Scorcher (29 page)

“I think so. Keep leading.”

“Emmett hated and envied brother Adam, schemed to obtain his riches, and years ago even apparently tried to rape Adam’s wife Elana. Adam interrupted this brotherly act and there were harsh words; if Adam and Emmett disliked each other before, now they hated as only brothers can.

“Anyway,
amigo
, Emmett included young Joel Dewitt, who’d grown up just the way Emmett would have wanted, in his latest plans to even the scales with Adam. Joel was to court and marry Nadine. Meanwhile, Paul would be made out to be a serial killer. Then Emmett was going to murder Adam so Paul would appear responsible. He knew Elana Kave had terminal cancer and would probably be dead within the year. That’d leave Nadine—and Joel—with the money. Joel would share it with Emmett. He’d have no choice, since Emmett knew about his part in the flamethrower murders. Partners in the worst kind of crime.”

Carver squirmed in the suspended leather, listening to it creak like a new saddle. “Christ, those people, my son, were killed only to establish that Paul was a murderer.”

“I’m sorry,
amigo,
but that’s the way of it. It was Joel Dewitt, deliberately being mistaken for Paul, who committed the murders by fire in a way that conformed to Paul’s hobbies and known bouts of paranoia and aggression. The kid was a schizophrenic; ideal to be set up. Emmett and Dewitt planted evidence all over the place. Through his car dealership, Joel even went out-of-state and bought a Lincoln that was similar to Paul’s. Then he dented the right front fender so it resembled the damage to Paul’s car. He obscured the plate numbers, and kept the car out of sight in Emmett’s garage except for use in the murders.”

Desoto stopped talking and stood up. “Coffee’s done perking,
amigo.
You look like you need some badly.”

He deftly straightened the creases in his suit pants, then walked into the kitchen. A minute later he returned with two cups of sharply aromatic coffee, handed one to Carver, then sat down again on the sofa. Just the scent wafting from the cups might be enough to keep someone up all night.

Carver sipped the scalding black coffee, then waited for the caffeine to kick in or for the stuff to cause an acid attack.

“Those are imported beans from Mexico,” Desoto said proudly, holding up his cup and gazing at it. “Specially grown in the mountains. Good, eh?”

“A brisk waker-upper,” Carver said.

Desoto looked at him dubiously, then continued describing the world according to Joel Dewitt. “Emmett and Joel learned someone independent of the police was trying to solve the murders; they were aware of your identity even before Adam Kave hired you. They decided to use you, Carver. They weren’t trying to scare you off the case; they understood your blind determination and tried to fan your rage and drive for vengeance whenever it showed signs of losing intensity. Among other methods, they committed another murder—in the Orlando dress shop—and made an attempt on Edwina’s life by torching her house. They wanted you to find and kill Paul, before the police located him and maybe somehow learned he really hadn’t committed the murders. There was always that slight chance if the law caught up with him first. Emmett and Dewitt knew he’d have no chance with you.”

“And after I’d killed him?” Carver asked.

“Paul’s death, or his arrest, would have been Emmett’s signal to murder Adam immediately, burning him so severely with the adhesive, super-hot naphtha compound that the time of death would have been impossible to determine. If Elana got in the way, she would have been killed in the same manner. Paul would surely have been blamed for their deaths.” Desoto sat back and crossed his legs at the ankles; his black leather loafers had long tassels and tapered toes. He looked ready to go to a dance instead of a crime scene. “That’s the story,
amigo.
First Emmett and Dewitt committed murder, then they planted evidence pointing to Paul Kave. Then they seized opportunity and tried to use you to kill Paul so it could never be established that he was innocent of the killings before, and even slightly after, his own death.” Desoto shook his head sadly. “Some family, the Kaves. Could be a curse runs in their blood.” He solemnly crossed himself; Carver didn’t know if he was kidding. “You had this all figured out?” Desoto asked.

“Most of it,” Carver said.

“You’re good at your work,
amigo
; always were. Emmett, Dewitt, and McGregor counted on that.”

“What’s McGregor saying?”

“Oh, he’s saying a lot. He’s a hero, you know. Used you to find the killer, tricked you, and then saved your life. Even saved Dewitt’s life so he could stand trial and justice could be served. Some cop, McGregor. Gonna get a promotion, you can bet.”

“He had himself covered all the way,” Carver said softly, regretting the admiration that crept into his voice.

“Of course,” Desoto said. “Politics. Something you never understood, Carver, my friend.”

“A lot I didn’t understand.”

“Well, it’s not easy to comprehend the Kaves. All that money from wieners, it had to come to no good. Know what’s in those hot dogs,
amigo
?”

“Don’t want to know,” Carver said.

“Damned additives,” Desoto said. “Things’ll kill you.”

He finished his coffee in a gulp, somehow without dissolving his tongue and tonsils, then placed the cup on an end table and stood up. “I’m heading back to work, dutiful civil servant that I am. You rest, eh?”

“I can’t rest,” Carver said. He considered making a smartass remark about the coffee but thought better of it. Desoto was proud of the terrible stuff.

“Guess you can’t,” Desoto said. “Take care of the arm then, okay,
amigo
?”

“Sure,” Carver said. He gripped the cane and worked himself to his feet. “You were right most of the way,” he said. “Thanks for trying to make me listen. Thanks for . . . well, just thanks. I mean that.”

Desoto smiled, shrugged, and went out.

Carver limped into the kitchen and poured the rest of his coffee into the sink, listening to it hiss and gurgle down the drain. Steam rose. That should take care of any clogged pipes.

He decided to shower and get dressed. He owed Adam Kave a final report and some explanation, regardless of his status as a former client.

How would Adam receive him, after Emmett’s death and the arrest of Joel Dewitt?

And the return of Paul.

N
O ONE ANSWERED
Carver’s ring at the Kave estate. He limped around the side of the house, calling Adam Kave’s name, getting only silence for his effort. The hot weight of the sun bore down on his shoulders; the day was heating up to record temperatures, according to the sadistic forecast out of Fort Lauderdale. He unfastened the top button of his shirt.

Then he saw the figure on the beach, a man seated facing the wide ocean with his knees drawn up. An exceptionally large wave sent foaming surf fingers scrambling up the sand, getting the man’s ankles wet. He didn’t budge. There was something unnatural about his perfect stillness. He reminded Carver of one of those sculptures of people in repose that kept turning up in museums and shopping centers, appearing real even down to the color and texture of their clothes.

Carver gingerly took the steep wooden steps down to the beach, then started across the sand, moving tentatively as the tip of his cane sank into softness and lent little support. The cane left a pattern of deep depressions and narrow drag marks behind him.

As he neared the unmoving figure he recognized Adam Kave. Adam was dressed in a white shirt and dark pants. He had on polished black wing-tip shoes and black silk socks, waterlogged by the ocean. The back of his neck was flushed and his dark hair was matted with perspiration.

When Carver got close he called, “Adam?”

No answer. No movement.

Carver worked forward with the cane and stood a few feet behind and to the side of Adam, who sat staring out at the sea and tightly hugging his knees. The surf slapped and spread high onto the beach again and foamed around his skinny black-clad ankles. He was clutching something white in his right hand. It looked like a crumpled envelope, but Carver couldn’t be sure.

“Where’s Paul?” Carver asked between crashes of surf.

Adam didn’t look at him. “He and Nadine drove to Joel Dewitt’s apartment to get some of Nadine’s things. They left this morning.” The husky voice was an odd monotone.

Carver started to crouch but found that he couldn’t. The cane in the soft sand was too unstable. “What’s wrong, Adam?”

Adam seemed to have forgotten Carver was there. Had he been so devastated by the news about Emmett and Dewitt? Or was his peculiar behavior in some way connected to Paul’s recently established innocence? Paul the troubled son, back in the human race and the family fold.

Carver turned and stared up at the rambling house with its many windows looking out on the ocean. He studied the green and manicured lawn and shrubbery, broken here and there by colorful flower beds. The place looked postcard-plush and sterile. Unoccupied. No one was on the grounds, or at any of the windows. No one had answered Carver’s ring. That could mean nothing. Elana might be asleep in her upstairs room, and Adam was here on the beach.

Sitting in the surf in his suit pants and wing-tip shoes. Not doing much talking.

A gull wheeled and soared delicately on an updraft, then arced in low off the sea and screamed. The sound pierced something in Carver’s mind and sent a cold tingle up his spine.

“Adam, where’s Elana?”

Adam said, “You did a fine job, Carver. Lying bastard that you are. You unearthed the truth. That’s why I hired you. But I didn’t know . . . The truth’s a sonuvabitch, isn’t it?”

“Too much of the time,” Carver said. He watched a sailboat in the distance tack away from shore and disappear into low haze, as if it had never been there. Magic on bright water. “Where’s Elana?” he repeated.

Adam was still staring out at the ocean, his head raised in a strained, attentive attitude, as if anxiously waiting for something to appear among the waves. “Elana?” he said vaguely. “Oh, she’s in the boathouse.”

Carver left him there and trudged with his cane toward the boathouse down the beach, near the base of the wooden steps. A miniature canal had been carved in the beach, lessening the impact of the waves, and the boathouse, a weathered old structure with a leaky roof and glassless windows, straddled the foot of the canal. It had been there for decades, and only a small boat could be docked in it out of the weather. The white-and-brown Kave pleasure yacht still rode at the dock on the beach beyond, clean and fresh and yearning for deep water.

Carver clomped with the cane across gray, weathered wood to the boathouse door. He could hear water lapping inside in rhythm with the surf. He saw the rusty padlock hanging sprung on its hasp, and he extended his cane and shoved the door open on screaming hinges. The scream sounded exactly like the gull that had circled in near where Adam was sitting on the beach.

Sun and water sent shimmering reflections over the old walls. A small, open boat with a rotted teakwood bow rose and fell with the rush and ebb of the sea. The inside of the boat-house was undulating with dancing shadows and brightness, all silent, glimmering motion.

The only still thing—so very still—was Elana Kave, hanging by her neck from a rope looped over a rafter. She was even stiller than her husband out on the beach.

She was nude, her wasted, pale body unblemished and suspended in frozen grace. Her face was grotesque, tongue protruding and eyes wide with the final surprise and comprehension. Death had diminished her, made her seem incredibly small; she was a perfect but ephemeral miniature with a gargoyle head. Ruined mortal beauty on the first leg of its journey to dust.

Glittering brilliance shafted and swirled through the old structure and bounced broken off the water, a thousand brightly mocking things playing over her, somehow only emphasizing her waxlike stillness. She was no longer any part of the warmth and movement and suffering of life.

Adam must have found her like this.

Almost stumbling, Carver backed out of the boathouse. He didn’t look away from Elana until he’d shut the squealing door.

He glanced down the beach at Adam, who was still seated as before and staring out to sea. Then he made his way toward the house and a phone.

An hour later Carver was sitting with McGregor on the screened veranda overlooking the beach and ocean. The police technicians had come and gone, and Elana had been removed in a black rubber body bag. Adam Kave had been taken inside and was being treated for shock. Nadine and Paul hadn’t been located and still didn’t know about their mother’s death. They hadn’t learned they were in a nightmare without end.

Carver sat at the glass-topped table where he’d seen the Kaves have breakfast. Not exactly amiable family meals. He tapped his cane lightly and rhythmically against a chair leg, trying to keep his mind from flashing to Elana dangling in the boathouse. It wasn’t unusual for suicides to hang themselves nude, as if the act were a return to the moment of birth rather than chosen death. The sea wind was brisk, and the canvas awning, rolled out to shield from the sun, rustled and snapped overhead.

McGregor was standing with just his fingertips slid into his pants pockets, as if he liked to stay ready for action. He was chewing on something infinitesimal and hard, working it around with his long jaw, probing now and then with his tongue to find out how he was doing. Carver could hear a faint clicking as McGregor’s eyeteeth slipped off the stubborn morsel and met with enough force to dismay a dentist.

“So, we know each other again,” Carver said. He watched McGregor turn his head and spit out whatever it was he’d been chewing, barely parting his lips.

“You betcha,” McGregor said. “Pals, you and me, right down the line. We done okay in this thing, Carver. Might even call us heroes.”

“Might,” Carver said. He knew McGregor had read Elana’s suicide note, which was in the white envelope the stricken Adam had clutched in his fist on the beach. “Why’d she hang herself?” Carver asked. “She’d just got her son back. Was it the cancer? She knew she wasn’t going to recover.”