Tropical Heat

CHAPTER 9

The yellow ribbons tied to the air-conditioner in Desoto’s office in Orlando police headquarters were strained horizontal in the cold air rushing from the vent, fluttering madly, as if they longed to escape and soar from the room. The office was hot despite the tireless effort of the window unit, but Desoto, as usual, appeared cool. He flashed his white grin at Carver and motioned elegantly with an arm toward the chair before the metal desk. He had his radio on as usual, too, tuned to a Spanish-speaking station that played mariachi music. The volume was just loud enough to be irritating. Before Carver could request it, Desoto reached back and switched off the radio.

“You’re here to tell me you found Willis Davis,” he said to Carver.

Carver sat down and shook his head.

“You’re going to marry Edwina Talbot?”

“I’m here to report a crime,” Carver said. “It’s my obligation to let the police know when I’ve learned that a crime has been committed.”

“Ah,” Desoto said, still grinning, “we are official today, eh?”

“I didn’t say that,” Carver told him.

Desoto straightened his tie, adjusted his cuffs, as if he thought Edwina might walk into the office next. If Willis Davis was still missing, and Carver didn’t want to bed the wench, she was fair game. Or maybe Carver had Desoto wrong.

Nope. He had him right.

“If you’re not interested in the lonely Edwina, amigo, send her in my direction.”

“She came in your direction of her own accord,” Carver said. “You deflected her to me.”

Desoto nodded sadly. “My lament. I thought I was doing you a favor, but apparently it’s one you won’t accept.” He leaned forward in his desk chair; the breeze from the air-conditioner ruffled the black hair above his right ear ever so slightly. “What about this crime you’re here to report?”

Carver told him about his conversation with Ernie Franks at Sun South, about Willis Davis and the missing hundred thousand dollars plus change.

Desoto leaned far back in his chair and thought about it. “Interesting,” he said. “But the perpetrator is officially dead, and it seems that Mr. Franks has settled with all the victims, so there are no complainants. No charges have been brought. I see no justification for the police to pursue the matter.”

Carver had been sure Desoto would come to that conclusion. There wasn’t much else he could do, except cause a lot of trouble that would produce little result. Desoto wouldn’t do that; he knew there was a kind of Newton’s third law to trouble, a direct and opposite reaction. It seemed that however much trouble you launched, at least that much came back at you.

“So, you’ve discharged your professional duty of informing the police of a crime,” Desoto said. “Now what? Are you going to Solarville to locate this Sam Cahill?”

“It’s the logical next step.”

Desoto shifted position and deftly used his fingertips to smooth his hair where the breeze had mussed it. “I know a little about Solarville, Carver. It’s on the edge of the swamp. Narcotics-smuggling country.”

“Isn’t it too far inland to receive drug shipments?” Carver asked.

“Some shipments find their way through the Everglades by airboat. Others are dropped by plane and picked up by boat. Some of the stuff is actually grown in the swamp, harvested, and cut right there in town for sale for street use. Solarville is one of those places that mostly look the other way when it comes to drug activity because it provides a lot of the town’s income, supports some of the leading families.”

“What about the local law?” Carver asked.

“It’s better than you’d think. As honest as possible, in a town like that, but at the same time practical. If you understand my meaning.”

Carver understood. The law in Solarville was doing the best it could while avoiding political quicksand. It was that way everywhere, but in some places more than others. “What kinds of drugs pass through there?”

“All kinds. Marijuana, cocaine, heroin. The people there would sell ground-up alligator tails if they could get away with it.”

“It’s illegal to poach alligators,” Carver said.

“Ah, that would be the attraction.” Desoto chewed for a moment on the inside of his cheek. “What does the delectable Miss Talbot think of the fact that her Willis is a thief? And of you switching the emphasis of your investigation to Solarville and Franks’s money?”

“She doesn’t know yet. And the emphasis remains the same-Willis Davis. Cahill might lead me to him.”

Desoto shot his handsome grin at Carver again, below dark eyes that calculated. He knew Carver. “There’s something else,” he said.

“Yes,” Carver admitted.

“I’m listening, amigo. Your friendly police ear.”

“Here’s how I see it. Willis connected with Edwina Talbot so he could use her to get the job at Sun South. And he worked it into a sweet scam, one that could still be running. Franks found out about the operation only because someone from the bank handling the phony account contacted him. The reason was that Willis had virtually closed the account. If he hadn’t, nothing would have come to light. He could still be at Sun South pulling in big money.”

“Then why isn’t he?” Desoto asked.

“He had enough money.”

“People like Willis Davis never have enough money.”

“Exactly. So why would he walk away from getting richer?”

“That’s my question,” Desoto said.

“It’s possible he wanted to move on and use what he had to make even more money. It could be that Willis was conning clients at Sun South for seed money for an even bigger kill. He needed a certain amount to swing a deal, and once he reached the magic number he was ready to step up to bigger things.”

“A drug buy,” Desoto said thoughtfully. “Yes, once he had enough to make the buy, he could cut the stuff and make a great deal more money than at Sun South. A hundred thousand on the front end of a drug operation can easily turn into half a million dollars. What you suggest is possible.”

“Cahill was fired from Sun South for supplying some of the other employees with coke,” Carver said. “He’s no stranger to the drug scene, at least on a lower level. It’s possible that he’s Willis’s liaison man or partner. Which would explain why Cahill headed for Solarville when he left Sun South.”

“All so neat,” Desoto said. “Too neat, amigo. You know that.”

Carver knew. Maybe it was all structured so logically because it was solely the product of his mind and not reality.

“But if what you say is true,” Desoto said, “it follows that Willis Davis might be found around Sam Cahill and Solarville.”

“And it follows that I should go there to look for him,” Carver said.

“And for the money, amigo.”

“I hadn’t forgotten.”

“And Willis Davis-he never really loved Edwina Talbot?”

“It looks that way,” Carver said.

Desoto shook his head slowly. “The lady’s a treasure no one will claim.”

“Maybe Willis looked at her as currency to be spent,” Carver said, “and he already used her to buy what he wanted.”

“So it seems. I feel sorry for her, when you explain to her about her Willis.”

“Don’t waste your sympathy, Desoto; she won’t believe it even after I go through the steps with her.”

“Dedication,” Desoto said, with a hint of admiration. It was the quality he most valued in women; his ego demanded it.

“Or blind stupidity.”

“No, not stupidity. Not in that one.”

“Do you get the feeling there’s a lot we don’t know about Edwina?” Carver asked.

“Of course. It adds to her mystique.”

“What if it’s the money she’s after, and not Willis? What if Willis ran out on her and she concocted this whole thing?”

“No,” Desoto said, “if she was in on the scam with him, she would never have come to the police when he left her.”

Carver agreed. And despite the uneasy feeling he had about Edwina, he didn’t think she was lying about Willis. Of course, there was no way to be sure. Of anything.

Carver bore down on the cane and stood, feeling his perspiration-soaked shirt come unstuck from the chair. The cool breeze from the air-conditioner was steady on his face. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s a mistake to take her too lightly. It might be the biggest mistake Willis Davis ever made.”

“If he’s still alive,” Desoto said, clinging to the official view, making his job and Carver’s easier. “If he wasn’t murdered or didn’t really commit suicide.”

“Any personal opinions?” Carver asked.

Desoto said, smiling, “On one hand it seems that he’s dead, on the other that he’s alive.”

“I’m getting tired of both hands,” Carver said, and limped from the office. Police work and politics. Some bedfellows.

As the door swung shut behind him, he heard mariachi music.

A part of him hoped he was right about Edwina not believing him when he told her about Willis and the illegal Sun South money. Willis was gone; it was Carver who would have to witness her initial disbelief and hollow denial. Her desperate loyalty to a delusion. He found the thought of that surprisingly hard to bear.

He didn’t want to hurt her.