John Lutz - Torch

The escorts would be able to cope. They’d probably had dealings with the police and the courts, and when they found their way out of this storm in their lives they’d continue much as they had before, even if they served brief sentences. But the clients and their spouses and children might find their worlds suddenly changed from daylight to darkness. Faith would be lost and marriages might end. All because of Carver’s suspicion. His compulsion to reach conclusions. His need to discern the shapes in the fog and understand.

McGregor moved fast, before word could get out; papers could be shredded and opportunity might elude him. His boldness was perhaps the only thing about him that Carver sometimes in weaker moments admired. A contact of Beth’s at Channel 6 News, alerted to coming developments, called her and said the police had leaked to the news department that there would be a raid on Nightlinks that evening at six o’clock, when the escort service would still be open and taking calls for that night’s clientele.

Carver parked the Olds in front of the Aero Lounge and sat looking toward the other end of the strip shopping center where Nightlinks was located. Heat moved into the parked car, masquerading as a breeze through the cranked-down windows. A mosquito came with it and sampled blood from the back of Carver’s hand. He slapped at it and missed, hearing a faint drone as it navigated past his ear. He hadn’t averted his gaze from the length of the sun-punished strip of shops.

McGregor was on top of things. It was 5:45 and there was no sign of anything unusual. People were walking in and out of the dry cleaners and the Aero Lounge. A few entered or left Nightlinks, though no one Carver recognized. He figured McGregor would hit at least ten minutes before he’d told the news media he’d be there, so no one at Nightlinks would be tipped to what was going on by looking outside and seeing some overeager news channel van festooned with call letters and satellite dishes.

But ten minutes passed, counted in gradually building heat and trickles of perspiration down the back of Carver’s neck, and he began to wonder if McGregor was actually going to arrive. Carver and the news media might have been set up, for some reason not yet clear. McGregor might be engaged in another of his Machiavellian games.

The mosquito returned, or one just like it, and droned around Carver’s face, tickling as it tried to flit up a nostril. He swatted air viciously with his cupped hand, hoping the turbulence would drive the pesky insect away.

Then he noticed a blue work van parked near Nightlinks, unlettered and with two people sitting in the front seats, motionless as mannequins behind the wide tinted windshield. The pedestrian traffic in the shopping strip seemed to pick up. Several cars arrived, and people in business clothes got out. Another van. A gray Pontiac of the sort used for unmarked police cars by the Del Moray department. Carver hoped no one at Nightlinks would look out the window.

Two men in brown suits who should have had PLAINCLOTHES COP flashing in neon on their foreheads came out of the Aero Lounge and strolled along the length of the strip shopping center, passed Nightlinks without pausing, then stopped and stood as if carrying on a conversation.

One of them walked around the back of the building as a man and woman climbed from an unmarked police car and moved toward Nightlinks. Carver was impressed by the number of players here. McGregor had dipped deep into the department’s limited labor pool to put on a spectacle for the TV cameras.

A police cruiser arrived, driving fast and leaning hard as it turned into the lot. Its red and blue roofbar lights were flashing but its siren was silent. The only sound was its tires whining like a frantic plea on the hot pavement. Simultaneously, another unmarked Pontiac arrived, braking to a rocking halt in front of Nightlinks with its driver’s-side door already opening, and the long form of McGregor unfolded up from it. He glanced around, striking what he must have fancied a heroic pose, then hitched up his wrinkled pants and strode directly to Nightlinks as van and car doors opened and shoulder-held TV minicams appeared along with cables and well-coiffed, attractive people who looked as if they should be employed at Nightlinks.

In front of Nightlinks’ door, McGregor paused to make sure everyone had a photo opportunity, then he barged in, followed by two plainclothes cops. The two uniforms who’d gotten out of the squad car trailed respectfully behind, then took positions near the entrance to keep the media at bay, spread their stances, and appeared immovable as stone sculptures outside a public building.

Carver got out of the Olds and headed toward the scene.

When he got near, he was held back along with the media and the rest of the spectators. Nightlinks’ door was wide open and there was a lot of activity inside. Loud voices, then silence. A few feet to Carver’s left a TV camera with a Channel 6 News logo was set up and an anchorwoman with a Channel 6 News logo on her blazer was speaking into a microphone with a Channel 6 News logo on it, gazing as sincerely into the lens as if she were talking to a lover. One of the uniforms was a man named Geary, who’d been helped by Carver a year ago when his daughter was suspected of manslaughter. Geary was of medium height, but broad, with massive chest and shoulders. He had a face like a bear that had shaved.

“You’re a TV star,” Carver said to him.

Geary smiled. “If only I had a good side.”

“What’s going on?” Carver asked.

Geary smiled wider. It wasn’t infectious. “Show time,” he said softly, mouthing the words more than pronouncing them, so only Carver would be aware of them. Like most of the cops in the Del Moray department, like most of humanity that had come in contact with the crude and amoral lieutenant, Geary hated McGregor. But he had to work for him.

Fifteen minutes passed. Carver was getting tired of leaning on his cane. The media types were getting impatient, milling about and smiling at each other and rolling their eyes. You could take only so much tape footage of cops and cop cars and the outside of a building.

Then the media stirred expectantly on what seemed like instinct and moved closer to the door. Geary and his partner hunkered down as if there might be an assault.

One of the plainclothes detectives led the attractive, skinny receptionist with the thin ankles outside. She was wearing a tight white dress and shoes with silver metal spikes for high heels and was snarling toothily. A sure bet for an appearance on the late news.

The detective deposited her in the back of the squad car, capping the back of her head with his huge hand so she wouldn’t bump herself on the car’s roof, messing up her fragile and improbable hairdo.

Then a very attractive blond who was probably a baby-faced thirty but was dressed like a naughty sixteen was led outside and placed in the car. She kept her head down, trying to hide her features, as if she might not be recognized on TV or in news photos if she only kept her chin tucked in.

Carver was waiting for Harvey Sincliff, hoping he’d been in his office and would be taken into custody before his lawyers could be alerted.

But the next thing out the door was a cop carrying a large cardboard box stuffed with file folders. He placed the box in the trunk of one of the unmarked Pontiacs and went back inside for another load. More cops with more boxes emerged. Nightlinks’ files would be held at police headquarters and pored over for the kind of black-and-white evidence that would make for high bail and surefire convictions.

Finally Sincliff was led outside. His dark hair had popped loose from where he’d plastered it sideways over his bald spot and was flopping over one ear with each step he took. He was wearing obviously expensive pleated gray slacks shot through with shiny silver thread, a pastel blue shirt, and a yellow and blue tie. Wide red suspenders held up his pants beneath his protruding stomach. He was holding his suit coat in front of him, and when he saw all the media he raised it so it was supported over his head by his forearms and handcuffed wrists like a protective tent.