John Lutz - Tropical Heat

Marillo didn’t smile. Most humor escaped him. “No, and the wear on the shoes’ heels and soles indicated no irregularity in his walk other than a slight tendency to turn his left foot out as he strode. Wait just a second, Carver.” Marillo stood up and left the glass cubicle. Carver patiently leaned on his cane and waited. The lab smelled more like Pine-Sol than formaldehyde.

When Marillo returned he was carrying a results form sheet, an evidence envelope, and a blue sport jacket and a pair of black leather dress shoes encased in clear plastic. After hanging the jacket on a hook attached to one of the cubicle’s supports, he placed the envelope on a corner of his desk, then the shoes alongside it with their toes pointed the same way as the pen and pencils. True north without a doubt. Then he sat back down, adjusted his glasses, and scanned the results form. He read aloud in a precise monotone. If voices were flavored, his would indeed have been vanilla.

“The insides of the shoes yielded some black thread, probably from Davis’s socks. Also a blade of grass and some lint and blue fibers, all probably picked up from the carpet when he was in stockinged feet before putting on his shoes.” He opened the envelope and dumped its contents onto the desk. “Found in the jacket pockets: a comb that contained three strands of straight brown hair; a wallet containing credit cards, identification, and one hundred thirty dollars; two ticket stubs from the Crown Theater dated May fifth; a wadded Kleenex tissue containing traces of mucus; and a half-used book of paper matches whose cover is lettered ‘Earl’s Market.’ ”

“No change or keys?”

“You know men don’t usually carry keys or pocket change in their jackets, Carver.”

Carver had been chastised. He felt like bowing his head. “Was there anything else?”

“When we vacuumed the coat we got lint, several strands of brown hair that matched those on the comb, two strands of medium-length wavy black hair, and some dirt on the cuff that matched the dirt where the coat was found.”

“Are you sure the dirt matches?” Carver asked.

Marillo glared at him. “It contains precisely the same nitrogen content. And the minerals-”

“I’ll take your word it’s the same dirt,” Carver interrupted.

“The shoes are size ten lace-up dress shoes,” Marillo said. “About fifty dollars a pair. The jacket is a Coast Trendsetter, mass-produced but neatly altered as if it’s been to a tailor. It was bought fairly recently, maybe a year ago at most.”

“Maybe?”

“Sorry,” Marillo said. “Finding its origin is your job.”

“Used to be my job,” Carver corrected. He doubted if finding out where Davis had bought the coat or had had it altered would help much. That hair that wasn’t the color of Edwina’s could be something or nothing. “Exactly how long were the two strands of wavy black hair you found on the jacket?”

“Five and three-fourths inches and four inches, respectively,” Marillo said. “The hairs are fine, broken off.”

“Male or female?”

“Could be either. They have a perm solution on them to make them wave, but that doesn’t necessarily indicate the sex. Lots of men are getting permanents these days.” Marillo’s eyes darted to Carver’s gleaming pate. “And hair transplants.”

Carver ignored the remark; he knew that Marillo’s work had imbued him with a protective insensitivity, and the particular, precise lab man actually didn’t suspect that he might step on sensibilities while stating facts. It would be interesting if the hairs were female, if Willis Davis wasn’t as deeply in love with Edwina Talbot as she thought and was stepping out on her. Might he have left Edwina to be with his other lover? Carver doubted that. A fake suicide was a troublesome and complicated way to break off a relationship. Probably someone with wavy black hair had simply brushed up against Davis, or perhaps hung a jacket on a hook next to his.

“How old would you say Davis’s shoes are?” Carver asked, noting the worn condition of the soles and heels through the transparent plastic bag. He used the tip of his cane to poke and shift the bag so he could see the shoes more clearly.

“Judging by the condition of the leather, I’d say at least three years.”

“Have they been resoled or heeled?”

“No.”

“Would you say a skillful tailor altered the sport jacket?”

“No. But it’s still a better job than most department-store tailors do. And more extensive.”

“More extensive how?”

“The jacket’s a forty-two regular. The sleeves were shortened slightly, and the coat was taken in at the sides-not tucked, the way cheaper tailors might do it, but sewn in tighter all the way down each side seam so the coat wouldn’t bell out.”

“That pretty well covers everything about the coat,” Carver said, impressed.

“Not quite. There was an approximately half-inch-diameter ketchup stain on the left lapel.”

“So Davis likes or liked ketchup and is or was an average-sized man with short arms. And a little on the thin side.”

“Maybe not thin,” Marillo said. “Maybe just particular about the way his clothes fit. I have my own coats altered almost the way his was. And the sleeves aren’t all that short. It’s possible, too, that he’s a meticulous dresser and wants his shirt cuffs to show well below the sleeve.”

Carver made a mental note to check with Edwina about Davis’s sleeve length. He must have left some shirts at her home along with his other clothes. Carver stepped closer for a better look at the jacket. It told him nothing; it looked as if it might fit him, Carver, without further alterations. It wouldn’t hurt to ask Edwina about all of Davis’s clothes sizes. Or look himself. A romp through Davis’s closet might prove revealing.

“Anything else you want to know?” Marillo asked. It was his way of saying that Carver had learned all the shoes and the coat and its contents could tell him, and Marillo was yearning to return to his true love-work.

“What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?” Carver asked.

The question surprised Marillo. “Vanilla. Why?”

Carver stabbed his cane at the tile floor in disappointment. “Just curious. Thanks for the help in my quest for Willis Davis.”

“ Have I helped you?”

“Sure. I’ve narrowed it down to planet Earth.” Carver started to leave.

“ French vanilla,” Marillo said behind him. “I like crushed pecans and Kahlua liqueur over it.”

“Ah,” Carver said, brightening, “a secret life.”

“Huh?”

Carver didn’t answer. He left Marillo with this small piece of the day that didn’t fit, and walked from the lab.

On his way out of the building, he stopped at a public phone in the hall and used the directory to find the address of Sun South, where, until recently, a man was employed who walked with his left toe pointed out and liked ketchup.

The drive to Sun South took Carver a little less than an hour. He put the top down on the Olds and let the wind dispel the heat of the sun. He was already tanned dark from his therapeutic swims; no need to worry about sunburn. The past few months had toughened him in and out, created a man not only stronger where he had been broken, but stronger everywhere. If he wasn’t careful, he might find himself getting fond of adversity.

The Sun South time-sharing complex consisted of over a hundred apartments stacked in half a dozen circular, pale concrete-and-glass towers, stuck in the sand like so many sawed-off tubes. They were nestled together like uncomfortable aliens stranded on the flat beach. As Carver wound the Olds along the highway and got closer, he saw some smaller buildings clustered around the towers’ bases: a clubhouse, golf course, and swimming pool, tennis courts, and what appeared to be a restaurant and small shopping mall. Everything for wealthy vacationers gone to a southern respite of sand and sea, and a sun they usually too late learned to avoid. There was plenty of money here, Carver noted; Sun South had been costly to build and the time shares it sold would be expensive.