Her eyes were bright and grimly determined as she said, “We’re truly going to discover some things about Jerome’s death now, aren’t we, Mr. Carver?”
“One way or the other.” He told her he’d find his own way out, but she followed him as he limped back into the living room and toward the door.
When he dug the cane’s tip into the carpet and stopped abruptly, she bumped into him.
“Something the matter?” she asked.
“That,” Carver said. He pointed with his cane at the sun-washed view out the living-room window.
A Winnebago motor home was parked across the street, and Adam Beed had climbed out and was buttoning his dark suit coat. He was staring at Hattie’s house with a nasty little smile Carver had seen before.
Carver told Hattie who he was.
She stared out the window and stood even more erect, jutting out her chin. “Leave by the back door, Mr. Carver,” she said firmly. “Make it to your car and deliver that bottle to the police or the laboratory in Orlando.”
Carver watched Adam Beed stride toward the house. He was carrying an attache case and looked like a prosperous, muscular insurance agent on his way to bore prospective clients. But he wasn’t that at all.
“You’re my employee, Mr. Carver, so please obey my instructions this instant.”
He didn’t move.
“You’re being recalcitrant.”
“I won’t leave you alone,” he said. “I’m going into the kitchen. If Beed asks about me, tell him I left fifteen minutes ago with Lieutenant Desoto, in Desoto’s car.”
She looked up at him with fear in her eyes, but also resolve. Carver thought she was about to speak, but she remained silent.
He limped to the kitchen and got busy, and within seconds heard the door chimes pealing like alarm bells.
36
From where he sat at the kitchen table, Carver heard the chimes sound two more times, Hattie was in no rush to go to the front door.
Then he heard the door open, Beed’s voice from out on the porch. Carver couldn’t understand what he was saying, but his tone was amicable.
“He isn’t here, I’m afraid,” Hattie said. “He left with Lieutenant Desoto ten or fifteen minutes ago. Should I-”
There was the sound of a slap.
“How dare-” Another slap.
The front door closing.
Silence.
Carver gripped his cane and fought the impulse to get up and go into the living room. He hadn’t expected Beed to become violent so quickly; if he’d been boozing as heavily as Desoto suspected, he might be on the very edge. Carver had handled it wrong. He knew that now but it was too late; he had to follow the course he’d set.
“I assume Mr. Carver’s in the house,” Beed said loudly in the living room.
“I told you-”
“I know,” Beed interrupted Hattie. At least he didn’t slap her this time. “Carver, you hear me?”
Carver held his silence. He’d screwed up about as much as fate would allow.
He heard movement in the living room, footsteps going away, then coming nearer. He drew the Colt from its holster and laid it on the table with his fingertips resting lightly on it. He hadn’t wanted to use it, but he thought now there might be no choice. He’d used the gun before and knew he could do it.
Adam Beed appeared in the kitchen doorway. He was holding an AK-47 automatic weapon in his right hand. His thick left arm was clamped around Hattie. The left side of her jaw was ballooned out and her eyes were teared with rage and fear. The automatic’s sleek blue barrel wasn’t aimed at Carver. It was digging into Hattie’s ribs.
“Ah, here’s where you’ve been keeping yourself,” Beed said, as if making small talk at a party. So neatly and conservatively dressed-blue suit, white shirt, red tie-and holding gun and hostage, he looked like a political fund raiser who’d gone too far. He was grinning but there was a tic in the parchmentlike flesh beneath his right eye. He appeared pale, strung out, and dangerous. A wave of fear hit Carver, and he waited until he had control before answering.
“What caused you to drop by?” he asked. He was pleased that his voice remained level and conversational. He hadn’t removed his fingertips from the gun, but he knew he couldn’t use it while Beed had Hattie.
“The social butterfly in me, I guess. Why didn’t you say something when I called your name?”
“That old maxim, ‘If you don’t have anything nice to say about somebody . . .’ ”
Beed nodded toward the Colt. “I’d like that gun for my collection.”
“I don’t want to sell it.”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll give it away rather than see old lady all over the walls. Drop it on the floor and slide it over here with your foot.”
Carver obeyed.
Beed released Hattie as he stooped gracefully and picked up the gun. He stuck it in his belt inside his suit coat and came all the way into the room. Hattie edged over to stand near Carver. She seemed calm but for a faint quivering in the fingers of her hand near Carver’s cheek.
Beed’s glance traveled around the kitchen. “Another thing I want,” he said, “is a small brown bottle.”
Carver said, “I’ll just bet.”
The flesh beneath Beed’s eye danced again and he leveled the automatic at Carver. “The old bitch here’s all I need to get that bottle. Something you should keep in mind.”
“Another thing to keep in mind is that if I tell you where it is, you’ll kill us both.”
“Definitely. Gonna kill you both either way and it doesn’t matter if we all know it. You two fall on the debit side of the ledger, and there’s nothing I enjoy more than balancing the books.”
“The way you subtracted Roger Karl and Otto Fingerhut?”
Beed shrugged. “There are layoffs in every business.”
A sound from outside caught his attention. Carver hadn’t heard it.
Now he did hear something, the slam of a car door.
“Let’s go into the living room,” Beed said, like a considerate host trying to put his guests at ease.
Carver stood up and limped after Hattie. Beed followed with the automatic, an unwanted, menacing shadow.
Through the living-room window Carver saw a gray Cadillac parked behind the Winnebago. Nurse Monica Gorham and an extremely thin Latin man were walking up Hattie’s driveway toward the house. The man was wearing a dark pinstripe suit even spiffier than Beed’s. Nurse Gorham was dressed in a severe gray business suit with pale stockings and white high heels beneath its modest-length skirt. Everyone other than Carver and Hattie was dressed for a board of directors’ meeting.
Keeping the gun trained on Carver, Beed opened the front door to admit them.
Inside, Nurse Gorham gazed at Carver and Hattie with remote curiosity, as if they might be objects in an aquarium.
The Latino barely glanced at them. He had a smooth complexion and was almost feminine looking, naturally dark around the eyes as if he wore makeup. It took a second glance to see that he was probably in his forties. He gave the impression this was all distasteful and he’d rather be someplace else. Well, so would Carver. Philadelphia, even.
Carver guessed and said, “Hello, Dr. Sanchez.”
The man nodded to him with a slight smile that wasn’t at all infectious. He had the unrevealing eyes of a snake.
“It hardly matters if he knows you,” Beed said to the man.
Dr. Sanchez said, “If it did, I wouldn’t be here.” He spoke with a slight accent, probably Cuban, and a calm authority that meant he was in charge. “Did you get what we want?”
“Haven’t had a chance.”
“What about next door?”
“Game old fucker,” Beed said. “I worked on him last night until he lost consciousness once too often and I couldn’t revive him. He never really spilled his guts, but whatever he knows, he won’t be telling it around town.”
“Val!” Hattie said. “What have you done to Val?”
“Old fart’s in love with her,” Beed said. “That’s why he wrote her those anonymous letters about her husband’s death and got this whole mess started.”