“Gentleman that left it came by this morning and picked it up,” the man said, regarding Carver as if peering around a corner.
“Remember what time?”
“I’d guess about ten, sir.”
Carver felt a sinking, cool sensation. They hadn’t given him much time to claim the money. As if they didn’t really care how he played it and could handle him easily either way. Hadn’t been bluffing an iota. This wasn’t comforting.
“That’s okay, I hope.” The desk clerk’s gray eyebrows formed a sharp V of concern. “When he left the envelope, he said whoever was on the desk at the time was to give it to whichever of you two gentlemen asked for it.”
“It’s okay,” Carver told him. “I just wanted to make sure he got it.”
He put his room charges on his Visa card and said yes, he’d enjoyed his stay. Especially the guy with the knife.
Digging the cane hard into the lobby carpet, he refused to let a bellhop carry his suitcase as he limped toward the exit. Despised the man’s pitying and patronizing smile.
An hour later, he’d turned the rental Ford in to Hertz at the hectic Atlanta airport and was on a plane heading back to Florida.
The air was calm; the flight was smooth. He sat quietly sipping beer from a plastic cup, watching shredded cotton clouds glide past. Wondering what and how big was the thing he’d become involved in, and where it was taking him.
And how much had been in the envelope he hadn’t claimed.
Chapter 15
On the veranda at Edwina’s house, Carver was watching McGregor. McGregor was watching the ocean, thinking over what Carver had just told him about what had happened in Atlanta. A gull circled in, screamed, and swooped at something out of sight below on the beach, soared almost straight up and flapped back toward the sea. The flashing white undersides of its wings were visible for a long time against the blue sky. The ocean breeze ruffled McGregor’s sparse blond hair, causing a lock of it to flop down Hitler-style above his left eye.
He aimed his close-set little eyes at Carver. Said, “It don’t make fucking sense, you telling me Wesley’s alive.”
“Has Bert Renway surfaced?”
“No,” McGregor said. “I’ve had his trailer watched and he ain’t shown.”
“Then it makes sense that far.”
A trickle of sweat ran down McGregor’s forehead, into the corner of his eye. Seemed not to bother him. “ ’Cause nobody’s seen a man in a while, that don’t mean he’s dead. Might be he’s visiting his old mother in another state; that ain’t quite like being dead. Or maybe he met up with a hot opportunity and he’s balling some divorcee tourist or something in a motel down the coast. Having himself a fine time and let the rest of the world go squat. Dipshits like you always assume the worst.”
“Renway’s almost sixty-five years old.”
“Hey, you think that means he can’t get it up?”
Carver said, “Christ!”
McGregor said, “There’s a name pops up all over Florida, crime capital of the country.”
“Frank Wesley wasn’t in my office,” Carver said simply. “He wasn’t in that car when it was blown up.”
“Sorry donghead, but it had to be Wesley, Dental records don’t lie. No two bicuspids are alike, that kinda shit.”
“Uh-huh,” Carver said. “Like snowflakes and fingerprints. What are you telling the news media?”
“That progress is being made. Bomb pieces are being analyzed, backgrounds are being checked, witnesses are being questioned. You know the routine-public servants in high gear.”
Carver knew the routine, all right. The more public optimism and suits and ties and reassuring grins, the more uniforms speaking as if they were dictating a report, the less was actually happening in the background behind the bureaucratic front. And nobody was better at diddling the news media than McGregor. “The lab learned anything about the explosion?”
“There were a few charred pieces of what looked like an electronic detonator. The explosive itself might have been a plastique. Kinda stuff terrorists use.” McGregor suddenly sat up straighter. The scent of his unbathed body crossed the table. “Hey, you don’t think we’re into political shit here, do you?” As if he’d just now considered the possibility.
“I’m not sure,” Carver said. “See if you can get me some information on the charming trio of Ogden, Courtney, and Butcher. Maybe that’ll tell us something. Wesley was-is-from a wealthy Southern family that was active in politics. And he did some fund-raising for local candidates.”
“That ain’t nothing,” McGregor said. “It’s a part of life for most anybody that successful. Every big fish has gotta keep the bigger sharks happy. Probably’s got no connection at all with what’s going on.”
Carver said, “You never know.”
“You’re the one seems never to know, asshole. You go traipsing off to Atlanta, and all that happens is you come back and throw shit into the game.”
“Didn’t traipse, took a plane. And if the picture’s no clearer, maybe that’s because it’s bigger than a pea-brain like you had it figured for from the beginning.”
McGregor shrugged. “Guy walks into your office, walks out, gets blown up. I wanna find out why. Specifically, want you to find out. Should be simple for a hotshot private investigator even if he is a gimp. Got your own office and telephone now. You’re supposed to be a pro. I mean, I seen your ad in the newspaper business personals, right under ‘Spicy lingerie to perk up your partner.’ ”
“Should be simple for a police lieutenant, too. But it isn’t. Sometimes one door only leads to another, and you gotta keep opening them. Problem with you is, they keep leading to places only tend to get you more frustrated.”
McGregor stood up and put on his mean expression. Must have taken very little effort. “You just see you get me unfrustrated, you know what’s good for you. You’ll be limping around selling pencils instead of living here with your real-estate cunt and playing Sam Spade.”
Carver gripped his cane and actually raised it a few inches, preparing to lash out at McGregor. To smash that lascivious, gap-toothed grin down his throat. He took a deep breath instead, lowering the cane. His knuckles were white against the dark walnut.
McGregor knew he’d rattled Carver and was grinning wider, playing his tongue around the space between his front teeth. He said, “I’m going now, fuckface. You keep in touch.”
Carver said, “Works both ways. You gonna do what I asked? Get with Atlanta law and find out about those three names?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Carver smiled. There was a reason he’d asked McGregor and not Desoto to check with Atlanta. He said, “Be careful one of those sharks you talked about doesn’t develop a taste for rotten cop.”
McGregor spat on the brick, then ground the wad of phlegm into a flat wet spot with the toe of his huge wing-tip shoe. “Tryin’ to spook me, jerk-off?”
“ ’Course not. We both know you’ll always be more ambitious than scared. Sharks don’t much care what their supper’s thinking, though.”
McGregor stretched his long body, swaying from side to side as if trying to separate his ribs. He spat again, then turned and walked away. He was smiling but not fooling even himself. Like Carver, he was swimming in unfamiliar water that was proving dangerous.
Carver sat for a while, staring at the ocean and sipping his Budweiser. There was a big ship way out on the horizon, so far away it didn’t appear to be moving. A couple of pelicans fished in the distance, skimming the waves.
Behind him, Edwina said, “Good, he’s gone.” She’d been waiting in the house for McGregor to leave. She pulled back the metal chair opposite Carver’s and sat down. “That man makes my skin creep six different directions at once.”
“You oughta tell him that,” Carver said. “Believe me, he’s not sensitive enough to be insulted.”