“Maybe. Donna Winship was going out with a guy who used to do escort work for Sincliff.”
“What guy?” McGregor asked. “Give me a name.”
“Enrico Thomas.”
“So Donna and Mark were going out on each other. He was porking the Rourke woman and wifey was hiring an escort. Ain’t a woman alive won’t fuck around on her husband if the timing’s right.”
“She didn’t hire Thomas as an escort,” Carver said. “She didn’t even know he worked for Nightlinks. His main profession was working as a photographer’s model. He’s in catalogs, cigarette ads, that kind of thing.”
“So she got tired of hubby and went for some guy with looks and a bigger dick.”
“Could be,” Carver said, letting McGregor’s imagination roam.
“That it?” McGregor asked. “That’s all you know?”
“So far.”
McGregor cleared his throat noisily. Carver thought he was going to spit on the floor, but he swallowed instead. “I don’t believe that for a second, Carver. Even a dim bulb like you has had enough time to figure out more than what you just told me.”
“Well, it’s your job to be skeptical.”
McGregor ran his tongue around the inside of his cheek for a while, as if seeking morsels from his last meal. Carver had seen him do that before when he was thinking hard. “Carver, you get something on Harvey Sincliff and maybe you and I can be friends for about two seconds. Everybody knows he’s into prostitution, but it’s tough to nail him, what with the setup he’s got and the dumb-ass Constitution always getting in the way. Running an escort service isn’t against the law.”
“If he shows up dirty and it can be proved despite the Constitution,” Carver said, “I’ll let you know.”
“Let me know what you were really doing at that swank party sometime, too,” McGregor said.
“I’ll do better than that. Next time I’ll make sure you get invited.”
McGregor wasn’t sure if Carver was kidding, so he played it safe and didn’t reply. He placed his palms flat on the desk and leaned close enough for Carver to smell his fetid breath. “This has been a productive little visit, despite your lies. We’ll talk more often, and you better have more to say.”
He straightened up in sections, the way extremely tall men do, then turned around and walked out of the office.
Carver sat for a few minutes, then decided he’d leave, too. Any room was unpleasant for a while after McGregor had been in it. He seemed to taint the air wherever he went.
Grabbing his cane from where it leaned against the wall, Carver stood up. After erasing his messages, he left the office. Possibly he’d be lucky and not see McGregor for a few days, he thought, locking the door behind him.
But he knew it wouldn’t be much longer than that. He’d only tossed McGregor so much meat to chew on.
33
Beverly Denton had only a few minutes to spare that afternoon. Burnair and Crosley were in the middle of a market upturn prompted by a drop in interest rates, and employees were taking abbreviated lunch hours. Standing in the shade of the palms in the pocket-sized park on Atlantic Drive, she examined the photographs Carver had handed her, going through them slowly, but she recognized none of the men or women who’d frequented Nightlinks.
“Was this important?” she asked, giving the photos back to him. Her tone of voice suggested she thought she had let him down by not knowing any of the subjects.
“It could be a help that you didn’t recognize any of these faces,” he told her, no doubt easing her regret but adding to her confusion. Not a bad trade, Carver thought. Unless you were in the business of clearing up confusion.
She glanced over at two young boys climbing on the jungle gym under the supervision of a woman dressed as a nurse, then smiled at him.
“Thanks to you and your fiance,” he said, “I found Charlie Post and was able to talk with him.”
“Warren tells me Post is a real womanizer, a kind of charming swashbuckler entrepreneur.”
“That’s how he came across, all right.”
“You have an interesting line of work,” she said, “meet interesting people.”
“Yes, I’m here talking to you.”
She laughed, then looked across the street at the gleaming vertical planes of Burnair and Crosley with something like trepidation. “I better get back. The place is a zoo today. The market’s in a rally and nobody wants to be left behind.”
“Does that happen often?”
“About as often as when the market’s falling and nobody wants to fall with it.”
“Aren’t you going to have lunch?”
“I already ate a sandwich at my desk.” She turned to cross the street, then said, “I hope you find whoever killed Mark Winship.”
“Probably it’s the same person who killed Carl Gretch.”
“Carl Gretch?”
“Enrico Thomas.”
She looked at him blankly. They’d never talked much about Donna Winship, mostly Mark. “Thomas was Donna’s extramarital friend.”
Beverly’s eyes widened. “And he was murdered?”
“Beaten to death by an interesting person.”
“Jesus!” It was the first time he’d heard her use profanity. It surprised him. “That’s proof somebody’s trying to conceal the reasons for Mark and Donna’s deaths.”
“Maybe not proof,” Carver said, “but strong indication.” He wanted to keep her there a few more minutes, though he wasn’t quite sure why. It was as if some part of him sensed she knew something he must learn. He used to think disdainfully of people who acted on instinct, but now he knew it could be as useful as logic. “How has Maggie Rourke been acting?”
“Maggie? Normally enough, though she seems to be under a lot of stress. There was some kind of minor fuss at work this morning, I think.”
“Fuss?”
“I heard somebody came in and wanted to talk to Maggie but she refused to see him. He raised a bit of a ruckus, then went away quietly. At first I thought it might have been you, but nobody mentioned the man walked with a cane, and it didn’t seem like your style anyway.”
“It wasn’t me. Do you know anything else about him?”
“No, this was just something I heard mentioned in the rest-room. That’s the kind of thing that happens to women who look like Maggie; they have their admirers, men who become obsessed.”
“It upsets lives,” Carver said. “At least she’s working today.”
Beverly grinned. “Everybody’s working today.” She tapped her wristwatch with a fingernail. “Which reminds me.”
“Okay,” Carver said, “thanks again.”
“Anytime, Mr. Carver. I read the papers, catch the news on TV or the car radio. I’d like to see some justice for a change.”
He watched her wait for a break in traffic, shifting her weight from one leg to another like a marathon runner eager for the gun. Then she hurried on her high heels across Atlantic Drive to be reflected and distorted and absorbed by the glimmering mirror-angled building that loomed like a tribute to the sun.
Some justice for a change, he thought, driving back to his office.
Maybe this time.
A dusty blue Ford with rental plates was in the shady space where Carver usually parked. Annoying. Shaded parking slots were at a premium in Florida. He pulled into a slot several cars down and climbed out of the Olds.
He was plodding through the sun, feeling heat working through the thin soles of his moccasins, when he noticed someone sitting behind the Ford’s steering wheel.
Nearing the car, he saw the head of thick silver hair and recognized Charlie Post.
Post was slumped with his head bowed, as if trying to figure out the car’s controls. He must have caught a glimpse of Carver in the corner of his vision, because he raised his head suddenly. For an instant there was fear in his eyes, then he grinned in relief. There was something wrong with him. When Carver got within a few feet of the car, he saw that one of Post’s eyes was swollen almost shut and a thin trickle of blood had wormed from his nose to meet his upper lip.