dishes and pans were stacked in the sink, still wet from washing. The gray and white tiled floor was swept if not waxed, and the sharp smell of insecticide was heavy in the air.
Carver moved on toward the bedroom, glancing in the bathroom to see that Hodgkins had been busy there, too. Where they weren’t chipped or yellowed, the old white porcelain fixtures gleamed. The same insecticide scent was present here, but not nearly as strong as in the kitchen. Carver was gaining respect for Hodgkins, who must have been on the job since six or seven o’clock this morning to have accomplished so much.
The double bed in Gretch’s bedroom was stripped to the mattress, which, surprisingly, looked almost new. The dresser drawers were empty, and the closet rod held only wire hangers. A black palmetto bug, surprised by the light when Carver opened the closet door, scurried to a corner and flattened itself to squeeze into a crack in the back wall. Apparently it hadn’t heard about the insecticide in the kitchen and bathroom and thought the place was still safe.
There was a stack of mail-order catalogs on the closet floor, in the back corner opposite the one where the palmetto bug had made its temporary escape. They were men’s clothing catalogs, mostly. Carver examined them and found nothing unusual. All of the order forms were still inside. Apparently Gretch received them then tossed them in his closet in case he wanted to order something later. Then, like most people, ignored them. Most of the catalogs were outdated.
Carver saw that the bottom wooden shelf in the closet was empty except for the plastic cap to a spray can. The top shelf was higher than eye level. He ran his hand along its rough wood surface, being careful not to pick up a splinter. Then his groping fingers came in contact with something flat and smooth. Paper. A magazine. He gripped it and pulled it down.
It was pornography. A bondage magazine featuring women bound with ropes, leather, or tape in various uncomfortable positions. Carver tossed it back up on the shelf, moved his hand around up there some more, and felt what he knew immediately were photographs.
The subjects, Carver wasn’t surprised to find, were women. Not bound this time, but in sexy, smiling, and apparently willing poses, some of them modest even though nude or almost nude. They were of three women, and many of the poses were similar. Most of the photos were of a skinny blond who, while attractive, appeared to be pushing fifty. Or maybe she was only forty and had lived faster than time. In a few of the photos she was wearing a silky red nightgown parted to reveal her breasts. All of the photographs were in color and were 35-millimeter, not from instant cameras. None of the shots had been taken in Gretch’s apartment; the backgrounds were sort of generic, like motel decor. Though the photos weren’t graphically lewd, they weren’t the sort that could be sent to a standard commercial developer; if Gretch had taken the photographs, he had to have developed and printed them himself, or had someone he could trust do it for him.
Carver was relieved not to find Donna Winship among the photos’ subjects. He kept one shot of each woman, then put the rest back where he’d found them.
When he returned the key to Hodgkins outside the garage, he said, “Did Gretch ever bring women up to his place?”
“I never seen it,” Hodgkins said, leaning on his broom, “but that’s not to say he never did. He looked like a goddamned lounge lizard, and he had that car always looked and sounded like a high-speed jukebox. Certain type woman goes for that stuff. Young ones, mostly, that ain’t been burned yet.”
As Carver drove away, he thought about the blond woman in the photographs.
Not so young. But maybe never been burned.
8
D ESOTO WAS IN his office, on the phone. When he saw Carver, he waved for him to sit down in the hard wooden chair near the desk. Carver closed the door and sat.
“Find him,
Carver moved on toward the bedroom, glancing in the bathroom to see that Hodgkins had been busy there, too. Where they weren’t chipped or yellowed, the old white porcelain fixtures gleamed. The same insecticide scent was present here, but not nearly as strong as in the kitchen. Carver was gaining respect for Hodgkins, who must have been on the job since six or seven o’clock this morning to have accomplished so much.
The double bed in Gretch’s bedroom was stripped to the mattress, which, surprisingly, looked almost new. The dresser drawers were empty, and the closet rod held only wire hangers. A black palmetto bug, surprised by the light when Carver opened the closet door, scurried to a corner and flattened itself to squeeze into a crack in the back wall. Apparently it hadn’t heard about the insecticide in the kitchen and bathroom and thought the place was still safe.
There was a stack of mail-order catalogs on the closet floor, in the back corner opposite the one where the palmetto bug had made its temporary escape. They were men’s clothing catalogs, mostly. Carver examined them and found nothing unusual. All of the order forms were still inside. Apparently Gretch received them then tossed them in his closet in case he wanted to order something later. Then, like most people, ignored them. Most of the catalogs were outdated.
Carver saw that the bottom wooden shelf in the closet was empty except for the plastic cap to a spray can. The top shelf was higher than eye level. He ran his hand along its rough wood surface, being careful not to pick up a splinter. Then his groping fingers came in contact with something flat and smooth. Paper. A magazine. He gripped it and pulled it down.
It was pornography. A bondage magazine featuring women bound with ropes, leather, or tape in various uncomfortable positions. Carver tossed it back up on the shelf, moved his hand around up there some more, and felt what he knew immediately were photographs.
The subjects, Carver wasn’t surprised to find, were women. Not bound this time, but in sexy, smiling, and apparently willing poses, some of them modest even though nude or almost nude. They were of three women, and many of the poses were similar. Most of the photos were of a skinny blond who, while attractive, appeared to be pushing fifty. Or maybe she was only forty and had lived faster than time. In a few of the photos she was wearing a silky red nightgown parted to reveal her breasts. All of the photographs were in color and were 35-millimeter, not from instant cameras. None of the shots had been taken in Gretch’s apartment; the backgrounds were sort of generic, like motel decor. Though the photos weren’t graphically lewd, they weren’t the sort that could be sent to a standard commercial developer; if Gretch had taken the photographs, he had to have developed and printed them himself, or had someone he could trust do it for him.
Carver was relieved not to find Donna Winship among the photos’ subjects. He kept one shot of each woman, then put the rest back where he’d found them.
When he returned the key to Hodgkins outside the garage, he said, “Did Gretch ever bring women up to his place?”
“I never seen it,” Hodgkins said, leaning on his broom, “but that’s not to say he never did. He looked like a goddamned lounge lizard, and he had that car always looked and sounded like a high-speed jukebox. Certain type woman goes for that stuff. Young ones, mostly, that ain’t been burned yet.”
As Carver drove away, he thought about the blond woman in the photographs.
Not so young. But maybe never been burned.
8
D ESOTO WAS IN his office, on the phone. When he saw Carver, he waved for him to sit down in the hard wooden chair near the desk. Carver closed the door and sat.
“Find him,
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