“The one that got himself photographed?”
“Reverend Harold Devine,” Carver said. “He’s pastor of a church in Miami and does a weekly TV spot.”
“He’s more than that,” Beth said. She was still looking over his shoulder, and her breath was warm in his ear. He didn’t mind.
“Desoto mentioned he was director of something called Operation Revert.”
“That’s right, Fred. They oughta be called Operation Regress. Burrow did a piece on them last year when some of their members chained themselves to the doors of a television network affiliate in Miami. They believe all of society’s ills can be traced to the disintegration of the family, and they think the media are the primary cause of that decline. They want to turn back the clock to ‘Ozzie and Harriet’ time, reestablish the dominance of the American family. The problem is, they don’t care how they accomplish it.”
“And you don’t care for them,” Carver said.
“More’n a few of those true-blue model families had colored maids at minimum wage.”
“And ‘Ozzie and Harriet’ time was also separate drinking fountains time.”
“Not to mention separate lynchings.” Beth walked to the other side of the breakfast counter and perched on a stool facing Carver. “Also not to mention Barney Fife time. Funny little guy, sure. But how’d you like to be hassled by that jerk for real if he had the power to get you convicted?”
Carver knew she had a thing about Barney Fife, believing the Mayberry TV character had made a generation of abusive cops seem sympathetic, so he said nothing. He didn’t want to get into an argument over reruns.
“Devine’s the one got himself photographed,” she said, “so that makes the blackmail scenario most likely.”
“The Cadillac has dual registration. He has a wife, according to Desoto. Cindy Sue, believe it or not.”
“I believe,” Beth said.
“Maybe Cindy Sue hired a detective to follow her pious husband and get the goods on him. Or maybe his political enemies wanted something heavy to hold over his head. Plenty of folks might want to take advantage of the fact that the good reverend has a weakness for prostitutes.”
“What about the others on the list?”
“Nothing about them jumps out,” Carver said. “One’s a furniture dealer from Wisconsin, another sells cars up in Jacksonville. Guys with money to spend and looking for a good time, most of them probably married. It’d be a shame to shake up their lives by making it public record they were Nightlinks customers.”
“Oh, really?” Beth drew back and glared at him. “I always regarded prostitution as a crime it took two people to commit. And sometimes there’s a crime within a crime, and no legal recourse for the victim. I know what I’m talking about, Fred.”
He didn’t ask what she meant by that. He knew part of the price she’d had to pay to escape her upbringing. Some parts he didn’t want to know. Most men and women should keep some things secret from each other, and shouldn’t pry. One of the reasons for the disintegration of the American family, he thought, was that there was too much communication within marriage.
“I guess I agree with you,” he said. “But I’m not so sure it should be a crime at all. Society ought to grow up and decriminalize it, leave both parties undisturbed.”
“Very progressive of you, Fred. A lot of men think the same way, some of them in the legislature. But the women doing for men are the ones still getting dragged into court, while the guys who pay them for their services walk and don’t even get their names in the paper.”
“It’s not a fair world,” Carver said.
“That your explanation? Well, the wives of those guys who are going out and diddling with strange pussy would agree with you. Think of that hypocrite bastard Devine preaching family unity and urging the government to withhold welfare payments to single mothers, then going out and lying down with some poor woman who probably loathes him but needs his money to feed her kids.”
“I doubt if Mandy Jamison has any kids,” Carver said. He could see Beth getting more annoyed by the second, yet he kept saying things that made things worse. He wondered if, on a certain level, he might be doing it deliberately.
“You really think that redhead’s the only strange wiggle he’s paid for?”
She was slipping into street slang, getting angry deep down. Carver knew that was a sign he should back off. “For all we know she does have kids,” he admitted.
“Fuck Reverend Harold Devine and his whole army of hypocrites. They’re the assholes would have been wearing white sheets not too many years ago. Might even wear them now. If the two-faced bastard is getting blackmailed, good. If you need to make his name public to get the answers on the Winship deaths, you do it. And if you don’t, I will!”
She stood up and he saw that her fists were clenched into tight brown knots. The bright red of her painted nails made it appear that each hand was squeezing something that was bleeding. She strode to where her portable computer sat and snatched it up, then made for the door.
“Where you going?” Carver asked.
“Going to Burrow. You damn well better remember what I said, Fred!”
“About what?”
She slammed the door hard on her way out.
He didn’t get a chance to tell her he agreed with her.
He had a ham sandwich and a Budweiser for lunch, then drove into Del Moray and parked at his vantage point where he could watch the Nightlinks office. He’d developed a sense for where the energy in a case emanated from, where the epicenter lay. More and more, what had happened to Donna and Mark Winship seemed to be connected to Nightlinks. He wasn’t sure what he might learn from a daylight stakeout of the escort service, but maybe things went on here by the light of the sun. Maybe Mandy Jamison arranged for child care and worked days. Carver the cynic.
But Mandy didn’t appear. Only three people came and went at Nightlinks in the two hours he sat sweltering in the Olds, a man and two women. Early afternoon was obviously a slow time for escort services.
Carver sat up straighter when he saw Beni Ho emerge from the office, slip a pair of dark glasses onto the bridge of his nose, and get into a black Porsche that looked like the Bat-mobile. Ho was moving better but still limping along with a cane, like Carver, and he was carrying a briefcase. The last time Carver had seen him leave Nightlinks he was carrying a briefcase.
The Porsche either needed a muffler or its exhaust system was set up to roar mightily in a projection of power. It rolled smoothly and noisily from the parking lot.
Things were slow here anyway, and stifling, so Carver wiped sweat from the corners of his eyes, started the Olds, and drove down to Telegraph Road.
Ho knew his car, so Carver had to be especially careful. He stayed far back, sometimes losing sight of the black Porsche in the bright traffic and sun glare, but he was able to stay with it.
Ho drove to an apartment building on Seventh Street, a four-story blue and white structure with a wooden railing around the perimeter of its flat roof. Carver parked beneath a bent and shaggy palm tree a block down and watched, listening to the drooping fronds rattle in the breeze.
Ho entered the building carrying the briefcase, then returned to his car about five minutes later, still with the case.
He drove over to Egret Avenue and made a similar visit to a small, vine-covered house. Then it was all the way to the other side of town for another brief stop at an apartment building. He headed east then, toward the ocean.
Carver followed, but he was getting worried. Ho was driving at the speed limit, not behaving in any way unusual, but he wasn’t the sort anyone could follow indefinitely without being seen. Carver hoped the little assassin’s dark glasses obstructed his vision enough to take the edge off his awareness.
It wasn’t until Ho had parked and climbed up out of the Porsche again that Carver realized where they were. At the motel where he’d last seen Mandy Jamison after her date with Reverend Devine. The place she seemed to call home.