John Lutz - Scorcher

“It’s lots of things despite Disney World,” Carver said. “And that’s a shame.”

“You’re not missing much, not viewing the body,” Desoto told him. “Just something charred that used to be a woman. It was the fire she died from; she was alive when she was torched. Like the others.”

“What about the accelerant?”

“The lab says it appears to be the same concoction that was used in the Fort Lauderdale and Pompano Beach murders. You surprised?”

“No. But where would Paul Kave get that kind of flammable mixture while he’s on the run?”

Desoto shrugged, an exquisite gesture; elegant man in an elegant suit. “Maybe he took a supply with him. He might think that way. That’s why head-case killers are especially dangerous; no way to know how or what they’re thinking. Not for sure, anyway.”

“Sometimes, if you understand how they tick, they can be the most predictable.”

“That what you been doing?” Desoto asked. “Learning about Paul Kave’s clockwork?”

“Been trying.” Carver watched the yellow ribbons for a moment. “What else do you know about this killing?”

Desoto ran a manicured hand over his dark hair in a gesture of unconscious vanity. Someone not knowing him well would never guess he was a tough cop. They’d see him as a threat to vulnerable females, and nothing more. Carver knew he was much more. Desoto fixed his somber brown eyes on Carver as he spoke: “Adelaide Finney-that’s the victim-was alone in Rags and Riches-that’s the dress shop. She was forty-seven, single, Caucasian. It’s a cubbyhole of a place, amigo, racks of clothes, couple of changing rooms with mirrors. One of the Finney woman’s regular customers went in to buy something and right away sniffed what it smells like after a person’s burned. Some of the dresses were charred, and she saw flames. The sprinkler system started spraying water all over the place, but the fire department hadn’t responded yet to an alarm network the shop’s hooked into. So the customer, a Missie Jeffries who lives out in Longwood, must have got there minutes after the murder. She ran out and phoned the police and fire department. When we got there, we found the remains of Adelaide Finney where she’d crawled under a dress rack. Her family said she was a big woman, but you’d never have guessed it by what was left.”

Carver resisted mental images and concentrated on the facts. “What was Paul Kave doing in a dress shop?”

“I’m afraid that’s obvious, amigo. It was a small shop with a woman alone. Nice and safe. He did this killing just for you, to warn you and to show you his power. That’s why he phoned you about it, to let you know how easy it is for him, how simple it’d be if he decided to make you his next victim.”

“Think he’s trying to get me to back off?”

“No, no, my friend. He knows you can’t back off this one. He wants you to understand what kind of game you’re in, and that eventually you’re going to lose. You’re his plaything. That scare you?”

“Yeah, but not enough.”

“See then, he’s right about you. You’re much better than competent at what you do, amigo , but in this instance you’ve got a perilous blind spot. A kind of Achilles’ heel.”

“Achilles didn’t see with his feet.”

“Better for him if he could have, though, eh?” Desoto flashed a sad, white smile.

The air-conditioner’s thermostat clicked off, then immediately back on. The tone of the unit’s hum didn’t change, and the yellow ribbons remained horizontal. The heat outside didn’t seem to notice that the sun had set. Carver gazed out at the blackness that crowded flat against the windowpanes. “How do you think he found out I’d been tracking him?”

“Could have happened a lot of ways. You’ve been flitting all over Florida like a dazed June bug, asking questions. The Kave kid is supposed to be brilliant. It probably took him about a minute to get on to you. Probably he simply caught mention of your name in the paper; guys like that sometimes enjoy reading about themselves. However he found out, I’m sure this last performance was all for you.”

“Wait a minute. It was in the news that the family hired me?”

“On back pages. But not that you’re the father of one of the victims. You didn’t know?”

“No. McGregor must have leaked it.”

“Most likely. He wants you waiting in the wings in case something goes wrong and a sacrificial goat is needed. His style. He might also be trying to spook Paul Kave, get him jumpy enough to screw up.”

“And Adelaide Finney dies as a result.”

“That’s how it is, amigo .”

Clutching his cane, Carver watched the blood recede from his knuckles. He didn’t like the notion that he was indirectly responsible for Adelaide Finney’s death, but he realized Desoto was probably right. First the matchbook, and now this. His involvement in the case might have led to the murder. Desoto knew what he was thinking but could offer no comfort.

“A shitty business we’re in, amigo. Could it be we should be selling insurance?”

“That’s a shitty business too.”

“Something else,” Desoto said. He opened a desk drawer, reached in, and drew out a patent-leather black belt with a silver buckle shaped like a sunflower. The end of the belt was charred. There was a price tag dangling on a string from the buckle. Carver could see “12.99” penned on the tag.

“This was on the shop counter near the register,” Desoto said, “as if the killer was going to buy it right before the murder. And this was on the floor nearby.” He reached into the drawer again, then dropped a bent piece of plastic on the desk alongside the belt.

“What is it?” Carver asked.

“A partially melted credit card,” Desoto said. “Look closely and you can read Paul Kave’s name.”

Carver got up and leaned on his cane, hovering over the desk lamp. He could make out the first name and the letter K on the mangled, blackened plastic that had once been a Visa card.

“The account number makes it his, too,” Desoto said. “This places him at the scene.”

“You check with the credit company records?”

“Of course. Paul Kave hasn’t charged anything on the card for six months. Paid cash for most everything, apparently.”

“Then why didn’t he pretend he was paying cash for the belt?”

“My guess is he’s running low on money. But there’s another possibility. He might have left this card behind deliberately, so you’d know for sure who burned the Finney woman.”

“Jesus!” Carver said. “Bragging. About that.”

“Looks that way, amigo. It’s the kind of thing you stir up when you get involved in a vendetta instead of your job. What you’re doing is dangerous, maybe more dangerous than you can see through your clouded judgment.”

Carver remained standing. He said nothing.

“How about we go out somewhere?” Desoto said. “I can get away from here for a while. We could have a late-night snack and talk about this. Talk about whatever you want. It could be we’d solve many of the world’s problems.”

“No. I’m going to Edwina’s. To have a few beers and try to chase the last couple of days away, at least for a while.”

“You getting along with McGregor?”

“He’s an asshole,” Carver said.

“Since I’ve known him. Your son’s murder is his case, though. Something you need to remember.”

“But the Finney case is yours.”

Desoto smiled. Ivory teeth against tanned flesh. Crow’s feet at the corners of knowing brown eyes. Handsome matador, ready to slay a bull or a heart. “That allows some latitude,” he admitted. He knew what was coming next and waited patiently, not speaking.