Kiss by John Lutz Page A

McGregor had gotten used to as a captain in Fort Lauderdale. It was painted light green, like the rest of headquarters, and had brown linoleum and a gray steel desk. The linoleum was supposed to look like hardwood floor but didn’t. There was a copy machine and file cabinets along one wall. A plain oak chair off to the side of the desk. The single window was dirty and afforded a view of the parking lot. There was wire mesh over the glass, in case a prisoner or Myra tried to escape. Headquarters had central air conditioning, but it was warm in the office and smelled like McGregor’s cheap lemon-scent cologne.
    Carver lowered himself into the oak chair, extended his stiff leg out in front of him, and rested his cane against his thigh lightly, holding it so it wouldn’t slide to the floor.
    “Got a phone call about you,” McGregor said, making a tent with his long-fingered hands, pressing the fingertips together hard enough so they whitened. Carver wondered if McGregor could palm a basketball. If he’d been a star in high school, getting cheerleaders drunk and taking advantage of them.
    He was running with the ball now. Carver waited for him to continue.
    “Call came from, of all places, a retirement home. Nurse in charge out there was wondering about you.”
    “Complaining about me?”
    “Oh, not complaining,” McGregor said. “Wondering, is all. Said you been hanging around the past few days, talking to some of the old fuckers out there. Thought you might be some kinda con man. Maybe working the pigeon drop on the old marks. Hey, I explained to her you were an operative of the law. She said she wouldn’t trust a private detective to give her change for a dollar. Know what? Neither would I.”
    “You must have had a bad experience,” Carver said.
    McGregor crossed his long arms and sat back. Worked at looking thoughtful. “Now, why would a guy like you be floating around a retirement home? Maybe developed a yen for older women. Maybe wanna pick up some pointers on hobbling around with a cane. I dunno. Gee, I just flat dunno. Maybe you’d be so kind as to tell me.”
    “I’d be so kind. It’s simple. I know one of the residents and went to visit him.”
    “No,” McGregor said, “that ain’t it. I checked. You don’t really know anybody out there. I did learn a few things, though. Old fella that died there last week was related to our mutual friend Alfonso Desoto. Uncle or some damned thing. That have anything to do with your uncommon interest in the place?”
    “No,” Carver lied. He knew he’d eventually have to tell McGregor he was working for Desoto, but this wasn’t the time.
    “Keep in mind you’re licensed to do your sleazy kind of work. That license can be revoked.”
    “I’m within the rules,” Carver said. “No crime I know about’s been committed. No evidence is being withheld.”
    McGregor began rocking back and forth gently in his chair. “You say so, I believe you. Not because you’re a Boy Scout but because you’re just smart enough to know I’m not bluffing, so you won’t step over the line.”
    “Your threats don’t mean shit to me,” Carver said. “Reason I stay legal is a yard beyond your grasp: professional ethics. You probably hear rumors of them from time to time.”
    McGregor laughed, opening his mouth wide to reveal his gapped teeth. His breath was so sour it cut through the sweetened lemon scent of the cologne and nauseated Carver. “We both know there’s no such thing as ethics, asshole. Only people who can claim them are the ones ain’t been tempted strong enough to give in.”
    Carver said nothing, thinking McGregor might be right. It was a depressing prospect.
    McGregor ran his tongue around the inside of his cheek, distorting his features. He concentrated on trying to suck something out from beneath his molars for a while, then apparently succeeded and said, “You know Hitler had only one nut? Monorchids, they call people like that.”
    “Didn’t