Benedict looked over at Carver.
“Never pass up an opportunity to avoid this man,” Carver said.
It took Benedict a few seconds to make up his mind, then he gave McGregor a look of disgusted incredulity and walked quickly toward the lobby exit.
McGregor stared after him, grinning. “Probably on his way to play a few rounds of golf. Or maybe drive the Mercedes someplace and have a few martinis. That’s what doctors do, drink and play golf. When they’re not fucking the nurses.”
“Hardly leaves time for billing,” Carver said.
“They find time. This murder’s in my jurisdiction, and the victim’s one of my people. That means it’s my case alone, without FBI interference. So I expect complete cooperation from you.”
“My guess is that you’re trying out your twisted legal theory on me to see if I agree with you. I don’t. I would think Lapella’s death is legally linked to the clinic bombing. That means FBI involvement in the investigation.”
McGregor gave him a level stare. “Was Lapella pregnant? No. Was she at the clinic when it went bang? No. Is her alleged killer connected to the bombing? We don’t know that he is. This isn’t FBI territory, it’s mine. Now that we got that settled, what do you know about Lapella’s death?”
“Only what Dr. Benedict just told me.”
“Which was?”
“What he would have told you, if you’d asked him nice.”
“Or officially. Like I’m asking you.”
“Complications set in,” Carver said. “It was her head injury; the doctors can’t always tell for sure about them, and they were wrong this time. Lapella’s brain started to bleed, there was pressure, damage. She died.”
“Because that bastard kicked her when she was lying on the floor.”
“We agree on that,” Carver said.
“What do you know about him?”
“Probably less than you do. His description, not much else. Other than that he quotes scripture while he’s breaking fingers and committing murder.”
McGregor ran a plate-size hand down his stained tie, as if smoothing it in preparation for a photograph. “The goddamn media’s gonna be all over my ass because of this.”
“Send them to Wicker.”
“I told you, this is my case, and when I solve it, the same media dorks’ll be knocking on my door and calling me and throwing themselves in front of me with their recorders and cameras. Meantime, I’ll just have to put up with ’em and tell plenty of lies.”
“They’ll probably want to talk to me, too,” Carver said. “Certainly they’ll want to interview Beth.”
McGregor’s eyes flared for a moment in sudden alarm. Here was a vulnerability he hadn’t anticipated. “I’m gonna be out to your place to talk to your dark-meat friend, Carver. Get her official statement. And whatever she says either to me or to the media jerk-offs better fit with the facts. She witnessed this murder, and she’s got a legal responsibility.”
“And ethics.”
“Don’t be so sure. Ethics are for naive assholes like you. Only reason she’s sleeping with you is so she can take advantage of you some way. You just haven’t figured it out yet. Probably won’t until it’s too late.”
Carver simply stared at McGregor, refusing to be provoked.
“I can tell you ethics aren’t gonna stop me from setting this thing right,” McGregor said. “Neither are dumb fucks like you and Wicker. Nobody makes a media patsy outa me. This religious nut that killed my officer, he just thinks he knows about being crucified! I’m gonna nail him to the cross like he never dreamed of, in or out of church!”
“I hope you’re right,” Carver said. “If anybody can make the biblical Romans seem like nice guys, it’s you.”
McGregor ignored the compliment as he stalked away toward the elevators.
Humble, maybe.
24
When Carver entered the cottage, the sack of dog food slung beneath one arm, the other straining with the cane, he saw Wicker sitting on one of the stools at the breakfast counter, sipping from a glass of ice water.
Beth, who’d been seated in a chair facing Wicker, stood up and came over to Carver, taking the dog food from him.
“Heavy,” she said. “Did you remember the nail clippers?”
“In my pocket,” he said as he nodded to Wicker.
Wicker remained on his stool and leaned back, propped with his elbows on the counter behind him. The posture caused his pot belly to protrude and made him look particularly unkempt. A trace of stubble showed on his chin. He even needed a haircut, something you couldn’t often say about an FBI agent.
“I don’t know about this kind of dog food,” Beth said, leaning the sack against the wall by the door. “It doesn’t look very tasty.”
“The guy at the store said dogs love it,” Carver improvised. He pulled the nail clippers from his pocket and laid them on a table near the sofa. He had to poke the lining back into his pocket before sitting down. The clippers had shifted as he walked and poked a small hole in the pocket, maybe even in the material outside the lining. Chalk up a pair of pants to Al. Then it hit Carver: where was Al?
“Why didn’t Al bark when I drove up?”
“He’s out,” Beth said in a tone of voice suggesting that Al was a doctor not presently in his office. The watchdog is out.
“For a guard dog,” Carver said, “he spends a lot of time away from the person and place he’s supposed to protect.”
“He’s new to the job.”
Carver suspected Al was visiting Agent Anderson again for another impromptu meal.
“You having a guard dog here,” Wicker said, “that’s a good idea.”
“For the dog,” Carver said.
Wicker removed one elbow from the counter to take a sip of ice water. “I understand you’ve been in Orlando. What did you think of Reverend Freel?”
“He’s a true believer.”
“Could be.”
“I’m not so sure about his wife, though.”
Wicker appeared interested. “Oh? She struck me as just as fanatical as her husband. The ideal helpmate in the service of hubby and heaven.”
Carver shrugged. “Maybe I’m wrong. Just an impression. As for Freel and Operation Alive, I can see the organization being behind the clinic bombing. Apparently Norton was an involved member and a regular demonstrator.”
“Thing to remember,” Wicker said, “is that a lot of Freel’s congregation aren’t Operation Alive members, and not all Operation Alive members endorse bombing the abortion clinics they picket.”
“What I’ve read about them,” Beth said, “describes an extremist organization.”
“Being an extremist and advocating murder are two different things.”
Beth looked at Carver. “Could this be an FBI agent who’s undergone sensitivity training?”
Wicker smiled. “You’d be surprised. We’re not the stiff-backed, stereotypical outfit of Hoover’s era.”
Carver tried to imagine Wicker as a cross-dresser but couldn’t. But then Hoover was a stretch, too.
No one said anything while Beth went into the kitchen, then returned with a cold can of Budweiser and handed it to Carver.
“She seems to be feeling better,” Wicker said, nodding in Beth’s direction.
Beth sat down beside Carver. She had on a yellow blouse, faded Levi’s, and black sandals. Her hair was combed back and braided and she was wearing makeup and gold hoop earrings and a matching gold bangle bracelet. She thought that in an hour or so she’d be leaving to visit Lapella.
Carver hated to tell her the reason why she wasn’t going. Even more, he hated the idea of someone else telling her. He wished the lump in his throat were in someone else’s and that it were someone else’s heart taking on an irregular rhythm and growing heavier by the second.
“I stopped by the hospital on the way here,” he said. “Linda Lapella died from her head injury.”