Bloodfire Read Online Free PDF Page B

He said, “I think I better know about this in detail, my friend.”
    And Carver told him everything, in detail. This was a homicide case and not an occasion to play cute.
    When Carver was finished talking, Desoto stood up slowly and stretched. He tucked his shirt back in neatly and smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from the tropical weave material of his pants, then buttoned his suit coat and walked over to the milky window. He gazed outside through a clear section of glass, his back to Carver, looking like a soap-opera star striking a pose.
    He said, “Place still smells like death, eh?”
    “Yeah. You should be used to that smell.”
    “Both of us, amigo .”
    Carver didn’t say anything. Waited.
    When he turned around, Desoto said, “The dead woman’s driver’s license gave an address in Indianapolis. Her name was Belinda Jackson.”
    Carver said, “I don’t make a connection. Never heard the name.”
    “This Ghostly guy never mentioned it?”
    “Nope.”
    “So Belinda Jackson wasn’t his wife? By Ghostly or any other name?”
    Carver reached into his shirt pocket, drew out Beth Ghostly’s photograph, and held it out so Desoto could look at it. Desoto leaned very close to peer at the snapshot, making Carver wonder if his old pal had reached the age where he needed glasses. Desoto would be the last to admit it; he’d probably go to contacts on the sly.
    But he saw the photo well enough. “Not the dead woman,” he said. He tilted the photo at a slight angle. “A beauty, eh? Cheekbones like a movie star’s.”
    There wasn’t much Desoto didn’t notice about women. And women paid the same studious attention to him.
    Carver rotated the tip of his cane on the soft carpet, making a deep depression, and waited for Desoto to continue.
    Desoto unbuttoned his suit coat and slid his hands in his pants pockets. Poised and casual as a male model. He said, “If this guy Ghostly contacts you again, let me know, eh?”
    “You’ll be my first phone call,” Carver told him. He didn’t like what he’d stepped into. Wanted out. Wanted to stay honest and alive. He suspected those goals might not be compatible.
    “I guess what you’re thinking,” Desoto said, “is that the shooter might have been aiming at you.”
    “It entered my mind.” Better than the way a bullet entered Belinda Jackson’s mind. He planted the cane more firmly in the deep depression in the carpet and raised himself up from the low sofa. “But I kinda doubt it. Such a perfect fatal shot. Be a real coincidence if a miss did such a thorough job on the person next to the intended target.”
    “You’re probably right, amigo. Hope so, anyway.” He removed his left hand from his pocket and rotated his wrist to glance at his watch. Gold cuff links glittered, causing light to dance over the wall near the bloodstain. “Tell you what, give me a while to gather and coordinate what we’re finding out about this initially. Come by the office this afternoon, say about three o’clock, sign a statement, and we’ll see if we can make any sense outa all this, right?”
    “Sounds sensible,” Carver said. “I’ll go to a motel. Wash off what I can of what happened here. Howard Johnson’s on the Orange Blossom Trail. I’ll call you if I can’t get a room there and wind up someplace else.”
    “Fine,” Desoto said. Concern deepened his large dark eyes. “You want some temporary protection?”
    “No. The key word’s temporary .”
    “ ’Fraid you’re right.”
    Desoto walked toward the door, his expensive suit moving like a second, silky skin. He paused and glanced back at Carver. “Leaving? Or are you feeling at home by now?”
    “Leaving,” Carver said. “I’ve read all the magazines.”
    “Bet not the ones on the back of the closet shelf,” Desoto said.
    Carver didn’t know what he meant by that, and didn’t ask. He’d decided to let the resources of the law fit available puzzle pieces together, then he’d garner whatever