“The DEA’s headache,” Carver said. “I don’t look at the stats or read about the drug epidemic. Enough bad news without that. Let the DEA do their thing. I only wish they could do it without me.”
“Yeah. Problem is, you can’t really trust the DEA. Not after the Renway deal.”
“There’s something wrong about all of it,” Carver said. “Jefferson. He doesn’t seem quite level. Not your usual DEA operative.”
“Seems not. Guy sounds like a zealot.”
“He is. And the dangerous kind that’s hard to recognize because he doesn’t foam at the mouth.”
“So he’s a rogue agent. It happens. Who’s gonna stop him?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about Palma?”
“I think he’s afraid of Jefferson.”
“Are you?”
“No. But I probably should be.”
Desoto said, “I can’t think of anybody involved in this who shouldn’t scare you. No-hey, wait. Except for your client. Because he’s dead.”
The marimba band swung into “La Cucaracha.” Made Carver wish he were Spanish. Wish he could dance.
He snatched up his cane and got out of there.
Chapter 24
McGregor said, “I don’t like it. You tell me the three black hats from Atlanta turn up here in Del Moray, then you drop by my office. Case you haven’t caught on, I’m not supposed to be involved in this investigation of yours.”
“Of ours,” Carver corrected.
McGregor ignored him. Swiveled in his chair to gaze out his office window, stirring the air just enough to send the cloying scent of his cheap cologne Carver’s way. Smelled like furniture wax and stale sweat. He’d been on the Del Moray police force long enough now that his fellow officers knew him and despised him. Knew him and were afraid of him. Not because he possessed greater talent or resolve, but because he’d resort to anything, no matter how unethical, to get what he wanted. What he wanted was advancement. Power. He was getting it. Using what he had to get more. That was McGregor’s life.
He’d connived his way into one of the better offices, though still not the best in the converted home that was Del Moray police headquarters. But it did have a much-coveted window, even if the view was of the pale gravel parking lot. Officers’ private cars. A few angled, dusty patrol cars, one with COPS SUCK boldly scrawled with a fingertip on a dirty front fender.
Carver said, “Stop worrying; I told you, they flew back to Atlanta. They’ve got no way of knowing I came here to see you.” He didn’t like being in McGregor’s office. Liked even less that he’d come here to ask a favor. To McGregor, favors were currency as real as folding money. Debts to be collected with interest.
McGregor swiveled back around to face him again. “They like homing pigeons? They only fly one direction, so eager they just gotta get back to Atlanta? They so careless they didn’t leave a man behind to watch you? See what kinda fuck-up you’re gonna pull next?”
“They didn’t need to leave anyone behind.”
“How ’bout those DEA assholes. Think they might not be keeping an eye on you?”
“What if they are? What if anybody is? I’m a private investigator, and this is police headquarters. You might not have noticed it, but we’re in more or less the same business. Florida’s got more crime than sand. I might be here on a matter unrelated to narcotics or Renway’s death.”
“We both know that’s bullshit. Either of your sets of friends knew you came here, they’d sure as hell lean on you to find out why. Cut off selected body parts till they found out.”
Carver figured McGregor was right, but why give him satisfaction by admitting it?
“What makes you think the Atlanta faction didn’t leave somebody behind to keep watch on you?” McGregor asked. The possibility was clearly worrying him.
“They worked it out so they don’t need to watch me; they tied a string to me. That’s why I came to see you.”
A wary look drifted into McGregor’s pale blue eyes. He brushed his lank blond hair back from his long forehead. Darted the tip of his tongue out between his widely spaced front teeth. He said, “String? What’s that s’pose to mean, you’re a yo-yo? You think you’re a hip guy talking street slang like the rest of the shitheads out there? What kinda string?”
“Edwina.” Carver explained about the photographs, the threat to Edwina if he didn’t keep Ogden informed about the DEA investigation. Then he hit McGregor with his request. He didn’t tell McGregor about Courtney Romano being DEA. That would put Courtney in worse, if not immediate, danger. She was surrounded by people hungry for money and power. If it suited his purpose, McGregor would toss her like meat to trailing wolves.
McGregor stood up, stretched his elongated body languidly, and walked out from behind the desk. Lanky and looming, hollow-chested but with a rangy, tireless look about him. He paced slowly, his fingertips caressing his jutting chin. Posing. Showing Carver he was carefully considering. He had his suitcoat off and perspiration stains formed dark crescents beneath the arms of his wrinkled white shirt. The narrow end of his tie dangled down an inch below the wide. His pants looked as if they’d been ironed with a hammer, and he’d missed a belt loop so the material bunched up in back as if his diaper needed changing. He was a tower of bad taste.
After a while he said, “Uh-uh, Carver, I ain’t gonna assign someone to guard her.”
Anger dug spurs into Carver’s stomach. He told himself he shouldn’t be surprised by McGregor’s refusal. “Why not?” he asked.
“Whaddaya mean, why not? It oughta be obvious, even to an airbrain like you. We all got our personal and intimate responsibilities.”
“Which means?”
“Means you’re the one runnin’ cock through Edwina Talbot, you take care of her.”
Carver sank the tip of his cane into the soft carpet and hauled himself to his feet. Took an awkward half-step. He mentally measured the distance between himself and McGregor. The length of his arm and the cane?
McGregor grinned at Carver’s rage; he enjoyed getting under people’s skin. “Also, there’s lotsa crime happening around here. I can’t spare the manpower.”
Carver said, “I don’t like your explanation.”
“Really? Which one?”
“Neither.”
“No shit? Well, it’s this way: I can’t take the chance. Can’t afford to have the DEA or your Atlanta buddies or the department here make any connection between me and what you’re doing. You’re a detective, fuckhead, you shoulda been able to figure that one out. So I can’t give your cunt protection. No way, Jose. Forget it!”
“You’re the one who set all this in motion,” Carver hissed through clenched teeth. “You’ve got a responsibility. For Christ’s sake, you’re a cop. If nothing else, it’s your job to protect a citizen if you know her life’s in danger.”
McGregor spread his plate-size hands and pretended to be puzzled. “Whadda we got here, the Judeo-Christian work ethic or something?”
“It’s your job,” Carver repeated evenly. Thinking, despite himself, maybe McGregor had something with that “work ethic” remark. Cynical prick! But if his work-this kind of work-wasn’t important, what was?
“I can’t know shit about a job,” McGregor said, “since we never had this conversation. And it’s a fact we never had this conversation, ’cause I don’t know a thing about what you been doing this past week or so. That’s why you should realize I got no choice but to tell you no. So send your lady friend outa town. Outa the state. If that ain’t safe, it’s at least safer than in Del Moray. Sleep alone for a while and jerk yourself off. Just don’t involve me in your problem.”
Carver had to fight the impulse to club him with the cane. “Don’t involve you in my problem? You are my problem, you kink-brained bastard! You’re why all this is happening.”
“If I’m your problem,” McGregor said, “then you got a problem ain’t humanly possible to solve.”