John Lutz - Torch

“You had a chance to look at Winship’s body. Do you think it was suicide?”

“Yes. Probably.”

“Then why do you want Gretch?”

“There’s more to this than what’s floating on top for everyone to see. Two people dead. Suicide, legally. But if they were pushed into it, somehow made so desperate that death was the only way out, I call it murder.”

“Ah, now you’re rewriting the law.”

“Yes.”

“Something a policeman can’t do.”

“I’m not exactly a policeman.”

“Not exactly. At times, not even remotely.”

“Mark Winship might well have killed himself out of remorse over what happened to Donna. But I need to know why she stepped in front of that truck. Need to do something about it.”

Desoto’s handsome white smile was fleeting, his brown eyes somber. “More unwritten law, hey?”

“Sometimes the written law isn’t enough. McGregor is aiming for a promotion and doesn’t want any waves made in his jurisdiction. He’s not interested in the law, or in justice. Mark Winship could have been shot twenty times and McGregor would still call it suicide.”

“ You called it suicide,” McGregor pointed out.

“Yes, but I’m looking into it further. McGregor won’t.”

“And he won’t appreciate you doing his job.”

“That’s why I’m talking to you,” Carver said.

Desoto said nothing. The guitar solo was over now and a woman was singing a slow Spanish lament that had to be about lost love.

“McGregor’s going to throw up roadblocks whenever possible,” Carver said. “I might need you to help me by doing some things he won’t.”

“Such as?”

“Letting me know if Carl Gretch’s name turns up in police business.”

“A friend’s not supposed to help a friend do something foolish and dangerous.”

“I’m not asking to drive while drunk,” Carver said. “I only need a little information now and then.”

Desoto leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. The office was warm but his shirt was dry. Carver couldn’t remember ever seeing him perspire. The Spanish woman launched into a crescendo of sound and drama, muted by the Sony’s low volume. Desoto said, “McGregor has the instincts of a snake.”

“Does that mean you want to help me on this?”

“It means I want to hurt McGregor. It isn’t right he should be promoted rather than tortured and executed.”

“Whatever your reasons,” Carver said, “thanks.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a folded sheet of yellow legal paper. “There’s something else,” he said, laying the paper on the desk.

“I thought there would be.”

“This is a partial list Beth made up of the Winships’ friends and acquaintances. Can you check out the names, see if anything of interest crops up?”

Desoto unfolded the sheet of lined paper and studied it. “I don’t see any known drug kingpins or mass-murderers on here.”

“According to Beth, there wouldn’t be. The Winships were your average middle-class couple for years, then they had marital problems and were headed for divorce.”

“That’s your average middle-class couple,” Desoto said.

Carver planted his cane and shifted his weight over it so he could stand up from his chair.

“Where are you off to now, amigo ?” Desoto asked, refolding the list of names more crisply and neatly than it had been when Carver had laid it on the desk.

“I’m going to talk to some of the people on my copy of that list.”

Desoto tapped the folded edge of the list on his desk. It made a sharp, ticking sound. “Our arrangement works both ways, my friend. If you find out anything interesting, I’d like to know.”

“Instead of McGregor?”

Desoto shrugged. “I didn’t say that.”

Carver said, “I didn’t ask it.” He lifted his cane for a moment in a parting gesture. “Thanks for your help and understanding.”

“We’re all in the justice business,” Desoto said.

“Not McGregor,” Carver said, limping from the office into the chaos and order of police headquarters.

According to Beth, Donna Winship had little outside life other than aerobic workouts, which was where Beth had met her, and tennis lessons at the Del Moray Country Club. The first name on Beth’s list of Donna’s friends and acquaintances was Ellen Pfitzer, also a club member.

The Del Moray Country Club was on the ocean, just north of the marina. It was a complex of low buildings made of pale cast concrete with lots of tinted glass and with blue-shingled roofs that were the exact color of the sea on a sunny day. The grounds were neat and green, especially around the largest building, a clubhouse containing a restaurant and lounge and windows looking out on the swimming pool and tennis courts, and beyond them the ocean. On the wide sand beach was a pavilion with a thatched roof that lent shade to a bar and a dozen round tables with high-backed wicker chairs. To the right of the pavilion, closer to the water, were white lounge chairs and wide blue umbrellas with white fringe. There was a scattering of sunbathers on the beach, men in trunks and loose-fitting shirts, women in one-piece suits, a few younger ones in bikinis. A few older ones almost in bikinis. Their actions were slow and deliberate, as if they’d become drunk from the sun.

Carver had visited the place several times last year with a wealthy client who thought his daughter might be engaged to a fortune hunter. He’d been right, but the marriage had taken place anyway, and for now, anyway, daughter and fortune hunter were living happily in Miami, maybe even in love with each other.

Before driving here, Carver had phoned Ellen Pfitzer, and she’d agreed to meet him in the club lounge for a drink and to discuss Donna’s death. He was fifteen minutes early, so he chose a table by the window and ordered a Dewar’s and water, then sat watching a mixed doubles match in the nearest court. The woman at the far end of the court was a leggy redhead in a white and blue tennis outfit with a skimpy skirt. The other woman was a short blond, sturdily built, in a plain white outfit, who played with single-minded ferocity but was obviously the least accomplished of the four players. Both men were much younger and much smoother on the court, and seemed to be playing with some reserve. Carver guessed they were the women’s instructors. He wondered if either of the women was Ellen Pfitzer.

The short blond hit a forehand rocket, yelling with effort, but it was long and the redhead stood smugly, holding her racket back with both hands and watching the ball drop behind the line.

It must have been game point. The redhead’s partner gave her a big grin and a hug, then they and the other man walked off toward the part of the clubhouse containing lockers, saunas and exercise equipment. The blond woman backhanded sweat from her forehead and trudged toward the clubhouse. Despite her stockiness she had a graceful walk, the muscles in her firm, tan legs rippling with each step. Large breasts bounced slightly beneath her white pullover shirt. She had a figure made more for pinup calendars than for tennis. Her head was bowed and she was gazing at the ground in concentration as she passed from sight.

She must have stopped to freshen up. Ten minutes passed before she entered the lounge and stood looking around, ignoring the speculative glances of some of the men at the bar. She saw Carver, saw the cane where he’d leaned it against the table, and came toward him.

She had an open, friendly face with blue eyes and a slightly turned-up nose, and she was even shorter than she’d appeared on the court, probably under five feet.

“Ellen Pfitzer?” Carver asked.