John Lutz - Scorcher

They made it to the bed and Carver lay down and she removed his shoes, dropping each of them to the floor with a loud thunk. Then she took off her own shoes and stretched out next to him. The bedsprings squeaked, then were quiet.

“I’m going to find whoever did this,” he said. “Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

“I wouldn’t,” she told him. “I hope you find the slime bag and kill him.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Now rest, why don’t you?” She reached over and stroked his forehead. Her fingers were cool and weightless.

Whatever was in the pill worked fast. Carver remembered resting his head between Edwina’s breasts, barely aware of his own sobbing.

He fell asleep that way and didn’t dream.

Blotto.

When he awoke early the next morning he was calm, but no less determined. He and Edwina drove to a restaurant down the coast highway and had a big breakfast of wheatcakes, bacon, and coffee, then he called Desoto and said he was driving into Orlando to talk about what he was sure the Fort Lauderdale police wouldn’t tell him.

Carver and Edwina had brought their own cars. On the restaurant’s sun-tortured gravel parking lot, Edwina kissed him good-bye and then drove her Mercedes back toward Del Moray.

He knew, at least for the present, that she’d be there waiting for him. Something about them. They each needed an obsession.

It was about an hour’s drive to Orlando. Carver took 95 south, and the Bee Line Expressway into the city. Then he threaded his way through downtown traffic to the tan brick and pale stone Municipal Justice Building on Hughey. He parked the Olds in a rear lot, near several dusty, beige police cars with roofbar cherry lights. As he entered the building and made his way to Desoto’s office, the heat from outside seemed to cling to him with perverse, cloying affection.

Desoto was sitting behind his gray metal desk. His suitcoat was off and draped on a hanger suspended from a doorknob, but his tie was knotted tightly and the sleeves of his silky white shirt were fastened at the wrists with gold cuff links. A window air-conditioner behind him was humming and gurgling softly, two yellow ribbons tied to its grille fluttering like pennants in the cool flow of air. On the sill of the window next to the air-conditioner sat a portable radio with oversized twin speakers. Carver was glad to find that the radio wasn’t emitting its usual background stream of Latin music that Desoto seemed to need to help propel him through his days.

“Ah, amigo !” Desoto said, when he glanced up and saw Carver. “You feeling better today?”

“In some ways,” Carver said. He lowered himself onto an oak chair near the desk and hooked his cane over its spindled back. “In other ways I feel just the same.”

“Life goes on.”

“Not my son’s.”

“Yeah, that’s a point I concede with regret.”

“You sent Edwina to me.”

“I thought she should be with you.”

“Thanks.” Carver’s voice was flat.

Desoto shot his dashing devil smile, pleased with himself. “After a reasonable period of mourning, Carver, you’ll feel differently about things. Naturally it’s hard for you to see matters clearly now. Grief clouds our vision but doesn’t last forever.”

“Spare me the sugar.”

“Sure.”

“What have the Lauderdale police got on the burnings?”

“Show yourself some mercy, amigo .”

“You show me some.”

Desoto made a helpless throwaway gesture with his right hand, gold ring glinting. “Witnesses at the Pompano Beach murder say only that there was nothing unusual about the man they glimpsed running from the shop. No agreement on hair coloring or clothing. Two different witnesses; could have been two different guys they saw. The word average comes up often in the report.”

“Not very revealing,” Carver said. But he knew eyewitnesses seldom gave accurate descriptions, even when a crime was committed three feet in front of them. Or even against them. He looked out the window where the radio sat; the sky was pale blue and cloudless, as if bleached by the fierceness of the sun.

“It means we’re not looking for someone obese, much over six feet tall, or instantly recognizable,” Desoto said. “Or with orange, spiked hair. Mr. Average. Not a former presidential candidate. Narrows things down.”

“Any fingerprints?”

“Hundreds. The souvenir shop did a brisk business in shells, suntan lotion, and Florida T-shirts. You know the kind of place: Visa-card heaven for tourists.”

“How about at the restaurant where Chipper died?”

“Nothing to fix on there, either. Guy walks in with a small scuba diver’s air tank; not so unusual that near the ocean. Whoosh! and two people are dead. Nobody notices him going in or out from the street, or if they do they don’t pay particular attention to him. Except. .”

Carver felt his heartbeat accelerate; he leaned forward, bracing himself with a hand on his extended stiff leg. He knew Desoto, knew he had something.

“Not a thing on the restaurant killings,” Desoto said, “but a couple of people at the murder in Pompano Beach say they saw a car leaving the area about that time, driving fast. A navy blue, late-model Ford with a white roof and a bashed-in right front fender, they think. They’re not sure. Nobody’s sure of anything yet. Maybe nobody should ever be sure of anything.”

Carver ignored Desoto’s musings. At times the lieutenant could be too philosophical for a cop. It grated.

“There might be no connection here, Carver. Coincidence. But then, coincidence is a policeman’s friend and enemy.”

“What style Ford?”

“Big. The regular sedan, judging by the scanty description. Nobody noticed its plate numbers.”

Carver sat still and thought about that. From outside the office came the faint staccato undercurrent of a dispatcher’s voice directing units to various reported crimes, reminding Carver of when he started on the force as a patrol-car officer. His future had seemed clearly charted then, before his life underwent a series of abrupt and tragic changes of direction. The divorce, the bullet, and now this. A bad stretch, all right.

“What about the lab report on whatever was used as flammable material?” he asked.

“As near as they can tell so far, it was a naphtha cleaning solvent, probably jetted by compressed air or propane. That’s a petroleum product, amigo, and this one was turned to a thick, sticky consistency with the addition of chemicals.”

“What kind of chemicals?”

Desoto rooted through some papers on his cluttered desk, singled out one, and said, “Aluminum soaps, is what it says here. Added to a liquid hydrocarbon-that’s the naphtha.”

“Aluminum soaps. That’s what they add to gasoline to make napalm.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Nobody sells something like that in a diver’s oxygen tank,” Carver said. “Or in a propane tank.”

“No, but it would be possible to fill part of a reusable tank with the naphtha mixture, then take it somewhere and have the propane pumped in without anyone suspecting. Or somebody with rudimentary knowledge-say, a scuba diver-could transfer the propane or oxygen from another tank to supply the propellant. We figure an ordinary welder’s igniter was used to create the spark. The guy could twist the valve, snap the igniter for fire, all in about two seconds. Presto! Flamethrower.”

“Christ!” Carver said.

“Scary, eh?” Desoto said. “And sick. We’re running checks to find area people with histories of mental illness that might conceivably result in that sort of action.”

“How long will that take?”