Tropical Heat by John Lutz

running. Franks found out about the operation only because someone from the bank handling the phony account contacted him. The reason was that Willis had virtually closed the account. If he hadn’t, nothing would have come to light. He could still be at Sun South pulling in big money.”
    “Then why isn’t he?” Desoto asked.
    “He had enough money.”
    “People like Willis Davis never have enough money.”
    “Exactly. So why would he walk away from getting richer?”
    “That’s my question,” Desoto said.
    “It’s possible he wanted to move on and use what he had to make even more money. It could be that Willis was conning clients at Sun South for seed money for an even bigger kill. He needed a certain amount to swing a deal, and once he reached the magic number he was ready to step up to bigger things.”
    “A drug buy,” Desoto said thoughtfully. “Yes, once he had enough to make the buy, he could cut the stuff and make a great deal more money than at Sun South. A hundred thousand on the front end of a drug operation can easily turn into half a million dollars. What you suggest is possible.”
    “Cahill was fired from Sun South for supplying some of the other employees with coke,” Carver said. “He’s no stranger to the drug scene, at least on a lower level. It’s possible that he’s Willis’s liaison man or partner. Which would explain why Cahill headed for Solarville when he left Sun South.”
    “All so neat,” Desoto said. “Too neat, amigo. You know that.”
    Carver knew. Maybe it was all structured so logically because it was solely the product of his mind and not reality.
    “But if what you say is true,” Desoto said, “it follows that Willis Davis might be found around Sam Cahill and Solarville.”
    “And it follows that I should go there to look for him,” Carver said.
    “And for the money, amigo .”
    “I hadn’t forgotten.”
    “And Willis Davis—he never really loved Edwina Talbot?”
    “It looks that way,” Carver said.
    Desoto shook his head slowly. “The lady’s a treasure no one will claim.”
    “Maybe Willis looked at her as currency to be spent,” Carver said, “and he already used her to buy what he wanted.”
    “So it seems. I feel sorry for her, when you explain to her about her Willis.”
    “Don’t waste your sympathy, Desoto; she won’t believe it even after I go through the steps with her.”
    “Dedication,” Desoto said, with a hint of admiration. It was the quality he most valued in women; his ego demanded it.
    “Or blind stupidity.”
    “No, not stupidity. Not in that one.”
    “Do you get the feeling there’s a lot we don’t know about Edwina?” Carver asked.
    “Of course. It adds to her mystique.”
    “What if it’s the money she’s after, and not Willis? What if Willis ran out on her and she concocted this whole thing?”
    “No,” Desoto said, “if she was in on the scam with him, she would never have come to the police when he left her.”
    Carver agreed. And despite the uneasy feeling he had about Edwina, he didn’t think she was lying about Willis. Of course, there was no way to be sure. Of anything.
    Carver bore down on the cane and stood, feeling his perspiration-soaked shirt come unstuck from the chair. The cool breeze from the air-conditioner was steady on his face. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s a mistake to take her too lightly. It might be the biggest mistake Willis Davis ever made.”
    “If he’s still alive,” Desoto said, clinging to the official view, making his job and Carver’s easier. “If he wasn’t murdered or didn’t really commit suicide.”
    “Any personal opinions?” Carver asked.
    Desoto said, smiling, “On one hand it seems that he’s dead, on the other that he’s alive.”
    “I’m getting tired of both hands,” Carver said, and limped from the office. Police work and politics. Some bedfellows.
    As the door swung shut behind him, he heard mariachi music.
    A part of him hoped he was