don’t dribble beer when you tilt the can.”
“You use a glass, that solves it.”
“Yeah, I suppose. Or maybe the cans are okay and it’s my lip that’s the problem.”
“Or maybe you’re being evasive because you don’t want to involve me beyond a certain point in this case.”
“Best if you don’t get involved.”
“I don’t mind. What you do for a living, you need somebody to talk to now and then. I want that somebody to be me.”
He sighed. Smiled at her. Knew she was right about that part of it, but she still underestimated the danger.
“You glad you’re working out of an office now and not the house?”
“If I’d still been using this place as my office,” he told her, “Wesley would have been blown up over there in the driveway. Blast mighta taken down part of the house.”
Her face got tight and pale. She hadn’t thought of that. A trickle of perspiration ran down her cheek right in front of her ear, then down her neck, leaving a shimmering track. Beautiful women didn’t sweat, they glistened.
“So, yeah,” he said, “I’m glad I’m working out of the office. It’s a shitty business sometimes. That’s why the less you’re connected with what I’m doing, the better off we both are.”
She looked at him, her gray eyes serious and her smooth fighting chin jutting out at an almost jaunty angle. Sometimes she could look as strong-willed as she was. She’d exorcised some formidable internal demons, and not much that came at her from the outside scared her anymore. Tough lady. “When you feel like talking to me about it,” she told him stubbornly, “you can.”
“I know that. I appreciate it. I don’t tell you enough how much I appreciate it.”
Ice clinked again, musically this time, as she tossed back her head and finished her drink. Grinned with the wetness still on her lips. “Maybe you can show me instead of telling me.”
He felt a tightening in the core of him, but he ignored it. Said, “Desoto’s due to show up here any minute.”
She said, “Good. I feel better if he’s involved in whatever it is you’re planning.”
“I’m not planning anything,” Carver said. “Just trying to puzzle out and muddle through. Keep McGregor off my ass and hang on to my investigator’s license.”
“Would McGregor really make that kind of trouble for you?”
“Sure. The way he gets his jollies.”
“But you and he are in this together; it takes two to have an agreement.”
“I can’t prove he’s involved. His word against mine.”
“But if it really was Wesley in his car, and he lied to you about his identity, how can McGregor harm you? What’s he got for leverage?”
“The fact that the man who was murdered right outside my office was my client, and I neglected to mention it to the police. Any way you turn it, it’s still withholding evidence in a homicide investigation.”
“Can he prove that?”
“Somebody can. Somebody else knows about it. Whoever saw Wesley enter and leave my office. That means McGregor might be able to prove it. So I’ve gotta keep going on this and get it puzzled out.”
She ran her fingertips lightly down the side of her empty glass and said, “You couldn’t stop picking at the case anyway, could you?”
“No,” he admitted. She knew him too well. The way Laura had. Yet in ways Laura had never dreamed existed.
Tires crunched on gravel, faded to silence. A car door slammed.
“Desoto,” Edwina said. She stood up, carrying her empty glass, and ambled over to the wooden gate. Arrived there the same time as Desoto and held the gate open for him. He gave her a peck on the cheek and they talked for a minute or two without looking over at Carver, then Edwina walked toward the house. Desoto watched the elegant sway of her hips with an appreciation so blatant there was an innocence about it. He simply loved women, did Desoto. They loved him back.
Orlando Police Lieutenant Alfonso Desoto strolled through sunlight and shadow
“You use a glass, that solves it.”
“Yeah, I suppose. Or maybe the cans are okay and it’s my lip that’s the problem.”
“Or maybe you’re being evasive because you don’t want to involve me beyond a certain point in this case.”
“Best if you don’t get involved.”
“I don’t mind. What you do for a living, you need somebody to talk to now and then. I want that somebody to be me.”
He sighed. Smiled at her. Knew she was right about that part of it, but she still underestimated the danger.
“You glad you’re working out of an office now and not the house?”
“If I’d still been using this place as my office,” he told her, “Wesley would have been blown up over there in the driveway. Blast mighta taken down part of the house.”
Her face got tight and pale. She hadn’t thought of that. A trickle of perspiration ran down her cheek right in front of her ear, then down her neck, leaving a shimmering track. Beautiful women didn’t sweat, they glistened.
“So, yeah,” he said, “I’m glad I’m working out of the office. It’s a shitty business sometimes. That’s why the less you’re connected with what I’m doing, the better off we both are.”
She looked at him, her gray eyes serious and her smooth fighting chin jutting out at an almost jaunty angle. Sometimes she could look as strong-willed as she was. She’d exorcised some formidable internal demons, and not much that came at her from the outside scared her anymore. Tough lady. “When you feel like talking to me about it,” she told him stubbornly, “you can.”
“I know that. I appreciate it. I don’t tell you enough how much I appreciate it.”
Ice clinked again, musically this time, as she tossed back her head and finished her drink. Grinned with the wetness still on her lips. “Maybe you can show me instead of telling me.”
He felt a tightening in the core of him, but he ignored it. Said, “Desoto’s due to show up here any minute.”
She said, “Good. I feel better if he’s involved in whatever it is you’re planning.”
“I’m not planning anything,” Carver said. “Just trying to puzzle out and muddle through. Keep McGregor off my ass and hang on to my investigator’s license.”
“Would McGregor really make that kind of trouble for you?”
“Sure. The way he gets his jollies.”
“But you and he are in this together; it takes two to have an agreement.”
“I can’t prove he’s involved. His word against mine.”
“But if it really was Wesley in his car, and he lied to you about his identity, how can McGregor harm you? What’s he got for leverage?”
“The fact that the man who was murdered right outside my office was my client, and I neglected to mention it to the police. Any way you turn it, it’s still withholding evidence in a homicide investigation.”
“Can he prove that?”
“Somebody can. Somebody else knows about it. Whoever saw Wesley enter and leave my office. That means McGregor might be able to prove it. So I’ve gotta keep going on this and get it puzzled out.”
She ran her fingertips lightly down the side of her empty glass and said, “You couldn’t stop picking at the case anyway, could you?”
“No,” he admitted. She knew him too well. The way Laura had. Yet in ways Laura had never dreamed existed.
Tires crunched on gravel, faded to silence. A car door slammed.
“Desoto,” Edwina said. She stood up, carrying her empty glass, and ambled over to the wooden gate. Arrived there the same time as Desoto and held the gate open for him. He gave her a peck on the cheek and they talked for a minute or two without looking over at Carver, then Edwina walked toward the house. Desoto watched the elegant sway of her hips with an appreciation so blatant there was an innocence about it. He simply loved women, did Desoto. They loved him back.
Orlando Police Lieutenant Alfonso Desoto strolled through sunlight and shadow
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