Spark (6 page)

“Not necessarily. It doesn’t mean there’s a serial killer operating in Solartown, but it doesn’t mean there isn’t. It might simply have been a bad year for fatalities.”

“Bad couple of years. These figures cover twenty-four months.”

“Jeff’s thorough. Tell him I said thanks.”

“Sure. Remember our lunch date.”

Carver assured her he would, then hung up. He lay back down on the bed but left the light on. It would be interesting to know how many of Solartown’s 220 deaths last year were due to heart attacks, and how many of them were male. How many widows were created.

It was time to talk with Dr. Arthur Wynn at the medical center.

Rather, it would be time tomorrow. Carver knew he had a better chance of meeting the subject of a séance than convincing a medical doctor to talk with him at ten-forty in the evening.

He dragged the phone over to him and rested it on his chest. Remembering the number on the
POSSE
bumper sticker on Val Green’s car, he pecked it out with his forefinger.

An elderly female voice told him which part of Solartown Val was patrolling.

Carver thanked her, then replaced the phone, got up, and went into the bathroom. He rinsed his face, brushed his teeth, then limped outside into the warm night to where the Olds was parked.

He wanted to find out what Val Green had to say away from Hattie’s presence and influence.

Val was doubtless an honorable and tight-lipped man, but Carver was reasonably sure he could bribe him with free coffee and doughnuts. Make him feel like a real cop.

V
AL INVITED
C
ARVER TO
park his car and ride with him on patrol. “It’ll be a quiet night,” Val promised, “like all the rest of ’em.

Carver lowered himself into the passenger’s side of Val’s five-year-old green Dodge and rested his cane between his legs. The car’s air conditioner worked well. There was a CB radio mounted below the dash with a microphone hooked into a bracket. The Dodge was a stick shift. Val let it wind out in first gear, then shifted with a
clunk!
and a jerk into second, then almost immediately into third. The little car whined but responded peppily to this abuse.

“Gotta keep an eye out over on N Street,” Val said, glancing at Carver from the corner of his vision. The glow of the dashboard lights made the white of his eye gleam. “There was a spate of vandalism over there last week. Woman reported her citrus trees bent, all the fruit on the ground.”

Sounds serious, Carver thought, if you’re an orange.

“Kids from the city, way I figure it,” Val said. “Come cruising through here now and then, mostly looking for something to do. Don’t generally amount to much, but it’s the kinda thing’s gotta be contained.”

Carver said, “You like doughnuts?”

“Yeah, but I don’t make it a habit to eat while I’m on duty.”

“I thought you guys would have uniforms,” Carver said, looking at Val’s white slacks and green golf shirt. And he was wearing white slip-on shoes that looked like house slippers. Not good for chasing bad guys.

Val smiled, staring straight ahead. “Maybe this
is
the uniform. “

“Okay,” Carver said, “I’m sorry if I seem to be taking the Posse lightly. Desoto said you people did good work.”

“Who’s he?”

“Homicide lieutenant in Orlando.”

Val slowed to five miles an hour for a stop sign,
clunk
ed the Dodge into second gear, and regained speed. The houses slipped by on either side of the car, all of identical height and architecture, like the same house over and over; might have been an Andy Warhol poster. “Desoto the one Hattie went to about Jerome?” Val asked.

“Right.”

Carver said nothing while Val slowed the car and looked to the side at a shirtless, white-haired man picking up something from a dark lawn. The man saw the car, waved, and ambled back inside the house carrying a rolled-up newspaper. “I drove over to talk to Maude Crane like you suggested,” Carver said. “I found her dead.”

Val made a left turn and nodded. “Heard it on the news, that she went and hung herself. Wasn’t surprised. Guilt and loneliness, if it wasn’t murder.”

“What makes you think murder?”

“I done some talking with Hattie, and I kinda agree with her it don’t seem logical Jerome’d just keel over with a heart attack.”

“I thought we were talking about Maude Crane.”

“Talking about her and Jerome.”

Val’s concentration tended to slip off the track occasionally. Carver decided it was a good thing the Posse wasn’t armed.

“Suicides happen frequently in retirement communities,” Carver said. “So do heart attacks.”

“Not to Jerome. He was a healthy guy, strong and fulla piss and vinegar. Popular with most everybody, ’specially the ladies. Jerome didn’t sleep sometimes at night, so he roamed around the house, sometimes woke up Hattie. Living next door like I do, I heard things. I didn’t like him much, considering how he treated Hattie.”

“He mistreated her?”

“Ordered her around like dirt, is what he did. Then of course he had his thing on the side with Maude Crane.”

“Did he know Hattie knew about Maude?”

Val rubbed his chin and held the Dodge at about five miles an hour on the deserted street. Most of the houses were dark. Bedtime was early in Solartown. “He probably knew and didn’t care. Nothing I know was said about it by either of them. Married man getting some strange on the side, and with a wife like Hattie, it sure ain’t right. She let it go on. She let too many things go on with Jerome. It’s a terrible thing to say, but myself, I think it’s better for her in her remaining years that he’s passed on. And if she could settle in her mind the suspicions about his death, she could forget him and move on with her life. End the chapter, sorta. You think?”

Carver said he did, he thought so. Which was why he was working for Hattie.

He sat silently for a while as they followed the grid of dark streets. Then he said, “You know, if anybody really believed Maude Crane was murdered, Hattie’d be the prime suspect.”

Val tromped a floppy white shoe down on the brake pedal. Carver had to brace with a palm against the dash to keep from hitting the windshield. As the car stopped rocking, he grabbed his cane and held it.

“Hattie killing anyone is a ridiculous idea!” Val said angrily. “Her exact problem is she’s too kind and considerate. I spent time in Korea, Carver. I knew killers. There’s something about them, and Hattie’s not one of them.”

“I don’t see her that way, either,” Carver said, though he’d known killers who would have fooled Val. Who’d fooled everyone for a long time, including their victims.

Mollified, Val slipped the Dodge into gear and goosed it up to ten miles an hour, shifted choppily to second, and held that speed as the motor lugged along like an asthmatic.

“We’re talking about two victims, if you include Maude Crane,” Carver said. “And maybe more. You hinting there might be a serial killer operating in Solartown?”

Val didn’t seem taken aback by the idea. “Well, I never considered it, but it’s possible. Generally, though, they use knives or guns, don’t they?”

“Generally. But there are ways to induce heart attacks. The Russians have done it chemically for years. Maybe even the C.I.A. Any former C.I.A. operatives living in Solartown?”

“Not as I know of. But then, they wouldn’t put up a sign in their yards to that effect, would they? Listen, Carver, why would a serial killer pick on us old folks? I mean, what’d be the motive?”

That was the question, all right. “Inheritance, maybe,” Carver said, hoping he wouldn’t have to explain that.

“Rathawk Two, you read me?” the CB radio suddenly blared.

“ ’Scuse me,” Val told Carver. He undipped the microphone and held it an inch in front of his mouth. “Rathawk Two here, Louella.”

“Woman over on O Street, number five twenty-two, says grandkids visiting next door won’t stop playing the stereo too loud. Same songs over and over, Gloria Estefan records are driving her bananas. Wanna check that one out? Over.”

Val pressed his mike button. “Ten-four, Louella. Out.”

Val clipped the mike back to the dash. “Sometimes we handle that kinda thing,” he explained. “Save the police a trip out here when they need to be chasing crooks and crack addicts.”

“Logical,” Carver said.

“I can drop you back at your car. Another couple bars of Gloria Estefan ain’t gonna make much difference.”

Carver was a Gloria Estefan fan, but he didn’t mention that to Val.

When Val had braked the Dodge next to the parked Olds, he said, “You get lonely, come ride with me again. Maybe I’ll buy the doughnuts.”

“Too much cholesterol,” Carver said. “Bad for the heart.”

“Like Russian metal,” Val said, depressing the clutch and jamming the gearshift lever into low.

“Russian metal” was the irradiated material KGB espionage agents used to induce seemingly natural death in their victims.

As he watched the Dodge round the corner at a leisurely pace to respond to the audio assault call on O Street, Carver wondered where Rathawk Two had learned such a thing.

C
ARVER KNEW HE’D BE
dealing with a medical doctor, and he wasn’t being operated on, so after breakfast the next morning at the Seagrill Cafe, he sipped coffee until almost ten o’clock before driving over to the medical center.

The same pleasant redhead was at the fourth-floor receptionist’s desk, but she didn’t seem to recognize Carver. Dr. Wynn was in, she told him, and like yesterday she invited him to have a seat and wait.

He settled down on a hard little sofa for what he figured would be a long time, resting his cane against one of the cushions. From hidden speakers, an FM station that boasted of playing “soft rock” sent out waves of neutered sound from the sixties. It was cool in here, anyway. He might as well relax and listen to violins play Jefferson Airplane.

Only seconds after he’d turned the first page of a tattered two-month-old
Newsweek
, he was aware of someone standing near him.

He looked up and saw a fortyish woman who surely at some point in her life had won a beauty contest. Her white uniform couldn’t mute the effect of her long, shapely legs, lean waist, high and full breasts. Shoulder-length, artfully tousled auburn hair framed a face with high cheekbones, luminous gray eyes, and a narrow, perfect nose. The only break in the symmetry was a slight overbite and pouty lower lip, but that only added to her appeal. It was a mouth made for uninhibited love.

She knew why he was staring at her and smiled, used to men’s eyes and what went on behind them. “Mr. Carver?”

He nodded and laid down the
Newsweek.

“If you’ll follow me, I’ll lead you to Dr. Wynn’s office.”

She’d noticed his cane without seeming to, and she walked ahead of him at a slower than normal pace so he could keep up. He didn’t mind limping behind her.

She knocked twice perfunctorily on a closed oak door that had a brass
DR. ARTHUR WYNN
plaque on it, then opened the door and ushered Carver inside.

Carver was in a large, well-furnished office. Soft green leather furniture on a deep brown carpet. Paneled walls adorned with framed diplomas and certificates. In a corner stood a waist-high piece of modern sculpture that appeared to have been fashioned from scores of gleaming steel surgical instruments welded together. Carver wondered what it was called.

The door closed behind Carver, leaving him alone with an athletically built man about fifty who stood up behind his wide desk. He was six feet tall and wore pleated blue pinstripe slacks, a white shirt, red tie, and red and white suspenders, only he probably called them braces. On a corner of the desk was one of those little gadgets with half a dozen suspended steel balls that clicked against each other and maintained seemingly perpetual motion. They were still now.

Dr. Wynn introduced himself and shook Carver’s hand, inviting him to sit down in a small upholstered chair with dark wood that matched the desk.

Carver sat. Wynn seemed oblivious of the cane.

“I’m told you’re asking some questions on behalf of Jerome Evans’s widow,” the doctor said. He was tanned as well as fit, with blandly handsome features and razor-styled blond hair that would look white in a certain light. He had large, direct blue eyes, perfect teeth. He might have been a devout surfer who’d become serious between waves and gone into medicine.

“And I’m told you signed the death certificate,” Carver said.

Dr. Wynn nodded. “I looked in on the postmortem, then confirmed my conclusions by reading the examining physician’s report. More or less standard procedure here, Mr. Carver.”

“And you saw nothing unusual in the manner of Jerome’s death?”

“Of course not. It was a classic massive coronary. It would have dropped a bull moose dead in its tracks.” He swiveled in his chair and gazed out the window at some tall palm trees near the entrance of the parking lot. Swiveled back. “I sympathize with your client, Mr. Carver, I really do. But Hattie Evans isn’t the first surviving spouse to question a seemingly untimely death of a partner. This happens for a variety of reasons, from guilt to fear to loneliness. I’ve seen it before and I’ll see it again.”

“She said her husband had recently passed a physical.”

“At Jerome Evans’s stage of life, physical examinations aren’t passed or failed, like in the military.”

“But neither turned up anything wrong with his heart.”

“That’s true, and each examination included cholesterol count and an electrocardiogram. Everything seemed normal, so Dr. Billingsly quite correctly didn’t go further.”

“Further how?”

“Angiogram, CAT scan, various other tests if there’s historical or physical indication of heart trouble.” Dr. Wynn sank his perfect teeth into his lower lip and was silent for a moment, sitting there handsome, bland, and flawlessly groomed, the quintessential vice-presidential candidate. Then he said, “If Dr. Billingsly had asked him to undergo these tests, we might well have detected the blood clot that later changed position and killed him. But there was no apparent reason to extend testing. He fooled us, Mr. Carver. Unfortunately, it won’t be the last time we’ll be fooled, but we try to keep the percentages as low as possible.”