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  He said, “I was looking for Bert Renway. Know where I can find him?”

  “Not if he ain’t home.”

  “You Mrs. Hataris?”

  “Ms. Hataris.” She drew it out, pronouncing it “Mizzz.” The rancid odor of stale perspiration hit him. It was hot inside the trailer. Getting hotter as she stood there with the door open.

  “I’m Frank Carter, an old friend of Bert’s.” Carver smiled at her. He had a beautiful smile for such a fierce-looking man, and she seemed to relax somewhat. Her fleshy body, clad in shorts and a white halter, appeared to become a few inches shorter and much heavier as the tenseness left it. Had she thought he was a salesman or bill collector? He wasn’t selling aluminum siding, that was for sure.

  Now that she knew he wasn’t going to give her problems, she was more prone to talk, though she wasn’t about to invite him in out of the sun. “Mr. Renway ain’t been home for weeks, you ask me. Car ain’t budged an inch. Not so far as I can tell, anyways.” In the dimness behind her, Carver saw a child’s small plastic push toy, one of those clear globes in which colored balls dance when the wheels turn. He wondered what it was like for a child, growing up in this sun-blasted metal box in Beach Cove Court with a mother like Mizz Hataris.

  He said, “You mean Bert just disappeared? Didn’t tell anyone where he was going?”

  “Well, that’s a little strong, I’d say. He didn’t tell me, anyways. And I’d be the logical person he would tell, so I could keep an eye on his place. It ain’t that I’m nosy, but there ain’t a goddamn thing to look at out my window but Mr. Renway’s trailer. I ain’t seen him around, and like I said, his car ain’t—” Her eyes got wide. “Say, you don’t think he’s inside? I mean, somethin’ happened to him?”

  “I don’t think so,” Carver assured her. “I looked in the windows and could tell there was no one there.”

  “His wife, Ella, died a while back,” Willa Hataris said. “Damned fine woman. Peppery little thing. When she was alive they was always on the go. Drivin’ here, drivin’ there. Gettin’ enjoyment outa what time they had left. Nice old couple, you know?”

  “Yeah,” Carver said. “It’s a shame this happened.”

  “This?”

  “The wife dying, I mean.”

  “Did you know her too, Mr. Carter?”

  “No, didn’t know Ella. Knew Bert from when we worked for the railroad up north. I was driving through and thought I’d stop by and see him.” A mosquito droned around his face, tried to flit up his nostril. He brushed it away. God, he was hot! Wished this conversation was over.

  “Well,” she said, “maybe you can catch up with him if you’re gonna be around the area a while. But I can tell you, been quiet as a tomb over there at his place till this morning.” She leaned heavily on the metal doorjamb, trying not to smile. She had cast bait and was waiting for him to snap it up, show she had control of the situation. Carver was beginning to dislike Willa Hataris.

  He took the hook. “What did you see this morning?”

  “These fellas went in the Renway trailer, stayed a while, then come back outside and drove away. ’Bout seven thirty, I’d say it was.”

  Carver moved closer to her. “How many fellas? And what’d they look like?”

  “Two of ’em. A black guy and one that appeared like he was maybe Cuban. They had on nice suits, drove up in a gray car. I don’t think they was cops, ’cause they sorta looked around and moved like they didn’t really belong there, you know? Cops’d walk right up big and loud as you please, but not these two. They weaseled around outside a few minutes, then they let themselves into the trailer.”

  “With a key?”

  “I dunno. Coulda been.”

  Or they were pros who knew how to slip cheap locks, Carver thought. “How long were they inside?”

  “I’d say fifteen, twenty minutes. Listen, you ain’t a cop, are you? I mean, is somethin’ wrong over there?”

  “I’m not police, I swear to you. If I was, I’d have to show you my ID, follow the rules. These two men, you remember what kinda car they were in?”

  She didn’t answer immediately. If Carver wasn’t police, who was he really? she was wondering. But it didn’t matter much to her; she wanted to talk, after all, and she seemed satisfied he meant Renway no harm. Not if he knew nothing about the early-morning visitors, men she’d decided definitely weren’t police. “Make of car, you mean? Naw. Kinda squarish, newer car. Medium-size. ’Bout all I can tell you. Not one of them shoebox foreign jobs. Anybody buy one of them don’t know what it’s like bein’ outa work. Oughta leave this country and go to some foreign place and eat raw fish and get a job buildin’ cars.”

  “I’ll say. Can you give me a better description of the two men?”

  “Oh, not really. I seen ’em from a distance, of course. They both looked sorta tall. The Cuban one was slim, kinda the dandy. The black guy was heavier. Muscular. Fulla energy and looked all business, like Jesse Jackson pissed off. What I remember about ’em both, they was kinda grim. I could tell that even from here.”

  “Were they carrying anything when they came out?”

  “Naw. Neither in nor out. Seemed like they just went in, maybe looked around a while or sat waiting for Renway, then out they came and drove away. All there was to it. You think they’re friends of Renway’s he gave a key to, or what?”

  “It could be that,” Carver said.

  “Thought as much, Mr. Carter.”

  He thanked her for her help and then set the tip of his cane and backed away. When he was halfway to his car, he twisted his torso and looked back at her. Saw her fade into the dimness of her trailer and close the door.

  She was watching, he was sure, as he lowered himself into the Olds and drove away into the merciless glaring day. She’d probably seen the old, rusty car when he’d arrived, and figured from the first he wasn’t a cop. She was a woman who’d know.

  On the highway, heading south toward Fort Lauderdale, he sat in the beating turmoil of hot wind and thought about what Willa Hataris had told him. The Cuban she’d described was probably Ralph Palmer, who’d contacted and hired Renway. Whoever had hired Renway knew he was dead. Murdered. They no doubt wanted to make sure there was nothing in his mobile home that might lead the police to them—when the police inevitably discovered it wasn’t Frank Wesley but Renway in the burned-out Cadillac. Covering their asses, all right.

  At least two people other than McGregor and Carver were aware of the Renway-for-Wesley exchange: the black man and Ralph Palmer. Carver thought the reason for the impersonation itself would be simple enough and so should be relatively easy to discover.

  He didn’t realize he was wrong about that.

  Didn’t realize the Olds was being followed by two men in a medium-size gray Dodge.

  Chapter 7

  CARVER CHECKED INTO THE Carib Terrace late that afternoon. He’d stayed there before; the woman behind the desk, who owned the motel with her husband, seemed to recognize him. She asked if he wanted a corner room for the price of one of the smaller inside units. Carver said sure. She smiled and gave him a registration card to fill out, then handed him a key attached to a large red plastic tag. With a glance at his cane, she asked if he needed help with his luggage. He told her no thanks, trying not to let his irritation show. Telling himself not to take offense—for all the woman knew, he was traveling with a steamer trunk.

  His room was on the southeast corner on the first floor. The Carib Terrace, one of the smaller motels on Ocean Boulevard, had only two stories. Each room had a view of the private beach and the rolling Atlantic. On the Ocean Boulevard side of the building was a small heated swimming pool that smelled strongly of chlorine. Two preschool kids were splashing around in the shallow end. A slim, tan woman in a red two-piece bathing suit was lying on her side on a large yellow beach towel keeping an eye on them. She averted her gaze for a second to take in Carver as he limped past her toward his room, carrying his scuffed leather suitcase. She made it a point
to turn quickly away from him, as if he’d insulted her. He told himself he’d appealed to her and she resented it, but he didn’t really know. Who understood women except other women? Prince?

  The room was large, with a small kitchen equipped with a compact white refrigerator and stove. The sink was stainless steel and tiny and had a dripping faucet. Deep red carpet spread to a king-size bed near wide glass doors that led to a patio and a couple of blue plastic-webbed lounge chairs. Beyond that was a strip of barren ground and then the gently sloping beach and the ocean.

  The sun was bright out there, glancing off the sand and shooting silver shafts of light off the incoming waves. Made the room seem all the dimmer and cooler. A middle-aged guy in loud striped trunks was walking at an angle toward the beach. Two striding young girls in string bikinis crossed his path and he sucked in his stomach and held it until they were past. A lot of effort for nothing; it was obvious the girls were busy talking and hadn’t noticed him anyway. A short woman with lank wet hair, leading a sand-caked four- or five-year-old girl up from the beach, trudged toward the motel. A tired-looking man carrying a wad of white towels, and what appeared to be an inflated life-size plastic alligator under his arm, followed a few steps behind. The woman had on floppy rubber thongs, and her heels kicked up roostertails of sand; the man stayed well back and to the side to avoid them. She and the girl were both smiling and talking to each other. Family. Carver wondered what it would be like to have family around him every day. They veered slightly about fifty feet from his room. He heard the rumble of a sliding door. Then the woman’s laughter as they entered the room next door. The faint sound of the little girl bitching about something and tramping around. The father’s deep and reprimanding voice as he controlled his temper. A minute later the shower burst on and hissed and gurgled in the bathroom that shared a wall with Carver’s. The woman’s voice, and the little girl’s. Laughing. Sand being washed off. Family.

  Carver hefted his suitcase onto the bed and opened it. Got out pants and shirts and arranged them loosely in the closet so the wrinkles would hang out. Then he carried his shaving kit into the bathroom and set it on the washbasin. He left socks, underwear, and miscellaneous in the suitcase. Since he didn’t know how long he’d be staying, there was no point in unpacking; it was, after all, only a drive of a few hours north on Highway 1 back to Del Moray.

  He closed the suitcase and fastened the clasps, then placed it on the floor alongside the dark wood dresser. Sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. Home. At least for a while.

  Leaving his cane leaning on the bed, he used furniture and the wall for support and limped over and pulled the cord that drew the heavy drapes closed. Sound from outside was muted and the room became almost dark.

  He made his way back to the bed and stretched out on it on his back, lacing his fingers behind his head. Listened to the noises of the family next door. Missed his daughter. Missed his son, who’d been dead a little over a year now. Lump-in-the-throat time. He tried to push aside his emotions, but it wasn’t easy. Wasn’t entirely possible. Ever.

  The mattress was softer than he would have liked, but it didn’t prevent him from finally dozing off.

  When he awoke the room was completely dark and seemed cooler. He could hear the surf smashing away at the beach, over and over, ticking away eternity. The swells building size and momentum offshore and roaring in with freight-train speed to spend themselves in spreading white foam on the sand. There were unintelligible voices outside. Laughter. People walking nearby? More likely it was sound carried up from the moonlit beach by the ocean breeze. A distant gull, or perhaps a woman, screeched with a wild kind of joy and then was silent.

  Carver glanced at his watch’s luminous green dial. Nine forty-five. It wasn’t like him to sleep at all during the day, much less almost six hours. His eyes felt grainy and there was a sour taste in his mouth. His tongue was coated and seemed swollen; he was sure he’d have difficulty if called upon to speak. No matter, he’d have nothing to say anyway; his mind was sluggish and didn’t want to engage gears.

  He swiveled his body, shoving his stiff leg with both arms as if it were a completely lifeless appendage, and managed to sit up on the sagging edge of the too-soft mattress. There was a slight ache in the small of his back. No surprise there.

  He switched on the lamp, then located his cane. Limped into the bathroom and splashed cold water over his face. Saw that he needed a shave but decided not to take the trouble. His shirt looked as if it had been wadded up and pressed in a vise, so he peeled it off and got a fresh one from the closet and slipped it on. The clean cotton was cool and soothing against his flesh. Made him feel like giving a detergent testimonial.

  When he left his room he saw action in the swimming pool. The kid he’d seen earlier coming up from the beach with her family was straddling the inflatable plastic alligator, windmilling her arms in the water so her mother had to squint and turn away to keep chlorine out of her eyes. The mother glanced back during a moment of calm and the kid got her. Carver smiled. He wasn’t sure why.

  He was sure he was hungry.

  After lowering the canvas top on the Olds, he backed the car out of its parking slot onto Ocean Boulevard and drove to the Harp and Shamrock, an Irish pub he knew over on the North Federal Highway.

  A thin blond man with a guitar and a beautiful tenor voice sang sad Irish songs while Carver had a hamburger, french fries, and a draft Guinness. He thoroughly enjoyed the calorie-laden fare, and was glad his therapeutic swimming meant he had no problem controlling his weight. After he’d finished eating, he stayed through a haunting song about Galway Bay. He had no idea where Galway Bay was.

  Halfway through “Danny Boy,” he left and drove through the steamy night back to Ocean Boulevard, the Galway Bay melody still playing through his mind. It was eleven o’clock.

  After parking the Olds in the lot of a strip shopping center, he limped across Ocean and made his way down the street toward Frank Wesley’s condo. Traffic was still heavy on the seaside avenue, and the rushing sound of passing cars was almost indistinguishable from the sibilant breaking of the surf on the beach behind the towering buildings. There was a depressing sameness to the pale high-rise structures: identical rows of windows and balconies, like stacked ice-cube trays illuminated by floodlights.

  Wesley’s building, Highcliff Tower, had no doorman, which made things easier.

  Carver pushed in through the tinted-glass doors and crossed pale blue tile and then royal blue carpeting to the elevators. The only other people in the lobby were a man and a woman over by a huge potted fern, interested in each other and nothing else. Humming the song about Galway Bay, Carver rode the elevator alone to the fifteenth floor, Limped silently along a carpeted, powder blue hall to the white door marked 15K. Wesley’s unit.

  He wished he’d gotten that duplicate key before Renway had been blown up in the Caddie, but life—and death—were seldom so accommodating. He was no good at picking locks, so he’d simply kick the door open with his powerful good leg and trust that if anyone noticed the noise they’d assume it was something other than a door being forced.

  Do it fast, he told himself. Do it to it. Automatically, before rearing back to let fly his kick, he tried the doorknob. Found the door unlocked.

  Damned odd.

  He should have known better than to enter. But he stood for a moment with the knob completely rotated to the right, then swung the door open and edged inside into cool darkness. Located the smooth plastic light switch on the sandpaper-rough wall and flipped it upward.

  A lamp winked on.

  Next to a black leather sofa.

  The handsome Latin man seated on the sofa with his tan suitcoat draped across his lap looked over at Carver. Didn’t seem surprised that the lamp had come on, even though he’d been sitting there in the dark.

  Carver caught movement in the corner of his vision. A black man, about six feet tall and built blocky beneath his well-cut blue suit, stood leaning with his b
ack against the wall. The movement Carver had glimpsed was when the man had uncrossed his arms and lowered them to his sides. They were still swinging in short, lazy arcs, his thick fingers loosely curled. Very relaxed. Very ready. He wore a diamond pinkie ring on his right hand. It caught the light and sent it glimmering in a tightly focused, dancing pattern over the wall.

  Leaning on his cane with both hands, Carver put on the innocent act. Let his initial surprise linger on his face as he pretended to glance back at the number on the still-open door. “Say, I’m sorry. I was looking for Frank Wesley. Isn’t this his apartment?”

  The Hispanic on the sofa smiled and moved the suitcoat off his lap just far enough to reveal the blue-steel revolver he was holding. Said, “Yes and no.”

  The black guy said, “You’re letting the air conditioning out, Carver. Shut the door. Stay on this side of it.”

  Carver did both those things. Heard the latch click behind him, metal against metal.

  It sounded like the cocking mechanism of a gun.

  Chapter 8

  THE BLACK GUY DID remind Carver of Jesse Jackson, only heavier and broader through the shoulders. Thicker, rougher features. A blue-black scar that slanted through a dark eyebrow. He squared around and took a step toward Carver. Moved with a hint of shuffle, as if he might have done some serious boxing. Said, “The position, you.”

  Carver knew what he meant but said, “Huh?” Innocent Joe Citizen. Dunno from nothin’.

  “Lean against the wall with both hands and spread your legs. Pretend you’re standing there gonna take a piss freehanded, ’cause maybe you will. Cop that never made anyone assume the position, is it? Don’t smartass us, Carver.”