John Lutz - Hot

“One or the other is always nearby,” Rainer said confidently.

“I’ll bet.”

There was more splashing from the pool. The blond woman, Lilly Rainer, climbed out of the water by way of a shiny chrome ladder. She was deeply tanned and her muscles rippled beneath smooth flesh. Her suit was red but there was so little of it that color hardly mattered. She had practically nonexistent breasts. Broad, muscular shoulders. Trim hips and buttocks. Probably in her forties, but younger at a glance and still an athlete. Without looking at Carver or her husband, she walked with perfect balance toward the diving board, dripping a fresh trail of water on the pale concrete apron. Her wet footprints described a perfectly straight line.

Rainer’s gaze touched on her lightly, as if he’d just noticed her and wasn’t much interested. “My wife, Lilly,” he said. “But then you know that, even though you two have never met.”

“It’s my business to find out things,” Carver said. On the far side of bushes, trellised vines, and trees growing on the slope to the sea, he could make out part of the white hull of the Miss Behavin’. The sprinkler system was spraying on the gentle slope, creating half a dozen distinct miniature rainbows. There was a curved concrete walkway leading toward the dock.

Still paying no attention to Carver or her husband, Lilly Rainer stood poised on the end of the diving board. Carver doubted if she’d had the rumored cosmetic surgery. Even with her hair wet and plastered to her head, she was attractive. It was in her bones. Her features knitted in concentration, she bounced on the board to gain spring, rose high in the air, and jackknifed into a smooth dive with her legs together and her toes pointed. There was very little splashing as she cut the water. She broke the surface and swam with unhurried, powerful strokes toward the side of the pool.

“Lilly swims a lot,” Rainer said. “Some years ago she was a top-rated amateur diver. I used to enjoy watching her dive, over and over, each time correcting the slightest imperfection in her previous efforts. Possibly she married me because she knew I so admired, even demanded, perfection.”

Carver said, “I suppose you know Henry Tiller died this morning.”

Rainer took a sip of margarita then licked the glass rim with a fat pink tongue. Carver wanted badly to reach across the table and slap the glass from his hand, maybe take a few teeth with it. Pearls from swine. “Yes, I do know. You’re not the only one who finds out things, Mr. Carver. Who knows things.”

“Do you know why I came here?”

“Is it to take me up on my offer of fifty thousand dollars in exchange for your noninvolvement in my affairs?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad.”

“A friend of mine was hurt last night,” Carver said.

“Really? The black woman? Miss Jackson?”

“You know about that, too, don’t you?”

“No, I only surmise. You can’t have any other friends on Key Montaigne.” Rainer watched his wife climb the ladder out of the pool again, shake water from her tan body and stride toward the diving board. This time she picked up a towel and sat on the fixed end of the board, facing away from them and staring up at the sky while she dried herself. There was something about the delicate way she worked the towel, like a cat grooming itself. “Mr. Carver,” Rainer said, “why exactly are you here?”

“To make sure you understand that if Beth Jackson gets hurt again, you get hurt worse.”

“Crudely put,” Rainer said.

“There’s probably something in Shakespeare that covers it, but what I said will have to do.”

“Oh, it does. Chivalry is alive and thriving in your person.”

“I’m also here to let you know I think you had something to do with Henry Tiller getting run over and dying. To let you know I’m staying on Key Montaigne and still working for Henry even though he’s dead.”

“Why on earth would you work for a client who can no longer pay you?” Rainer asked. He sounded genuinely curious, as if dumbfounded that Carver would voluntarily forsake reason and join the world of the mad.

“I was hired by him, and I feel obligated to finish the job.”

“Even now that he’s dead?”

“Especially now.”

Rainer absently ran a hand down his flabby, glistening chest. His breasts were hairless and pendulous, almost like a woman’s. Beyond him, his wife continued staring out at the sea. “Morality. Obligation. The work ethic. My God, is it really that depressingly simple?”

“It is.”

“I won’t act as if I understand.”

“Just as well. I’d know you were pretending.”

The fat man shifted his weight a millimeter, causing his chair to creak, and looked directly at Carver with his rapacious little eyes. A bead of sweat ran down the center of his nose to its tip, paused, then dropped onto his protruding stomach. He smiled. “I admire how well you control your anger, Mr. Carver.”

“If I could control it completely, I wouldn’t be here.”

“I also admire your loyalty, even though it’s foolish. In the way I admire bravery in the soldier who dies for his country in a losing cause. It’s a pointless and futile effort, even a mechanical one, yet it requires undeniable courage. The tragedy is that his death is wasted.”

“There’s no way to know whose cause is lost till the war’s over,” Carver said.

“Then let’s at least get this minor skirmish over with,” Rainer suggested. “You’re on Key Montaigne because Henry Tiller convinced you I was engaged in some sort of nefarious activity. Now here you sit making no specific accusations, only smearing my character. Perhaps you’ll manage to start some rumors about me, cause myself and my wife a measure of discontent here in what we see as our personal paradise. I don’t care for that prospect, which is why I offered you money to desist. Well, why don’t you bring specific charges? Ask Chief Wicke to procure a warrant and search the house and grounds?”

“Because you would not be making the suggestion unless you’d removed any evidence of criminal behavior. And because . . .”

“What, Mr. Carver?” Rainer laughed. “Ah, you suspect the good chief of police is in my employ? Or on the take, as the people who move in your world call it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you do see it as a possibility.”

“Almost everything’s a possibility.”

“Not that you’ll prove any criminal wrongdoing on my part, Mr. Carver. Not if you stay on Key Montaigne a hundred years.”

Lilly Rainer strode to the table and poured herself a margarita from the pitcher sitting near the umbrella’s aluminum stalk. She still gave no indication she knew Carver was there, and she barely glanced at her husband. She seemed to accept the fact she was ornamental and his business was none of hers. She returned to sit on the diving board with her drink, the towel now slung like a cape over her broad shoulders.

Carver gripped his cane and stood up, again ducking the long fringe of the umbrella. Out of its shade he was suddenly very hot. He wondered how Lilly Rainer could endure sitting there in the burning sun. He looked down at Rainer. “I won’t stay on Key Montaigne for the next hundred years,” he said. Then he smiled. “But I’ll be here the next fifty, if that’s how long it takes. And if you harm Beth Jackson, I’ll have some of you no matter how long that takes.”

“Such an extreme and melodramatic warning.”

Carver said, “Think in terms of substance over style.”

“Well, you’re a remarkably stubborn man, obsessed in the way Henry Tiller was. Or perhaps you’re even beyond stubborn and you’re marginally psychotic.”