21
Carver drove to his office and looked up Nightlinks in the phone directory. It was listed as an escort service and had an address on Telegraph Road on the southern edge of Del Moray. It appeared that Carl Gretch-Enrico Thomas worked as a paid escort, perhaps a male prostitute. Something Donna Winship undoubtedly didn’t know.
Or did she at least suspect? Carver wondered if Gretch had used the Thomas name when working for Nightlinks. He sat back behind his desk and looked out the window at two skinny teenage girls waiting for a bus across Magellan. One was wearing amazingly tight red shorts, pretending to be annoyed when passing motorists stared or honked their horns.
Or was she pretending? Laura, his former wife, would call him a sexist for wondering that, and maybe she’d be right. Still, looking at the girl across the street, he was curious. Carver wished he understood women; it might make what he was working on easier. Might make his life easier.
Desoto, way over in Orlando, probably wouldn’t know anything about Nightlinks. But Carver knew someone who almost certainly would know, a retired Del Moray police sergeant named Barney Travers who was living now in a residential hotel in Miami. Travers had worked on the vice squad for fifteen years and knew more than anyone about the dark side of sunny Del Moray.
Carver flipped though his Rolodex and came up with Travers’s number, a bit surprised that it was there, then remembering he’d jotted it down and inserted it last year after Travers had sent him a Christmas card. The card had to do with elves and reindeer and was a jarring example of what fifteen years of vice squad duty could do to a cop’s sense of humor.
He was about to reach for the phone and call Travers when the door opened and McGregor strutted in.
The tall man was grinning lewdly, the pink tip of his tongue oozing out between his front teeth as if struggling to emerge completely from his mouth. He was wearing the same wrinkled, ill-fitting brown suit he’d had on the last time he’d aggravated Carver, and the smell of stale perspiration mingled with cheap perfumed cologne or deodorant was still with him. He stood with his fists on his hips, staring down at Carver, his suit coat shoved back so the butt of his gun was visible in its shoulder holster.
“Why don’t you ever knock?” Carver asked. “Why do you always burst in here like you expect to interrupt a Mafia conspiracy?”
“You never know,” McGregor said, “I might catch you masturbating. Arrest you for indecent exposure the way they did that other comedian a few years ago.”
“Since I’m not exposed or doing anything illegal,” Carver said, “what do you want this time?”
McGregor jutted out his long jaw, putting on his angry expression, and glared at the lowly Carver. “Despite what I told you,” he said, “the word I get is that you’re still running around trying to make something out of nothing.”
Carver pretended to be puzzled.
“The late happy couple,” McGregor reminded him. Flick went the tongue. “You know, Splat and Bang.”
“Ah, the Winships.”
“You’ve been talking to people about the Winships, Carver. Trying to establish that somebody’s been murdered, it looks to me.”
“It is a possibility.”
“You even unearthed a girlfriend of the husband, that Maggie Rourke cunt.” Flick. “Can’t say I much blame Mark Winship for going after that. But what’s it got to do with anything except a guy riding a fresh pony?”
“He wasn’t the type to have an affair,” Carver said.
McGregor threw back his head and laughed. “Take another look at the Rourke woman, asshole. Even a jerk-off like you might leave that dark meat of yours if an operation like Maggie Rourke crooked her little finger at you and said to come hither.”
Carver felt a thrust of guilt and discomfort. What McGregor said wasn’t true. He told himself it wasn’t true.
“Besides,” McGregor said, “who knows why guys step out on the wife? The Winship marriage was private, intimate, like every marriage outside the fucking royal family.”
“Even princes and princesses enjoy some privacy.”
“Maybe they fought all the time.”
“The Royals?”
“The Winships, dumb fuck. Maybe Donna Winship let herself get fat.” He pointed out the window at the two teenagers still waiting for a bus across the street. “Look at them two skinny pieces. Probably starved themselves to get that way. Fucking bulimics upchucking in public restrooms. It’s unnatural, the way women keep themselves so skinny these days. Style, sure, but it’s deliberate deception. They’re pretending to be what they’re not. Then they get married and balloon out like the pigs they really are. Big surprise for hubby, and of course he starts looking longingly at whatever’s on the other side of the fence. It’s ruined the fine institution of marriage.”
“Quite a theory,” Carver said.
“It ain’t just a theory. I seen it happen lots of times. Inside every thin woman there’s a fat woman struggling to get out. Soon as they say ‘I do’ is when it starts to happen. The honeymoon begins and they’re scarfing down milkshakes and cheeseburgers, and don’t hold the onion.”
“So you came here to make social commentary on the divorce rate and fast food. Now that you’ve done it, why don’t you leave? I’ve got paperwork to catch up on.”
“Wipe your ass with your paperwork, Carver. I’m here-”
“I know,” Carver interrupted, “to warn me again not to poke around in the Winship case.”
McGregor shook his head and looked at Carver as if he were hopeless. “Don’t jump to conclusions like the piss-poor detective you are. Here’s what’s happened. Like the blind hog stumbling upon an occasional acorn, you happened to uncover a few things that change the picture.”
“Like Maggie Rourke?”
“Some acorn. But what it all means is this: You got my permission to go ahead and keep nosing around.”
“I thought you didn’t want any unsolved murders in your jurisdiction that might mess up your chances for a promotion.”
McGregor drew back as if aghast. “What kind of crap is that? I’m an officer of the law. Just because there’d be some personal gain in it for me, you think I’d sweep a homicide under the rug?”
“With a lot of other dirt,” Carver said. He knew now where McGregor was going.
“If anything like murder did go down with the Winships,” McGregor said, “I better be the second to know, if you’re the first.”
“So if you can’t have a non-murder, you want a murder you can say you solved.”
McGregor’s tongue probed again as he smiled. “That’s uncharacteristically astute of you. Now and again you show signs of not being completely brain dead.”
“In a way,” Carver said, “you’re sort of making me an honorary member of your department.”
“And under my direct command,” McGregor added. “Otherwise, I’ll lean on you hard. I can do that, Carver. Fact is, it’ll tickle the hell out of me to straighten you out if you aren’t a good soldier. I live for that kinda thing.”
Carver knew it was true. McGregor wasn’t above planting evidence if it was necessary to best an enemy. And anyone who stood between him and what he wanted was an enemy.
McGregor removed his fists from his hips and wiped a dirty white cuff across his nose. He pointed a long finger at Carver. “Remember, dick-face, what you know, I better know. Within seconds, if you’re near a phone.” He moved his lanky, basketball-center’s body to the door, then turned around. “This ain’t all bad for you, Carver. You don’t fuck up, and the minute I become chief you get a medal. It’s a promise.”
Laughing, he strode from the office.
Carver watched him drive out of the lot and make a right turn on Magellan. McGregor honked the unmarked’s horn as he passed the two teenage girls. One ignored him. The other, the one wearing the shorts, made an obscene gesture. Carver thought McGregor might turn the car around and make trouble for the girls, but just then a bus arrived as if to rescue them and they boarded and were gone in a haze of shimmering exhaust fumes.