Al didn’t settle back down until the now-tentative kiss had actually been planted and Carver had withdrawn.
“Dr. Galt made me your nurse, remember?” Carver said. “You’re in my care, and I say you need more rest.”
She glanced at Al. “Let’s take a vote.”
“It would be a tie. Al doesn’t have a vote.”
Al knotted his brow again and growled.
Carver glared at Al.
Al glared at Carver.
“Al gets a vote,” Carver said, “if Dr. Galt does.” That seemed to give Beth pause. Dr. Galt was at least human and could reason. Even had made it through medical school.
“Get out, Fred.”
Carver took Interstate 95 to save time, then cut west and drove the Bee Line Expressway into Orlando. It was past two o’clock and he hadn’t eaten lunch, so he found a restaurant downtown on Jackson Street and ordered a hamburger and a frosty mug of draft beer. From his seat in a booth near the window, he could comfortably watch tourists and office workers walk past on the sun-heated streets.
Two attractive women in light summer dresses molded to their bodies by the breeze walked by on the other side of the street, and he found himself admiring their form and grace more than contemplating their sexual possibilities. Was he growing old? A man and woman with two young boys passed on the sidewalk in the opposite direction of the women. One of the boys, about ten years old, ran out ahead of the rest of what Carver assumed was his family. He was a skinny kid in jeans and a souvenir T-shirt with a porpoise on it. Something about the way he ran, taking long, loping strides while flailing the air with his arms, reminded Carver of his son Chipper, who’d died at the age of eight and would be eight forever in Carver’s memory. He wondered if his and Beth’s child would have been a boy, and a rage and despair welled up in him that he knew Beth must feel all the time. He took a long pull of beer and looked away from the window.
After lunch, he was glad to find Lieutenant Alfonso Desoto in his office in the police headquarters building on Hughey. Carver had called and Desoto was expecting him, but police work was as unpredictable as crime, and personnel were often unexpectedly on the move, even lieutenants.
Desoto was sitting behind his desk, talking on the phone, when Carver knocked on the open door. With a wave of his arm that flashed a gold cuff link, Desoto motioned for him to enter. Carver closed the door behind him and sat in a chair angled to face the desk. On the windowsill behind Desoto sat a Sony portable stereo that was usually tuned to a Spanish station. This afternoon it was silent.
“We have a match on fingerprints,” Desoto was saying into the phone. “When the lab work comes in, we’ll have a match on blood.” He sat listening for a while, holding the receiver to his ear loosely with a hand bearing two diamond rings in gold settings, looking at Carver. Then: “Yes, DNA, whatever it takes. He’s ours. Uh-hmm, uh-hmm, uh-hmm.”
Desoto hung up the phone, flashing his matinee-idol white smile. He had a classically Latin handsomeness, moved like a tango dancer, and sometimes dressed like one. But instead of plying the trade of a gigolo, Desoto was a practical and tough cop who had an almost religious respect for women.
“Good to see you, amigo,” he said to Carver. “How’s Beth?”
“Much better.”
Desoto stood up and removed his pale beige suit coat, draped it over a form-fitting hanger, then hung the hanger on a brass hook. He must have been out and just returned to the office when the phone rang. He tucked his white shirt in more neatly, used his hands to smooth the beginning of wrinkles from the elegant material of his pants, then sat back down behind his desk. Automatically he reached behind him with his right hand and pressed a button on the Sony, and soft guitar music wafted from dual speakers into the office.
“I need to know about Martin Freel and Operation Alive,”
Carver said, resting his folded hands over the crook of his cane, finding the rhythms of the guitar restful.
“So you told me,” Desoto said. “Here in Orlando, the police know a great deal about Reverend Freel. Few of us are in his flock.”
“But maybe one in sheep’s clothing?” Carver asked.
Desoto grinned and shook his head. “If there’s infiltration in Operation Alive, it’s from the FBI, or maybe ATF. We don’t have the manpower to send someone to church on a regular basis.” He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his neck. Light from the window glinted off his gold rings, cuff links, and wristwatch and sent reflected light dancing over the walls. He liked gold more every year. “But I can tell you about the good Reverend Freel. He’s more of a con man than an idealist. And a wealthy con man. He nurtures his ego and wallet through his congregation. Operation Alive isn’t one of the genuine and responsible anti-abortion organizations.”
“You think it’s completely phony and exists only to make Freel rich?”
Desoto chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, causing his lips to pucker. “Completely? I’m not sure. These organizations are almost always part religion, part confidence game. They do from time to time show some obligation toward their members-when they’re not tithing them or selling them medallions or plastic figurines. You’re asking me if Reverend Freel personally is a true believer, answer’s no, I don’t think he is.”
“He have a police record?”
“Not much of one. He’s done some things just this side of the law, but there’s wriggle room in the law as well as in the Bible. My feeling is that Freel uses all of that room and then some. Operation Alive’s only been in existence three years. Last year they demonstrated at an abortion clinic here in Orlando. Freel stirred up his picketers with a fire-and-brimstone speech and they stormed the place, started breaking things up inside. They did a lot of damage, made a lot of noise. One of the patients undergoing an abortion at the time went into shock and had to be rushed to the hospital. The same night, somebody fired a shotgun blast into the clinic.”
Carver remembered the shot fired into Women’s Light. A bullet and not shotgun pellets, but still . . . “Were there any arrests?”
“Not on the shooting,” Desoto said. “Freel and seven of his Operation Alive demonstrators were arrested for what happened when they rushed the clinic. Freel’s attorney got them all out on bond within hours, and now the matter’s being ground exceedingly fine in the courts. Demonstrators who did the damage might eventually pay a fine, but none of this will stick to Freel.”
“Is the attorney Jefferson Brama?”
“The same. Obnoxious windbag thinks he’s Perry Mason.”
“He’s representing Adam Norton,” Carver said.
“So I’ve heard. He’ll probably get him a good plea bargain. Brama knows the law and he knows how to spread money around. A formidable combination.”
“Is Brama a member of Freel’s congregation?”
“Probably. Lawyers can rationalize anything.”
“Know anything about a well-dressed big guy with a blond crew cut, black horn-rimmed glasses, likes to beat up people while he’s spouting scripture?”
“Not offhand, and I think I’d remember. Why do you ask?”
Carver told him about the WASP’s attack on Officer Lapella, then described him in greater detail.
“Him we’ll keep an eye out for,” Desoto said grimly.
“I need the address of Freel’s church,” Carver said. “His home, too, if he doesn’t live in some kind of rectory.”
“He separates work from his home life. Freel and his wife have a luxury spread about ten miles out of the city.”
“He’s married?”
“Of course. That’s how he can get by ranting and raving about family values. His wife Belinda Lee, a sort of cotton-candy blond, assists him sometimes at the Clear Connection. That’s what he calls his church. It’s a building with a lot of windows, like a greenhouse only with pews.” He picked up a file folder from the desk and slid it over to Carver. “It’s all in here, just for you, amigo. Everything’s copies, so don’t return it. In fact, don’t tell anyone where you got it. It’s the same information we gave the FBI.”