Carver’s portable radio had said the temperature topped a hundred degrees that afternoon. It was probably still over ninety, and cloudless. The lowering sun slanted in bright shafts beneath the branches, causing him to sweat so his shirt was plastered to him. He was sure he was well out of sight of the car unless someone inside happened to stare directly at him, but he tried to stay as motionless as possible. Some kind of flying insect he’d never seen before, long slender body, translucent green wings, droned around him curiously, occasionally darting in for a better view. He wondered if it stung; it looked like the sort of little bastard that would.
The limo’s driver-side door opened soundlessly and a tall, thin man in a blue suit got out and stretched his arms. Peered up at the sky. He had dark hair growing in a sharp widow’s peak above a narrow, hawk-nosed face. Even beneath the well-tailored suit, it was obvious he was very round-shouldered. His shirt was white, his tie was red, and his black shoes were shined. Carver had never seen him before.
After a few minutes the man cupped a hand over his eyes like an Indian scout and turned in a slow circle. His glance slid past Carver, who stayed motionless and held his breath, hoping his leg muscles wouldn’t cramp and make him shift position, or that the flying insect wouldn’t decide to swoop in and go for blood.
Then, shaking his head as if he suddenly realized he was miserably hot, the man lowered himself back in behind the steering wheel of the air-conditioned limo and slammed the door. Exhaust fumes rising from the car’s tailpipe wavered and danced like a chimera in the hot air.
Carver glanced at his Seiko watch. Saw that ten minutes had elapsed since the arrival of the limo. Saw a rivulet of perspiration trickle down his forearm and puddle against the black leather watchband. Leather bands didn’t last long in the Florida heat and humidity; like so many other things-and like people-they tended to come unglued.
Another ten minutes passed, and the sun was kissing the horizon, when he heard the drone of an aircraft engine. He gazed up through the tree limbs at patches of dimming sky. Saw nothing.
Then he caught movement and focused on a small twin-engined plane closing distance from the northwest and losing altitude fast. The guy in the limo must have finally heard it, too, because he climbed out again and stood leaning with both hands on the car’s roof, head tilted back and eyes fixed on the approaching plane.
Carver recognized the plane as a Beechcraft. It could carry maybe four passengers and luggage. This one was blue and white. As it circled the field behind the house, he pulled a pen and a folded envelope from his shirt pocket and wrote down its registration number. Then he tried to get a look at the limo’s license plate, but the big car was parked at the wrong angle.
He returned his attention to the plane. Its motors roared as it came in even lower, swooping down swiftly until it was out of sight beyond the house.
After a minute or so, he heard the engines snarl and then even out and drone steadily. Grow gradually louder. The plane had landed and was taxiing over the field. Carver caught a glimpse of it through the trees, then it rolled beyond his vision.
He took advantage of the limo driver’s attention to the plane and moved off to the side until he had a view of a spinning propeller and a graceful thrust of blue-and-white wing.
The aircraft stopped and the engines fell almost silent, but the props kept ticking over.
The limo driver walked toward the plane. He’d taken only a few steps when a door in the plane opened and a hefty man in a gray suit climbed down to the ground. The wind from the idling propeller snatched at his long gray hair and whipped it around. He jogged away from the plane and smoothed the hair back flat against his head. In his left hand was a dark attache case. Slung by a strap over his right shoulder was a leather carry-on garment bag, folded and buckled. He was in his sixties and had a broad face with a pug nose. Bushy gray eyebrows. Narrow slash of a mouth. Carver had never seen this one, either.
The limo driver ran up to the man and they shook hands. Then the driver took the garment bag and attache case, which appeared to be heavy, and the two men trudged toward the limo. Behind them the propellers whirled faster and the Beechcraft’s engines growled.
There was a burst of noise as one prop spun especially fast, kicking up clouds of dust, and the plane did a nifty tight turn and taxied out into the field. Turned again and picked up speed into the wind. The roar of the engines took on urgency. The plane was airborne and flying low into the closing darkness by the time the two men reached the black limo.
Carver backed away into the trees, then straightened up and limped toward where the Ford was parked.
He watched the dust rising against the purple sky. And when he figured the limo had about reached the highway, he started the Ford and drove it out from beneath its canopy of branches. Gunned it along in the limo’s cloud of dust. Reached the intersecting road and highway and tried to make out which direction the limo had turned. That was no problem. The big car had trailed its roostertail of dust a few hundred feet along the highway, until the wind had flushed it all from the wheel wells. Dust still drifted low over the pavement.
As soon as he caught sight of the limo up ahead, Carver let the Ford’s speed decrease to the limit.
He stayed well back of the limo, letting cars get between them sometimes. The driver kept to a steady, legal speed and obeyed all the traffic laws. Following him was easy.
The limo picked up the Bee Line Expressway and glided east, then got on southbound Interstate 95 and headed toward Melbourne. Past Melbourne and south through darkness now, until the driver jogged east over to A1A near Jupiter. Then south again. At a slower speed, the limo skirted the ocean and rolled royally through wealthy Palm Beach, Boca Raton, Deerfield Beach. An automotive queen cruising her domain.
In Hillsboro Beach, just north of Fort Lauderdale, the long car slowed and then turned off the narrow highway into a driveway locked by tall chain-link gates. The foliage beyond the gates was so thick it was impossible to see where the driveway led. The property on this stretch of coast was among the most expensive in Florida, and privacy was part of what the owners had bought.
Carver passed the driveway and parked on the other side of the road. Adjusted the Ford’s outside mirror and watched in it as the limo’s driver got out and walked stiffly toward the gates. The driver leaned forward and said something into what must have been an intercom, then returned to the limo.
Within a few seconds the gates swung open automatically. The limo oozed through them and they shut smoothly behind it. Carver twisted in the seat and watched the limo’s red taillights flicker and disappear in the night.
Great. All this way just to get locked out. Some slick detective.
You’re doing okay, he reassured himself. Doing okay. Nothing’s been easy since the divorce, then the shooting. Why should this be? Self-pity, huh?
Carver reached under the Ford’s front seat and found the Colt automatic. He pulled it out and tucked it in his belt beneath his shirt.
Knowing what he had to do, he was afraid. But he climbed out of the Ford and crossed to the other side of the road, feeling like the chicken in the joke. Limped toward the tall gates.
He was ten feet away when a dark shape exploded out of the night and hit the gates so hard they rattled against their hinges. Carver leaped back and almost dropped his cane.
The Doberman pinscher barking and snarling at him on the other side of the gates was the largest he’d ever seen. It was immediately joined by three more Dobes almost as big. Fierce and yearning eyes, glittering white fangs. Made Carver feel like a nugget of Alpo.
Afraid the din would soon alert someone at the other end of the long driveway, he backed away and hobbled quickly into the shadows of some palm trees.