Bloodfire

dimestore print of a desert landscape on the wall over the brass headboard. The bathroom had black and white hexagonal tile on the floor, a tub with an added-on shower attachment and plastic curtain, a toilet bowl that was cracked but apparently didn’t leak, plenty of towels and soap. There was a full roll of toilet paper, and a spare tucked in the plumbing beneath the washbasin. Sun poured through the single small window in the bathroom, and everything smelled like pine-scented disinfectant.

Near the bed was an air conditioner like the one in the office, protruding from the wall. Carver hobbled across the worn but clean gray carpet, switched the unit on, and slid the thermostat over to High. It was noisy but seemed to work okay.

He went to the connecting door and unlocked it, leaving the key in it. There was a sliding-bolt lock as well as the lock in the doorknob. It had been painted over years ago, when the door had been enameled white, and was stuck; it took him a while to force the bolt free and unlock it. Probably there was another one just like it on the other side. Carver didn’t try to open the door.

Plumbing rattled in the walls and water hissed. Beth running her shower.

Carver lugged his suitcase over to the bed, opened it, and got out some fresh underwear and socks. He placed the Colt in one of the chifforobe drawers.

He got undressed, then went into the bathroom to take his own shower.

Beth yelped on the other side of the wall as he twisted the faucet handle and water spewed over him. There was a frantic banging on the wall. A faint voice. “Carver, you turned your shower on and my water stopped!”

He picked up the tiny, lilac-scented bar of motel soap and lathered his arms and chest, pretending not to hear.

21

Beth’s shower was still running as Carver toweled dry and limped from the bathroom. The short-napped gray carpet was rough under his bare soles. It was cool in the room and felt good. He sat on the edge of the bed and dressed himself, then scooted around until he could reach the old-fashioned black phone on one of the nightstands. Dialed 9 for an outside line.

McGregor wasn’t on duty at Del Moray police headquarters. Carver hung up. Dialed 9 again, then McGregor’s home number. Got an answering machine.

When the high-pitched tone sounded to signal him to begin his message, he said simply, “This is Carver.”

Click. McGregor was home and had been screening his calls. “Got something for me?” his voice said.

“It’s possible.”

“This line sounds funny. Where you calling from?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“If it didn’t matter I wouldn’t have asked, fuckface. You better not cut up cute with me or-”

“Did I hear you say you had something for me?” Carver interrupted. He was tired of McGregor’s threats; he already knew he was dealing with something sick and vicious with a badge.

McGregor sighed loudly; it was a lonesome sound on the already hissing connection. “All right, I’ll play your game. You want me to say please with sugar on it? Grow the fuck up, Carver!”

A series of sharp raps sounded from the closed connecting door. Beth was working on the painted-over sliding bolt lock on her side, maybe using a shoe for a hammer.

McGregor said, “You at a carpenters’ convention?”

“Just a minute.”

McGregor objected to Carver leaving the phone, but Carver didn’t listen to what he said. A barrage of tinny obscenity trailed faintly from the receiver as he laid it on the nightstand.

Carver got up with the help of his cane. Limped over and pounded on the door a few times with the heel of his hand. Kind of hurt, but he loosened the door where it had been painted to the frame. He heard Beth curse, more sharp rapping coming from near the bolt lock, then a metallic scraping sound. Carver twisted the doorknob. Felt it come alive in his hand as it rotated from the other side. He yanked backward and the door made an odd popping sound and swung open.

Beth was standing with a high-heeled shoe in her right hand. He’d identified the rapping sound correctly; she’d been using the shoe as a hammer on the bolt lock. She looked as if she wanted to use it the same way on Carver. She was wearing faded designer jeans and a blue short-sleeved blouse. White Reeboks. Still had on her gold loop earrings. She said, “This sure as hell isn’t the Dark Glades Hilton, Carver.”

He said, “Yes it is.”

She strode into his room like a queen claiming property rights, immediately noticing the phone off the hook. “I interrupting?”

“No, better if you hear.”

Beth stood with her long arms folded as Carver returned to the phone and lifted the receiver; he wondered if she realized how it emphasized her breasts. “Still there?”

“I’m still here,” McGregor said. “Your main squeeze got a problem?”

“Not anymore.” If McGregor thought Beth’s voice belonged to Edwina, fine.

“So what’s this conversation about, asshole?”

Carver glanced at Beth. “Roberto Gomez. I know for sure he tried to kill his wife and killed her sister instead.”

“He pull the trigger?”

“No, but it was his man on the roof, acting under Roberto’s orders.”

“Why would he want to kill his wife? Even guys like Gomez don’t often do that when they been jilted. They stop to think about it, realize cunt’s replaceable.”

“Doesn’t matter why. I’m telling you he can be nailed for it.”

McGregor was quiet for a while. Then he said, “Who was the shooter, that guy Hirsh?”

“Not Hirsh. It was one of a number of soldiers Gomez has out looking for his wife.”

“Gomez has killed before, Carver. He’s smart enough to arrange for cover. Has an alibi in this case, in fact. He told it to the Orlando police.”

“It’s a phony.”

“Hell, yes, it is. But that don’t matter if it can’t be disproved.”

“Point is,” Carver said, “he’s gonna keep looking for her. He’s getting desperate, and desperate means careless. You stay on his ass, you’ll be able to nail him for murder or something else. He’s not himself these days. His judgment’s clouded.”

“Yeah, he hired you.”

Carver looked at Beth. He was going to give McGregor the plum now. “There’s also rumor of a drug shipment supposed to be smuggled into the country via Del Moray.”

“Really now?” McGregor’s voice took on a different frequency. “When?”

“I’m not sure. Soon, though.” Carver glanced at Beth. She rolled her eyes as if she was scared. He realized she wasn’t kidding.

“That it?” McGregor asked.

“All I’ve got for now.”

“What do you expect in return for this, Carver?”

Carver said, “Nail the son of a bitch.” Hung up.

Beth stared at him for a while, then said, “Well.” Not a question.

Carver said, “The man I talked to is named McGregor. He won’t say where he got the information on the drug drop. He can’t.”

“He a cop?”

“Yeah, but not in the way most people think of cops. He’s the one you saw leave my office the day we met at