“God, I thought Joel was gonna kill him!”
“He might have.”
Far out at sea hundreds of gulls were circling in the wake of a fishing boat, like a cloud of fleas following an indifferent dog.
“Joel’s in the bathroom washing blood off his shirt,” she said. “Mel hit him and cut his lip.” She talked as if a split lip were as serious as a cracked rib or ruptured spleen. “Despite what Mother says, Joel’s an honest and honorable man. I mean, just because he’s in a business where there are some crooks. .”
“I know,” Carver said. “In fact, I sympathize. Private investigators suffer from an unfair stereotype just like used-car dealers.”
“A couple of times I’ve driven down to Miami with Joel to pay back money his grandfather lent him. That old man’s Joel’s only relative; his mother deserted him when he was an infant. Joel’s always repaid the loans, and on time. That’s how he’s kept his business going through rough times, not by stealing people’s money like Elana or Mel Bingham would have you believe. His grandfather himself told me that. Joel’s a man who feels the responsibility of his debts.”
And Nadine was a woman who knew how to avoid an uncomfortable subject. Carver leaned with both hands cupped over his cane and looked deep into her dark eyes, trying to understand what was staring back at him and making him uneasy. “You met Paul last night, didn’t you, Nadine?”
She’d been waiting for him to ask. She pushed away from the table and stood up, not realizing her arm had brushed crumbs from the smooth glass onto her pale yellow shorts, where they clung like tiny insects.
She said, “Let’s go down to the beach, Mr. Carver. We need to talk where no one can overhear us but the fishes.”
Chapter 27
Carver was having difficulty walking with the cane on the damp sand, near where the surf foamed on the beach. Nadine looked over at him and stopped. He turned, and supported himself gingerly with the cane, facing her. She was wearing white Reebok jogging shoes that were wet from waves that had crawled far enough up on the sand to reach them. She didn’t seem to care that her shoes were wet. The mind was where she lived.
“I didn’t meet Mel Bingham last night,” she said. “I did meet Paul.”
Surprise, surprise, Carver thought. “Where?”
“At a marina in Fort Lauderdale. And if you’re thinking of trying to figure out which one, forget it. We won’t meet there again.” Her voice was taunting, as if she were playing a game and had gone one up on Carver.
“How’d you know where to go?”
“Paul swam to the boathouse here and left a note for me where we used to hide things when we were kids. It told me where and when to meet him. We talked for over an hour, Mr. Carver. I mean talked about everything, really deep. The way we used to confide in each other when we were in grade school. Nothing but the truth.” Her strong Kave features, half in bright sunlight, became serious. “Paul didn’t kill anyone.”
“Paul would say that.”
“Of course. Because he’s innocent.”
“The evidence says he’s guilty.”
She tilted her head to the side and stared at him with the mocking tolerance of youth. Wisdom time. “Isn’t that for a judge or jury to say?”
Carver matched her trite for trite. “I’d like to help Paul so he’ll stand in front of a jury instead of police guns.”
“That’s bullshit and we both know it.” Really, she was grown-up. At times, anyway.
Carver wasn’t sure how much she knew. He let her remark go by. He guessed she was letting her emotions talk for her. Like every other kind of love, sibling affection had a flip side that could cause pain. She’d learned, like everyone else; vulnerability was part of love’s bargain.
Then she said, “Paul didn’t kill your son.”
Carver felt his stomach dive.
Nadine had found him out and knew who he was and what he was doing, and there was nothing below him but space and a haunted future. Haunted by things interrupted. Incomplete. His son’s life. Justice and balance after death. Even simple revenge. He wondered with dismal detachment if he could live with that.
“How did Paul know one of his victims was my son?” he asked. His own voice sounded unfamiliar, muted by the sibilant roll of the surf.
Nadine spread her feet wide and propped her fists on her ample hips. Long-legged and sturdy, she stood as if nothing in the universe could budge her. She was a female colossus in complete charge of the conversation now. Or thought so. Information could do that to people. “He first knew you were. . stalking him when he learned you were asking about his car at Scuba Dan’s. You were all over the beach, asking about the murders, so he followed you and learned your identity and your relationship to the boy who was burned to death in Fort Lauderdale. He read in the papers that you were working for the family, trying to locate him, and he knew you must have lied to us about who you were.”
“Where’s Paul now?” Carver asked.
Her dark eyes were level, calm yet defiantly candid, as if it were only Carver who should fear the truth. Strength through naivete. “I don’t know. He doesn’t want me to know. It has to be that way.”
Carver believed her. Paul Kave was turning out to be wilier than he’d anticipated. Not to mention more persuasive. But then, Paul was supposed to possess a stratospheric I.Q. It would be easy for someone like him to take advantage of a sister’s unquestioning, simple love. To sense weakness and exploit it.
“He wanted to meet with me,” Nadine said, “to assure me he was okay, and to convey to you that he’s innocent.”
“And to ask you to bring him some of his antidepressant medicine?”
Nadine jerked her head high and held it there, staring down at Carver. “You’ve been talking to Dr. Elsing.” This wasn’t fair; Carver had been caught cheating at whatever game they were playing. Seeing Dr. Elsing had been against the rules, maybe even off the board.
“The police know Paul was on medication to control his schizophrenia, Nadine.”
A wave made it far enough up the beach to lick at the toe of one of her already wet shoes. She didn’t move. Foam sloshed around Carver’s cane planted in the sand. “There’s no way I can get any of those pills,” Nadine said. “They’re strong stuff, prescription medicine. Only a doctor can help Paul that way.”
“You tell Paul that?”
“Of course.”
“Did you take him pills he already had in his room?”
She shot a dark look at Carver. “How did you know that?”
“A guess. You’re his only sister, and a devoted one.”
“You got that part right, Mr. Carver.”
“If Paul’s innocent, why’s he running?”
“Stupid question. He found out you and the police were looking for him, and read in the newspapers he was the chief suspect. He had no choice other than to run.”
“Smart answer. But has it occurred to you that the reason all the evidence points to him and he’s running is that he’s guilty? Despite what he told you.”
She gazed out at a large incoming wave and laughed hopelessly, shaking her head. “I told Paul you wouldn’t believe. You’re on a revenge mission; it’s as obvious as if it were stamped on your forehead like some kind of biblical mark. You want Paul’s blood.”
“I don’t equate what I’m doing with religion.”
“You should. It’s ages old and twisted, even if it’s fresh in you. It controls you. You’re lost in it. You must be, to have done what you did. Vengeance can be a religion, don’t you think?”
She was grown-up, all right. But not quite far enough to realize how badly people needed their faith, twisted or otherwise.
“Explain away the evidence,” Carver said, “and I’ll try to believe Paul.”
“I can’t explain it away. Neither can Paul. If he could, he wouldn’t be running.” Quite logical, in its fashion.
“I guess you’re going to tell the rest of the family about me?” Carver said.
“No. Paul made me promise not to. He sees you as his only hope. The only one who can help him.”