John Lutz - Torch

As he lowered himself into the Olds, he glanced at his watch. Three-twenty. He’d had a doughnut and several cups of acidic coffee in the interrogation room. He looked over at the beige brick and graystone building with its pinched, fortresslike windows and wondered when Beth would finally walk out. There was no way to guess. Homicide cases had top priority and created their own timetables. And it wasn’t every day someone was found who’d been beaten to death while rolled in a carpet. Desoto had told him the M.E.’s preliminary report had stated that almost every bone in Gretch’s body had been broken and there had been massive internal bleeding. The victim had died slowly and in great agony. Carver felt a rush of anger that anyone, even Gretch, had to die that way.

He started the engine and got the car’s air conditioner huffing and gurgling, then drove to a McDonald’s and had a Big Mac, large order of fries, and a diet Coke. He’d swum this morning, so he figured he could afford the calories, and the Coke assuaged his dietary conscience. And it wasn’t as if he did this every other day; there was no reason to think of himself as weak.

It was almost four when he called Burnair and Crosley from a public phone and asked to speak with Maggie Rourke. He was told Miz Rourke had left for the day. He stuffed more change into the phone and called Maggie’s cottage. No one picked up. He let her phone ring ten times before replacing the receiver.

He got back in his car and pulled out into traffic, aiming the Olds’s long, prowlike hood toward Del Moray. When he got there, he’d call Maggie’s cottage again. If she still wasn’t there, he knew where he might find her.

Maggie’s black Stanza was parked on Gull Avenue half a block from Shellie’s.

Carver didn’t bother trying to conceal himself this time. He entered the bar, leaned over his cane, and looked around.

The place was cool after outside, and more crowded now. Half the stools at the long bar were occupied by men in work clothes, a few in suits, and women mostly in casual clothes. Almost all the tables were taken. The TV above the bar was soundlessly showing the local news, two flawlessly coiffed talking heads miming half-sentences at each other, maybe about Carl Gretch. A karaoke setup was on a small raised platform at the rear of the bar, but it was too early for anyone to be at the mike pretending to be a celebrity. Soft rock with a deep bass beat was pounding at low volume from large box speakers that were angled out from the walls in each corner so they were aimed down at the customers.

Maggie was at the far end of the bar, perched on the same stool Carver had seen her on the last time he’d been there. She was easily the best-dressed woman in the place, with her gray business suit and white blouse with a ruffled collar, her black high heels hitched over the barstool brace. She had a drink in front of her and was staring into it, her hands folded in her lap. There was a white napkin next to her glass with three red swizzle sticks laid out on it in no particular pattern. She’d been there a while. Carver figured she’d found the dismembered doll on her bed and maybe that was why she looked so disconsolate. Or maybe she’d heard about Gretch’s death and it meant something to her. He couldn’t ask her about the doll without her knowing he’d been in her cottage, but he could ask her about Gretch and try to catch her reaction. She had to have a lot of alcohol in her; it might be the best time to talk to her.

She didn’t notice him until he’d taken the stool next to her. Then their eyes met in the mirror behind the bar. She didn’t seem surprised to see him, only nodded, then stared back down into her drink.

“That looks diluted,” he said, nodding toward her glass. “Buy you another?”

She didn’t answer.

When the bartender, a short, stocky woman with black hair and no makeup, walked over, Carver ordered a Budweiser and another of whatever Maggie was drinking.

It turned out to be scotch and seltzer. When the drinks were in front of them on the bar, Maggie stirred hers, then laid the plastic swizzle stick on the napkin with the others. She sipped her fresh drink as if testing it, seemed satisfied, and placed it carefully on its coaster. “You followed me.”

“Sort of.”

“I don’t like that.”

“I don’t, either,” Carver said. “It’s an unpleasant part of my job, following people.”

“I’d certainly appreciate it,” she said-and he realized her words were coming slow and slurred-“if you wouldn’t mention to anyone at Burnair and Crosley I was here. You understand. Bad for the corporate image.”

“You come here a lot?”

She turned her head and studied him with blurry but still beautiful eyes. “It’s not the first time.”

“Or the second?”

Her despondent little laugh was more like a cry. Her right hand began to move on the bar in time to the music, the tips of her fingers barely brushing the polished wood surface, almost a nervous twitch. She was making an effort to seem sober. “So I gotta admit I have this problem. I’m a recovering alcoholic. It was okay until Mark died. I mean, I could cope with it. Stay away from it. Then, when I learned about his death, I fell off the wagon. Hit the ground hard.” No slurring that time. Good.

“Anybody at Burnair and Crosley know about your problem?”

“I don’t think so. I lost my previous job in the recession. Or the reshtru-restructuring, as it was called.” She smiled hopelessly. “No, that’s not true. I lost it because I drank. Anyway, I couldn’t find work, so I did some modeling, then I got involved in a bad-no, a disastrous-love affair. He had influence, and he used it to place me at Burnair and Crosley just before we broke up, gave me the highest recommendation that didn’t mention alcoholism. He helped me to stop drinking, too, and I stayed stopped until Mark died. So now I’m drinking again and trying to stop again.”

“Are you trying your best?”

“Not at the moment.” She sipped. Replaced her drink squarely on its coaster. “And now you know I’m a drunk who handles other people’s money. So what are you gonna do, have me executed?”

“Not me.”

“I’m cold clean sober at work, Carver. Always.” Her hand began to move again in time with the music.

“I believe you.” He worked on his beer for a minute. “Speaking of people dying, have you heard about Carl Gretch?”

No visible reaction. “Who?”

“Enrico Thomas. Donna’s lover.”

Now she blinked. Her hand stopped moving. “That guy? He’s dead?”

“Died sometime last night,” Carver said. “Died hard.” Pushing it, watching her.

“What? How?”

“He was rolled up tight in a carpet and beaten to death.”

She swallowed, then lifted her glass and took a huge gulp of her drink so she’d have something for her throat to work on. Delicately, she dabbed at her lips with the backs of her knuckles, making it seem like a gesture taught at finishing schools. “I never met him, so why should I care?”

“He knew you. You were fellow clients at the Walton Agency.”

She swiveled slightly on her stool and stared at Carver, looking genuinely confused.

“He said he met you at a lung shoot,” Carver explained.

“What the hell is that?”

“It was a photographer’s shoot for a cigarette advertisement. You and Gretch were playing volleyball on the beach with some other models.”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek, probably shredding it without feeling what she was doing to herself. “Yeah,” she said finally, “I remember that job. Gretch. Little guy? Latin?”

“He’s the one.”

“ He was Enrico Thomas? Donna’s lover?”

“They were the same man.”