John Lutz: Burn

“I just came from seeing Marla’s parents. Turns out Marla was adopted.”

“I don’t see the significance,” Beth said.

“I’m not sure I do, either, but it’s worth exploring.”

A young family came in from outside, Mom and Dad and three little preschool-age blond girls. Mom and Dad were sweaty and looked to be in mild shock. The girls looked irritable. One of them grabbed at the hair of another. They all screamed. Mom and Dad seemed not to have heard. Carver hoped they wouldn’t sit near his table.

Beth must have heard the screaming over the phone. “Where are you, Fred?”

“Just outside Orlando, about to dine on Florida tourist cuisine.”

He observed the waitress setting his food on his table, looking around for him. When her gaze slid his way, he waved to her. She smiled and nodded, finished laying out his lunch, then moved away toward the kitchen.

“I was hard on you this morning,” Beth said. “I’m sorry.”

“No need.”

He watched the couple with the loud kids go to a table all the way in the back of the restaurant. No, wait. Only two kids. The third blond girl was sitting at the table behind Carver’s, demanding that the family sit there. Mom and Dad looked at each other, shrugged, rose slowly from their chairs, and the girl at the table behind Carver’s was joined by the rest of the family.

“Yes, there is a need,” Beth said. “I apologize. I can be a bitch sometimes.”

“You’ve been consistently swell before today.”

“Don’t be ironic, Fred. I appreciate what you told me this morning, that no matter what I decide you’ll stand by me, and we’ll be all right together.”

“I meant it,” Carver said. “Sometimes it takes me a while to get where I need to go. I have a hard time empathizing, putting myself in other people’s skins unless I’m trying to figure them out in relation to my work.”

“You got there, though,” Beth said. “Most men don’t.”

One of the blond girls was turned around in her chair and had developed an interest in Carver’s food.

“Speaking of going places,” he said, “after lunch I’m driving over to talk with Gloria Bream. It’s possible she knows where Brant is.”

“Maybe he’ll call and tell you himself,” Beth said. “He’s your client. Have you checked your answering machine at the office?”

“No. I’m going to as soon as I hang up.”

The blond girl reached for Carver’s sandwich but Mom clutched her wrist, stopping her just in time. Mom looked around, saw Carver on the phone, and smiled at him. Kids, said the smile. What are you gonna do?

“Want me to call you when Jeff gets the information on Portia and Marla?” Beth asked.

“I’ll call you,” Carver said. “Or I’ll come by the cottage. I’ll be back sometime late afternoon.”

“If you get a chance, stop someplace and buy some lemons.”

He looked over at the mountains of citrus fruit displayed in bins outside the restaurant and told her lemons would be no problem.

Then he hung up, fed more change into the phone, and called his office. When his machine answered, he punched in the code that would play his messages.

A man wanting to sell him international mutual funds had called, and Desoto. No one else. Not Joel Brant.

Carver decided to drop in and see Desoto instead of returning his call. He hung up the phone then limped over to his table. He didn’t give the international funds a thought; he had a difficult enough time figuring out Florida.

Lunch looked terrible but tasted good. Especially the Gallopin’ Grapefruit Freezy. The little blond girl who wanted his sandwich swiveled around in her chair again and stared at him with eyes like laser beams.

He ate fast and got out of there, pausing only to buy lemons.

Desoto looked up from what he was working on and smiled at Carver. He was holding a round magnifying glass with a long handle in his left hand, the kind Sherlock Holmes used. Before him on his desk lay his gold wristwatch and an array of miniature tools. The watch’s back had been removed. In Desoto’s other hand was a tiny screwdriver with a yellow plastic handle.

“You ever try to replace a watch battery, amigo?” Desoto asked.

Carver leaned on his cane and shook his head no.

“You’ve got to remove these two minuscule screws you can hardly even see. Do it with this tiny screwdriver almost too small to pick up with your bare fingers, all the time watching what you’re doing through a magnifying glass.”

“You better take the watch to a jeweler.”

“Yeah.” He put down the magnifying glass and carefully moved everything to the side. “I thought it would be something like changing a battery in a flashlight.” Wiping his hands with a white handkerchief he produced from a pocket, he leaned back in his chair. His windowsill stereo was silent today, maybe so his concentration on the watch wouldn’t be broken. “I wanted to let you know we got a print from your office that matches the ones on the wrecked Harley and on the trunk lid of Spotto’s rental car.”

“Now all you need is Achilles Jones.”

“That’s another reason I wanted to talk to you. A nineteen ninety-four Harley-Davidson Electra Glide Ultra was stolen from in front of a biker bar over on Vermont Avenue late last night. The owner apparently tried to stop the thief.”

“Apparently?”

“Nobody saw what happened. The guy who owned the bike went outside to get cigarettes from his saddlebag. When he didn’t come back, one of his friends went to see what was keeping him. Found him dead behind a line of parked motorcycles. His nose and eye area had been smashed in hard enough to drive bone splinters into his brain. The M.E. says the fatal injury required incredible force and was done with a blunt instrument, possibly a huge fist.”

Carver told Desoto about the motorcycle tire tracks Wade Schultz had pointed out this morning at Brant Estates.

“I’ll get somebody out there and makes casts of the tread,” Desoto said. “Something else. The dead biker-Rawley Everwatt was his name-was holding a knife with blood on the blade. Must have taken a run at the thief and got some of him. It’s the same type as a blood sample we took off the wrecked motorcycle after its run-in with your car.”

Carver grinned appreciatively. “You really are good at your work.”

“So Jones is wounded beyond whatever injuries he received in the accident with your car. But there’s no way to know how bad he’s hurt from either incident. He might have superficial injuries from the accident, and Everwatt might only have managed to nick him with the knife before getting punched out of the world.” Desoto’s tanned features creased to form his handsome white smile, but there was nothing of humor there. “The case builds. When we get this Jones, we’ll have him good.”

“He’s too large to go unnoticed forever,” Carver said.

Desoto picked up his wristwatch and carefully snapped its back into place. He stared at the watch as if contemplating putting it on his wrist, then wrapped it in the white handkerchief and slipped it into an inside pocket of his pale yellow suit coat. “Why were you at Brant Estates this morning?” he asked.

“To talk to Brant’s foreman, Wade Schultz.”

Carver told Desoto about Marla’s claim that Brant tried to run her down. About Brant’s disappearance, then Marla’s. About McGregor’s repeated threat to nail him as Brant’s accomplice.

Desoto’s brown eyes darkened and seemed to lose depth, as if his attention had flagged and turned inward. Carver knew better. He’d seen Desoto angry before.

“This gets more serious,” Desoto said. “And don’t worry about McGregor. His Marla Cloy and Brant are part of my homicide case. I’m going to give him a call.”