Free Burn by John Lutz Page A

Willa pulling on the same rope. He couldn’t conjure it up.
    The display case looked handmade but was neatly constructed and finished with thick coats of brushed-on varnish. The Tokarev was behind a small glass door and resting on pegs against a gray silk background. It was a blue-steel piece of work with a five-pointed star set into its grooved grip. It looked like too much gun for a woman as slight as Willa Krull.
    “That one’s only for display,” she said, as if reading his mind. “It’s not very valuable, but it’s still something of a collector’s item. I target shoot with a twenty-two revolver and have a small nine-millimeter for protection.”
    “You’re a woman who means business, Willa.”
    “I don’t want to hurt anyone. And I don’t want to give the impression I’m the kind of simple-minded woman who automatically thinks all men are immoral, testosterone-driven beasts. My victimhood hasn’t become my identity. But next time around, things will turn out differently. I’m absolutely determined about that.”
    “I understand,” Carver told her.
    “I no longer ask for understanding.”
    He thanked her for her time and trouble, then he moved toward the door. She didn’t say goodbye when she showed him out. He didn’t mind.
    He sympathized with her, but she scared him.

11
    E ARLY THE NEXT MORNING Carver drove over to Highway One, then south to the Bee Line Expressway and into Orlando.
    Orlando police headquarters was a long, beige building with vertically pinched windows that gave it the look of a fortress. Desoto was in his office, listening to soft Latin music seeping from the Sony portable stereo on the windowsill behind his desk. He was dressed like a GQ model, as usual, in a cream-colored suit with a pale yellow chalk stripe, white shirt, yellow silk tie with a knot almost too small to see, and gold cuff links, watch, and rings. Desoto seemed to like jewelry more every year. Carver noticed that now he wore a diamond pinkie ring.
    He was an impossibly handsome and collected man, with a classic Latin profile and sleek black hair that Carver had never seen mussed—a tough cop who looked as if he’d missed his calling as a gigolo, but not by much.
    Desoto was seated behind his desk, talking on the phone. “Of course, Miss Belmontrosaigne,” he was saying. “Of course, of course.” He flashed his white, lady-killer smile, as if Miss Belmont—whoever she was—could see him over the phone. Well, maybe the smile came through in his voice. “We’re doing our best for you. That I personally guarantee. It’s not only a duty, it’s a pleasure. Yes, yes, yes . . .” he said soothingly.
    He said goodbye as if he regretted having to break off the conversation, but they’d always have Paris.
    “Who’s Miss Belmontwhatever?” Carver asked.
    “Woman whose shop over on Orange Avenue keeps getting held up. Three times in the past month. She called to complain that nothing’s being done about it. We’ve got the place staked out, but it’s best not to let her know that. She might behave suspiciously and tip whoever comes in. Which could put her in danger.”
    Desoto the chivalrous; he was the only cop Carver knew who might be described as gallant. He truly liked women. Not as conquests or ornaments, but as people. Miss Belmontwhatever was as likely to be a seventy-year-old woman as a young, nubile beauty.
    “What about Marla Cloy?” Carver asked.
    “Ah! Shut the door, amigo. ”
    Carver did, blocking out the sounds of activity elsewhere in the building. The soft guitar music seemed louder. As Carver lowered himself into the chair angled toward the desk, Desoto reached back and delicately twisted a knob that gradually reduced the volume of the portable Sony.
    “Why do you need to know about this Marla Cloy?” he asked.
    Carver told him.
    “The question is who to believe,” Desoto said, when Carver was finished talking.
    “Right now,” Carver said, “I believe my client.”
    “Because