John Lutz - Bloodfire

Carver stood up and limped over to the window. It couldn’t be opened, but just looking outside made it seem easier to breathe. He watched the unmarked Pontiac, McGregor’s tall form bent over the steering wheel so he’d have headroom, turn onto Magellan and pass from sight.

He knew McGregor had successfully goaded him, and he didn’t like it.

Mayor McGregor.

My God, it had a ring to it!

Carver drove to the Del Moray marina for lunch. He sat in a window booth at the Sea Delite restaurant, ate deep-fried shrimp, and sipped cold Budweiser while he thought about McGregor’s visit.

Outside of Gomez’s circle, only Carver had talked with Beth Gomez and knew that Roberto wasn’t trying to find his wife to protect her, but to kill her. Gomez had undoubtedly hired the sniper who’d murdered Beth’s sister, and if the law could prove it, Gomez would be charged with homicide if not drug trafficking. The result would be the same with either charge: a future of locks and bars.

Carver dipped a shrimp in cocktail sauce and popped it into his mouth, wondering as he chewed if it had been Hirsh on the roof of the building across from the Gomez condo. Probably not. Gomez had a stable of thugs at his disposal; he’d have stationed men at points where Beth might show up. Men with orders to kill. There was no shortage of people who’d obey that order in the world Gomez lived in, because there was no choice but to obey. Life, and death, made simple.

Carver ordered another beer and watched the smooth white hulls of pleasure boats bob gently in unison at their moorings. Del Moray was for the most part a wealthy retirement community, and some of its well-fixed citizens were playing with their floating toys. The white hair, white belts, and white shoes out there in the sun almost caused the eye to ache. Stomach paunches burdened most of the men. The lean, tanned limbs and torsos of many of the women foretold how they’d not only outlive their overweight husbands but would look years younger at the funerals. Wealthy, attractive widows with yachts were always in demand. Topmasts and tummy tucks. Florida was the land of the plastic surgeon, as well as beaches, Disney, drugs, and a nasty strain of zealous fundamentalist religion. Still, Carver knew if he went with Edwina to Hawaii, he’d miss it.

He finished his beer, settled with the waitress, then drove back to the office. There was a rental car in the only shady spot on the lot, so Carver parked the Olds in the sun and limped across the baking gravel to shove open the door to his reception room. He’d turned the thermostat down, and cool air hit him like a chilled wave. Felt great.

He’d limped to his desk and was checking his answering machine for messages (none) when the phone rang. Snatching up the receiver before the end of the second ring, when his recorded outgoing message would begin, he identified himself and waited for the caller to speak.

“This is Beth Gomez, Carver.”

He thought about hanging up, but instead said, “Hello,” rather stupidly.

“I wanna talk to you again.” Fear gave her voice a jagged edge, as if her words hurt her throat.

“We already talked.”

“There’s something I shoulda told you but didn’t.”

“Tell me now.”

“Not on the phone.”

“All right, come over to my office.”

“I can’t. Roberto might have somebody watching it.”

“Not since he personally and forcefully accepted my resignation,” Carver said.

“Ha! Roberto doesn’t accept resignations.”

Maybe she had a point; Gomez wasn’t accepting hers with good grace, unless you didn’t count trying to kill her.

“Meet me in the park near the marina?” she pleaded.

Carver said, “I just came from the marina.”

“I know. I saw you there. At first I didn’t have a chance to approach you. Then, when I could have walked over to you, I was too afraid. By the time I’d made up my mind, you’d driven away.”

“What were you doing at the marina?”

“I followed you there from your office, after that tall man left. If the restaurant hadn’t been so crowded I’d have contacted you there, but I couldn’t risk it. Crowds make me jumpy these days. He a cop, the tall, mean-looking guy?”

“Sort of. Why?”

“It’s kinda stamped on him.”

“You must wanna talk to me in the worst way,” Carver said.

“It’s more important than life or death.”

What the hell did that mean?

“I gotta hang up,” she said. “Been on the line almost long enough for the call to be traced.”

“You on a public phone?”

“Yeah.”

“Then don’t worry.”

“Carver, you just don’t know what and who drug money’ll buy. I’m not even sure your phone’s not tapped. But I’ve gotta take a chance here, I’ll wait for you in the park. On one of the benches facing the ocean.”

“I didn’t say I was coming.”

“I know. But I’ll pray you’ll turn up. You’re the kinda guy who answers prayers.”

“Not all of them.”

“Didn’t say you were a saint.” She hung up.

Carver replaced the droning receiver in its cradle. The office that had felt so cool when he’d first walked in now seemed too warm.

He didn’t have to meet with Beth Gomez in the marina park, but he knew he would. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because whoever had sent a bullet into Belinda Jackson’s head should have to pay. Maybe because Roberto Gomez was a walking danger that belonged in prison. Or maybe because he, Carver, knew down deep the truth of what Beth Gomez had just mentioned: Roberto wasn’t the type to accept resignations. Or possibly Carver was exactly what he’d been told he was, a dog with a rag.

He did know he wasn’t meeting Beth Gomez to answer her prayer. He knew himself that well. He wasn’t a saint, he was a survivor.

She was where she said she’d be, seated on one of the pale concrete benches that faced the ocean and its wide horizon,

Carver had made sure he wasn’t followed. He parked the Olds near the white Ford Escort she’d driven earlier to his cottage, Then he limped across the hard, uneven ground toward where she sat, careful about where he planted the tip of his cane.

She was just sitting there watching him. She hadn’t moved. When he got closer, he saw she had some sort of bundle in her lap. She’d shed the baggy gray dress and wasn’t trying to disguise her beauty now, had on khaki safari pants with oversized flap pockets and a thick belt pulled tight around her waist. Her tailored white blouse’s collar was spread wide enough to reveal a gold necklace against smooth, dusky flesh. Her breasts hinted at firmness and bulk beneath the blouse. Caused Carver to wonder what she looked like nude. She had her straightened hair parted on the side now, neatly combed. A touch of purple eye shadow. Her features seemed more delicate, except for her wide, angular cheekbones. Born into another life, she might have become a rich and famous model. On the other hand, in her own fashion, she’d capitalized plenty on her looks.

When Carver sat down next to her on the hard bench, he saw that the bundle in her lap was a bunched blue blanket.

It squawked.

Beth drew aside a corner of the blanket and a tiny, dazed face scrunched up when the light hit it. She got a bottle from the folds of the blanket, fit the nipple in the infant’s mouth, and said, “This is Adam.” Her tone suggested Carver should shake the kid’s hand and call him a likely lad.

Carver was trying to put it all together, but none of it fit quite right. “Adam Gomez?”

Beth nodded, gazing down at the infant the way women do, as if posing for a church’s stained-glass window. “My son. And Roberto’s.”

Carver watched the baby work on the rubber nipple, then watched the masts of the moored sailboats doing their swaying, subtle dance in rhythm with the waves that washed gently against the dock. What was going on? What was the deal here? He said, “You told me Gomez was after you because the child had died due to your heroin addiction.”