John Lutz - Flame

Now that she knew he wasn’t going to give her problems, she was more prone to talk, though she wasn’t about to invite him in out of the sun. “Mr. Renway ain’t been home for weeks, you ask me. Car ain’t budged an inch. Not so far as I can tell, anyways.” In the dimness behind her, Carver saw a child’s small plastic push toy, one of those clear globes in which colored balls dance when the wheels turn. He wondered what it was like for a child, growing up in this sun-blasted metal box in Beach Cove Court with a mother like Mizz Hataris.

He said, “You mean Bert just disappeared? Didn’t tell anyone where he was going?”

“Well, that’s a little strong, I’d say. He didn’t tell me , anyways. And I’d be the logical person he would tell, so I could keep an eye on his place. It ain’t that I’m nosy, but there ain’t a goddamn thing to look at out my window but Mr. Renway’s trailer. I ain’t seen him around, and like I said, his car ain’t-” Her eyes got wide. “Say, you don’t think he’s inside? I mean, somethin’ happened to him?”

“I don’t think so,” Carver assured her. “I looked in the windows and could tell there was no one there.”

“His wife, Ella, died a while back,” Willa Hataris said. “Damned fine woman. Peppery little thing. When she was alive they was always on the go. Drivin’ here, drivin’ there. Gettin’ enjoyment outa what time they had left. Nice old couple, you know?”

“Yeah,” Carver said. “It’s a shame this happened.”

“This?”

“The wife dying, I mean.”

“Did you know her too, Mr. Carter?”

“No, didn’t know Ella. Knew Bert from when we worked for the railroad up north. I was driving through and thought I’d stop by and see him.” A mosquito droned around his face, tried to flit up his nostril. He brushed it away. God, he was hot! Wished this conversation was over.

“Well,” she said, “maybe you can catch up with him if you’re gonna be around the area a while. But I can tell you, been quiet as a tomb over there at his place till this morning.” She leaned heavily on the metal doorjamb, trying not to smile. She had cast bait and was waiting for him to snap it up, show she had control of the situation. Carver was beginning to dislike Willa Hataris.

He took the hook. “What did you see this morning?”

“These fellas went in the Renway trailer, stayed a while, then come back outside and drove away. ’Bout seven thirty, I’d say it was.”

Carver moved closer to her. “How many fellas? And what’d they look like?”

“Two of ’em. A black guy and one that appeared like he was maybe Cuban. They had on nice suits, drove up in a gray car. I don’t think they was cops, ’cause they sorta looked around and moved like they didn’t really belong there, you know? Cops’d walk right up big and loud as you please, but not these two. They weaseled around outside a few minutes, then they let themselves into the trailer.”

“With a key?”

“I dunno. Coulda been.”

Or they were pros who knew how to slip cheap locks, Carver thought. “How long were they inside?”

“I’d say fifteen, twenty minutes. Listen, you ain’t a cop, are you? I mean, is somethin’ wrong over there?”

“I’m not police, I swear to you. If I was, I’d have to show you my ID, follow the rules. These two men, you remember what kinda car they were in?”

She didn’t answer immediately. If Carver wasn’t police, who was he really? she was wondering. But it didn’t matter much to her; she wanted to talk, after all, and she seemed satisfied he meant Renway no harm. Not if he knew nothing about the early-morning visitors, men she’d decided definitely weren’t police. “Make of car, you mean? Naw. Kinda squarish, newer car. Medium-size. ’Bout all I can tell you. Not one of them shoebox foreign jobs. Anybody buy one of them don’t know what it’s like bein’ outa work. Oughta leave this country and go to some foreign place and eat raw fish and get a job buildin’ cars.”

“I’ll say. Can you give me a better description of the two men?”

“Oh, not really. I seen ’em from a distance, of course. They both looked sorta tall. The Cuban one was slim, kinda the dandy. The black guy was heavier. Muscular. Fulla energy and looked all business, like Jesse Jackson pissed off. What I remember about ’em both, they was kinda grim. I could tell that even from here.”

“Were they carrying anything when they came out?”

“Naw. Neither in nor out. Seemed like they just went in, maybe looked around a while or sat waiting for Renway, then out they came and drove away. All there was to it. You think they’re friends of Renway’s he gave a key to, or what?”

“It could be that,” Carver said.

“Thought as much, Mr. Carter.”

He thanked her for her help and then set the tip of his cane and backed away. When he was halfway to his car, he twisted his torso and looked back at her. Saw her fade into the dimness of her trailer and close the door.

She was watching, he was sure, as he lowered himself into the Olds and drove away into the merciless glaring day. She’d probably seen the old, rusty car when he’d arrived, and figured from the first he wasn’t a cop. She was a woman who’d know.

On the highway, heading south toward Fort Lauderdale, he sat in the beating turmoil of hot wind and thought about what Willa Hataris had told him. The Cuban she’d described was probably Ralph Palmer, who’d contacted and hired Renway. Whoever had hired Renway knew he was dead. Murdered. They no doubt wanted to make sure there was nothing in his mobile home that might lead the police to them-when the police inevitably discovered it wasn’t Frank Wesley but Renway in the burned-out Cadillac. Covering their asses, all right.

At least two people other than McGregor and Carver were aware of the Renway-for-Wesley exchange: the black man and Ralph Palmer. Carver thought the reason for the impersonation itself would be simple enough and so should be relatively easy to discover.

He didn’t realize he was wrong about that.

Didn’t realize the Olds was being followed by two men in a medium-size gray Dodge.

Carver checked into the Carib Terrace late that afternoon. He’d stayed there before; the woman behind the desk, who owned the motel with her husband, seemed to recognize him. She asked if he wanted a corner room for the price of one of the smaller inside units. Carver said sure. She smiled and gave him a registration card to fill out, then handed him a key attached to a large red plastic tag. With a glance at his cane, she asked if he needed help with his luggage. He told her no thanks, trying not to let his irritation show. Telling himself not to take offense-for all the woman knew, he was traveling with a steamer trunk.

His room was on the southeast corner on the first floor. The Carib Terrace, one of the smaller motels on Ocean Boulevard, had only two stories. Each room had a view of the private beach and the rolling Atlantic. On the Ocean Boulevard side of the building was a small heated swimming pool that smelled strongly of chlorine. Two preschool kids were splashing around in the shallow end. A slim, tan woman in a red two-piece bathing suit was lying on her side on a large yellow beach towel keeping an eye on them. She averted her gaze for a second to take in Carver as he limped past her toward his room, carrying his scuffed leather suitcase. She made it a point to turn quickly away from him, as if he’d insulted her. He told himself he’d appealed to her and she resented it, but he didn’t really know. Who understood women except other women? Prince?

The room was large, with a small kitchen equipped with a compact white refrigerator and stove. The sink was stainless steel and tiny and had a dripping faucet. Deep red carpet spread to a king-size bed near wide glass doors that led to a patio and a couple of blue plastic-webbed lounge chairs. Beyond that was a strip of barren ground and then the gently sloping beach and the ocean.