Bloodfire (2 page)

Ghostly said, “I know. I checked on you before I came here. You’re a lot of things, Carver. Honest is one of them.”

Carver didn’t want to hear about the others. Better to stop with honest, while he was ahead. Settling back in the wood-and-canvas chair, hearing it creak beneath his weight, he laid his cane across his lap and stretched out his good leg alongside his bad one, the result of a bullet. Such a world.

He said, “Let’s hear about Elizabeth.”

G
HOSTLY STOOD WITH HIS
muscular arms crossed, his feet spread wide. He seemed more irritated than worried about his wife’s disappearance. “Beth and I’ve been married five years,” he began. Then he paused. “We’re from New York originally, been living down here in Florida the past three years. Tell you the truth, both of us liked New York better . . . . ”

“Almost everyone in Florida’s from someplace else,” Carver said, seeing Ghostly had hit a snag and didn’t know what to say next. Words failed when you woke up and found a note instead of your wife. It wasn’t a unique situation in the marital wars, but one that always carried impact. “If you like New York, why’d you move here?”

“My job. I was transferred. I’m a salesman for a medical supply firm, and we do business with a number of hospitals in the central and south Florida area.”

“Any kids?”

Ghostly seemed oddly surprised by the question. His asymmetrical dark brows danced wildly for a moment above wide eyes, making him look almost comical. Then he calmed down. Said, “No kids. There’s only me and Beth.”

“You live here in Del Moray?”

“No. In Orlando.”

“Think Beth went back to New York?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know. It’s possible.”

Carver leaned back in the director’s chair and studied Ghostly, whose arrogant stance didn’t fit his contrite and desperate words. A medical salesman, he’d said. Salesmen came in a lot of models, but not many were openly arrogant. Obsequiousness sold, obvious arrogance didn’t. Not medical supplies, anyway. He said, “You think she disliked Florida enough to leave the state?”

Ghostly shrugged, as if to say, “You’re the detective.”

Well, that was true. Carver said, “I’ll ask again: You two have an argument before she left?”

“No, we got along.”

“All the time?”

“Almost.”

“She behave oddly at all in the time leading up to her leaving?”

“Oddly? No, I don’t think so. That’s what’s puzzling me. And worrying me. Maybe she was abducted or something.”

“Something?”

“Well, you know.”

Carver didn’t. Not exactly. But he let it pass. “So everything was going on greased rails and suddenly she jumped the tracks?”

Ghostly nodded. He uncrossed his arms and raked fingers through his thick dark hair, absently scratched his crotch. “Yeah, you could put it that way. And I’m concerned.”

Carver looked out the window for a while at the blue-green, undulating ocean beyond the dead potted plants. There were a few clouds in the sky now, lying low near the horizon and riding the wind toward land. A large bird flapped past, parallel to the shore. Maybe an albatross. Carver wouldn’t know; he couldn’t remember ever actually seeing an albatross and wasn’t sure what they looked like. Big birds, though.

“How ’bout it?” Ghostly said. “Gonna take this on and find my wife? I’d appreciate it, and I’m willing to pay generously. I’ve got money saved, and I can’t think of a better use for it.”

“Why don’t you let your tax dollars work for you, contact the police and tell them what you told me?”

Ghostly placed his fists on his hips and looked distraught. “I told you, she left a note. To the police, she’s not a missing person. They wouldn’t be interested. But I’m her husband, and I don’t think Beth’d just up and leave that way. And even if she did, I wanna find her, talk to her.”

Easy enough to understand. And what was Carver going to do with his days if he didn’t take on the task of searching for Elizabeth Ghostly? Swim in the mornings—then what? His lady love, Edwina Talbot, was away at a real-estate convention in Atlanta. Which was one reason why Carver was here at his beach cottage, instead of at her home up the coast, where he usually stayed. The other reason was that Edwina had been acting oddly herself lately. They’d had an intimate but strangely independent relationship for the past several years, with space to breathe for each of them. No commitment.

Last week Edwina had asked for that commitment, and Carver had waffled. Since then she’d kept her distance from him, both physically and emotionally. He wasn’t ready for another marriage.

He said, “I’ll look for your wife, Mr. Ghostly. I’ll need some more facts. And her photograph, the most recent you have.”

Ghostly grinned and said, “I watch TV detective shows, so I know how it works. I brought a photo with me.” He reached into the still-folded towel he’d set on the floor, came up with a plastic-coated snapshot, and handed it to Carver.

Carver laid the photograph on his bare thigh and stared down at it, surprised to see that Elizabeth Ghostly was a black woman. A beautiful black woman. She had high, wide cheekbones, lively dark eyes, a sculpted nose, and full, pouty lips. She was wearing what looked like a cocktail dress that allowed for more than a glimpse of cleavage, had pearl earrings, and wore around her neck a string of pearls that contrasted with her dark skin. Behind her were a wall and an ornate door, and several men in tuxedos. They looked more like bouncers than headwaiters.

“That was taken six months ago at a sales convention in Miami,” Ghostly said. “The Doral Hotel.”

“She’s an attractive woman,” Carver said.

Ghostly looked proud for a moment, but still with the undercurrent of arrogance. His principal possession had been complimented. Then he seemed to remember she was missing, and he frowned.

Carver said, “Sometimes interracial marriages suffer stress. Cause one of the partners to break and leave. Any of that kinda thing in your marriage? I mean, central Florida isn’t New York.”

“Well, there was a little of what I guess you’d call discrimination against her—us. Some whispers at the condominium project where we live. But that died down and didn’t bother either of us. And now Beth isn’t even the only black woman living at Beau Capri.”

“Beau Capri?”

“Yeah. That’s the condo development. Right near the Orange Blossom Trail.”

Carver used his cane to raise himself to his feet. He limped over to the breakfast counter, thumping the cane on the floor, and made his way around behind the counter. After fishing in a drawer for paper and pencil, he said, “Better give me as detailed a description of your wife as possible.”

Ghostly seemed to enjoy doing that, pacing absently, hands on hips, as he talked: “She’s thirty-three, kinda tall, and, well, you know, very nicely built. Dresses well, too.”

“Any distinguishing marks? Scars or whatever?”

“Uh, yeah. About a five-inch scar on her stomach. From some sort of operation she had before we met.”

Carver found it strange that Ghostly didn’t know what kind of operation. “She got family in New York?”

“No, she’s alone. Her family’s all dead.”

Carver stared at him, then jotted down that information next to Beth Ghostly’s physical description. “Any habits? Hobbies? Anything that could give some hint of where she mighta gone?

“She likes dancing,” Ghostly said. “Good times, that kinda thing. Not like she’s wild, though. Not looking for action, if you know what I mean. She just likes her fun.” He added defensively, “Nothing wrong with that.”

“She take any money when she left?”

“Not more’n a couple hundred dollars. Woman like Beth, she doesn’t need money to have fun.”

“What kinda food does she like?”

“Huh?”

“Food,” Carver said. “People get on the run, go underground, they still tend to frequent restaurants that serve their favorite food. One way to track them down.”

“If you can find out what city she’s in.”

“Yeah, that comes first,” Carver said.

Ghostly gazed up at the ceiling, thinking. “She likes Italian food best, I’d say. Pasta. Never puts on any weight, though. Amazing.”

“She use drugs? Anything like that?”

Ghostly’s face reddened beneath the tan. He seemed enraged that Carver would suggest such a thing. “Maybe I gave the wrong impression. She’s not that kind, Carver, believe me.”

“So give me some kinda handle, Mr. Ghostly. Someplace specific where she might turn up. There’s lots of Italian restaurants and places to dance in Florida.”

Ghostly put on a helpless look and raised his shoulders in a futile shrug. “Guess it seems odd, you live with a woman over five years and it’s hard to fill somebody in on that kinda thing. But we spent a lotta time together, in places that didn’t serve pasta or play music. I mean, Beth likes her fun, but she’s also a sorta stay-at-home type. Loves to read.”

Woman of contrasts. “Read what?”

“Hey, I dunno. I’m not much of a reader myself. She’d usually have her nose in a magazine or a book, is all I know. Liked novels written by people I never heard of.”

“She get them from the library or buy them?”

“Bought them.”

Carver said, “Okay, that’s something.”

Ghostly rubbed the underside of his jaw with his thumb and forefinger, as if testing to see if he needed a shave. He suddenly seemed uncomfortable. Carver didn’t help him out, but instead sat staring at him. His move. His game, in fact.

Finally Ghostly took a deep breath. “Okay, there’s some stuff I’m not telling you.”

“You want me to find her,” Carver said, “it’ll be easier and faster if I know it all.”

“All, huh?” Ghostly shifted his weight to his other leg. Then he stood more loosely. He seemed to have reached a decision about opening up to Carver, trusting him. “I wasn’t quite straight with you on a few of my answers, Carver.”

“I got that impression.”

“The big reason I came here instead of to the police is Beth’s habit.”

“Drugs?” Well, what else—in Florida, with the wife of a medical supply salesman? Fingernail-chewing?

Ghostly actually looked ready to sob. He blew out a long breath, flapping his lips the way horses do when they’re winded. “There’s doctors who use heroin to treat certain diseases, as a painkiller for patients sometimes in the final stages. Anyway, there are legal, medical uses for the stuff, if it’s prescribed by a physician. I sold it. And even with the careful controls kept on it, I found out about a year ago that Beth’s been pilfering it from my supplies. She confessed to me she was addicted.”

“You get her any help?”

“Treatment? I tried like hell, but she wouldn’t agree to it. She’s . . . well, she’s ashamed.”

“So you’ve been supplying her on the sly.”

“Yeah. Not much, though. And just before she left me, she’d agreed to use methadone, and if that didn’t work she’d check into a drug rehab clinic.”

Now Carver understood how it might have gone. The wife knowing she was even more deeply hooked than her husband thought. Knowing, or believing, that she was on the long slide and there was no way off. Maybe she’d left him because he couldn’t understand. Maybe she didn’t want him to see her ride her habit all the way to the grave. She’d had reasons for running, had Beth Ghostly.

There was little arrogance in Ghostly now. It had cost him, telling Carver this about his wife, and placed him in some jeopardy, too; supplying an addict, even a spouse, with a controlled substance was a crime. Technically, Carver was supposed to report it. Only the fact that Ghostly would deny their conversation kept him from even considering that ethical dilemma. The best thing all around would be for Beth to return to her husband and get treatment for her addiction, maybe have a chance. Some hell to live through, but a chance.

Carver said, “She get narcotics anywhere except from you?”

“Well, I guess I better be honest all the way. I think she did buy from someone else. I have no idea who, or where she got the stuff. My only reason for thinking it is that there’s no way she could have become so heavily addicted on what little I gave her. No way.” His eyes teared up. “I mean, Jesus, Carver, she’d beg for it! Do anything for it! It made me fucking sick!” He turned away for a moment to compose himself, then turned back slowly. His face was pale. “It still makes me ill to think about it,” he said.

“And now she’s out there with only a few hundred dollars.”

“Well, more than that. I lied about how much she left with. Last week I went to my bank and found she’d withdrawn exactly half our savings.”

“Amounting to?”

“Nearly ten thousand dollars.”

“Enough to keep her in dope for a while, if she makes a connection and finds a dealer.”

“The ten thousand won’t last long, the habit she has. And a user by herself in that world, they’ll take every advantage of her. That’s something that scares hell outa me.”

Carver sat staring at the photograph for a while, then looked up. “So I’ll look into it,” he said, as if it were no big deal and he hadn’t been sitting there carefully weighing whether to get involved. “Where can I get in touch with you?”

“I won’t be at our condo for a week or so,” Ghostly said. “A convention down in Miami I can’t skip without fear of losing employment.” He worked his out-of-whack eyebrows fearfully. “Christ, that’d be the kicker, if I lost my job on top of the rest of this mess.”

Carver said, “Go to your convention. If I need more information I’ll phone you at your hotel.”

“Fine. It’s the Holiday Inn on Collins.” He lurched forward and shook Carver’s hand again. This time there was unsteadiness in his grip, and not much strength. “Find her, Carver, please.”

Carver said, “I’ll be working at it. Any of your neighbors Beth was particularly thick with?”

“Not really. We kept pretty much to ourselves. And I traveled most of the time.”

Carver disengaged his right hand from Ghostly’s. He said he wanted Ghostly to sign a standard contract before he left, then answer a few more questions. Ghostly agreed immediately, and Carver limped to his dresser behind the folding screen and got a contract from the middle drawer.

Ghostly scrawled his signature, set down the pen, and said again, “Find her.” More prayer than request.