Scorcher

Chapter 35

The tugging Carver had felt at his sleeve turned out to be three pellets from a twelve-gauge riot gun fired by a Kissimmee police officer behind him on Emmett’s basement steps. The pellets had entered at an angle, two of them lodging just below the skin’s surface, the other penetrating about an inch. The two near the surface the doctor had removed. The other one he was going to leave in Carver in the hope that infection wouldn’t occur and the pellet would eventually work its way closer to the surface, where it could be removed easily and without complication. A nurse joked with Carver about his not being able to use a compass until the steel pellet was removed. Carver didn’t think magnet jokes were funny.

After treatment at the hospital emergency room, he’d spent the night in Orlando in Desoto’s spare bedroom. He lay now in the harsh morning light, listening to the hum and hustle of traffic outside, grateful for the prognosis that his arm would soon return to its full range of strength and mobility. The idea of a second useless limb had frightened him badly, colored his dreams, and made him think about being at the mercy of small boys who delighted in slowly pulling the legs from insects.

The syncopated beat of Latin music drifted into the room from another part of the condo unit. Desoto had left for work, Carver knew. Must have forgotten to turn off the radio. Or maybe he left the damned thing playing all the time. That would be like him.

Carver lay quietly until the hypnotic beat threatened to lull him back to sleep. But it was ten o’clock, and he’d slept enough. Though he had no compelling reason to rise, he struggled up to sit on the edge of the mattress. A dull ache beat through his arm, in time with the music and his heart. It was a pain he’d endure rather than take the Percodan pills the doctor had prescribed. Carver preferred to be in slight pain, but awake and with his full mental facilities.

The room he was in was small and square, with a modern dresser and a high-riser that made into a comfortable bed. The draperies had come with the unit and were a dull gold color and not thick enough to block much sun. An unframed Delacroix print hung on the wall by the bed, a curiously flat French street scene. Somewhere Desoto had picked up an appreciation of art.

Carver found his cane, got up, and reached his pants where they were draped over the back of a chair. His wallet had dropped to the carpet behind the chair, and he used the cane to slide it over to where he could pick it up. He sat back down on the bed and struggled into the pants, then he stood up and limped from the room.

The rest of the place reflected the familiar Desoto. The carpet and drapes in the living room were deep red, the furniture black vinyl, stainless steel, and laminated wood that was lacquered to a high gloss. It was expensive furniture. Desoto spent most of his salary on clothes and on his environment. A Fisher stereo system took up most of a long shelf along one wall. There was a tiny red light glowing on it, and a series of needles on illuminated dials were twitching and bobbing in time with the rhythm that throbbed from the two big speakers at the ends of the shelf. It made Carver wish he could still dance. He crossed the thick carpet to the stereo and punched plastic buttons until he found the right one. The red light winked out.

The silence in the apartment seemed to pulsate after the tango music stopped, as if the beat had permeated the air and would die hard.

Carver made his way to the bedroom door to make sure Desoto was gone. He glanced into the room. Red carpet and drapes in there, too. Another print, a large one of a fleshy nude woman reclining among some flowers. There were two gigantic speakers that were probably wired to the stereo in the living room. The dresser and headboard were black and highly lacquered like some of the living-room furniture, in a simple art deco style. There was a round water bed large enough for the moon to affect with tides. It had some kind of white fuzzy spread over it. Carver looked up and was a little surprised to see no mirror on the ceiling. The closet ran along an entire wall and was no doubt full of Desoto’s elegant suits and accessories. There were mirrors everywhere except above the bed.

In a sort of awe, Carver turned away and went to the kitchen to put some coffee on to brew while he tried to take a shower and keep the dressing on his arm dry.

When he’d located the coffee and got the electric percolator going, he returned to the living room and found that Desoto had come home.

There he sat on his black and silver sofa, wearing a tailored cream-colored suit, pale blue shirt, and lavender tie with a gold clip. The condo was coolly air-conditioned, but Desoto looked as if he didn’t need it; he carried his cool with him.

He said, “Thought you’d be awake, amigo, and you’d want to be filled in on some facts. Didn’t want you calling and aggravating me at headquarters, busy as I am and pesky as you are, so I came by here.”

“Champion of you,” Carver said. “Want some coffee?”

“Ah, such a genial host. Nice to see you’ve made yourself at home.”

“Have to wait-it’s perking.”

“Yes, I can hear.”

Even the coffeepot seemed to percolate with a Latin beat; maybe it was in some way hooked up to the elaborate stereo system.

Because of the dress-shop killing and the proximity of Orlando to Kissimmee, Desoto would have access to all official, and some unofficial, information. Carver lowered himself into an uncomfortable chair that consisted of leather slung in the middle of a contorted stainless-steel creation and waited to hear what the lieutenant had to say.

“Dewitt is talking beautifully,” Desoto told him. “Can’t shut the man up, in fact. They tend to cooperate fully in a state that executes people more frequently than it sprays for mosquitoes.”

“Now why don’t you talk?” Carver said impatiently.

And Desoto did.

It pretty much confirmed what Carver had figured out.

“Emmett Kave served with Dewitt’s father in Korea,” Desoto said.

Carver had thought so. He told Desoto about the group photo on the wall in Emmett’s house, and how one of the grinning young marines in the snapshot strongly resembled Joel Dewitt.

“Dewitt’s father was killed by enemy fire not long after the photo was taken,” Desoto went on. “After returning home, Emmett became the lover of his slain buddy’s widow, Joel Dewitt’s mother. He married her, and shortly thereafter she abandoned him and her infant son. Emmett gave little Joel to an elderly, childless couple who agreed to pretend they were the child’s grandparents. Dewitt’s mother used her maiden name, Jones, on the motel register when she recently returned to Florida and met Emmett, probably lured by his promise of prospective wealth.” Desoto smiled handsomely. “You following, amigo?”

“I think so. Keep leading.”

“Emmett hated and envied brother Adam, schemed to obtain his riches, and years ago even apparently tried to rape Adam’s wife Elana. Adam interrupted this brotherly act and there were harsh words; if Adam and Emmett disliked each other before, now they hated as only brothers can.

“Anyway, amigo, Emmett included young Joel Dewitt, who’d grown up just the way Emmett would have wanted, in his latest plans to even the scales with Adam. Joel was to court and marry Nadine. Meanwhile, Paul would be made out to be a serial killer. Then Emmett was going to murder Adam so Paul would appear responsible. He knew Elana Kave had terminal cancer and would probably be dead within the year. That’d leave Nadine-and Joel-with the money. Joel would share it with Emmett. He’d have no choice, since Emmett knew about his part in the flamethrower murders. Partners in the worst kind of crime.”

Carver squirmed in the suspended leather, listening to it creak like a new saddle. “Christ, those people, my son, were killed only to establish that Paul was a murderer.”

“I’m sorry, amigo, but that’s the way of it. It was Joel Dewitt, deliberately being mistaken for Paul, who committed the murders by fire in a way that conformed to Paul’s hobbies and known bouts of paranoia and aggression. The kid was a schizophrenic; ideal to be set up. Emmett and Dewitt planted evidence all over the place. Through his car dealership, Joel even went out-of-state and bought a Lincoln that was similar to Paul’s. Then he dented the right front fender so it resembled the damage to Paul’s car. He obscured the plate numbers, and kept the car out of sight in Emmett’s garage except for use in the murders.”

Desoto stopped talking and stood up. “Coffee’s done perking, amigo. You look like you need some badly.”

He deftly straightened the creases in his suit pants, then walked into the kitchen. A minute later he returned with two cups of sharply aromatic coffee, handed one to Carver, then sat down again on the sofa. Just the scent wafting from the cups might be enough to keep someone up all night.

Carver sipped the scalding black coffee, then waited for the caffeine to kick in or for the stuff to cause an acid attack.

“Those are imported beans from Mexico,” Desoto said proudly, holding up his cup and gazing at it. “Specially grown in the mountains. Good, eh?”

“A brisk waker-upper,” Carver said.

Desoto looked at him dubiously, then continued describing the world according to Joel Dewitt. “Emmett and Joel learned someone independent of the police was trying to solve the murders; they were aware of your identity even before Adam Kave hired you. They decided to use you, Carver. They weren’t trying to scare you off the case; they understood your blind determination and tried to fan your rage and drive for vengeance whenever it showed signs of losing intensity. Among other methods, they committed another murder-in the Orlando dress shop-and made an attempt on Edwina’s life by torching her house. They wanted you to find and kill Paul, before the police located him and maybe somehow learned he really hadn’t committed the murders. There was always that slight chance if the law caught up with him first. Emmett and Dewitt knew he’d have no chance with you.”

“And after I’d killed him?” Carver asked.

“Paul’s death, or his arrest, would have been Emmett’s signal to murder Adam immediately, burning him so severely with the adhesive, super-hot naphtha compound that the time of death would have been impossible to determine. If Elana got in the way, she would have been killed in the same manner. Paul would surely have been blamed for their deaths.” Desoto sat back and crossed his legs at the ankles; his black leather loafers had long tassels and tapered toes. He looked ready to go to a dance instead of a crime scene. “That’s the story, amigo. First Emmett and Dewitt committed murder, then they planted evidence pointing to Paul Kave. Then they seized opportunity and tried to use you to kill Paul so it could never be established that he was innocent of the killings before, and even slightly after, his own death.” Desoto shook his head sadly. “Some family, the Kaves. Could be a curse runs in their blood.” He solemnly crossed himself; Carver didn’t know if he was kidding. “You had this all figured out?” Desoto asked.

“Most of it,” Carver said.

“You’re good at your work, amigo; always were. Emmett, Dewitt, and McGregor counted on that.”

“What’s McGregor saying?”

“Oh, he’s saying a lot. He’s a hero, you know. Used you to find the killer, tricked you, and then saved your life. Even saved Dewitt’s life so he could stand trial and justice could be served. Some cop, McGregor. Gonna get a promotion, you can bet.”

“He had himself covered all the way,” Carver said softly, regretting the admiration that crept into his voice.

“Of course,” Desoto said. “Politics. Something you never understood, Carver, my friend.”

“A lot I didn’t understand.”

“Well, it’s not easy to comprehend the Kaves. All that money from wieners, it had to come to no good. Know what’s in those hot dogs, amigo?”

“Don’t want to know,” Carver said.

“Damned additives,” Desoto said. “Things’ll kill you.”

He finished his coffee in a gulp, somehow without dissolving his tongue and tonsils, then placed the cup on an end table and stood up. “I’m heading back to work, dutiful civil servant that I am. You rest, eh?”

“I can’t rest,” Carver said. He considered making a smartass remark about the coffee but thought better of it. Desoto was proud of the terrible stuff.

“Guess you can’t,” Desoto said. “Take care of the arm then, okay, amigo?”

“Sure,” Carver said. He gripped the cane and worked himself to his feet. “You were right most of the way,” he said. “Thanks for trying to make me listen. Thanks for. . well, just thanks. I mean that.”

Desoto smiled, shrugged, and went out.

Carver limped into the kitchen and poured the rest of his coffee into the sink, listening to it hiss and gurgle down the drain. Steam rose. That should take care of any clogged pipes.

He decided to shower and get dressed. He owed Adam Kave a final report and some explanation, regardless of his status as a former client.

How would Adam receive him, after Emmett’s death and the arrest of Joel Dewitt?

And the return of Paul.