Tropical Heat by John Lutz Page A

a pleasant, moon-faced woman who would always seem young at first glance. “No,” she said. “I want to help her get over Willis. I think the way to do that is to keep quiet and help you.”
    “I get the feeling Edwina isn’t playing exactly straight with me. Is there anything about her that I don’t know but should?”
    “You’d have to ask her about that.”
    “Does she confide a great deal in you?”
    Alice watched a wisp of cigarette smoke curl in the muted light, then said, “There’s a part of Edwina she keeps private. I respect that and have never pried, and I don’t intend to start now.”
    “All right.” Carver braced himself with the cane and moved toward the door.
    Alice was standing rigidly with her arms folded, watching him. He paused at the door, turned, and looked around the cavernous bare room.
    “Half a million dollars seems a little high,” he said. “Do you suppose they’d dicker?”
    Alice smiled. It was a lot like the smiles he’d seen at Sun South. After leaving Alice Hargrove he drove down Palm Street toward the ocean. The morning was heating up. There were a few clouds in the west, blowing in from the gulf, making soft and empty threats of rain. Ahead of Carver, the sky was a flawless blue backdrop for the gulls to soar against. The scent of the sea wafted into the Olds with the increasing humidity.
    When Carver saw a phone booth, he stopped, called his home, and listened to the messages on his answering machine. There were only two. The first was a recorded sales pitch promising a free book of tickets to Disney World with an appointment for an estimate on home remodeling; a recorder talking to a recorder. It reminded Carver of the old question about whether a sound was made if a tree fell in the woods when there was no one around to hear it. The second message was Ernie Franks suggesting that he and Carver talk again about Willis Davis. He claimed to have some important information for Carver.
    Carver used the back of his hand to wipe perspiration from his forehead. Then he called Franks’s office, made an appointment to see him, and drove in the direction of Sun South.
    Above the coast highway, the gulls seemed to soar and circle deliberately in front of the Olds, vying for Carver’s attention with unintelligible screams he could barely hear over the sounds of the motor and the wind.
    Screams like shrill warnings.

CHAPTER 8
    C ARVER WALKED ALONGSIDE Ernie Franks down some concrete steps leading to a man-made, landscaped plateau below the level of the Sun South towers but above the level of the beach. They strolled slowly along a walkway above the beach, through brilliant sunlight and stark shadow. Beyond the protective metal railing bordering the walk, Carver could see half a dozen sunbathers lounging on the pale sand. The heads of a few adventuresome swimmers bobbed out beyond where the waves began to rise for their rush and break onto the beach. Farther out, a small boat with a canvas-topped flying bridge lazily trolled for deep-sea fish. The strip of ground where Carver and Franks walked was grassy and dotted with small palm trees whose trunks had been painted white halfway up. At random between the palms, lush and colorful tropical flowers, like bright exotic birds perched on stems, swayed in the warm ocean breeze.
    Sunk in the side of the hill was a sign, the words Sun South lettered with seashells that had been artistically and elaborately set in concrete. As he walked past the sign, Franks absently extended his hand and let his fingertips brush the shell-letters. In so large and powerful a man, the gesture seemed oddly gentle and pathetically possessive.
    “I talked to Lieutenant Desoto about you,” he said. “And I did some checking into your background.”
    Carver said nothing, watched the white surf rage beneath them on the beach.
    “You were a good cop. And you’re an honest private cop now. Bad luck about the injury.”
    “It’s the sort of thing that happens