John Lutz - Torch

“Sure did. Lots of it.”

Carver brightened. He might be able to get a lead on Gretch by poking through what he’d thrown away.

“Already been picked up, though. Early this mornin’. It was in ripped up plastic bags. You wouldn’t believe the stench. Smelled to high heaven.”

Carver said, “I’m not sure if I’m disappointed.”

“Just lock up behind you and bring the key back to me soon as you’re done,” Hodgkins said.

Carver said he would, but Hodgkins didn’t hear him. He was already back inside the garage, scraping tracks in the dirty concrete floor with the push broom.

When Carver reached the building entrance, he glanced back and saw thick clouds of dust rolling from the dim garage out into the sunlight. Hodgkins working up a storm.

Gretch’s apartment was furnished in Salvation Army decor. A hodgepodge of scarred and threadbare furniture in the never-never land between new and collectible sat on a mottled blue shag rug that had probably been there since the seventies and never cleaned. The place was neat but dusty; Carver wondered what might be hiding in the long nap of the carpet as he crossed the room toward the kitchen.

Hodgkins had been busy there. All the cabinet doors were open, and dishes and pans were stacked in the sink, still wet from washing. The gray and white tiled floor was swept if not waxed, and the sharp smell of insecticide was heavy in the air.

Carver moved on toward the bedroom, glancing in the bathroom to see that Hodgkins had been busy there, too. Where they weren’t chipped or yellowed, the old white porcelain fixtures gleamed. The same insecticide scent was present here, but not nearly as strong as in the kitchen. Carver was gaining respect for Hodgkins, who must have been on the job since six or seven o’clock this morning to have accomplished so much.

The double bed in Gretch’s bedroom was stripped to the mattress, which, surprisingly, looked almost new. The dresser drawers were empty, and the closet rod held only wire hangers. A black palmetto bug, surprised by the light when Carver opened the closet door, scurried to a corner and flattened itself to squeeze into a crack in the back wall. Apparently it hadn’t heard about the insecticide in the kitchen and bathroom and thought the place was still safe.

There was a stack of mail-order catalogs on the closet floor, in the back corner opposite the one where the palmetto bug had made its temporary escape. They were men’s clothing catalogs, mostly. Carver examined them and found nothing unusual. All of the order forms were still inside. Apparently Gretch received them then tossed them in his closet in case he wanted to order something later. Then, like most people, ignored them. Most of the catalogs were outdated.

Carver saw that the bottom wooden shelf in the closet was empty except for the plastic cap to a spray can. The top shelf was higher than eye level. He ran his hand along its rough wood surface, being careful not to pick up a splinter. Then his groping fingers came in contact with something flat and smooth. Paper. A magazine. He gripped it and pulled it down.

It was pornography. A bondage magazine featuring women bound with ropes, leather, or tape in various uncomfortable positions. Carver tossed it back up on the shelf, moved his hand around up there some more, and felt what he knew immediately were photographs.

The subjects, Carver wasn’t surprised to find, were women. Not bound this time, but in sexy, smiling, and apparently willing poses, some of them modest even though nude or almost nude. They were of three women, and many of the poses were similar. Most of the photos were of a skinny blond who, while attractive, appeared to be pushing fifty. Or maybe she was only forty and had lived faster than time. In a few of the photos she was wearing a silky red nightgown parted to reveal her breasts. All of the photographs were in color and were 35-millimeter, not from instant cameras. None of the shots had been taken in Gretch’s apartment; the backgrounds were sort of generic, like motel decor. Though the photos weren’t graphically lewd, they weren’t the sort that could be sent to a standard commercial developer; if Gretch had taken the photographs, he had to have developed and printed them himself, or had someone he could trust do it for him.

Carver was relieved not to find Donna Winship among the photos’ subjects. He kept one shot of each woman, then put the rest back where he’d found them.

When he returned the key to Hodgkins outside the garage, he said, “Did Gretch ever bring women up to his place?”

“I never seen it,” Hodgkins said, leaning on his broom, “but that’s not to say he never did. He looked like a goddamned lounge lizard, and he had that car always looked and sounded like a high-speed jukebox. Certain type woman goes for that stuff. Young ones, mostly, that ain’t been burned yet.”

As Carver drove away, he thought about the blond woman in the photographs.

Not so young. But maybe never been burned.

Desoto was in his office, on the phone. When he saw Carver, he waved for him to sit down in the hard wooden chair near the desk. Carver closed the door and sat.

“Find him, just find him, hey?” Desoto was saying into the phone. That was pretty much Desoto’s life, Carver thought. His own, too. Find him. Or her. This time, for Carver, it was Carl Gretch.

Desoto continued to exhort whoever was on the other end of the connection to find whomever was being sought. The expression on his handsome Latin features was one of bemusement; he wasn’t as upset as he must seem to whoever was listening on the other end of the line. He was elegantly dressed, as usual-pleated gray slacks, white shirt, lemon yellow tie, gold ring, wristwatch and cufflinks flashing as he paced and talked into the phone. A dandy with a badge. Carver saw the gray suit coat that matched the pants draped on a shaped wooden hanger slung over a brass hook on the wall. Clothes and women were Desoto’s passions. And Latin music, like the guitar solo leaking from the Sony behind his desk now. A slow song with a relentless, tragic beat, like life itself.

“This job is a sad thing sometimes,” Desoto said, hanging up the phone. He sat down behind his desk and adjusted his cuffs, flashing gold and sending chimeras of reflected light dancing across the office walls. “A child dies from internal injuries and the father disappears.” He shook his head. “No one will escape punishment on this one, amigo , not the guilty or the innocent.”

Carver said, “Carl Gretch.”

“One of the world’s guilty, it would seem.”

“He’s disappeared, too. Moved out of his furnished apartment in a hurry.”

Desoto tilted back his head as if tired, closing his eyes for a moment and taking in the sad guitar. “People like Gretch are always moving. Doing harm, then moving, then doing harm again. It’s in their very nature.”

Carver wished there were some way to jolt Desoto out of his blue philosophical mood. He said, “Mark Winship shot himself in the head yesterday.” Well, that probably wouldn’t help.

“I heard,” Desoto said, still seeming to concentrate on the music. “What about the little girl? Melissa?”

“Megan. She’s with her grandmother.”

Desoto nodded and looked at Carver. “You think Gretch is connected to the mother and father’s suicides?”

“Indirectly.”

“Are the Del Moray police satisfied the father’s death was suicide?”

“They’re satisfied because they want to be.” Carver heard the distaste in his own voice.

Desoto smiled, his perfect teeth flashing white in his tan complexion. “You’ve been visited by McGregor?”

“ ’Fraid so. We had a long talk after I discovered Mark Winship’s corpse.”