Scorcher

Chapter 31

Adam Kave himself appeared at the door and wordlessly ushered Carver through pseudo-Spain and into the large room where Mel Bingham and Dewitt had fought. The place was messy; apparently the maid hadn’t come in today from Fort Lauderdale. There were still a few drops of Dewitt’s blood on the rug; they were dark brown now.

Adam walked to the French doors and carefully closed and latched them, as if someone might be lurking on the grounds and overhear the conversation. Maybe he had something there; the Kave family seemed to attract the bizarre. Such as an investigator working for and against them.

Carver was surprised to see that Adam looked as if he’d been drinking heavily. The flesh of his face was sagging. Even his intense dark eyes seemed oddly elongated. They were also very bloodshot. His black hair was slicked back carelessly and stood out in oily tufts behind his ears. He was wearing blue pinstripe suit pants, a wrinkled white shirt, and a red silk tie that looked as if it had been knotted in the dark. There was a tremulous quality to his wide, steel-trap jaw that evoked in Carver the special pity reserved for the strong gone weak.

Adam knew how to drive to the point, however. He faced Carver and said, “You’re a deceitful bastard.” His voice was even huskier than usual but it was somewhat slurred, lacking its customary force.

Carver moved to the black leather sofa and sat down. The cushions hissed beneath him as he settled in. He sank lower than he’d anticipated and felt constricted and immobilized by the soft upholstery. He waited for Adam to talk out the emotion that was obviously pulsating and pressuring within him. On the credenza were an empty bottle of Cutty Sark and a clear glass with half-melted ice floating in diluted amber liquid. The room was quiet. The ocean breaking rhythmically on the beach outside sounded like labored breathing.

Adam paced three steps to his left, three to his right, almost as in a ritualistic dance, and squared off again at Carver. “Your former wife came to see me. She told me about the way you tricked me. About the shitty deal you made with that police detective, McGregor. He knew who you were all along.” Kave slammed his right fist into his left palm so hard it had to bruise, but he gave no indication of pain; the effects of expensive Scotch. “By God, I’ll have his ass for this! Both your asses!”

“You’ll find McGregor’s covered his,” Carver said.

“And you haven’t?”

“No. I guess, under the circumstances, I don’t care enough about it.”

Adam was wringing his powerful hands now, flexing and unflexing them. He felt strong. He could wrench the lid off any stuck jar. “You want revenge,” he said, staring down at the floor. “That’s all you were after from the beginning. That was the plan. Eye-for-an-eye fanaticism. So appealingly simple, it must seem to you. You want to kill Paul, the way you think he killed your son.”

“It began that way,” Carver admitted.

“Ah! But now you have your doubts?”

“Some.”

“Of course! You think he’s innocent and you want to help him!” The slurred voice was thick with irony. Adam shook his head slowly. “More lies. Ha! Know what, Carver! I think you’re wriggling on the hook and trying to keep your investigator’s license. What passes for your professional reputation.”

“I don’t care about that,” Carver said. “It’s just that certain things I learned while searching for Paul don’t fit tight. Never really have, only I was too blind and deaf to realize it. Pieces from some other puzzle have accumulated.”

Interested despite his anger, Adam relaxed somewhat and dropped his hands to his sides. “Example?” he snapped, some of the old command back in his bullfrog voice.

“The accelerant-what was used to start the fires and keep them burning. Why this mixture of naphtha and chemicals, when plain old gasoline or kerosene would have been just as deadly? And if the object was to cause maximum suffering, there must be other, less traceable ways to make flammable liquid gelatinous, ways using common, over-the-counter products. I think an amateur chemist like Paul would have known them. Why a homemade flamethrower in the first place? It’d be easy and effective enough simply to throw a can or jar of flammable liquid on a victim, then follow it with a lighted match. And would Paul be careless enough to use his car for the murders, and later leave evidence of his involvement to be found in the trunk? A schizophrenic operating under delusions of persecution isn’t necessarily illogical in every way. Especially one as intelligent as Paul. And his symptoms were under control; he was rational enough to request his medicine, and Nadine took it to him.”

Adam removed his squarish, silver-rimmed glasses from his shirt pocket, polished them absently with his tie, then slipped them back in the pocket instead of placing them on the bridge of his nose. As if he’d decided not to look closely at Carver after all. “You’re right,” he said, “Paul isn’t stupid or careless, whatever his frame of mind.”

“You don’t have to be either of those things to be set up.”

Adam rubbed his wide jaw and squinted dubiously at Carver. He had a straw to clutch. And how he wanted to believe! But he knew the potential pain of false hope. He was reluctant to embrace what couldn’t be proved, and Carver didn’t blame him. This affair had already produced enough agony. What had Jerry Gepman said at his door in Chattanooga? Some families, tragedy just haunts them. Won’t let up.

“The murders were more elaborate than was necessary,” Carver said.

“Do you seriously think someone burned those people to death just so Paul would be blamed?” Adam asked. More of a challenge than a question. Prove it, the blood-rimmed dark eyes pleaded, while the curbstone jaw remained unyielding.

“I don’t know. Who’d have reason to do this to him?”

Adam thought for a moment, then shrugged. “No one, I’m sure. Oh, he inspired some petty grudges with his occasional temper tantrums, but not to the degree anyone would want to do this. It would take an insane person to commit murder so Paul could be blamed. No, no, it doesn’t make sense strategically at all. Even to someone with a sick mind.”

A sick mind, Carver thought, remembering his conversation with McGregor. “Maybe there’s a strategy at work neither of us understands,” he said.

“Whether there is or not,” Adam said, “I want you to stay out of the matter. I can’t and won’t accept what you’ve done. I’m going to do everything possible to see to it you never practice your sorry profession in Florida again. Or anywhere else where I can stop you. You’ve got my solemn promise.”

“I don’t suppose you could understand how it feels to lose your only son to a maniac with a makeshift flamethrower,” Carver said. But he wondered. Nick Fanning had said Adam loved his son; it was proving true.

“It’s my son I’m thinking about. And my daughter. I want you to stop following her.”

“Huh? Nadine thinks I’m watching her?”

“Mel Bingham saw you spying on her at the tennis club and told her about it.”

“How much do you actually know about Bingham?”

“Enough to believe him.”

“What about Nick Fanning? How long’s he been with your company?”

“What significance does any of this have?” Adam asked.

“Maybe none, maybe a lot.”

“It doesn’t matter to you,” Adam said. “You’re off the case. And I’ll see that it was your last.”

There was nothing more to say. At least nothing to which Adam would respond. He was staring down cold-eyed at Carver, waiting for him to leave. He seemed to have recovered most of his sobriety and was plainly glad the unpleasant conversation was ended.

Carver levered himself to a standing position with the cane, then turned and started for the door.

“You should have listened to your former wife,” Adam said. “She had your best interest at heart.”

Without moving his legs or the cane, Carver twisted his torso and glared back at Adam. Then he limped from the room.

Outside, in the shade of the portico, he was about to lower himself into the Olds when a soft voice called his name.

He looked up to see Elana Kave beneath the palm trees near the house. She was wearing a silky gray flowing robe and was barefoot. She glided lightly through brilliant sun and into shadow to stand beside Carver. He couldn’t hear her feet on the driveway. The top was down on the Olds; he took the strain off his good leg and finished lowering his body in behind the steering wheel. He closed the door slowly, with only a muted double-click, and stared at Elana. She looked haggard and very sad. It deepened her fragile beauty into something soul-wrenching. There was a burning in her eyes smaller but brighter than the sun.

“Paul’s innocent,” she said quietly. “I know it.”

“How do you know?” Carver asked. He found it difficult to look directly at her, sensing that he was seeing the uncanny flare of life preceding imminent death. She was suffering in soul and flesh, and he felt guilty and soiled at being a part of it.

“I’m his mother,” she said simply. “I’m-” She stopped herself from saying more, as if the words once uttered would deflate the will that kept her alive.

“What is it?” Carver asked gently. “What?”

“I can’t tell you. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

He felt sweat bead on his forehead though it was cool there in the shadows.

She sensed the sudden compassion in him and smiled eerily. Maybe winning him over at least temporarily was all she’d wanted. It suggested hope, and she existed on hope and not much more. She turned and floated back across the patch of bright sunlight and into the shadows of the palm trees. Then she disappeared around the corner of the house without glancing back.

He sat transfixed, staring at the empty space she’d occupied.

Then birds started nattering again and crickets resumed chirping. The sea continued sighing on the beach. A gull screamed in the endless blue distance beyond the house. The world back to normal.

His encounter with Elana had been so brief and unsettling, Carver drove away wondering if it had been something he’d imagined in the heat.

“How did Adam Kave find out about you?” Edwina asked that night in their dark bedroom in Del Moray. Carver lay beside her and stared at the blue-black rectangle of the window, watching the curtains swaying in the ocean breeze. The scent of the sea was in the room. “Laura told him.”

Edwina didn’t ask the questions she might have. She could live not knowing the answers.

She said, “I don’t like Laura.”

“Laura did what she thought she had to. Can’t blame her for that.”

“That’s not what I blame her for. Anyway, she was wrong in going to Adam Kave.”

“She was,” Carver agreed.

“You have this sick streak of moderation where Laura’s concerned. I’d have thought you’d be mad enough to choke her.”

“I was, for a while.”

“Uh-huh. Then you got all philosophical.” She stared off to the side in the dimness. The ocean was loud in its timeless assault on the beach. “Goddamned ex-wives!”

“You’re one, and you’re kinda nice.”

“Are you planning to sit back now and wait for the ax to drop on your neck?” Edwina asked.

“No. I’ll finish what I began.”

“Good. That’s what life’s about, finishing what we start.”

“Sometimes.”

The bedsprings groaned. She rolled onto her side, close to him, and rested a cool hand on his chest. “Begin something now and finish it,” she suggested.

He did.