34
When Carver entered his room at the Warm Sands, the phone was ringing. Each jangle was an explosion in the quiet, cool dimness.
He quickly closed the door and limped across the room, then lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed as he lifted the receiver with his free hand.
Desoto.
“More good news?” Carver asked, keeping it light to assure himself the ground wasn’t going to fall out from under him. He tried to convince himself this phone call couldn’t be about Beth. He was being an alarmist about Beth. And there had been nothing in Desoto’s voice to suggest tragedy.
“Information for you,” Desoto said, “about the floater in Fort Lauderdale, the big man in bib overalls.”
Carver breathed easier.
“Lauderdale law’s done some digging,” Desoto continued. “There was no identification on the body, but the F.B.I, had the guy’s prints on file and a criminal history. His name was Otto Fingerhut, and he did time in Georgia for aggravated assault and rape. Also did a stretch in Raiford for maiming a man in a tavern brawl.”
“Same time in Raiford as when Adam Beed was there?”
“No, he was released six months before Beed was admitted. But he and Roger Karl could have met in prison. Karl did a brief stretch in Raiford for burglary. His and Fingerhut’s sentences overlapped.”
“Any address on Fingerhut?” Carver asked, wondering if he’d lived in Fort Lauderdale.
Desoto laughed softly. “Pinning down an address wasn’t easy, amigo. Fingerhut’s was a license plate number. He lived in a motor home.”
The breeze from the air-conditioning was cold on Carver’s back. “A Winnebago?”
“How’d you know?”
He told Desoto about the Winnebago almost running the rental Ford off the highway.
“Beed must have been behind the wheel,” Desoto said. “Could be the Winnebago’s where Fingerhut was killed, then he was driven to be dumped in the canal.”
“That’s how I see it,” Carver said. “But why would Beed hold on to the motor home?”
“He might not be thinking too clearly these days,” Desoto said. “His prints were on the empty whiskey bottle found near Fingerhut’s body.”
“So Metzger got an Adam Beed connection on his own. That puts even more pressure on you to tell him what you know.”
“Two days means two days,” Desoto said. He talked as if it were a two-dollar bet on a Dolphins game, instead of a ruined career and reputation.
“What if I told Metzger the facts?”
“It wouldn’t mean the same, coming from you, amigo. You’ve got no choice in this.”
“Neither of us does, then. It all comes down to bottles.”
“Full of whiskey or ground up for hamburger additive,” Desoto said. He didn’t know about Luridus-X, and Carver saw no reason to tell him. Why burden him with more knowledge he should pass on to Metzger but wouldn’t?
Carver thought about Adam Beed drinking heavily and what booze could do to reason. He’d never been an alcoholic-he was fairly sure-but he’d had his romance with the bottle, not long after his former wife Laura had left him and he’d been injured and pensioned out of the Orlando Police Department. “You think Beed’s on a bender?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” Desoto said. “But I think you’ve put him under strain, and cracks are appearing. He might be Superman but he’s also an addict. Alcohol’s working whatever dark magic it does on him. He’s losing control.”
“Maybe he’s back on hard drugs.”
“If he is, it’s nothing that’s mellowing him out. Alcohol’s what he’s used to these days, and it’s all a beauty like him needs, which is why he’s leaving a trail of empty bottles. The ones he forgets to grind up and feed someone, anyway. That makes him all the more deadly, amigo. You truly understand?”
“That was made fairly obvious to me out on the highway.” Carver was under strain himself; he wasn’t boozing, but the pressure was apparent in his voice, like tremors before a major quake.
“Okay, don’t get testy. You get a read on the motor home’s license number?”
“No plate,” Carver said.
“No surprise there.” Desoto clucked his tongue softly, probably in time to music seeping from his Sony. He often did that when he was thinking. “I’ll relay what happened, get the state police on the lookout for the Winnebago. Meanwhile, don’t forget to lock your door, hey?”
The same advice he’d given Hattie Evans, Carver thought. Everybody was worried about Adam Beed. He was a whiskey-fueled nuclear missile with a faulty guidance system.
Carver assured Desoto he was playing it safe, then hung up.
He wasn’t surprised by Otto Fingerhut’s background. Small-brained, smalltime thug linked with Roger Karl. Drunk or sober, a pro like Adam Beed would never have hired him. And to Beed, murdering Fingerhut was probably not much different from killing Karl’s dog: the casual elimination of an inconvenience.
For the next few hours Carver lay quietly on the bed, gazing at the ceiling and going over the facts of the case in his mind. He chose not to commit them to paper; he’d found that by doing so he lost a certain fluidity of thought. Usually this kind of thing required going outside the lines or off the game board, a different perspective that revealed what had happened in a different light and scale. He didn’t want to block any avenues.
Where he went was down the road to sleep.
It was getting dark when he woke up. He phoned Beth’s room and got no answer.
His stomach growled and he realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He stood up and adjusted his clothes, went into the bathroom and smoothed the hair above his ears, then limped down to the Seagrill and had a salad, tuna steak, and two draft beers before returning to his room.
After a while he called a doctor he knew in Orlando, a man with the unlikely name of Malarky, and asked him about the list of Mercury Laboratories drugs. He got the same answer Mark had given him at Philip’s Pharmacy. Luridus-X was the wild card. The doctor gave Carver the name of a medical lab that would do reasonably fast analysis, and suggested Carver use him as a reference.
Carver hoped he’d have the chance.
About ten o’clock there was a soft knock on the door.
He picked up the Colt and tucked it in his belt, safety off, then went to the door and asked who was there.
Beth called in that it was room service.
He opened the door and she strode in, wearing lightweight yellow slacks and a white sleeveless blouse, tall and carrying herself like royalty. Her air of nobility was more than height and posture; it was an attitude that seemed to be genetic. She might have been born in the slums of Chicago, but every gesture and glance suggested the lineage of queens.
“Where’ve you been?” he asked, realizing immediately that he sounded like a disapproving father grilling a wayward teen. Hell with it; he couldn’t help it.
“Spent much of the day doing a follow-up interview with Brad Faravelli, then had dinner with a source.”
“Source of what?”
“You sound aggravated, and I notice you’re carrying a gun. Something wrong, lover?”
“I was worried about you, that’s all.”
She didn’t seem sympathetic. “I don’t like it when people worry about me.”
He’d known it, but the concern had crept in.
“You like people worrying over you, Fred?” She was pressing, grinning.
He walked to the desk and laid the gun on it, catching a whiff of her perfume. It was subtle yet forceful, as if derived from some sort of flower that choked off weeds.
“What’d you get out of the Faravelli interview?” he asked, all business. Still irritated, though.
“Reinforcement of my notion that he’s a straight arrow and the Solartown money flows in proper channels. Also, he’s more than a little interested in me.” She winked.
“Maybe he wants to sell you a house.”
“Bastard!” She laughed and tackled him, knocking him back on the bed. His cane caught on the edge of the mattress and fell to the floor. “He’s rumored to have a mistress, a real humdinger beauty-queen type. Anyway, I said he was interested in me, not vice versa. But speaking of vice . . .” She was lying full length on top of Carver, attempting to work a hand between their bodies to unzip his fly.