Bloodfire (7 page)

Gomez winked. “Confidential information, Carver.”

“If you came here to find out more than was on the news about Belinda Jackson’s death,” Carver said, “I can’t help you. It was quick and simple. The only good thing about it.”

“That ain’t the purpose of me being here,” Gomez said. “I want you to keep looking for Beth. It’s obvious she’s in danger, and I want her found before something happens to her.”

“The police can find her.”

“I don’t want the police in on it.”

“Why not?”

“Nature of my business and all, it ain’t a good idea.”

Carver saw his point. But he said, “I’m done with you, Gomez. I’ll give you back your retainer.”

“I won’t take it back.”

“Okay. I’ll spend it. But that changes nothing.”

“Why do you want out, Carver?”

“You come to me with a shitpot fulla lies, hire me under false pretenses, and I wind up standing next to a woman when a high-power slug tears into her.”

“Coulda been you instead, huh? That it? You chickenshit, my man?”

“Believe it.”

Gomez’s eyebrows did their dance and he flashed sharp white teeth. “I
don’t
believe it. I do research before I hire somebody, Carver. You got humongous balls, they tell me; they clank when you walk. That’s why I wanted
you
and not some sleazy keyhole-peeper’d piss in his pants first time something serious happened.”

“Somebody getting shot in the head, that’s serious,” Carver said. “Serious enough to discourage
me,
anyway.”

Gomez crossed his arms and planted his feet wide. Ultimatum time. “Let’s put it this way, Carver: You keep searching for Beth, or Hirsh here’ll see they’ll be searching for your fucking remains.”

Carver looked at Hirsh, who gave him a slow smile and a nod. There was a thick gold watch chain draped across his vest, emphasizing a stomach paunch. Hirsh had about him the air of a rough-hewn thug who’d somehow lived long enough to become half a gentleman.

Gomez said, “People I hire, they don’t quit.”

“Then I’ve broken new ground.”

“
Under
the fucking ground’s where you’ll be.”

Carver said, “I still quit.”

“Stubborn fucker!”

“Sure. Those humongous balls.” He closed his hand on the cane, ready to lash and stab with it if Hirsh came away from the wall with malice in mind.

Gomez wriggled and jiggled his eyebrows. He seemed puzzled. “Sure you wanna do this, Carver?”

“It’s done.”

“Don’t make goddamn sense.”

“Does to me.”

Gomez stared at him. “Tell you, in a way I gotta fucking admire you.”

“Just business,” Carver said. “I don’t work for clients who aren’t straight with me.”

“Well, maybe I can see that. Business is something I understand.”

“I’ve heard that about you.”

“Huh! Huh! Huh!”
The annoying nasal laugh again. “I just bet you heard plenty, if you asked the right people.”

He kept facing Carver and backed slowly toward the door. “C’mon, Hirsh.”

Hirsh straightened up away from where he’d been leaning, then ambled over to stand by the door like a theater usher. He was wearing French cuffs, black in contrast to his white shirt. He had incredibly long arms. Huge, gnarled hands with thick, splayed fingers, like sausages flattened at the ends.

“So you think about it,” Gomez said, fading toward the anteroom while Hirsh watched Carver and everything else in the office.

“Nothing to think about,” Carver said. “It’s done. I already quit, sure as Nixon.”

“Think about it,” Gomez said again. “There’s a guaranteed twenty thousand dollars in it for you if you keep looking for Beth, whether you find her or not.” He edged past Hirsh and started to cross the anteroom. Hirsh smiled sadly at Carver and followed.

After they’d gone, Carver stayed sitting behind his desk for quite a while, thinking about Gomez’s offer, and what Gomez’s guarantee was worth.

He decided he really had quit, and he had every reason to stay quit. Nothing about the case called to him.

“Fred Carver?” said a voice from the anteroom.

C
ARVER STOOD UP
and limped over to the office door. A short, stocky man stood military-erect in the anteroom, holding a white snap-brimmed straw hat in both hands. He was wearing a neat brown suit, brown shoes, white shirt with a dark brown tie. His visage was stern, his jaw was firm, and he wore his brown hair in a bristle cut. There was an indentation around his head where his hat had pressed. When he saw Carver he said again, “Fred Carver?”

“Me.”

“I’m agent Dan Strait, Drug Enforcement Administration.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“You have the look.”

Strait smiled. He still looked stern. “It’s a handicap sometimes. I just walk into a place and toilets flush.”

“Well, I’m clean,” Carver said. “You can search the office for illegal substances.”

For a moment Strait seemed to consider the offer. Then he said, “I need to talk to you about the Belinda Jackson murder.”

Carver said he’d figured that. He invited Strait into the office and stood aside to let him pass. Strait walked as if he were leading a parade that was behind schedule.

Carver sat back down behind his desk. Strait flashed his official ID, just as a matter of form, then took the small black vinyl chair. He unbuttoned his brown suit coat and crossed his legs, laid his hat in his lap. “I read the police report on the case. You were in the condo when Miss Jackson was shot, right?”

Carver said that was right. A truck rumbled past outside on Magellan, shifting gears and sending mild vibrations through the office. Carver imagined he could smell exhaust fumes.

Strait said, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why were you in the condo?”

“The owner hired me to find his wife. She disappeared from home, so that’s where I thought I’d start looking.”

“Ah, yes. And your client is—”

“Was,” Carver interrupted. “He was in here ten minutes ago and I told him I was off the case.”

Strait looked surprised. He tapped the stiff brim of his hat with the fingertips of both hands. “Roberto Gomez was here ten minutes ago?”

“Why? You looking for him?”

“We want to talk to him about the death of his sister-in-law. And we usually know where he is.”

“Now you know where he
was.
Along with a guy he called Hirsh.”

“And you gave him back his money and bowed out of the missing-wife case, huh?”

“He wouldn’t take his money, but I bowed out anyway.”

Strait smiled. “Sounds like Gomez; money means nothing and everything to him.

Carver said, “That’s not unique. This Gomez as bad as they say?”

“I don’t know what they say, but he’s as bad as they come. Drug money does that to people.”

“What about Hirsh?”

Strait kept his legs crossed. He stopped tapping the hatbrim and crossed his arms. “Hirsh has a record as an enforcer in New Jersey. That’s where he hooked up with Gomez, who’s from Brooklyn and was a punk criminal in the Northeast before he got into drugs and went south and into the big time. Hirsh is in his sixties, but he’s still rough as a cob and not to be fucked with. He does most of Gomez’s heavy work. And that’s all it is to Hirsh, a job of work. Gomez is a sadistic bastard and gets his jollies watching, but Hirsh might as well be shooting a paper target as a human being. He’s a strange man. He brings a kind of dignity to being a killer for pay, but he’s still nothing but exactly that: a hired thug.”

Carver said, “How big-time is Gomez?”

“He’s one of the major players. Maybe the biggest in Florida. He’s kept his upper East Coast connections and is able to funnel a lot of narcotics from South America into the New York area. And he’s cunning enough to keep changing pickup and drop-off points, and even methods of transport. We’ve been trying to nail his ass for the past three years and we still haven’t got enough to indict. Part of the reason is his ruthlessness; a hotshot like Gomez, we have to work our way up the ladder to build a case. And he doesn’t hesitate to saw off the rungs beneath him. Our agents cultivate informers, and Gomez somehow suspects who they are and they simply disappear.”

Carver wasn’t interested in the details of Gomez’s operation. Drug dealers were more common than Amway dealers in Florida. He said, “So who do you think’s after his wife? And why?”

Strait gnawed his lower lip, no doubt mulling over whether he should talk freely with Carver. It was he who’d come to Carver’s office, apparently to gain Carver’s cooperation.

He finally decided as Carver thought he would. He said, “Well, it might be a rival drug faction, wants to kill her out of vengeance for something Gomez did. He gives plenty of people plenty of reason, and it’s no secret he’s possessive about his wife.”

“Maybe she doesn’t feel the same way about hubby. Maybe she’s had enough of Gomez and simply skipped out on him.”

“Possibly. But it’s more likely she found out somebody’s trying to kill her and she’s on the run.”

“She figures Gomez can’t give her enough protection?”

“Could be. Or maybe it is Gomez she’s running from. Maybe it’s him trying to kill her and he hired you to find her so he could get to her.”

“I thought you said he loved her.”

“I said he was possessive about her. Anyway, love can flip to hate quick as you can turn an ankle.”

“She doesn’t look easy to hate,” Carver said, “but then I never met her.”

“She’s class and he’s scum,” Strait said. “That’s what makes their marriage work. I’ve seen it before. You know how it goes, she’s Gomez’s prize possession and his chief reward. He’s a sleazebag who fought his way to the bottom, and a woman like that allows him to think he’s on top.”

“How long they been together?”

“Only a few years. Elizabeth grew up in the slums of Chicago. Got the looks to travel with the rich and famous and found her way to Miami. That’s where she met Gomez. And after the embezzler con man she was living with went to prison, she and Gomez became thick.”

“Embezzler still in prison?”

“He was knifed to death there a year ago.”

“Maybe Elizabeth thinks Gomez is responsible.”

“Maybe she does, and probably he
is
responsible. Gomez has influence on both sides of the wall. But a woman like that, it’d make little difference to her. It wouldn’t be the reason she might leave Gomez. She might even feel flattered he had somebody killed for her.”

“That how she is?”

“Must be. Or she wouldn’t have married Gomez.”

Carver thought that made sense, but he wished he’d found Elizabeth Gomez so he could know why she’d disappeared. If she was still alive. Maybe whoever had killed her sister had rectified the mistake and caught up with Elizabeth by now.

“What else do
you
know about Gomez?” Strait asked.

“Only what you read in the police report. He came to my place up the coast. Said his name was Bob Ghostly and he wanted someone to search for his missing wife. He passed himself off as a medical supply salesman.”

“He was one, for six months in New York. But that was ten years ago, when he was between scams. The company fired him for beating up one of the secretaries.”

“Charges filed?”

“No. There was no way for her to prove who’d done a job on her, but everyone knew. A few months after Gomez was gone, she was killed by a hit-and-run driver.”

“Hirsh?”

“This was before he knew Hirsh. Not Hirsh’s style, either. He looks people in the eye when he kills them. They say he even gives the religious a chance to make their peace.”

“What a guy,” Carver said.

“Well, compared to Gomez he’s a saint.” Strait stood up and gave Carver a stern look. “Sure you’re off this case, Carver?”

“As off it as I can be. I don’t work for people like Gomez.”

“That’s what Lieutenant Desoto said about you. You’ve got the reputation of a tough guy who’s as honest as possible in your line of work, otherwise this interview would have been conducted in another place and another manner. Different questions altogether.”

Carver said, “Different answers, too.” Wondering what was this hard-ass bureaucrat doing threatening him. But then, some DEA agents were like that. The last one he’d met had been a closet fanatic bent on revenge for a long-ago lynching.

Strait stared at him as if doing some reassessment. He pulled a long black wallet out of an inside pocket, withdrew a card, and laid it on Carver’s desk. “Gomez contacts you again, call that number and let me know immediately.”

Carver didn’t say he wouldn’t, didn’t say he would.

Didn’t even say good-bye when Strait walked from the office.

A
FTER STRAIT HAD LEFT
the office, Carver talked by phone to a Del Moray woman who wanted him to follow her husband to confirm adultery with her teenage sister. She told him she’d be in to see him and make arrangements, but he wasn’t sure if she’d show. There was no telling where an investigation might lead, and who’d be hurt by spilled acid. So that kind of thing usually stayed within a family. Sometimes everything worked out, sometimes it festered and the poison spread.

Carver spent most of the day dunning people who owed him money, the only paperwork he enjoyed.

The hours slipped past and the woman who suspected her husband and sister of having an affair didn’t come into the office. Carver skipped lunch and ate supper alone in Del Moray, and considered driving by Edwina’s to see if she was home. Then he decided against it. He lowered the Olds’s canvas top and drove north along the coast toward his beach cottage, while the sea went from blue to dark green as the sun arced like a slow-motion meteor toward land.

She was waiting inside the cottage, sitting on the small sofa with her legs crossed, wearing a flowered, silky white blouse and white shorts that showed off her tanned thighs. Seeing her there made Carver ache when he thought of losing her. The dependency he’d feared had become fact.

When he leaned on his cane and closed the door behind him, she said, “I thought we oughta talk.”

Carver limped over behind the breakfast counter and opened the refrigerator. He got out a Budweiser and popped the tab, spilling some of the cold, fizzy beer to form a small puddle on the wood floor. Bracing with the cane, he spread the dampness around with the sole of his shoe. He came out from behind the counter and said, “Well, we didn’t do much talking last night.”