Burn Read Free

clued in.”
    She smiled, suddenly sweeter than the heady aroma of the chocolate-cinnamon coffee. “Do more than that. Make me part of the investigation, Fred.” She really did want this story, no matter who was being victimized.
    When he didn’t answer immediately she bent low and kissed him on the forehead, then the lips. He felt the warm flick of her tongue, and the brush of her fingers on his shoulder.
    “Maybe there is something you can do,” he said, feeling like a victim.

3
    A FTER LEAVING B ETH , Carver drove to Del Moray police headquarters and asked to see Sergeant Greg Olson.
    The desk sergeant relayed his request, but instead of Olson instructing that Carver come into his office, the graying, grossly overweight detective sergeant waddled into the booking area where Carver was waiting. He and Carver weren’t exactly friends, but they trusted each other and had a mutual respect for professionalism. There was little enough of that going around these days.
    Olson wasn’t wearing a suit coat or tie. The top two buttons of his white shirt were unfastened and his sleeves were rolled above the elbows. He was sweating heavily. There were large crescents of dampness beneath his arms and his shirt took on a pinkish hue where the thin material was plastered to his flesh.
    When he shook hands with Carver, his grip was strong and moist.
    “You been exercising?” Carver asked.
    “Naw. Damned air-conditioning’s on the blink. It’s not so bad here, but you get back in the offices or squad room and it’s a sauna. What can I do for you, Fred?”
    “I need to know a few things about a woman who’s lodged a sexual harassment complaint. Her name’s—”
    “Sorry,” Olson interrupted. “I’m gonna have to refer you to Lieutenant McGregor.”
    The mention of McGregor’s name made Carver’s flesh creep. “Why’s that? He have a personal interest in the case?”
    Olson’s chubby features creased in a sweaty smile. “He’s got a personal interest in you. We got standing orders that whenever you come in here for any reason, you get referred to Mc­Gregor.”
    Carver wasn’t really surprised. Lieutenant William Mc­Gregor hated him with a grand and nurturing passion and had warned him more than once that he’d like to nail him with a felony count that carried a prison sentence, even if the charge was false. Maybe especially if the charge was false. Like most of the people who’d had dealings with McGregor, Carver hated him right back. McGregor preferred it that way. In a gloating, candid moment, he’d once confessed to Carver that he wasn’t really comfortable around people without the bond of mutual disgust. The sadistic, deliberately obnoxious lieutenant was the most corrupt human being Carver had ever met, in an occupation where you seldom consorted with angels.
    “I suppose he misses you,” Olson said, still smiling. A bead of perspiration dropped from his chin and left a tiny mark like a comma on the front of his white shirt.
    “Like mean little boys miss flies when they need something to pull wings from,” Carver said.
    Olson exchanged glances with the desk sergeant, who was also smiling and sweating.
    “He in his office?” Carver asked.
    “Yeah,” Olson said. “You know where it is.”
    “Better wait till I call back and tell him you’re on your way,” the desk sergeant said.
    Carver stood and watched Olson sweat while the desk sergeant started to make the call. The desk sergeant suddenly began perspiring more profusely, maybe at the prospect of talking to McGregor. The uniforms all hated McGregor, their boss, and hate was impossible without fear.
    “Lieutenant says you have permission to slink right in,” the desk sergeant said, hanging up the phone. “His words, not mine.”
    “Buzz, buzz,” Carver said. He set down the tip of his cane, turned his back on the two sweaty sergeants, and limped down the hall toward McGregor’s office.
    After taking only a few steps, he understood why