Flame (6 page)

Wesley’s building, Highcliff Tower, had no doorman, which made things easier.

Carver pushed in through the tinted-glass doors and crossed pale blue tile and then royal blue carpeting to the elevators. The only other people in the lobby were a man and a woman over by a huge potted fern, interested in each other and nothing else. Humming the song about Galway Bay, Carver rode the elevator alone to the fifteenth floor, Limped silently along a carpeted, powder blue hall to the white door marked
15K.
Wesley’s unit.

He wished he’d gotten that duplicate key before Renway had been blown up in the Caddie, but life—and death—were seldom so accommodating. He was no good at picking locks, so he’d simply kick the door open with his powerful good leg and trust that if anyone noticed the noise they’d assume it was something other than a door being forced.

Do it fast,
he told himself.
Do it to it.
Automatically, before rearing back to let fly his kick, he tried the doorknob. Found the door unlocked.

Damned odd.

He should have known better than to enter. But he stood for a moment with the knob completely rotated to the right, then swung the door open and edged inside into cool darkness. Located the smooth plastic light switch on the sandpaper-rough wall and flipped it upward.

A lamp winked on.

Next to a black leather sofa.

The handsome Latin man seated on the sofa with his tan suitcoat draped across his lap looked over at Carver. Didn’t seem surprised that the lamp had come on, even though he’d been sitting there in the dark.

Carver caught movement in the corner of his vision. A black man, about six feet tall and built blocky beneath his well-cut blue suit, stood leaning with his back against the wall. The movement Carver had glimpsed was when the man had uncrossed his arms and lowered them to his sides. They were still swinging in short, lazy arcs, his thick fingers loosely curled. Very relaxed. Very ready. He wore a diamond pinkie ring on his right hand. It caught the light and sent it glimmering in a tightly focused, dancing pattern over the wall.

Leaning on his cane with both hands, Carver put on the innocent act. Let his initial surprise linger on his face as he pretended to glance back at the number on the still-open door. “Say, I’m sorry. I was looking for Frank Wesley. Isn’t this his apartment?”

The Hispanic on the sofa smiled and moved the suitcoat off his lap just far enough to reveal the blue-steel revolver he was holding. Said, “Yes and no.”

The black guy said, “You’re letting the air conditioning out, Carver. Shut the door. Stay on this side of it.”

Carver did both those things. Heard the latch click behind him, metal against metal.

It sounded like the cocking mechanism of a gun.

T
HE BLACK GUY DID
remind Carver of Jesse Jackson, only heavier and broader through the shoulders. Thicker, rougher features. A blue-black scar that slanted through a dark eyebrow. He squared around and took a step toward Carver. Moved with a hint of shuffle, as if he might have done some serious boxing. Said, “The position, you.”

Carver knew what he meant but said, “Huh?” Innocent Joe Citizen. Dunno from nothin’.

“Lean against the wall with both hands and spread your legs. Pretend you’re standing there gonna take a piss freehanded, ’cause maybe you will. Cop that never made anyone assume the position, is it? Don’t smartass us, Carver.”

Carver obeyed, keeping the cane in his right hand, pressing it against the wall to prevent it from dropping. The Latino stayed seated on the sofa, watching it all with mild interest, as if it were something on television. He kept the gun in his lap aimed at a point on the floor. Carver figured he was probably Ralph Palmer, but he couldn’t be sure.

His black partner kicked Carver’s bad leg out to the side so his feet were spread wider. Wide enough to put strain on his groin. Then the partner gave Carver a very skillful patting down. “Ain’t carrying,” he said to his buddy on the couch.

“You’d think he would be, a private detective,” the Latino said. He had a trace of Spanish accent. Cuban, Carver thought. “Some dangerous occupation.”

“How about it?” said the one who’d searched Carver. “How is it you’re clean?”

“Private investigators don’t wander around armed like commandos. What do you think this is, a novel? Read Robert Parker books, if that kinda stuff suits you.”

“He’s got him some smart mouth,” the Latino said.

The man behind Carver said, “Probably his smarts don’t go any higher’n that, though. Dumb from the nose up.”

“Gotta be,” said the voice from the sofa. “Otherwise he wouldn’t be here.”

“Why don’t I straighten up and turn around?” Carver asked. “You know I’m not carrying.” He rapped with the cane on the wall. “Bad leg’s starting to get sore.”

“Sympathy ain’t in our line,” the black guy said.

“Aw, let him turn around,” sofa chimed in. “He don’t figure to rabbit on us. What he’d do, he’d fall and bust his ass.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” the black one said. “In fact, that’s something I’d like to see. So you go ahead, stand up and turn around, Carver.”

Carver pushed away from the wall, caught his balance with the cane, and turned to face the two men. He didn’t like this. He was scared, but he had control of himself. Thinking objectively. He said, “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“Not necessary,” said the black one. “This ain’t a tea social.”

“Business, then,” Carver said. He wondered if he could whack the gun out of the Hispanic’s hand with his cane, snatch it up before the black guy could drag his gun out of the shoulder holster bulging beneath his tailored blue suit-coat. Doubted it, but things might come down to having to try.

“That’s right, business.”

“What are you doing here?” the one on the sofa asked. “And please spare us any bullshit.”

“I told you, I came to see Frank Wesley.”

“You and him friends?”

“More or less.”

“It’s less now,” the man said. “Wesley’s dead. Went boom in his car, right near your office in Del Moray.”

“A shock to hear that,” Carver said.

The black one scowled; he was meaner-looking than Jesse Jackson ever thought of being. “Remember what I said about trying to jive us, Carver. We know Wesley drove to your office yesterday, talked to you for about half an hour, then came out and did his bang-and-burn act.”

“Convincing act,” Carver said. Thinking, if these two knew that much, they might have been the ones who planted the bomb in the Cadillac. Almost had to be them. Not a reassuring thought.

The black one smiled, knowing what was running through Carver’s mind. He said, “The bomb was set off by electronic signal, most likely from a garage-door opener. The explosives mighta been on board the car for a month.”

“You sound sure of that.”

“I am. We knew about Wesley. Knew about his car.”

“Except for the bomb.”

“You’re right, that was a surprise. More of a surprise to Wesley, though.”

“So you didn’t plant the bomb?”

“Something for you to wonder about, Carver. Maybe we got somebody rigging plastic explosives right now in that pile of shit you got parked down off Ocean Boulevard.”

“Why would you be so mean?”

“Because we don’t know what Wesley told you.”

“Ah!”

“But we want to know. And it’s time for you to tell us.”

The Latino said, “Soon it’ll be past time. You don’t want that. Really.” He was laconic but sounded concerned for Carver’s safety. Carver doubted his sincerity. Who were these two? What did
they
know? One thing they didn’t seem to know was that Bert Renway, and not Wesley, had been killed in the explosion. Whatever story he told them, he thought it should ring true when the police lab established the identity of the real victim.

“We’re busy men,” the black one said. He made a show of rotating his wrist in a neat, quick movement so his white cuff rode up and he could glance at his watch. “We’re late for night surfing right now. Best you commence to chat.”

“Wesley came to my office to hire me,” Carver said. “He was uneasy. He thought somebody might be driving around impersonating him.”

The black one grinned wide and white. “You sure fulla shit, my man.” A parody of ghetto slang. Letting Carver know that while he’d become sophisticated beyond street smarts, still he was unpredictable and dangerous. Not to be messed with unless you were prepared to pay the price.

The Latino muttered something in Spanish, then stood up from the sofa. He was tall and slim. Stood calmly with his arms loose, his left hand resting atop his right one at his crotch, the right holding the blue-steel revolver pointed at the floor. In a gentle and reasonable voice he said, “If Frank Wesley was your client, he’s dead and you’re unemployed. So how come you’re down here instead of minding your business in Del Moray?”

“Curiosity, I guess.”

“You and the cat,” the black guy said, no longer grinning.

Carver thought a little offense might be in order. He tried to put some indignation into his voice. “Are you guys friends of Wesley?”

“Get this,” the black one said, grinning again. “
He’s
asking
us
questions.”

“Don’t know protocol,” the Latino said softly, not moving. “Got himself all tangled up.”

The black one glared at Carver. “This ain’t fuckin’ ‘Love Connection,’ Carver. We ask, you answer. Know why?”

“Something to do with guns?”

“That’s it, all right. Now, here’s a question. What address did Wesley give you?”

“This one. His condo.”

“He tell you why anyone might be going around pretending to be him?”

“He had no idea. That’s why he hired me.”

Now the black one drew a gun from his shoulder holster, a .38 revolver. He assumed a shooting stance, feet spread wide, aiming the gun with both hands at Carver’s forehead. He said, “So you been hired. Now, you gonna be fired, or is it gonna be Smith and Wesson here?”

Carver swallowed loud enough for everyone to hear. “I suppose you’re right, I’m no longer working for Mr. Wesley.”

“That’s how it is. ’Cause there is no more Mr. Wesley. As of this moment, consider yourself unemployed as regards Frank Wesley or anything having to do with Frank Wesley.”

Carver stared into the steady dark tunnel of the gun’s bore and felt fear grow in his bowels like a cold thing with claws. “I’ll consider your little speech my pink slip.” His voice was higher than he’d intended; irritation that he’d revealed his vulnerability wormed through his fear.

The Latino was studying him with calm, somber dark eyes. With a faintly sad expression, he raised his revolver and poked it into a belt holster on his right hip. A Spanish Wyatt Earp.

“You got no business here,” the black one said to Carver. He didn’t holster his gun, held it as if it were locked onto Carver with radar.

“Then I suppose I better leave,” Carver said tentatively. Damned if he’d say please.

Somehow without moving the gun, the black man shrugged. How’d he do that? “Ain’t nothing to keep you here, Carver. Nothing to make you come back. Wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d say.”

“We got us an understanding?”

“I’d say that, too.”

“Go back to following wayward spouses, that kinda thing,” the Latino said. “Live longer, man. Maybe even get prosperous, you peek through the right keyhole.”

“Don’t trip and fall on your way out,” the black one said. Carver turned, limped to the door, and opened it. Trying not to hurry. Salvage a shred of dignity.

The tenseness left his back muscles only after he was in the hall and had closed the door behind him. Out on the sidewalk, he found himself hurrying to where the Olds was parked. Worked up a sweat.

He drove back to the Carib Terrace and locked his door. Wedged a chair under the knob. Made sure the sliding glass door to the patio and beach was locked.

Then he got undressed and went to bed, and was vaguely surprised to feel himself relax.

He knew if the two men in Wesley’s condo had wanted him dead, he’d already be dead. They gave the impression they were experienced. Experts at their work. The fact that he was still alive meant they wouldn’t come around to see him again unless they thought he hadn’t been scared off the case.

Repeating that comforting thought like a mantra, he fell asleep.

In the morning he showered and dressed, then checked out of the motel.

He had a breakfast of waffles, bacon, and freshly squeezed orange juice at a coffee shop on Ocean Boulevard.

It was quiet in the coffee shop, and narrow-slatted blinds were angled to deflect the brilliant morning sun. Carver took his time eating. The food tasted terrific, maybe because he was so glad he was still alive to enjoy it.

When he was finished, he ordered a second cup of coffee and unfolded the Fort Lauderdale newspaper he’d bought at the vending machine outside. Accidentally laid it in some spilled syrup and moved it aside.

A follow-up story on the Del Moray car bombing was at the bottom of page three. That was because there wasn’t much in the way of new information.

Only that the victim had been positively identified from dental records as Frank Wesley.

T
HOUGH IT WAS ONLY
one in the afternoon, it seemed like dusk in Carver’s office. The broken window had been boarded up and would be replaced tomorrow. Apparently there was a rash of broken windows in Del Moray, according to the management company that leased Carver’s office. So for the time being he had to make do with a sheet of rough plywood lettered BILL’S BOARD-UP instead of glass. It made the office gloomy and claustrophobic.

Even more claustrophobic when the towering, lanky form of McGregor strolled in. The glow of the desk lamp was projected at an upward angle on his long face and made him look even more grotesque than in natural light. A sort of stretched-out Lon Chaney in
Phantom of the Opera.
His cheap brown suitcoat was flapping open, his red tie was loosely knotted, and there were dark perspiration stains around his unbuttoned collar. He didn’t look happy.

He said, “Jesus H. Christ, it’s hot in here.”