Torch

33

Beverly Denton had only a few minutes to spare that afternoon. Burnair and Crosley were in the middle of a market upturn prompted by a drop in interest rates, and employees were taking abbreviated lunch hours. Standing in the shade of the palms in the pocket-sized park on Atlantic Drive, she examined the photographs Carver had handed her, going through them slowly, but she recognized none of the men or women who’d frequented Nightlinks.

“Was this important?” she asked, giving the photos back to him. Her tone of voice suggested she thought she had let him down by not knowing any of the subjects.

“It could be a help that you didn’t recognize any of these faces,” he told her, no doubt easing her regret but adding to her confusion. Not a bad trade, Carver thought. Unless you were in the business of clearing up confusion.

She glanced over at two young boys climbing on the jungle gym under the supervision of a woman dressed as a nurse, then smiled at him.

“Thanks to you and your fiance,” he said, “I found Charlie Post and was able to talk with him.”

“Warren tells me Post is a real womanizer, a kind of charming swashbuckler entrepreneur.”

“That’s how he came across, all right.”

“You have an interesting line of work,” she said, “meet interesting people.”

“Yes, I’m here talking to you.”

She laughed, then looked across the street at the gleaming vertical planes of Burnair and Crosley with something like trepidation. “I better get back. The place is a zoo today. The market’s in a rally and nobody wants to be left behind.”

“Does that happen often?”

“About as often as when the market’s falling and nobody wants to fall with it.”

“Aren’t you going to have lunch?”

“I already ate a sandwich at my desk.” She turned to cross the street, then said, “I hope you find whoever killed Mark Winship.”

“Probably it’s the same person who killed Carl Gretch.”

“Carl Gretch?”

“Enrico Thomas.”

She looked at him blankly. They’d never talked much about Donna Winship, mostly Mark. “Thomas was Donna’s extramarital friend.”

Beverly’s eyes widened. “And he was murdered?”

“Beaten to death by an interesting person.”

“Jesus!” It was the first time he’d heard her use profanity. It surprised him. “That’s proof somebody’s trying to conceal the reasons for Mark and Donna’s deaths.”

“Maybe not proof,” Carver said, “but strong indication.” He wanted to keep her there a few more minutes, though he wasn’t quite sure why. It was as if some part of him sensed she knew something he must learn. He used to think disdainfully of people who acted on instinct, but now he knew it could be as useful as logic. “How has Maggie Rourke been acting?”

“Maggie? Normally enough, though she seems to be under a lot of stress. There was some kind of minor fuss at work this morning, I think.”

“Fuss?”

“I heard somebody came in and wanted to talk to Maggie but she refused to see him. He raised a bit of a ruckus, then went away quietly. At first I thought it might have been you, but nobody mentioned the man walked with a cane, and it didn’t seem like your style anyway.”

“It wasn’t me. Do you know anything else about him?”

“No, this was just something I heard mentioned in the rest-room. That’s the kind of thing that happens to women who look like Maggie; they have their admirers, men who become obsessed.”

“It upsets lives,” Carver said. “At least she’s working today.”

Beverly grinned. “Everybody’s working today.” She tapped her wristwatch with a fingernail. “Which reminds me.”

“Okay,” Carver said, “thanks again.”

“Anytime, Mr. Carver. I read the papers, catch the news on TV or the car radio. I’d like to see some justice for a change.”

He watched her wait for a break in traffic, shifting her weight from one leg to another like a marathon runner eager for the gun. Then she hurried on her high heels across Atlantic Drive to be reflected and distorted and absorbed by the glimmering mirror-angled building that loomed like a tribute to the sun.

Some justice for a change, he thought, driving back to his office.

Maybe this time.

A dusty blue Ford with rental plates was in the shady space where Carver usually parked. Annoying. Shaded parking slots were at a premium in Florida. He pulled into a slot several cars down and climbed out of the Olds.

He was plodding through the sun, feeling heat working through the thin soles of his moccasins, when he noticed someone sitting behind the Ford’s steering wheel.

Nearing the car, he saw the head of thick silver hair and recognized Charlie Post.

Post was slumped with his head bowed, as if trying to figure out the car’s controls. He must have caught a glimpse of Carver in the corner of his vision, because he raised his head suddenly. For an instant there was fear in his eyes, then he grinned in relief. There was something wrong with him. When Carver got within a few feet of the car, he saw that one of Post’s eyes was swollen almost shut and a thin trickle of blood had wormed from his nose to meet his upper lip.

As Carver opened the Ford’s door, Post said, “Had a minor altercation.” His clothes-gray slacks, white shirt, same blue ascot as in Miami-looked whole and unwrinkled, suggesting no injuries beneath.

“Can you walk okay, Charlie?”

“Sure. Just been sitting here waiting for you.”

“Come on into the office where it’s cool.”

Carver tried to help him out of the car, but Post refused his proffered hand and stood up by himself.

He was shaky for only a moment, leaning with his hand on the car roof until he gained his balance. “Damned heat,” he said. “Good for you only if you’re an orange.”

Walking near each other, but refusing to lean on each other for help, the old man who’d been beaten and the man with the cane walked through the sweltering tropical heat into Carver’s office.

It was plenty cool in there. “Sit down, Charlie.” Carver rolled his vinyl-padded swivel chair out from behind the desk for Post. Then he sat on the edge of the desk and waited until the injured man was situated.

Post seemed to realize for the first time that his nose was bleeding. He drew a white handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at it, examined the blood on it and shook his head. “I don’t think it’s broken,” he said.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

Post dabbed again, wincing this time. “Violent people,” he said reflectively. “There are more of them than there used to be in Florida. More crazies with guns. The drugs, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Carver said. “Can I get you some water?”

“No, I’m fine. I’m not as frail as I look.”

“What happened, Charlie?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Why are you in Del Moray?” But Carver had a good idea why.

“Maggie,” Post said. “After talking to you, I kept thinking about her. I decided I wanted to see her one more time, get everything clear between us so the memories were unsullied. It’s not as if I’m an old man trying to set everything in order toward life’s end,” he added defensively, “it’s just this seemed like personal business that needed wrapping up.”

“Sure,” Carver said.

“So I rented a car in Miami, drove up here, and tried to see her where she worked.”

So this was the man who’d tried without success that morning to talk with Maggie at Burnair and Crosley.

“She was there but she wouldn’t see me,” Post said. He sounded more mystified than disappointed.

“One of the stockbrokers get rough with you?” Carver asked.

Post broke out his creased and charming grin. “I’m more lover than fighter, Carver. Not that I haven’t been beaten up in the stock market before. Not this time, though. I was outside the building, walking back to my car, when a fella approached and asked me to get into a car with him if I wanted to talk about Maggie Rourke. I asked why we couldn’t talk out on the sidewalk, and he said it was too hot. So we got into a big car, a Chrysler, I think. It was black and the windows were tinted. Right away he started beating on me. Not as hard as he could, just as hard as he had to so I couldn’t fight back. He was good. He was experienced. Nobody could hear me or see in through those tinted windows, and it all happened fast.”

“What did he look like?” Carver asked.

“Big, dressed casual but nice. Dark eyes, I think. Brown hair. About forty. I asked him who he was, and all he’d say was that he was Maggie’s special friend and I was to leave her alone, not try to see her again.”

“You agreed, I hope.”

“Sure did. He had all the cards and all the chips. When I was bent over trying to get my breath after a punch in the stomach, he started the engine and drove away. I got plenty scared then, but we only went a few blocks and he pulled to the curb again. He asked if I got the message about staying away from Maggie. When I said yes, he reached over, opened the door, and told me to get out. I did, made it back to my car, and drove to the address on your business card. You weren’t here, so I went to a motel and checked in, rested a while, got cleaned up and came back. I thought I felt okay, but the engine started to overheat sitting there at idle with the air conditioner on, so I had to turn it off for a while and the heat caught up with me. A little while later, you came along.”

“Would you recognize the man if you saw him again?”

“Definitely. But I think he was somebody’s hired goon. I’ve been around in my life; I’ve known people like that, and he had all the earmarks.”

“You think Maggie would hire that kind of guy?”

“Maggie? No, not her. But somebody looking out for her, maybe that person would hire professional muscle.”

“Did you ever notice Maggie having a problem with alcohol?”

“You mean drinking too much? Not a chance. Never seen a sign of that in Maggie.”

“Uh-huh,” Carver said, thinking even the recollection of love could be blind.

He asked Post to excuse him, then went out to the parking lot and got the envelope with the photographs from the Olds’s glove compartment. When he returned, he removed the photos and handed them to Post. “Is the man who beat you in any of these?”

Post looked through them, then shook his head. “Don’t recognize a soul here.” He handed the photographs back to Carver.

Carver laid them next to the phone, then leaned back with his buttocks against the desk, holding the cane loosely and horizontally with both hands. “I think you oughta do what the man said, Charlie. About leaving Maggie alone.”

“I intend to. But what about Maggie? I’ve got some concern there. She fall in with some rough friends?”

“At least one,” Carver said.

“You don’t think that muscle was really her boyfriend?”

“I don’t know,” Carver said honestly. “Maggie’s a mystery.”

“Isn’t she, though?” Post said, grinning.

“You want me to take you to a doctor?” Carver asked.

“No. Nothing’s broken. Anyway, I’m between medical insurance policies right now. I’ll just go back to my motel and soak in a warm bath.” He stood up, looking strong and steady. “I thought you’d want to know about this, thought maybe you had some idea what it was all about.”

“I wish I knew.”

“All I wanted was to tie loose ends, but apparently Maggie’s not of the same mind. Like I said before, I know when something’s over and done with. I’m going back to Miami in the morning.”

“Feel well enough to drive?”

“Sure. There won’t be any problem. It’s good highway the whole trip.”

“I mean back to your motel.”

“Of course. I got here, didn’t I?”

Carver considered that one of the few questions he could answer just then with certainty.

With Post’s permission, Carver drove behind him to the Sea Horse Motel on the coast highway to make sure he got there okay. It wasn’t easy. Post drove the way he’d lived, fast and with risk and a sense of immortality. The car rental agency in Miami had no idea what it had loosed onto the highways.

They had a few drinks in the cool and dim motel bar, sitting in a booth and talking about women and yachts and the way Disney World was going to grow and grow and devour Florida.

“You make sure Maggie doesn’t get hurt in whatever’s going on,” Post implored several times.

Carver assured him he’d do what he could.

Post began to talk about making his next fortune when Cuba was open for travel again and would be a boat and tourist mecca. It all sounded good. All it needed was for Castro to move out of the way of dreams.

When Post was finally settled in his room, Carver drank two cups of black coffee to shake the effects of the liquor. Then he left the motel and drove to meet Beth so they could follow some of the Nightlinks escorts into the dark and humid unknown.