“Sincliff’s into prostitution and everybody knows it,” McGregor said. “He’s been turning out his escorts for years. Thing is, he’s set up so it’s impossible to prove.”
“You can arrest him and make it stick like Superglue. I can give you the names of employees and clients who engaged in prostitution, along with the names and addresses of the Johns. Beth and I will back it up with our testimony, and some of the Johns are sure to break and cooperate with the prosecution.”
“Goin’ after the Johns too, huh?” A note of caution now. Here was something that wasn’t usually done. The sound of McGregor’s brain working might have been audible over the line.
“Why not the Johns? Prostitution’s a crime that takes two to commit.”
“Still, some of ’em might have toes too important to step on.”
“There are no toes like that connected to the names I’ll give you. Except maybe for Reverend Harold Devine’s.”
“Devine? The family-values turd that’s always yammering on TV and picketing?” There was unmistakable delight in McGregor’s voice. “So that’s the reason his wife filed for divorce; the good reverend was getting a little pussy donation on the side. I never seen it to fail with them praise-the-Lord-and-pass-the-collection-plate assholes. They all got sexual problems, or they wouldn’t be so high on telling everybody else not to have fun.”
“You have a philosophy that covers every situation,” Carver said.
“Because I got the balls and brains to live with the truth,” McGregor told him, obviously feeling complimented by Carver’s observation. “I see the world the way it is and you see nothing but your idiot pipe dreams that make you feel better. Now spit out what you got, and there better not be anything floating in it that doesn’t belong.”
Carver told him about the Nightlinks stakeouts and following the escorts and their clients. He gave him names, addresses, and license plate numbers. He didn’t mention that Reverend Devine had been photographed with Mandy Jamison at the motel.
“The bagman is an Oriental named Beni Ho,” Carver said. “He collects the previous night’s proceeds and turns them over to a woman named Maggie Rourke. My guess is she invests the money for Sincliff under a dummy account at Burnair and Crosley Brokerage. She’s an account manager there.”
“And she’s the one that ties the prostitution to Nightlinks and proves the escorts aren’t acting on their own. That oughta make a nice package for the prosecutor. But will she break easy and cooperate with us?”
“She won’t have any choice, once you follow the money.”
“All this sounds good,” McGregor said, “but what’s it got to do with the Winships crossing the divide?”
“Probably nothing. It’s information I came across while working on the Winship case, and I thought you could use it.”
Carver wasn’t about to tell McGregor what he thought Nightlinks was really involved in. He wasn’t sure that what he suspected was true. But true or not, McGregor would love it and plant evidence if necessary to make it seem like fact. That it was a path to promotion and power was more important to him than the truth. And the path would be clear and shining to him, beckoning with the realization that the media would close in like sharks on the story and bleed and shake it for circulation and ratings for weeks. It would make Sincliff’s arrest for running a prostitution ring barely noticeable in the news.
“So I’m to believe you’re telling me this out of generosity?” McGregor asked.
“Why not?”
“I don’t believe in generosity, Carver, any more’n I believe in Santa Claus. They both have the last laugh and they shake like a bowl fulla puke, and they’re both phony.”
“I’ll bet you’re a joy around Christmas.”
“I don’t like what Christmas has become,” McGregor said, catching Carver off guard.
“You mean the commercialism?”
“Not that. The other. They oughta forget all that religious stuff entirely and concentrate on jacking up prices and selling crap to the suckers to give each other. Better for the economy that way. Get people out shopping instead of sitting on their fat asses praying and sipping eggnog.”
Carver thought he might have something there, but he didn’t say so.
“Only thing still bothers me about this,” McGregor said, “is that to make it really stick like Superglue we’ll have to bring in all the Johns as well as the whores. I don’t like that. Some poor guy knocking off stray for pay, next thing he knows he’s standing limp-dicked in front of a judge. And despite what you say, he might be important.”
“That’s a double standard.”
“Sure it is. I might not believe in Christmas, but I do believe in double standards. Fucking the people under you is what life is all about. It’s God’s plan, otherwise why would they be under you if not to get fucked? That’s why you’re there on the bottom, Carver.”
“When are you going to move on Nightlinks?”
“I don’t know yet. But you can be sure of one thing. We won’t even think about making a move without checking with you first for approval and authorization.” He hung up the phone. Laughing, Carver thought.
Even before replacing the receiver, Carver had made up his mind to be at Nightlinks when McGregor and the Del Moray police made the arrests and confiscated the files. It should be easy enough to find out when that would be. Carver and Beth had connections in the news media, which were sure to be notified ahead of time. If he knew McGregor, there would be journalists and cameras there, probably even before the law.
McGregor had a politician’s understanding of the power of imagery, as well as a politician’s lust for influence and authority. He’d played the press more than once. They were willing participants in his game.
Carver sat wondering if he’d done the right thing. If it turned out he was mistaken about Nightlinks, lives would be damaged, some of them permanently, because of a victimless crime he didn’t really believe should be criminal.
The escorts would be able to cope. They’d probably had dealings with the police and the courts, and when they found their way out of this storm in their lives they’d continue much as they had before, even if they served brief sentences. But the clients and their spouses and children might find their worlds suddenly changed from daylight to darkness. Faith would be lost and marriages might end. All because of Carver’s suspicion. His compulsion to reach conclusions. His need to discern the shapes in the fog and understand.
41
McGregor moved fast, before word could get out; papers could be shredded and opportunity might elude him. His boldness was perhaps the only thing about him that Carver sometimes in weaker moments admired. A contact of Beth’s at Channel 6 News, alerted to coming developments, called her and said the police had leaked to the news department that there would be a raid on Nightlinks that evening at six o’clock, when the escort service would still be open and taking calls for that night’s clientele.
Carver parked the Olds in front of the Aero Lounge and sat looking toward the other end of the strip shopping center where Nightlinks was located. Heat moved into the parked car, masquerading as a breeze through the cranked-down windows. A mosquito came with it and sampled blood from the back of Carver’s hand. He slapped at it and missed, hearing a faint drone as it navigated past his ear. He hadn’t averted his gaze from the length of the sun-punished strip of shops.
McGregor was on top of things. It was 5:45 and there was no sign of anything unusual. People were walking in and out of the dry cleaners and the Aero Lounge. A few entered or left Nightlinks, though no one Carver recognized. He figured McGregor would hit at least ten minutes before he’d told the news media he’d be there, so no one at Nightlinks would be tipped to what was going on by looking outside and seeing some overeager news channel van festooned with call letters and satellite dishes.