“It can’t hurt,” Carver said.
Beth examined some more photos, then said, “Hey! This guy.”
Carver looked up at her.
“This guy right here.” She laid a photograph on the counter.
It was a shot of Harvey Sincliff and another man walking toward the Aero Lounge.
“I saw him enter and leave Gretch’s apartment building more than once,” Beth said. Her long red fingernail tapped the image of Sincliff rather than his companion. A flake of glazed icing dropped from her finger onto the photo.
“You sure?”
“He was there at least twice,” Beth said. “I didn’t actually see him with Gretch, but Gretch was home each time he was in the building. I made a note of that, but didn’t think it was important. For all I knew he was there to see somebody else. Maybe even lived there.” She leaned forward and blew the flake of icing from the photo. “Who is he?”
“Harvey Sincliff. He owns Nightlinks.”
“Oh. Well, Gretch worked for him as an escort. Maybe that’s why he was there to see him.”
“Sincliff told me he knew Gretch as Enrico Thomas, and then only slightly. Didn’t even recall who he was until I prodded his memory. He also told me he hadn’t seen Gretch in months.”
“I guess he lied, then,” Beth said around a bite of doughnut. “No surprise. Question is why.”
Carver finished his doughnut, then ate another one, pondering that question.
“Maybe there’s more to Nightlinks than just an escort service,” Beth said.
“There is. Sincliff is into prostitution, but it’s difficult to prove.”
“I took that for granted. Most escort services are fronts for prostitution. I mean, maybe there’s even more to it than that.”
“Any ideas?”
“No. But people have died, Fred. It might be worth finding out Sincliff s real connection with Gretch, and what, if anything, Nightlinks has to do with it.”
He’d been thinking about the best way to do that. “Busy tonight?” he asked.
“Last night was fun,” Beth said. “What have you got planned for tonight?”
“We follow some of the escorts, see who they meet, where they go, what they do.”
She washed down a final bite of doughnut with coffee. “The ‘what they do’ part shouldn’t be difficult.”
Carver said, “I’m more interested in the who and where. And the why.”
“There might be something in this for a Burrow piece,” Beth said. “Following Nightlinks escorts could serve more than one purpose.”
Carver said, “Too much in life serves more than one purpose, has more than one face.”
Beth swiveled off her stool, stood at the sink, and poured the rest of her cooling coffee down the drain. “Maybe Donna learned that too late,” she said.
After breakfast, Carver left Beth to her Burrow work and drove into Del Moray. He managed to see Ellen Pfitzer at the country club. Between sets of tennis she looked carefully at the Nightlinks photographs. She told Carver she recognized no one. If she was lying, nothing about her gave her away.
He watched her bounce and struggle through a few games of the next set. Her opponent was a lanky woman in her fifties who went to the net too soon and too often, possibly because the sun was obviously making her suffer.
Ellen was winning one of life’s battles and having a good time as Carver waved goodbye and went back to the Olds.
After phoning Beverly Denton and setting up another meeting in the park across from Burnair and Crosley for that afternoon, he drove to his office and checked his messages.
A woman whose missing daughter he’d located last year called to thank him again and assure him her check for final payment was in the mail. The realty company that managed the building where his office was located called to ask him why the rent check he’d assured them was in the mail hadn’t yet reached them.
McGregor had left the same message twice, instructions for Carver to call him back without delay. At least Carver assumed he was “Dick-head,” since the message was on his machine.
McGregor had nothing if not timing. Carver was reaching for the phone when the towering lieutenant strode into the office. The way he acted, it was possible he’d just bought the building.
“I left a message to call me back, dick-head,” McGregor said. “Where you been?”
“Swimming, eating doughnuts. You should knock. You’re liable to charge through a door someday into new construction, step on a nail.”
“Knock you on your ass is what I’m liable to do. I thought I better drive over here and see you personally. You don’t possess the etiquette gene. It’s possible you might not have returned my call.”
“I was about to do just that,” Carver said honestly. It felt strange, being honest with McGregor.
“Sure, sure,” McGregor said with his lewd grin. “Probably you been fucking your jungle bunny all morning and you was about to call her and tell her you loved her.”
“It’s good you’re in police work, with all your sensitivity.”
“You’re such a politically correct fuck-head yourself.” McGregor hitched up his wrinkled pants and glowered down at Carver. The usual funk that emanated from him hung in the air from when his suitcoat had flapped open with the extension of his elbows. “It’s actually last night I’m interested in,” he said. “I had no idea you were such a party animal, knew so many rich and important people.”
“Old friends, most of them.”
“Don’t bullshit me. You and your dark meat were trespassing there. You crashed the party for a reason. And don’t tell me you were thinking about buying that yacht.”
“There was no way to crash that party,” Carver said. “It was by invitation only, and they checked all the guests at the gangplank. You know that, otherwise you would have been on board scarfing down free food and liquor. The truth is, an old friend of Beth’s knew somebody who used to crew on the yacht, and he gave her a couple of invitations to repay a favor.”
“Yeah?” McGregor didn’t sound convinced. “What’s this old friend’s name?”
“I’m not sure. His friends call him Ishmael.”
McGregor wrote that down in his leather-covered notebook. “Last name?”
“I don’t know. He tells everyone just to call him Ishmael.”
“Black guy, I’ll bet.”
“No. Why?”
“Sounds like one of those black basketball players that change their names. Something about religion.”
“He’s tall enough. He might be.”
“What? A basketball player?”
“Religious.”
McGregor slapped his notepad shut and shoved it into his pocket. “I heard enough of your smart-ass chatter, Carver. You remembering to call me whenever you learn something?”
“You bet.”
McGregor waited for Carver to say more. Carver didn’t.
After several seconds, McGregor took a few long paces, then stood squarely facing Carver, closer to the desk than before. “Know what worries me, piss-for-gray-matter?”
“Yeah. Connections. You probably noticed Beth talking with the Senator.”
“Senator?” McGregor faded back a step.
“What worries you is the fact that I might know somebody well who was at that party, and that the muscle that goes with money might be dangerous to you if you fuck up so close to promotion time.”
McGregor probed between his front teeth with his tongue, then smiled. “Well, you’re smarter than you look, but stupid at that.” Gone was the smile. “Sure, I get nervous automatically when there’s that kinda money involved. I been corrupted for so much less. But if you do me wrong, Carver, money and influence won’t bring you back to life.”
Carver got the Nightlinks photographs from a desk drawer and laid them on the desk. “Know any of these people?”
McGregor picked up the photos and looked through them. “The ugly one’s Harvey Sincliff. Owns Nightlinks escort service.” He dropped the photos back on the desk so they landed in a jumble. “Sincliff involved with the Winship suicides?”