Torch

13

Carver stopped at Sir Citrus, a roadside restaurant shaped like a huge orange, to phone Dave Belquest at the Sheriff’s Department. The phone booths, near the back of the restaurant, were also shaped like oranges, only they had doors and orange-colored sound insulation inside. Carver left the door open so he wouldn’t be stricken with claustrophobia and fed the orange phone change.

“I suspected you might call,” Belquest said when Carver had identified himself. “I’ve been talking to people about you.”

Carver didn’t want to know what people had said. “Have you learned anything about the driver of the truck that killed Donna Winship?”

“Sure have. His name’s Elvis Tarkenton and he lives in Alton, Illinois. No police record. Thirty-eight years old, married with four kids. He’s been driving for the same freight line almost ten years and he’s never had an accident.”

“There’s nothing at all to connect him with Donna Winship?”

“Not a thing other than that he ran over her. The man’s a churchgoing Midwesterner who was too shook up to drive after what happened. The freight line sent another driver to transfer cargo and finish his run, then his wife drove their car down from Illinois to take him home.”

Carver didn’t say anything for a while, watching a family being seated by a waitress in an orange uniform. Three blond boys and a small blond girl, all under ten, were arguing over who was going to sit by the orange-shaped window with the Disney character decals on it. The orange-clad waitress stood by looking bored; she’d heard the argument before.

“Carver?”

“Yeah?”

“Donna Winship wasn’t murdered. That trucker isn’t lying. And the parking valet didn’t see anyone else around.”

When Carver rested his bare elbow on the metal shelf beneath the phone it came away sticky. Someone must have spilled orange juice while using the phone. “What do you know about the valet?”

“That he’s a nineteen-year-old kid working a summer job between college semesters. He’s as likely to be a plant witness as he is to know where Hoffa’s buried.”

“I’m not interested in Hoffa.”

“No? I’m surprised that one hasn’t grabbed your attention and you haven’t solved it. You know what the people I talked with said about you?”

The little blond girl got her way and sat by the window, smiling smugly.

“Carver? They said you were obsess-”

Carver hung up.

He crossed the orange tile floor and went out the door, thinking that it was possible in central Florida to get sick of citrus. They were obsessed with it here.

The little blond girl smiled at him through the window as he lowered himself into the Olds to drive toward the Beeline Expressway and Orlando.

Desoto looked as harried as Carver had ever seen him. He’d actually loosened his tie knot.

Carver sat down in the chair facing Desoto’s desk, and Desoto closed the office door, then walked around behind the desk and sat in the swivel chair. He slid the knot of his beige and yellow tie snug to his neck and explained that a woman had been found shot to death in a rented van behind a restaurant over on Orange Avenue. The van was full of suitcases that contained clothes for a man and woman and at least two small children.

“More domestic hell,” Desoto said. “Sometimes I’m grateful to God that I never married.”

“Suicide?” Carver asked.

“Yes, I see matrimony that way.”

“I mean the woman in the van. Did she shoot herself?”

“Not likely. There were five bullet holes in her back.” He shook his head, his dark eyes sad. “Such a beautiful woman. A young mother, no doubt. Vacationers from up north. We’re searching for the husband.” He sat up straighter and adjusted his cuffs. “But it’s police business, and you should be thankful it’s none of your concern. What is your concern today, my friend?”

“Another shooting.” Carver told him about the encounter with the Oriental man and asked if Desoto had any idea as to the assailant’s identity.

“I might have,” he said. He asked Carver to wait, then got up and left the office. Carver knew he wasn’t going far; he’d left his cream-colored suit coat draped neatly on its hanger.

Carver sat patiently without moving. The portable Sony on the windowsill was silent, and sounds from outside filtered into the office. People arguing, joking, laughing. Occasional footsteps in the hall outside. “I mean it,” a woman said loudly somewhere outside the office. “It’s true. I really mean it.” Trying hard to be believed.

Ten minutes later Desoto returned with a mug book. His place had been marked by some fan-fold computer paper inserted between the pages. He laid the book on the desk where Carver could see it easily from where he sat, then opened it, withdrawing the computer printout and pointing to full-face and profile photographs of Carver’s Oriental attacker.

The man’s name was Beni Ho, and the photos were three years old, from when Ho had done brief prison time on an assault charge. His height was listed as five feet even, his weight 119.

“Him,” Carver said. He tapped the photo with his forefinger.

Desoto leaned over Carver’s shoulder. “You’re sure this man did what you describe?”

“I’m sure.”

“He isn’t very big, amigo.”

“Well, he’s wiry.”

Desoto handed the printout to Carver. Beni Ho had a long record of assaults and had done two prison stretches.

“There’s no need for you to be ashamed,” Desoto said. “This is a dangerous man, as several police departments would tell you.”

Carver didn’t recall saying he was ashamed of anything.

“Ho never uses a weapon,” Desoto said. “That and his diminutive size have impressed jurors and prevented him from taking up more or less permanent residence behind the walls. But he doesn’t need a weapon, apparently; he’s said to possess every color martial arts belt and even some suspenders. He’s injured several men severely, and rumor has it he’s killed more than one. He jumped parole in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, six months ago. The Baton Rouge police say he’s half Japanese, half Hawaiian, and all dynamite. An extremely lethal little package.”

“What about Gretch?” Carver asked. “Anything else on him?”

“No. Gretch, from his record and what you’ve told me, isn’t in Beni Ho’s league.” Desoto went back behind his desk. He switched on the Sony portable and tinkered with the dials but got only static. Apparently his favorite Spanish station was temporarily off the air. He turned off the radio and sat down, looking disconsolate. The beautiful, melancholy music was an important part of his days and his perspective.

“Maybe lightning struck the station’s tower,” Carver said.

“It hasn’t rained in a week. Which of Beni Ho’s legs did you shoot?”

“His right.” Carver wondered what were the odds of a five-foot Oriental man checking into a hospital shot in the left leg and causing confusion.

“I’ll run the routine check of medical clinics and hospitals,” Desoto said, “and phone you if Ho seeks treatment. But from what you said, and what we know about him, he might be able to tough it out without hospitalization. He’s a psychopath, and they sometimes have amazingly high pain thresholds.”

“He was walking,” Carver said, “when most men would have stayed on the ground.”

Desoto smiled. “You admire him, hey?”

“The way I admired Hurricane Andrew.” Carver moved the tip of his cane in a tight circular pattern on the floor. “What more do you have on Mark Winship’s death?”

Desoto raised a dark eyebrow in puzzlement. “He’s dead-what more is there? It was a suicide.”

“Are you completely convinced? I think there are unanswered questions.”

“They often are. People who commit suicide are usually more interested in getting out of this world than in any questions they might leave behind.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“But you’re not suicidal. Not right now, anyway.”

“I understand all the evidence points to suicide, but there’s no way to completely rule out murder.”

“True. But there’s not nearly enough there to prompt an official homicide investigation.” Desoto rubbed his chin with his thumb. “You really think Mark Winship was murdered?”

“I think it’s possible.”

“It feels like suicide. I wouldn’t question it. I’m surprised you would.”

“I didn’t at first. But now I think there’s a chance he was shot by someone else.”

“A very slim chance, amigo. But no doubt enough of one for you to take for a ride. Who do you like as his killer?”

“What about Beni Ho?”

“He would have used his hands, then pushed Winship off a bridge or out a window to make it look like suicide. He’s not a gun kind of guy. It’s against his religion. Makes him feel less than a man. Machismo, face, whatever you want to call it-it’s more important than life itself to a martial arts fanatic like Ho.” Desoto talked as if, on a certain level, he understood and approved.

“What about Carl Gretch?”

“I couldn’t rule him out. All we really know about him is that he doesn’t like you. But it takes more than that to figure a man with a hole in his head and a gun in his hand was murdered.”

“I’ve seen Maggie Rourke, the woman Mark Winship was involved with, and not many men would voluntarily leave her for the state of being dead. Not many men would leave her to step outside for a minute to pick up the paper. She’s lovely and then some, the sort of woman whose beauty dominates her life and the lives of others.”

“And that’s what makes you suspect he was murdered? Because it strikes you as odd that he’d kill himself and leave a woman as beautiful as his lover?”

“Not entirely,” Carver said. “It strikes me as odd that Maggie Rourke assumes he would.”

Desoto cocked his head to the side and looked pensive.

Carver smiled. “I thought that was something you’d understand.”

“I do,” Desoto said, absently caressing a sleeve of his soft white oxford shirt, “but that doesn’t change the evidence.”