“I don’t think so,” Carver assured her. “I looked in the windows and could tell there was no one there.”
“His wife, Ella, died a while back,” Willa Hataris said. “Damned fine woman. Peppery little thing. When she was alive they was always on the go. Drivin’ here, drivin’ there. Gettin’ enjoyment outa what time they had left. Nice old couple, you know?”
“Yeah,” Carver said. “It’s a shame this happened.”
“This?”
“The wife dying, I mean.”
“Did you know her too, Mr. Carter?”
“No, didn’t know Ella. Knew Bert from when we worked for the railroad up north. I was driving through and thought I’d stop by and see him.” A mosquito droned around his face, tried to flit up his nostril. He brushed it away. God, he was hot! Wished this conversation was over.
“Well,” she said, “maybe you can catch up with him if you’re gonna be around the area a while. But I can tell you, been quiet as a tomb over there at his place till this morning.” She leaned heavily on the metal doorjamb, trying not to smile. She had cast bait and was waiting for him to snap it up, show she had control of the situation. Carver was beginning to dislike Willa Hataris.
He took the hook. “What did you see this morning?”
“These fellas went in the Renway trailer, stayed a while, then come back outside and drove away. ’Bout seven thirty, I’d say it was.”
Carver moved closer to her. “How many fellas? And what’d they look like?”
“Two of ’em. A black guy and one that appeared like he was maybe Cuban. They had on nice suits, drove up in a gray car. I don’t think they was cops, ’cause they sorta looked around and moved like they didn’t really belong there, you know? Cops’d walk right up big and loud as you please, but not these two. They weaseled around outside a few minutes, then they let themselves into the trailer.”
“With a key?”
“I dunno. Coulda been.”
Or they were pros who knew how to slip cheap locks, Carver thought. “How long were they inside?”
“I’d say fifteen, twenty minutes. Listen, you ain’t a cop, are you? I mean, is somethin’ wrong over there?”
“I’m not police, I swear to you. If I was, I’d have to show you my ID, follow the rules. These two men, you remember what kinda car they were in?”
She didn’t answer immediately. If Carver wasn’t police, who was he really? she was wondering. But it didn’t matter much to her; she wanted to talk, after all, and she seemed satisfied he meant Renway no harm. Not if he knew nothing about the early-morning visitors, men she’d decided definitely weren’t police. “Make of car, you mean? Naw. Kinda squarish, newer car. Medium-size. ’Bout all I can tell you. Not one of them shoebox foreign jobs. Anybody buy one of them don’t know what it’s like bein’ outa work. Oughta leave this country and go to some foreign place and eat raw fish and get a job buildin’ cars.”
“I’ll say. Can you give me a better description of the two men?”
“Oh, not really. I seen ’em from a distance, of course. They both looked sorta tall. The Cuban one was slim, kinda the dandy. The black guy was heavier. Muscular. Fulla energy and looked all business, like Jesse Jackson pissed off. What I remember about ’em both, they was kinda grim. I could tell that even from here.”
“Were they carrying anything when they came out?”
“Naw. Neither in nor out. Seemed like they just went in, maybe looked around a while or sat waiting for Renway, then out they came and drove away. All there was to it. You think they’re friends of Renway’s he gave a key to, or what?”
“It could be that,” Carver said.
“Thought as much, Mr. Carter.”
He thanked her for her help and then set the tip of his cane and backed away. When he was halfway to his car, he twisted his torso and looked back at her. Saw her fade into the dimness of her trailer and close the door.
She was watching, he was sure, as he lowered himself into the Olds and drove away into the merciless glaring day. She’d probably seen the old, rusty car when he’d arrived, and figured from the first he wasn’t a cop. She was a woman who’d know.
On the highway, heading south toward Fort Lauderdale, he sat in the beating turmoil of hot wind and thought about what Willa Hataris had told him. The Cuban she’d described was probably Ralph Palmer, who’d contacted and hired Renway. Whoever had hired Renway knew he was dead. Murdered. They no doubt wanted to make sure there was nothing in his mobile home that might lead the police to them-when the police inevitably discovered it wasn’t Frank Wesley but Renway in the burned-out Cadillac. Covering their asses, all right.
At least two people other than McGregor and Carver were aware of the Renway-for-Wesley exchange: the black man and Ralph Palmer. Carver thought the reason for the impersonation itself would be simple enough and so should be relatively easy to discover.
He didn’t realize he was wrong about that.
Didn’t realize the Olds was being followed by two men in a medium-size gray Dodge.
Chapter 7
Carver checked into the Carib Terrace late that afternoon. He’d stayed there before; the woman behind the desk, who owned the motel with her husband, seemed to recognize him. She asked if he wanted a corner room for the price of one of the smaller inside units. Carver said sure. She smiled and gave him a registration card to fill out, then handed him a key attached to a large red plastic tag. With a glance at his cane, she asked if he needed help with his luggage. He told her no thanks, trying not to let his irritation show. Telling himself not to take offense-for all the woman knew, he was traveling with a steamer trunk.
His room was on the southeast corner on the first floor. The Carib Terrace, one of the smaller motels on Ocean Boulevard, had only two stories. Each room had a view of the private beach and the rolling Atlantic. On the Ocean Boulevard side of the building was a small heated swimming pool that smelled strongly of chlorine. Two preschool kids were splashing around in the shallow end. A slim, tan woman in a red two-piece bathing suit was lying on her side on a large yellow beach towel keeping an eye on them. She averted her gaze for a second to take in Carver as he limped past her toward his room, carrying his scuffed leather suitcase. She made it a point to turn quickly away from him, as if he’d insulted her. He told himself he’d appealed to her and she resented it, but he didn’t really know. Who understood women except other women? Prince?
The room was large, with a small kitchen equipped with a compact white refrigerator and stove. The sink was stainless steel and tiny and had a dripping faucet. Deep red carpet spread to a king-size bed near wide glass doors that led to a patio and a couple of blue plastic-webbed lounge chairs. Beyond that was a strip of barren ground and then the gently sloping beach and the ocean.
The sun was bright out there, glancing off the sand and shooting silver shafts of light off the incoming waves. Made the room seem all the dimmer and cooler. A middle-aged guy in loud striped trunks was walking at an angle toward the beach. Two striding young girls in string bikinis crossed his path and he sucked in his stomach and held it until they were past. A lot of effort for nothing; it was obvious the girls were busy talking and hadn’t noticed him anyway. A short woman with lank wet hair, leading a sand-caked four- or five-year-old girl up from the beach, trudged toward the motel. A tired-looking man carrying a wad of white towels, and what appeared to be an inflated life-size plastic alligator under his arm, followed a few steps behind. The woman had on floppy rubber thongs, and her heels kicked up roostertails of sand; the man stayed well back and to the side to avoid them. She and the girl were both smiling and talking to each other. Family. Carver wondered what it would be like to have family around him every day. They veered slightly about fifty feet from his room. He heard the rumble of a sliding door. Then the woman’s laughter as they entered the room next door. The faint sound of the little girl bitching about something and tramping around. The father’s deep and reprimanding voice as he controlled his temper. A minute later the shower burst on and hissed and gurgled in the bathroom that shared a wall with Carver’s. The woman’s voice, and the little girl’s. Laughing. Sand being washed off. Family.