John Lutz - Torch

“Fred?”

“You’re in,” he said from beneath the rag, knowing he had no choice.

He felt her kiss his forehead through the thick, soaked material.

“You had supper?” she asked.

“Just a couple of Tylenols.”

“Hungry?”

“No.”

“I’ll cook us up some hamburgers anyway, then we’ll eat while you fill me in on everything about the Winship case.”

Fifteen minutes later, when the water had cooled and the scent of frying beef was prodding his appetite, he decided it was time to struggle out of the bathtub.

He wasn’t as sore as he thought he’d be the next morning, but he didn’t so much as consider his usual therapeutic swim in the ocean. The clock by the bed read 9:05. Beth was already gone. Despite Carver’s reservations, they’d agreed last night that she would stake out Gretch’s apartment to see if he or the Oriental man showed up again. If one of them did appear, Carver had given her strict instructions not to approach him but to very discreetly follow.

Carver sat up on the edge of the mattress and reached for his cane. With each breath, his side ached where he’d been kicked in the ribs. His good leg and his right arm were sore but functional. The involuntary groan he heard when he forced himself to stand up was his own but sounded like someone else’s. Someone who should have sense enough to stay in bed.

He got dressed gingerly, careful not to extend his reach too far, easing into his pants and socks, then his leather moccasins. He went to the dresser and completely removed the top drawer. Taped to the back of the drawer was his .32 Colt semiautomatic. He slipped the gun’s shoulder holster over his bare torso, then checked the clip and action and slid the gun into the holster. Then he put on a loose-fitting silk shirt with a tropical bird pattern and examined himself in the mirror. The looseness and wild print of the colorful material made the bulk of the gun barely noticeable.

When he phoned Burnair and Crosley Investments, where Mark Winship had been a financial consultant, and asked to speak with Beverly Denton he was told that Miz Denton hadn’t arrived for work. Instead of leaving a message, he drove to a restaurant down on the coast highway and had a breakfast of scrambled eggs, jellied toast, and black coffee. Then he sat at one of the unoccupied tables outside and smoked a Swisher Sweet while he read the Del Moray Gazette-Dispatch. The motels along the beach were complaining that oil drifting in from the big tankers offshore was getting to be a major problem. There were no murders or other major crimes reported, only the oil; smooth sailing for McGregor.

By the time he’d returned to the cottage, a little past ten, Beverly Denton was at her desk at Burnair and Crosley. She agreed on the phone to talk with Carver about Donna Winship’s death but didn’t want to discuss it in the office. She suggested they meet in the small park across the street from Burnair and Crosley, where she often had lunch and relaxed. She’d be wearing a green dress with black shoes, she said. Carver told her he walked with a cane and would be the most handsome man in the park. She agreed to meet him anyway.

The park was only about half a square block, a flat, grassy area where concrete benches were arranged in the shade of palm trees. In the center of the park was a twenty-foot-tall steel sculpture made up of a series of sleek, shiny panels rising like parallel knife blades tapered to different points. Carver wasn’t sure what it was supposed to represent, but he liked it. Maybe it had been created to complement the building across the street that housed Burnair and Crosley, which was also made up of shiny, parallel panels of steel and tinted glass, only with elevators and offices inside.

Beverly Denton was easy enough to find. It was only 11:30 and the park was almost unoccupied except for two preteen boys climbing around on a jungle gym at the far end. She was sitting on one of the concrete benches and gazing out at the traffic passing on Atlantic Drive.

As Carver approached her he saw curiosity become decision in her eyes, which were dark brown like her short-cropped, boyish hair. She had lean features made to look even thinner by large gold hoop earrings. When she stood up and smoothed the skirt of her green dress, he noted that she was slender but shapely, a trim, neat woman who looked worried.

“Mr. Carver?”

He said he was and suggested they sit down on the bench, which they did, at opposite ends and angled to face each other. Like a couple of shy teenagers who’d just been introduced by a best friend. Beverly crossed her legs so tightly they seemed welded together. Her body language suggested that even if he was the most handsome man in the park, she didn’t care; she wasn’t in the mood.

He tried his smile on her, which he knew made his fierce features surprisingly amiable. She didn’t seem reassured. He said, “You were a friend of Donna Winship.” Telling her, not asking.

“I was a friend to both Donna and Mark,” she said in a soft, steady voice, “but I wouldn’t say a close friend of either.” She stared for a moment at her short, red fingernails. “What’s your interest in the Winships?”

“Donna thought something might be wrong in her life and hired me to investigate. I’m still investigating.”

“Why?”

He decided to give her the short answer and not mention that he had been the last person to talk to Donna, that he had been her last hope and might have said something that confirmed her despair and prompted her sudden impulse to end her life, that now he wanted to make up for it to assuage a guilt that maybe he shouldn’t feel but most definitely did.

“Because I was paid,” he said.

That seemed to satisfy her; coin of the realm was her job. She said, “Mark and I worked together. There across the street.” She tilted her head in the direction of Burnair and Crosley. One of the hoop earrings caught the sun. “Mark was a financial consultant, as I am. When his client list became too large, he referred business to me. We became friends, and that’s how I met Donna.”

“What was your opinion of her?”

“She was nice.”

The same word Ellen Pfitzer had used to describe Donna Winship. “Can you be more specific?”

Beverly raised her hands in a faint, futile gesture. “They seemed happily married.”

“I’m told they weren’t so happy the past several months.”

“That could be. When I became engaged to Warren I didn’t see them much anymore. The four of us went out for dinner a few times, but Warren and Mark didn’t really hit it off, so we drifted apart.”

“Warren’s the fella who refurbishes yachts?”

She smiled. “You are an investigator.”

“What about Mark? I assume you liked him.”

“He was nice, too.”

Carver looked out at the traffic, becoming aware that exhaust fumes were heavy in the park. “Nice, huh? Beverly, you could have told me this on the phone. Why did you agree to a face-to-face meeting?”

“Because it doesn’t seem logical to me that the Winships killed themselves. I guess I can’t quite believe it.” She gnawed her lower lip and squirmed slightly on the hard bench.

Carver waited, knowing there was more. A squirrel chattered nearby, then scampered up the trunk of the nearest palm tree.

“What about you?” she asked. “Do you think they were really both suicides?”

“There isn’t much doubt,” he said, “but there’s some.”

“How often does that happen, a husband and wife committing suicide only a day apart?”

“I don’t know,” Carver said. “They don’t keep statistics.”

“There had to be a hell of a reason for it,” Beverly said. “That’s why I thought it’d be a good idea if we talked, because I feel their deaths should be investigated, and the police won’t do it since officially they were suicides.” She let out a long breath. “The last five or six months, Mark Winship was involved with another Burnair and Crosley employee, a woman named Maggie Rourke.”