Scorcher

questions. The Kave kid is supposed to be brilliant. It probably took him about a minute to get on to you. Probably he simply caught mention of your name in the paper; guys like that sometimes enjoy reading about themselves. However he found out, I’m sure this last performance was all for you.”

“Wait a minute. It was in the news that the family hired me?”

“On back pages. But not that you’re the father of one of the victims. You didn’t know?”

“No. McGregor must have leaked it.”

“Most likely. He wants you waiting in the wings in case something goes wrong and a sacrificial goat is needed. His style. He might also be trying to spook Paul Kave, get him jumpy enough to screw up.”

“And Adelaide Finney dies as a result.”

“That’s how it is, amigo.”

Clutching his cane, Carver watched the blood recede from his knuckles. He didn’t like the notion that he was indirectly responsible for Adelaide Finney’s death, but he realized Desoto was probably right. First the matchbook, and now this. His involvement in the case might have led to the murder. Desoto knew what he was thinking but could offer no comfort.

“A shitty business we’re in, amigo. Could it be we should be selling insurance?”

“That’s a shitty business too.”

“Something else,” Desoto said. He opened a desk drawer, reached in, and drew out a patent-leather black belt with a silver buckle shaped like a sunflower. The end of the belt was charred. There was a price tag dangling on a string from the buckle. Carver could see “12.99” penned on the tag.

“This was on the shop counter near the register,” Desoto said, “as if the killer was going to buy it right before the murder. And this was on the floor nearby.” He reached into the drawer again, then dropped a bent piece of plastic on the desk alongside the belt.

“What is it?” Carver asked.

“A partially melted credit card,” Desoto said. “Look closely and you can read Paul Kave’s name.”

Carver got up and leaned on his cane, hovering over the desk lamp. He could make out the first name and the letter K on the mangled, blackened plastic that had once been a Visa card.

“The account number makes it his, too,” Desoto said. “This places him at the scene.”

“You check with the credit company records?”

“Of course. Paul Kave hasn’t charged anything on the card for six months. Paid cash for most everything, apparently.”

“Then why didn’t he pretend he was paying cash for the belt?”

“My guess is he’s running low on money. But there’s another possibility. He might have left this card behind deliberately, so you’d know for sure who burned the Finney woman.”

“Jesus!” Carver said. “Bragging. About that.”

“Looks that way, amigo. It’s the kind of thing you stir up when you get involved in a vendetta instead of your job. What you’re doing is dangerous, maybe more dangerous than you can see through your clouded judgment.”

Carver remained standing. He said nothing.

“How about we go out somewhere?” Desoto said. “I can get away from here for a while. We could have a late-night snack and talk about this. Talk about whatever you want. It could be we’d solve many of the world’s problems.”

“No. I’m going to Edwina’s. To have a few beers and try to chase the last couple of days away, at least for a while.”

“You getting along with McGregor?”

“He’s an asshole,” Carver said.

“Since I’ve known him. Your son’s murder is his case, though. Something you need to remember.”

“But the Finney case is yours.”

Desoto smiled. Ivory teeth against tanned flesh. Crow’s feet at the corners of knowing brown eyes. Handsome matador, ready to slay a bull or a heart. “That allows some latitude,” he admitted. He knew what was coming next and waited patiently, not speaking.

“I’m asking,” Carver said. “I’ve got to.”

“Or think you do. But all right; what there is to know about the investigation, amigo, will be passed on to you. So long as you must continue with your insanity.”

Carver shifted his weight to his stiff leg for a moment, balancing with the cane. “I appreciate it.”

“Something, though,” Desoto said. “It’s you all by yourself out on a thin limb; I can’t help you if it breaks. Nobody can. I’m warning you to back away and let the law do its work. In fact, I’m telling you.”

“I’m not listening.”

“If I could, I’d put you in jail in protective custody. Protect you from yourself.” Desoto did suddenly look angry. “The law’s gonna come down outa nowhere on you one of these days, you and your ‘man’s-gotta-do-what- he’s-gotta-do’ delusion. Don’t you know the families of most murder victims feel exactly the way you do?”

“I guess that’s so,” Carver said.

“Ah, go to Edwina. And have more than a few beers. While you’re being appreciative, appreciate her.”

“I do,” Carver said, limping toward the door. “You’d be surprised how much. Sometimes it surprises me.”

Chapter 17

By the time Carver reached Del Moray, Edwina wasn’t home. Real-estate agents kept hours almost as irregular as detectives, though generally they weren’t involved with killers.

Carver called Quill Realty and the syrup-voiced evening receptionist promised to put him in touch with Edwina. He thanked her and sat down. He absently rubbed his stiff knee; it ached a little today for some reason.

Within minutes the phone rang. Edwina.

She was showing beachfront property at the only time her prospective buyers could keep an appointment, but she told Carver she’d be with him in about an hour. She’d sagely advise the buyers to examine the property by daylight. Looking out for their best interests, even though she actually represented the seller. Full of saleswoman shmaltz, was Edwina.

She was home in forty-five minutes.

Within another ten minutes they went to bed and made love. Carver was gentle with her yet intense, clinging to her at times as if she were life in the midst of death. Shelter from fear. His salvation. It was all self-delusion, he knew, but he didn’t want to release it, or release himself into her. Not yet. Not yyyet!

Edwina sensed the unusual intensity in him and caught it. Matched it. The padded blue headboard began slamming against the wall, repeating and then dictating rhythm like a muffled metronome; heartbeat and hypnotism.

When he finally climaxed, Carver heard a trailing low moan. From his lips or Edwina’s? He couldn’t be sure.

She muttered something he didn’t understand, her breath a warm, light touch on his face. Whatever she’d said, he was sure it didn’t require an answer.

He rolled to the side, aware of the hot, stale scent of their coupling, the sweat rolling down his bare ribs. The sheet was damp beneath him and wrinkled in hard ridges. In the corner of his vision he saw Edwina run her fingertips up over her thighs and stomach, as if checking to see if he’d hurt her. Maybe he had.

“All right?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

Brief conversation as old as time.

He lay on his back and listened to the rush of the waves and felt his metabolism gradually work its way back