Torch (7 page)

“This job is a sad thing sometimes,” Desoto said, hanging up the phone. He sat down behind his desk and adjusted his cuffs, flashing gold and sending chimeras of reflected light dancing across the office walls. “A child dies from internal injuries and the father disappears.” He shook his head. “No one will escape punishment on this one,
amigo
, not the guilty or the innocent.”

Carver said, “Carl Gretch.”

“One of the world’s guilty, it would seem.”

“He’s disappeared, too. Moved out of his furnished apartment in a hurry.”

Desoto tilted back his head as if tired, closing his eyes for a moment and taking in the sad guitar. “People like Gretch are always moving. Doing harm, then moving, then doing harm again. It’s in their very nature.”

Carver wished there were some way to jolt Desoto out of his blue philosophical mood. He said, “Mark Winship shot himself in the head yesterday.” Well, that probably wouldn’t help.

“I heard,” Desoto said, still seeming to concentrate on the music. “What about the little girl? Melissa?”

“Megan. She’s with her grandmother.”

Desoto nodded and looked at Carver. “You think Gretch is connected to the mother and father’s suicides?”

“Indirectly.”

“Are the Del Moray police satisfied the father’s death
was
suicide?”

“They’re satisfied because they want to be.” Carver heard the distaste in his own voice.

Desoto smiled, his perfect teeth flashing white in his tan complexion. “You’ve been visited by McGregor?”

“ ’Fraid so. We had a long talk after I discovered Mark Winship’s corpse.”

“You had a chance to look at Winship’s body. Do you think it was suicide?”

“Yes. Probably.”

“Then why do you want Gretch?”

“There’s more to this than what’s floating on top for everyone to see. Two people dead. Suicide, legally. But if they were pushed into it, somehow made so desperate that death was the only way out, I call it murder.”

“Ah, now you’re rewriting the law.”

“Yes.”

“Something a policeman can’t do.”

“I’m not exactly a policeman.”

“Not exactly. At times, not even remotely.”

“Mark Winship might well have killed himself out of remorse over what happened to Donna. But I need to know why she stepped in front of that truck. Need to do something about it.”

Desoto’s handsome white smile was fleeting, his brown eyes somber. “More unwritten law, hey?”

“Sometimes the written law isn’t enough. McGregor is aiming for a promotion and doesn’t want any waves made in his jurisdiction. He’s not interested in the law, or in justice. Mark Winship could have been shot twenty times and McGregor would still call it suicide.”

“
You
called it suicide,” McGregor pointed out.

“Yes, but I’m looking into it further. McGregor won’t.”

“And he won’t appreciate you doing his job.”

“That’s why I’m talking to you,” Carver said.

Desoto said nothing. The guitar solo was over now and a woman was singing a slow Spanish lament that had to be about lost love.

“McGregor’s going to throw up roadblocks whenever possible,” Carver said. “I might need you to help me by doing some things he won’t.”

“Such as?”

“Letting me know if Carl Gretch’s name turns up in police business.”

“A friend’s not supposed to help a friend do something foolish and dangerous.”

“I’m not asking to drive while drunk,” Carver said. “I only need a little information now and then.”

Desoto leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. The office was warm but his shirt was dry. Carver couldn’t remember ever seeing him perspire. The Spanish woman launched into a crescendo of sound and drama, muted by the Sony’s low volume. Desoto said, “McGregor has the instincts of a snake.”

“Does that mean you want to help me on this?”

“It means I want to hurt McGregor. It isn’t right he should be promoted rather than tortured and executed.”

“Whatever your reasons,” Carver said, “thanks.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a folded sheet of yellow legal paper. “There’s something else,” he said, laying the paper on the desk.

“I thought there would be.”

“This is a partial list Beth made up of the Winships’ friends and acquaintances. Can you check out the names, see if anything of interest crops up?”

Desoto unfolded the sheet of lined paper and studied it. “I don’t see any known drug kingpins or mass-murderers on here.”

“According to Beth, there wouldn’t be. The Winships were your average middle-class couple for years, then they had marital problems and were headed for divorce.”

“That’s your average middle-class couple,” Desoto said.

Carver planted his cane and shifted his weight over it so he could stand up from his chair.

“Where are you off to now,
amigo
?” Desoto asked, refolding the list of names more crisply and neatly than it had been when Carver had laid it on the desk.

“I’m going to talk to some of the people on my copy of that list.”

Desoto tapped the folded edge of the list on his desk. It made a sharp, ticking sound. “Our arrangement works both ways, my friend. If you find out anything interesting, I’d like to know.”

“Instead of McGregor?”

Desoto shrugged. “I didn’t say that.”

Carver said, “I didn’t ask it.” He lifted his cane for a moment in a parting gesture. “Thanks for your help and understanding.”

“We’re all in the justice business,” Desoto said.

“Not McGregor,” Carver said, limping from the office into the chaos and order of police headquarters.

A
CCORDING TO
B
ETH,
Donna Winship had little outside life other than aerobic workouts, which was where Beth had met her, and tennis lessons at the Del Moray Country Club. The first name on Beth’s list of Donna’s friends and acquaintances was Ellen Pfitzer, also a club member.

The Del Moray Country Club was on the ocean, just north of the marina. It was a complex of low buildings made of pale cast concrete with lots of tinted glass and with blue-shingled roofs that were the exact color of the sea on a sunny day. The grounds were neat and green, especially around the largest building, a clubhouse containing a restaurant and lounge and windows looking out on the swimming pool and tennis courts, and beyond them the ocean. On the wide sand beach was a pavilion with a thatched roof that lent shade to a bar and a dozen round tables with high-backed wicker chairs. To the right of the pavilion, closer to the water, were white lounge chairs and wide blue umbrellas with white fringe. There was a scattering of sunbathers on the beach, men in trunks and loose-fitting shirts, women in one-piece suits, a few younger ones in bikinis. A few older ones almost in bikinis. Their actions were slow and deliberate, as if they’d become drunk from the sun.

Carver had visited the place several times last year with a wealthy client who thought his daughter might be engaged to a fortune hunter. He’d been right, but the marriage had taken place anyway, and for now, anyway, daughter and fortune hunter were living happily in Miami, maybe even in love with each other.

Before driving here, Carver had phoned Ellen Pfitzer, and she’d agreed to meet him in the club lounge for a drink and to discuss Donna’s death. He was fifteen minutes early, so he chose a table by the window and ordered a Dewar’s and water, then sat watching a mixed doubles match in the nearest court. The woman at the far end of the court was a leggy redhead in a white and blue tennis outfit with a skimpy skirt. The other woman was a short blond, sturdily built, in a plain white outfit, who played with single-minded ferocity but was obviously the least accomplished of the four players. Both men were much younger and much smoother on the court, and seemed to be playing with some reserve. Carver guessed they were the women’s instructors. He wondered if either of the women was Ellen Pfitzer.

The short blond hit a forehand rocket, yelling with effort, but it was long and the redhead stood smugly, holding her racket back with both hands and watching the ball drop behind the line.

It must have been game point. The redhead’s partner gave her a big grin and a hug, then they and the other man walked off toward the part of the clubhouse containing lockers, saunas and exercise equipment. The blond woman backhanded sweat from her forehead and trudged toward the clubhouse. Despite her stockiness she had a graceful walk, the muscles in her firm, tan legs rippling with each step. Large breasts bounced slightly beneath her white pullover shirt. She had a figure made more for pinup calendars than for tennis. Her head was bowed and she was gazing at the ground in concentration as she passed from sight.

She must have stopped to freshen up. Ten minutes passed before she entered the lounge and stood looking around, ignoring the speculative glances of some of the men at the bar. She saw Carver, saw the cane where he’d leaned it against the table, and came toward him.

She had an open, friendly face with blue eyes and a slightly turned-up nose, and she was even shorter than she’d appeared on the court, probably under five feet.

“Ellen Pfitzer?” Carver asked.

She nodded, and he introduced himself and motioned for her to sit down.

When she was settled, the waiter appeared and she ordered a Tom Collins. Needed to cool off after the hotly contested tennis match in the sun.

“I was watching you play,” Carver said.

She smiled. “So what did you think?”

“That it was too hot for that kind of thing.”

“I only play because it’s great exercise and burns a lot of calories. I’m always fighting to keep my figure.”

“You’re winning,” Carver said.

She gave him another wide grin and took a long pull on the drink the waiter had placed in front of her. She lowered the glass and said, “Ah!” the way actors say it in TV commercials. Carver waited for her to sell him something.

“Donna’s funeral was this morning,” she said.

“I know. I didn’t go. I have a thing about funerals. They seem superfluous.”

“They are, of course,” Ellen said. “There weren’t many people there. Donna’s mother and daughter, a few of the people from the insurance company where Donna worked. I was a pallbearer, along with your friend Beth. The mortuary supplied most of the others.”

Carver hadn’t talked to Beth since early that morning. He wondered if there would be many mourners at Mark Winship’s funeral. “Did you know Donna’s husband?” he asked.

“We met a few times, but I wouldn’t say I knew him. Donna talked about him a lot, though. They were unhappy lately, but I guess that’s no secret.”

“She say why they were unhappy?”

Ellen took another sip of her drink, just nibbling at the ice this time, while her blue eyes sized up Carver as if he were a tennis opponent. She placed the glass back on its coaster. “I talked about you with Beth after the funeral. In a sense, I guess you’re still working for Donna.”

“In a sense. I want to know the reason for what happened.”

“You’re the kind of guy who can’t let go. That’s what Beth said.”

Great, Carver thought. More of that obsessive talk.

“Donna confided in me several months ago that she and Mark were having problems,” Ellen said. “Then, about a month ago, she told me she was having an affair.”

“Did she say who she was involved with?”

“She said it was nobody I knew, and she just referred to him as ‘Enrico’ every now and then. I think she wanted me to know it wasn’t anyone at the club, any of the tennis pros. That kind of thing happens a lot around here, you know, but Donna wasn’t the type.”

“What type was she?”

Ellen ran a blunt, unpainted fingernail up and down her tall glass and thought for a few seconds before answering. “She was a nice woman. I know ‘nice’ is a word used too frequently, but in Donna’s case it applies. She was friendly toward everyone, but also a little shy. This is a fairly exclusive club—I’d even say snotty. Donna and Mark were members only because of Mark’s affiliation with people through his investment counseling. He seldom came here at all. Donna was aware she didn’t travel in the same circles as a lot of the members and didn’t seek out people. She didn’t mind not associating with some of the snobs around here. She was actually the homebody type and was content until her marriage started to go bad.” A serious light entered Ellen’s blue eyes and she leaned toward Carver earnestly. “I’ll tell you what type she
wasn’t.
She wasn’t the type to have an extramarital affair. I don’t know exactly what Mark Winship did, but the marriage must have been hopeless for Donna to get mixed up with another man.”

“Do you remember what she said about Enrico?”

“She said she was happy only when she was with him, and it was positively eerie how compatible they were, how they loved and hated the same things. You know the phase, when endorphins take the place of reason. She said it almost made her believe in fate or astrology. If it helps you any, I’m sure she was totally hooked on this guy. I wish I’d met him.”

“Be glad you didn’t.”

Her eyes widened over the rim of her glass. “Have
you
met him?”

“Briefly,” Carver said. “We didn’t get along.”

“Maybe you caught him at a bad time.”

“If I did, he reacted badly. He threatened me with a knife.”

Ellen shook her head. “Well, Donna wouldn’t be the first woman to gravitate toward the wrong man when her marriage was breaking up. Her husband was right for her at one time, when she was thinking straight, but under the strain, with things coming unglued, she might have been temporarily attracted to someone who was more or less his opposite.”

That sounded pretty good to Carver. He was becoming impressed by Ellen Pfitzer.

“But suicide,” Ellen said. She shook her head no as if she’d been asked to throw a tennis match. “That wasn’t like Donna, either.”

“Had she acted strange lately?”

“She was nervous and depressed, but I wouldn’t describe her as suicidal.”

“It was an impulsive thing,” Carver said.

Ellen scowled. “Probably thanks to Enrico.”

“Do you remember anything in particular Donna said about her husband?”