John Lutz - Lightning

The Surfside was a twenty-story building that looked like a stack of blue-and-white ice cube trays. It was one of half a dozen luxury hotels lined side by side on the most expensive real estate in Del Moray. The spacious lobby, all tile and glass and polished stainless steel, added to the icy impression and seemed as cold as the inside of a refrigerator. All of the buildings on Cortez Way were air-conditioned almost to the point of frost. The wealthy clientele seemed to require it. Carver had seen women wearing bikinis, high heels, and mink jackets cruising the exclusive shops on the palm-lined avenue. They seemed one with the blue herons and flamingos roaming the immaculately tended grounds of the hotels, exotic and not at all out of place.

Carver had no trouble getting Brama’s room number from the desk clerk. He didn’t phone upstairs before riding the elevator to the nineteenth floor. It got colder the higher he went.

When he knocked on the door to Brama’s room, it opened almost immediately.

A sixtyish, potbellied man with steel gray hair combed straight back without a part looked out at Carver with bright blue eyes. He was medium height, wore pleated, pin-striped gray dress pants, a white shirt, and broad paisley suspenders. He smelled strongly of cologne. The scent wasn’t offensive, like McGregor’s bargain brands. Brama smelled clean and expensive. His sleeves were rolled up neatly and he was holding a white towel, still absently going through the motions of drying his hands.

“I thought you were room service,” he said. His blue gaze flicked up and down Carver, hesitating only a moment as it took in the cane. Brama smiled. “Please do come in, Mr. Carver.”

Brama had a corner suite. The cream-colored drapes on the wide, right-angled window were open to reveal a vast view of sea and shore. A tiny palm-top computer sat next to the phone on a table by the cream leather sofa, a coiled black wire connecting it to the base unit.

As soon as Brama closed the door, there was another knock. “Excuse me,” he said to Carver, and reopened the door.

This time it really was room service. Brama instructed the bellhop to carry the covered tray out to the balcony.

“Help yourself to something from the service bar,” he said to Carver, pointing to the wood-paneled door of a small refrigerator set in a credenza near a desk. “There’s enough on the tray for two, I’m sure.”

Carver got a bottle of Perrier water from the refrigerator and walked toward the sliding doors that led to the balcony, the tip of his cane leaving deep, round impressions the size of quarters in the plush blue carpet.

There was a sweeping view from the balcony. The white hulls of boats from the marina dotted the ocean, and far out to sea an oil tanker and a cruise ship were visible, squatting on the horizon like islands. A gull soared past, lower than Carver, and seemed to glance up at him with amused disdain; what was a human with a cane to a creature with wings?

The bellhop placed the tray on a white, decorative iron table and whipped the white cloth napkin from it to reveal a squat silver tea or coffee pot, a wicker basket of assorted pastries, and two plates whose contents were concealed beneath silver covers.

Brama held the room service check steady in the breeze and signed it with a flourish, poked his gold pen back in his shirt pocket, then tipped the bellhop with a five-dollar bill.

As the bellhop left, Brama smiled and motioned for Carver to sit opposite him in one of the matching wrought iron chairs. Carver did. Brama waited until he was seated before sitting down himself. He had a beaming, friendly smile. Carver knew that behind it, Brama was assessing him.

“There’s enough tea here for both of us,” Brama said, “if you’d prefer that to bottled water. And do help yourself to a roll.”

Carver declined the tea but chose a small cheese Danish. Brama tucked a large white napkin into his collar and removed a silver cover from a plate of bacon and eggs, another cover from over a grapefruit half that had a maraschino cherry perched in its center like an exposed secret heart. He began eating with obvious enjoyment, saying nothing, playing the good host but putting Carver slightly ill at ease, waiting for him to fill time with words and possibly say something unwise. Carver knew the game. He sipped Perrier water and enjoyed the view.

Finally Brama lifted his napkin for a moment to dab delicately at his lips, which were curved in a faint smile. “I’m going to subpoena your friend Beth Jackson,” he said. “And possibly you.” He gave his tea bag a final few dips in his cup of water, then lifted it by its tabbed string and placed it on a saucer. “I’m sorry about having to do that, but you’re both eye witnesses to the Women’s Light bombing.”

Carver showed no reaction. “Is that why you wanted to talk?”

“Not entirely. Do you feel uncomfortable speaking with me without legal counsel present, Mr. Carver?”

“No. I have no reason to feel uncomfortable.”

“That’s a fine, forthright answer, even if some, quite wrongly, would deem it a foolish one. I wouldn’t think the highest of a man who would voluntarily sit across from an attorney in a conversation that might involve a homicide if he felt uncomfortable doing so.”

“I didn’t see much that morning. And nothing that would help your client’s case.”

“I prefer witnesses who didn’t see much, but remember what they did see.”

“When the bomb went off, I was sitting in my car half a block away.”

“That gives you distance, objectivity. I like that in a witness.”

Carver felt like someone being blocked whenever he moved a checker.

“Your friend Miss Jackson is another story,” Brama said,

“She is,” Carver said. “She was closer.”

“Yes. I’m truly sorry about that.” Brama sipped his tea. “I’m not so much interested in what you saw the day of the bombing, Mr. Carver, as I am in what you’ve seen since. I understand you’ve been investigating, plying your trade-as well you should-and that she is working on a series of articles for Burrow. ”

“She’s plying her trade, too,” Carver said.

Brama waved a strip of bacon he’d been about to bite into. “Of course, of course. As she should be, working to ease the shock and memory of her experience. Do believe I’m not trying to pump you for information, Mr. Carver.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve learned that true and useful information is a shy creature that most often comes unbidden in its own time and place. And I understand perfectly well that your personal interests lie with the prosecution in this case.” Brama took a generous bite of scrambled egg, then a sip of tea. “But before we get into legalities, I thought we might speak off the record.”

“Are you going to try to convince me Norton’s innocent?”

“No, we won’t get into that.”

“I’m not sure he’s guilty,” Carver said.

Brama sat back and smiled at him. His right eye picked up the blue of the sea and glinted in the sun like a diamond. “Oh? Why not?”

“There’s been another clinic bombing, and your client’s in jail and obviously couldn’t be the perpetrator.”

Brama smiled wide, winked, and shook his head. “It doesn’t suit you to play dumb, Mr. Carver.”

“I don’t consider myself overly smart.”

“Well, that’s fine. That’s sensible. A man who sees himself as uncommonly intelligent probably isn’t.” Brama leaned forward. There was a dark droplet of tea on his chin. “But forget intelligence. What about instincts? Do you have good instincts, Mr. Carver?”

“Sometimes.”

“Ah! So much more important than intelligence, especially in your line of endeavor.” The drop of tea plummeted and made a vertical streak on the white napkin tucked into the neck of Brama’s shirt.