touch?”

I better not tell you.”

The scent dispenser hissed again. Cinnamon rode the air. Van Meter set the pen back down and studied Carver. “If you’re about to try something cute with the characters you just described to me, I hope it works.”

“Me too.”

The office door opened and an attractive young blonde with a trim figure, a short leather skirt, and a beauty-pageant smile sashayed in. Said, “Hi, sweetballs.” Stopped cold when she noticed Carver. Blushed and said, “Sorry, Lloyd, I though you were alone.”

“S’okay, babe,” Van Meter said. “This is an old friend. Carver, meet Marge.” He beamed possessively. “My very private secretary.”

Carver stood up, leaned on his cane, and shook Marge’s small hot hand. She was sporting a gold cocktail ring with a pea-size diamond.

Marge said, “Listen, I’ll get outa here and let the two of you talk.”

Carver told her to stay, he was leaving anyway. At the door, he planted the cane and twisted his upper body so he was looking back at Van Meter. “I appreciate this, Lloyd.”

“Ah, we don’t do each other favors, who else is gonna help us? Our profession don’t inspire trust among outsiders. Even our clients usually don’t trust us.”

“Maybe they’re right,” Carver said. “My last client trusted me, and look what happened. Bye, Marge.”

Limping through the outer office, he heard her call, “Nice meetin’ ya!”

The gray-haired duchess behind the receptionist’s desk glanced at Carver and rolled her eyes.

Carver thought, What did she know? Marge seemed happy with Van Meter, and Van Meter deserved his perks. Sometimes the world worked just right.