“Are Frank and Selma Everman really welfare recipients? Is the Blue Flamingo actually a welfare hotel? Do either of the Evermans have a record of child abuse or any other offense? How long have they really been in Miami?”
With a glitter of gold, Desoto held up a hand to stop Carver. “In short, were they telling you the truth, eh, amigo?”
“In short.”
Desoto arched a dark eyebrow. “Your instincts tell you the Evermans were lying?”
“Instincts again, huh? You and Henry Tiller. I don’t know if it was instinct or common sense. The Evermans sure weren’t eager to talk to me.”
“Not unusual, for people living their kind of life. You live on the dole, you get suspicious of authority. Not without good reason.” Desoto idly twisted the gold ring on his left hand, sending shimmers of reflected light dancing over his crossed legs. “What else was there about the Evermans that made you think they weren’t leveling?”
“Maybe nothing,” Carver admitted. “I’m not sure myself what I’m fishing for, or even if there’s anything to catch.”
“What happened to Leonard Everman, my friend, it happens hundreds of times a year or more, here and there around the country. Runaways get mixed up with drugs and the people involved in the drug trade, and it kills them. One way or the other, sooner or later, it kills them, even if it leaves them walking around and breathing.”
“I’d still like to verify the Evermans are on the up-and-up.”
Desoto looked thoughtful. “‘The up-and-up.’ That sounds like a line from a hundred old movies.” He was a classic film buff. “I think Humphrey Bogart said it a lot. Or maybe it was one of the Three Stooges. I’m not sure which one.”
Carver said, “Does it make a difference?”
“Only to the Stooges, I guess. I’ll do what I can, amigo, just like I promised. But in return, I want you to promise something.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t get involved in a personal vendetta with Davy Mathis.”
“Sure, I promise.”
Too easy. Desoto looked dubious. “Truth?”
“Truth.”
And it was the truth. Carver’s vendetta wasn’t with Davy. That would be like blaming the guided missile instead of whoever had launched it at the target. In this case it was Walter Rainer who’d pressed the red button. His mistake was in not destroying the target.
“You going back to Key Montaigne today?” Desoto asked.
“Yeah, I left Beth down there.”
“How is she these days?” Desoto’s voice was mechanical. He still wasn’t quite sure about Beth. Her years with Roberto Gomez might have corrupted her beyond redemption. Only a few people, maybe only Carver, knew how strong she really was. Maybe as strong as he was.
“She’s doing okay,” he said.
Desoto stared at him, his handsome head bobbing ever so slightly in time with the music, a morose guitar solo now.
“Better than okay,” Carver said for emphasis.
“Hear anything from Edwina?” Desoto asked.
“No, but I hear about her. She’s still in Hawaii selling condos.” Carver didn’t often think about Edwina anymore, about the time they’d so tentatively yet so intimately shared their lives. He’d assumed he’d never reach that point, but he had, and sooner than he would have guessed. The tragedy of life wasn’t so much that we missed people, but that we stopped missing them. Days, weeks, months, years passed, and lost faces became indistinct in the fog of memory. Endearing gestures could no longer be recalled. Emotions dulled.
Desoto stood up and buttoned his suitcoat, a tall man dressed for his luxurious surroundings. “I need to get down to one of the conference rooms. Gonna be on a panel on DNA and sex crimes. You should stick around and sit in, maybe learn something.”
“In case I wanna be a sex criminal?”
“You’d decide against it, once you learned how this DNA identification works.”
“It isn’t that I’m not interested, but I better get back.”
“Tell Beth I said hello,” Desoto told Carver. He tried; Carver appreciated that.
He said he’d convey the message, then thanked Desoto for his help and stood up.
Desoto said, “I’ll phone you soon as I get any information. Part of the reason I’m doing this is for Henry Tiller. You understand what I mean?”
“I understand,” Carver said. “Henry comes around, he’ll appreciate it, too.”
He limped over to the door. Behind him the vocalist with the haunting voice had joined the guitar in a melancholy but beautiful melody. Carver wondered if all of human experience was embodied in Latin music. Desoto thought so. Maybe he was right. For all of us the tragic and joyous music played while we lived and danced, and then it stopped. The only question was how soon.
Desoto switched off the radio and walked with him to the elevator.
After leaving Pier 66, Carver drove south toward Key Montaigne. The convertible’s top was up and all the windows were cranked down, and the wind beat like a pulse through the steel struts and taut canvas. Occasionally he checked his rear-view mirror, but Davy’s black van was nowhere in sight on the heat-wavering highway.
It didn’t really matter. Carver’s presence on Key Montaigne would be common knowledge within hours after his return. Davy wouldn’t like that. Walter Rainer wouldn’t like it.
Carver smiled and pushed the Olds’s speed over the limit.
17
Beth was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a sandwich and drinking a beer, when Carver entered Henry’s cottage. There was a lot of daylight left, and plenty of residual heat from the scorching afternoon. The ocean breeze that stirred the palm fronds was a warm one and brought no relief. But Beth had the air conditioner off; she wasn’t bothered by heat as much as most people. Growing up in a theft-gutted housing project in Chicago, living in an upper-floor unit where a safely opened window was a luxury, might have something to do with that.
As soon as he dropped his scuffed leather suitcase on the floor, he went to the living room window and switched on the air conditioner, set its thermostat on Coldest and its fan speed on High. Then he turned on the box fan sitting on the floor and aimed it so it blew a stream of the cool air into the kitchen.
“How’d it go in Miami?” Beth asked around a bite of sandwich.
Carver didn’t answer. Instead he limped into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face and wrists. When he went into the kitchen, it was still too hot in there. Florida could be a beast.
“See Henry Tiller?” Beth asked. She was wearing a black T-shirt with a blue marlin on the chest, Levi’s faded almost white, no shoes. Her brown leather sandals were lying on the floor near the chair. Her body glistened with sweat but she didn’t seem to mind.
“Saw him,” Carver said. He got a can of Bud from the refrigerator and popped the tab. “He didn’t see me, though.” He took a long swig of beer and explained to Beth what had happened to Henry.
Beth finished her sandwich and licked her fingers. She said, “He doesn’t come outa that coma, we’re talking murder.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Serious shit,” Beth said. Now she finished her beer, leaving only a sudsy residue in the bottom of the tall, tapered glass she’d rummaged from Henry’s cabinet. “You gonna ask the girl spy if she saw anything interesting last night over at the Rainer place?”
“I’m asking.”
“Answer’s no. There was movement over there about three o’clock, but even with the night binoculars I couldn’t tell what was happening. So today I drove around to a couple of points on shore I noticed from the surveillance spot. An area around the research center or aquarium or whatever it is provides a clear view of the Rainer dock. So does a short section of coast you can’t see from this side with the boat docked where it is, down Shoreline where it turns before leading toward the major metropolis of Fishback. Nothing can go on in Rainer’s backyard that can’t be seen from those two parts of the island, so he’s got no choice but to move by night if he suspects he’s being watched. A wiry Latin guy was there with Rainer, Hector Villanova, I s’pose. And there was a tall blond woman, probably the missus, Lilly. What with the darkness and all the foliage and such, there was no way to know what all the bustling around on the dock was. I’m sure of one thing, though: that guy Davy wasn’t around last night.”