Torch

8

Desoto was in his office, on the phone. When he saw Carver, he waved for him to sit down in the hard wooden chair near the desk. Carver closed the door and sat.

“Find him, just find him, hey?” Desoto was saying into the phone. That was pretty much Desoto’s life, Carver thought. His own, too. Find him. Or her. This time, for Carver, it was Carl Gretch.

Desoto continued to exhort whoever was on the other end of the connection to find whomever was being sought. The expression on his handsome Latin features was one of bemusement; he wasn’t as upset as he must seem to whoever was listening on the other end of the line. He was elegantly dressed, as usual-pleated gray slacks, white shirt, lemon yellow tie, gold ring, wristwatch and cufflinks flashing as he paced and talked into the phone. A dandy with a badge. Carver saw the gray suit coat that matched the pants draped on a shaped wooden hanger slung over a brass hook on the wall. Clothes and women were Desoto’s passions. And Latin music, like the guitar solo leaking from the Sony behind his desk now. A slow song with a relentless, tragic beat, like life itself.

“This job is a sad thing sometimes,” Desoto said, hanging up the phone. He sat down behind his desk and adjusted his cuffs, flashing gold and sending chimeras of reflected light dancing across the office walls. “A child dies from internal injuries and the father disappears.” He shook his head. “No one will escape punishment on this one, amigo, not the guilty or the innocent.”

Carver said, “Carl Gretch.”

“One of the world’s guilty, it would seem.”

“He’s disappeared, too. Moved out of his furnished apartment in a hurry.”

Desoto tilted back his head as if tired, closing his eyes for a moment and taking in the sad guitar. “People like Gretch are always moving. Doing harm, then moving, then doing harm again. It’s in their very nature.”

Carver wished there were some way to jolt Desoto out of his blue philosophical mood. He said, “Mark Winship shot himself in the head yesterday.” Well, that probably wouldn’t help.

“I heard,” Desoto said, still seeming to concentrate on the music. “What about the little girl? Melissa?”

“Megan. She’s with her grandmother.”

Desoto nodded and looked at Carver. “You think Gretch is connected to the mother and father’s suicides?”

“Indirectly.”

“Are the Del Moray police satisfied the father’s death was suicide?”

“They’re satisfied because they want to be.” Carver heard the distaste in his own voice.

Desoto smiled, his perfect teeth flashing white in his tan complexion. “You’ve been visited by McGregor?”

“ ’Fraid so. We had a long talk after I discovered Mark Winship’s corpse.”

“You had a chance to look at Winship’s body. Do you think it was suicide?”

“Yes. Probably.”

“Then why do you want Gretch?”

“There’s more to this than what’s floating on top for everyone to see. Two people dead. Suicide, legally. But if they were pushed into it, somehow made so desperate that death was the only way out, I call it murder.”

“Ah, now you’re rewriting the law.”

“Yes.”

“Something a policeman can’t do.”

“I’m not exactly a policeman.”

“Not exactly. At times, not even remotely.”

“Mark Winship might well have killed himself out of remorse over what happened to Donna. But I need to know why she stepped in front of that truck. Need to do something about it.”

Desoto’s handsome white smile was fleeting, his brown eyes somber. “More unwritten law, hey?”

“Sometimes the written law isn’t enough. McGregor is aiming for a promotion and doesn’t want any waves made in his jurisdiction. He’s not interested in the law, or in justice. Mark Winship could have been shot twenty times and McGregor would still call it suicide.”

“You called it suicide,” McGregor pointed out.

“Yes, but I’m looking into it further. McGregor won’t.”

“And he won’t appreciate you doing his job.”

“That’s why I’m talking to you,” Carver said.

Desoto said nothing. The guitar solo was over now and a woman was singing a slow Spanish lament that had to be about lost love.

“McGregor’s going to throw up roadblocks whenever possible,” Carver said. “I might need you to help me by doing some things he won’t.”

“Such as?”

“Letting me know if Carl Gretch’s name turns up in police business.”

“A friend’s not supposed to help a friend do something foolish and dangerous.”

“I’m not asking to drive while drunk,” Carver said. “I only need a little information now and then.”

Desoto leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. The office was warm but his shirt was dry. Carver couldn’t remember ever seeing him perspire. The Spanish woman launched into a crescendo of sound and drama, muted by the Sony’s low volume. Desoto said, “McGregor has the instincts of a snake.”

“Does that mean you want to help me on this?”

“It means I want to hurt McGregor. It isn’t right he should be promoted rather than tortured and executed.”

“Whatever your reasons,” Carver said, “thanks.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a folded sheet of yellow legal paper. “There’s something else,” he said, laying the paper on the desk.

“I thought there would be.”

“This is a partial list Beth made up of the Winships’ friends and acquaintances. Can you check out the names, see if anything of interest crops up?”

Desoto unfolded the sheet of lined paper and studied it. “I don’t see any known drug kingpins or mass-murderers on here.”

“According to Beth, there wouldn’t be. The Winships were your average middle-class couple for years, then they had marital problems and were headed for divorce.”

“That’s your average middle-class couple,” Desoto said.

Carver planted his cane and shifted his weight over it so he could stand up from his chair.

“Where are you off to now, amigo?” Desoto asked, refolding the list of names more crisply and neatly than it had been when Carver had laid it on the desk.

“I’m going to talk to some of the people on my copy of that list.”

Desoto tapped the folded edge of the list on his desk. It made a sharp, ticking sound. “Our arrangement works both ways, my friend. If you find out anything interesting, I’d like to know.”

“Instead of McGregor?”

Desoto shrugged. “I didn’t say that.”

Carver said, “I didn’t ask it.” He lifted his cane for a moment in a parting gesture. “Thanks for your help and understanding.”

“We’re all in the justice business,” Desoto said.

“Not McGregor,” Carver said, limping from the office into the chaos and order of police headquarters.