Free Flame by John Lutz Page B

that’s saying something, ’cause it’s a very competitive business.”
    “Ham-to-ham combat,” Carver said.
    “Whazzat, amigo ?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Here’s the thing, though,” Desoto said. “The condo in Fort Lauderdale’s not Wesley’s regular address. He lives in Atlanta. The condo’s owned by his company. Corporate bigwigs are sent there for vacations from time to time. Executive privilege, eh? Don’t it make you wanna run out and buy one of those leather briefcases?”
    “What about the car?” Carver asked.
    “Mine’d be a BMW.”
    “I mean Wesley’s car.”
    “The Caddie was a rental leased by the company.”
    Carver sat quietly trying to digest what he’d been told, wondering what it all meant.
    “Any of this help you, amigo ?”
    Carver said, “Hogs, huh?”

Chapter 11
    B OOKING A RESERVATION ON a flight into Atlanta on short notice was no problem. Every commercial airline flight that went anywhere in the country seemed to be routed through Hartsfield-Atlanta International Airport. It was to planes what the hive was to bees.
    Carver got up early and drove through slanted morning sunlight into Orlando. Left his car in a pay lot and rode a shuttle to the airport. Boarded his plane almost immediately. Sat on the motionless, stifling Boeing 747 for an hour reading the airline magazine over and over, until he was almost ready to send away for the wristwatch with a face for each time zone. Heard the ringing in his ears begin again as finally the engines fired up and the plane taxied out onto the runway and took off. Endured the screams of the infant in the seat in front of him, the boring conversation about industrial couplers from the salesman next to him. Ate some roasted peanuts from a cellophane wrapper. Dribbled coffee on his shirt. Stood in line at the Hertz car-rental counter in Atlanta until he thought his patience or his cane might snap. And by 11:00 A.M. he was checked into the Holiday Inn on Piedmont Road in downtown Atlanta. Simple.
    The hotel was a large, sand-colored structure with a high-rise section. Carver was given a room on the fourteenth floor, a pleasant, airy one with a dark green carpet and green flower-print drapes and bedspread. There was a green velvet chair on gold casters. A small sofa. The light wood dresser, writing desk, and nightstands were of the sort that are stamped out at some factory that furnishes all hotels everywhere. The walls were pale beige, as was the spacious, tiled bathroom.
    Carver had rented a big Ford Victoria that he could get in and out of easily with his cane. After changing into a clean white shirt, he shrugged into the conservative blue suitcoat that matched his slacks, then knotted a plain maroon tie around his neck. He smiled at his reflection in the mirror over the washbasin; smiling back at him was a bald, middle-aged executive type. Plain vanilla, but with a no-nonsense air about him. Might be midlevel in the company, or might be the guy who could and would fire you on a whim. A real asshole with a country-club membership. Just fine, he thought.
    He looked up Wesley Slaughter and Rendering in the phone directory. Then he took the elevator down to the parking garage and drove the big blue Ford out onto Piedmont and away from the downtown area.
    He soon found that Atlanta was encompassed by Interstate 285, and an unwary driver could travel in circles until the gas tank hit empty, all the time thinking he was going somewhere other than around.
    Carver steered with one hand, held the Hertz road map flat against the seat with the other. Finally he managed to exit from the highway and drove about ten miles before turning onto a narrow road that snaked through Georgia red-clay country. There were low rolling hills here, soft and gentle as the curves of a gracefully lounging woman. In the bright blue sky, distant birds that looked a lot like vultures wheeled on the wind and soared in unpredictable lazy patterns, as if tracing messages in the