Bloodfire by John Lutz

their moorings. Del Moray was for the most part a wealthy retirement community, and some of its well-fixed citizens were playing with their floating toys. The white hair, white belts, and white shoes out there in the sun almost caused the eye to ache. Stomach paunches burdened most of the men. The lean, tanned limbs and torsos of many of the women foretold how they’d not only outlive their overweight husbands but would look years younger at the funerals. Wealthy, attractive widows with yachts were always in demand. Topmasts and tummy tucks. Florida was the land of the plastic surgeon, as well as beaches, Disney, drugs, and a nasty strain of zealous fundamentalist religion. Still, Carver knew if he went with Edwina to Hawaii, he’d miss it.
    He finished his beer, settled with the waitress, then drove back to the office. There was a rental car in the only shady spot on the lot, so Carver parked the Olds in the sun and limped across the baking gravel to shove open the door to his reception room. He’d turned the thermostat down, and cool air hit him like a chilled wave. Felt great.
    He’d limped to his desk and was checking his answering machine for messages (none) when the phone rang. Snatching up the receiver before the end of the second ring, when his recorded outgoing message would begin, he identified himself and waited for the caller to speak.
    “This is Beth Gomez, Carver.”
    He thought about hanging up, but instead said, “Hello,” rather stupidly.
    “I wanna talk to you again.” Fear gave her voice a jagged edge, as if her words hurt her throat.
    “We already talked.”
    “There’s something I shoulda told you but didn’t.”
    “Tell me now.”
    “Not on the phone.”
    “All right, come over to my office.”
    “I can’t. Roberto might have somebody watching it.”
    “Not since he personally and forcefully accepted my resignation,” Carver said.
    “Ha! Roberto doesn’t accept resignations.”
    Maybe she had a point; Gomez wasn’t accepting hers with good grace, unless you didn’t count trying to kill her.
    “Meet me in the park near the marina?” she pleaded.
    Carver said, “I just came from the marina.”
    “I know. I saw you there. At first I didn’t have a chance to approach you. Then, when I could have walked over to you, I was too afraid. By the time I’d made up my mind, you’d driven away.”
    “What were you doing at the marina?”
    “I followed you there from your office, after that tall man left. If the restaurant hadn’t been so crowded I’d have contacted you there, but I couldn’t risk it. Crowds make me jumpy these days. He a cop, the tall, mean-looking guy?”
    “Sort of. Why?”
    “It’s kinda stamped on him.”
    “You must wanna talk to me in the worst way,” Carver said.
    “It’s more important than life or death.”
    What the hell did that mean?
    “I gotta hang up,” she said. “Been on the line almost long enough for the call to be traced.”
    “You on a public phone?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Then don’t worry.”
    “Carver, you just don’t know what and who drug money’ll buy. I’m not even sure your phone’s not tapped. But I’ve gotta take a chance here, I’ll wait for you in the park. On one of the benches facing the ocean.”
    “I didn’t say I was coming.”
    “I know. But I’ll pray you’ll turn up. You’re the kinda guy who answers prayers.”
    “Not all of them.”
    “Didn’t say you were a saint.” She hung up.
    Carver replaced the droning receiver in its cradle. The office that had felt so cool when he’d first walked in now seemed too warm.
    He didn’t have to meet with Beth Gomez in the marina park, but he knew he would. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because whoever had sent a bullet into Belinda Jackson’s head should have to pay. Maybe because Roberto Gomez was a walking danger that belonged in prison. Or maybe because he, Carver, knew down deep the truth of what Beth Gomez had just mentioned: Roberto wasn’t the type to