by John Lutz
Beth snatched up the extension before he had time to answer.
“Somebody named Spotto,” she called from where she was working with her computer at the breakfast counter. “He wants to see you.”
Before she could protest, Carver lifted the receiver of the phone by the sofa and gave Charley Spotto directions to the cottage.
Spotto had called from near Carver’s office and reached the cottage before two o’clock. He was a small, wiry man who, every time Carver had seen him, wore a natty blue pinstripe suit, white shirt, and shamelessly polyester red tie, like a cut-rate politician without the influence to rate much graft. He had thinning black hair combed straight back, a narrow face, and an incredibly crooked nose that gave the impression he was peeking from the corner of his eye. He also had a permanent case of nerves; this or that part of him was always twitching as if hooked up to electricity.
Carver stood and introduced him to Beth, who made polite noises then ostensibly busied herself in another part of the cottage, though she stayed within earshot. Spotto gave Carver a slanted look, as if to ask if it was okay to talk in front of Beth, and Carver nodded.
He offered Spotto a beer but the offer was declined. Aware of Beth’s baleful gaze, Carver sat down very carefully in the chair by the sofa. Spotto remained standing and went into an unconscious little shuffle, like a dance step that kept him in one place.
“I’ve been busy,” Spotto said.
Carver couldn’t imagine him not busy.
Spotto began making weaving motions in the air with his hands. He laid out some preliminary information on Brant, most of which Carver already knew. Then he got down to what Carver was more interested in, his impression of Brant. “Your guy Joel Brant seems to be pretty much the way he represented himself to you. He’s a successful home builder in central Florida, here in Del Moray and a few years ago in Winter Park.
“His reputation with employees and acquaintances seems solid. His social life’s not much. He goes out to lunch or dinner with business people now and then, sits in on poker games with a group of old friends at least once a week. Plays a little golf. Seems like a straight arrow workaholic. No history of violence except a fight one time over a poker game, and apparently he got the worst of it.”
“Any stories on him concerning women?” Carver asked.
Spotto did some more air-weaving with his nervous fingers. “Guy’s a widower, all right. His wife, Portia, was killed just over six months ago on AlA when a drunk driver hit their car head on. She died instantly. Brant’s still grieving, according to a few people I talked with. Couple of folks said he blames himself for the accident. Didn’t say why. Maybe the Brants had an argument before they got in the car, and he figures he provoked it and it might have caused the accident. Maybe he blames himself for drinking enough to affect his driving so he couldn’t swerve the car out of the way, then only suffering minor injuries and not dying along with his wife. Maybe he blames himself, period, for whatever might in any way have been his fault. Grief works like that, leaves some people with a load of guilt no matter what.”
“Wait a minute. You mean Joel Brant was driving?”
“Right. Portia was the passenger. The guy driving the car that hit them was blind drunk.”
“Was he killed too?”
“Only injured. The cars hit off-center, passenger side to passenger side. There were no passengers in the drunk’s car.”
“If Brant was driving, I can understand why he might be suffering guilt pangs.”
“Sure,” Spotto said. “He does have a fairly steady female friend. A real estate agent named Gloria Bream. But I couldn’t tell you whether it’s romance or business.”
“Did the name Marla Cloy come up?”
“Only a few times. Some people in the construction business are aware the Cloy woman’s claiming Brant’s been harassing her. The people who mentioned it—a lumber salesman and a plumbing contractor—don’t know whether to believe it. Brant’s a solid type, so he’s getting the benefit of the doubt. From his male friends, at least.”
Carver’s gaze went from Spotto’s active hands to his face. “Did you talk to any women who think there’s something to Marla Cloy’s accusations?”
“Nope,” Spotto said, “I’m just assuming. You know how it is, women usually believe another woman when she accuses a man of something like harassment. They sympathize with one another.”
“Apparently Gloria Bream doesn’t think Brant’s a threat to her.”
“Apparently,” Spotto agreed. “Or it could be she’s mighty kinky and doesn’t care.” He drew a folded sheet of lined notepaper from his pocket. “Here’s a list of people I talked to, and a few I haven’t seen yet that were mentioned along the way. You want me to do some more on this?”
“I don’t think so,” Carver said, accepting the list. He’d found out what he needed: On the surface, Brant seemed much as advertised. The list of names would serve as a starting point for him to learn more. As with Marla, there seemed to be nothing in Brant’s past that suggested the deviousness or instability that might lead to plotting a stranger’s murder.
“Brant’s busy with some houses being built on the west side of town,” Spotto said. “Brant Estates. One of those cookie-cutter subdivisions. I can keep tabs on him for a while if you want.”
“It wouldn’t be worth the bother,” Carver said. “If he is up to something, he’d be doing the normal act at this point.”
“His background is pretty much normal,” Spotto said. “Doesn’t mean he’s not putting on an act now, of course. But I’m sure he didn’t know I was watching him and making inquiries.”
“If he hears that someone was asking around about him,” Carver said, “he’ll probably assume it was the police.”
Spotto cocked his head to the side and peered around his nose. “How’d you get those cuts on your head?”
Carver told him about the attack in the office.
“A guy like you describe,” Spotto said, “he oughta be easy to identify.”
“Desoto’s doing some digging for me. McGregor says he never heard of such an animal.”
“McGregor says, huh? That doesn’t mean much. The guy sounds like he might be McGregor’s illegitimate offspring.”
Beth laughed, reminding Carver that she was in the cottage. Both men looked over to where she was leaning with her elbows on the breakfast counter, now obviously absorbed in their conversation.
“Beth and McGregor don’t get along,” Carver explained.
“McGregor and the human race don’t get along,” Spotto said.
“They’re not at the same point on the evolutionary scale,” Beth said.
Spotto laughed. “I will take that beer.” He walked over toward the kitchen area, and Beth got a cold Budweiser from the refrigerator and popped the tab. Spotto refused a glass. “I’ve never heard of the big man you described, either. And apparently he’s unknown to Desoto. So McGregor was probably telling you the truth this time. Which means the guy who played handball with your head is probably new to the area, probably new to Florida. Want me to ask around about him?”
“Yeah,” Carver said, watching Spotto draw on his beer, “that could be productive.”
Spotto gave a nervous little chuckle. “Don’t go looking for revenge till your head heals.”
“He’s got a cracked rib, too,” Beth said. “If you find the giant geek who beat him up, do him a favor and don’t let him know.”
Spotto looked at Carver, looked at Beth. “I’d probably be doing you both a favor staying quiet. But I gotta be honest, Beth, I’m working for Carver, and I take my job serious, so I’m honor-bound.”
“Honor?”
“Something like that.”
Beth shrugged her elegant shoulders, as if resigned but not surprised. “Men,” she said. “Fucking testosterone.”
Spotto laughed. “You got a valid point, I guess. But estrogen can be problematic too.”
He finished his beer, then said goodbye
, leaving Carver wondering if morality could be reduced to chemistry.
21
CARVER SLEPT MOST OF the afternoon on the sofa, awakened only occasionally by Beth so she could assess his condition and feed him a pill. Did all women love to dispense medicine?
He came fully awake a few minutes past eleven o’clock, in bed without recalling how he’d gotten there. Beth was sleeping beside him, resting on her back, her long body covered by the thin white sheet, which made her look ethereal. Carver had worked his way out from beneath the sheet and lay naked on top of it. The room was dimly lit by moonlight, and the only sounds were the rushing of the surf and the whisper of Beth’s deep breathing, seeming to become one sound. It was warm in the room, with very little breeze sifting through the screened window. It occurred to Carver that he no longer had a headache.
He moved his hands and brushed his ribs with his fingertips. The elastic support was gone, as Dr. Woosman had instructed for nighttime. Beth had been playing nurse again. He rolled partly onto his side, causing a twinge of pain in the damaged rib, and felt along the wall and floor for his cane. He couldn’t find it. Looking around, moving tentatively for fear of hurting his side or igniting a headache, he didn’t see the cane. Maybe he’d misplaced it.
Or maybe Beth had deliberately moved it out of his reach to discourage him from getting out of bed.
The possibility irritated Carver so that he came wide awake. He was especially sensitive to being deprived of the cane, of his mobility. It evoked a helpless feeling out of proportion to reality. Years ago a woman had told him that since being shot and made lame, his cane had become a phallic symbol for him and he felt deprived of his virility without it. He never had figured out if she was right.
Though he felt a persistent weariness throughout his body, and a precarious balance on the edge of pain, he knew it was pointless to try going back to sleep. He slowly struggled to a sitting position without disturbing Beth, then he stood up, bending over and using the mattress for support.
He hobbled to the TV near the foot of the bed and got the remote from on top of it, switched it on with the volume off, then worked his way back into bed. The rib felt OK. The headache stayed dormant. He aimed the remote at the TV and ran up the channels until Jay Leno appeared. Then, very gradually, he increased the volume to the point where he could barely understand what was being said but Beth wouldn’t be disturbed.
Beth muttered in her sleep and rolled onto her side, facing away from him. Quickly he lowered the volume another notch and her breathing evened out into the measured rhythm of deep sleep.
He couldn’t make out what was being said on TV now, but he didn’t really care. Leno was interviewing a tiny, pixielike brunette actress who looked vaguely familiar and waved her arms around a lot as she talked. Every few minutes Leno would say something and they’d both laugh uncontrollably. That would cause the pixie’s nose to crinkle in a way that was undeniably precious, and she would lean forward in her chair and squeeze her clenched fists between her knees as if she had to go to the bathroom.
She was cute, all right. Carver wondered if in twenty years she would be a character actress. It didn’t seem possible.
Leno pointed to the camera, said something to the pixie, and the picture faded to a local commercial, a customized van dealer in Del Moray standing in front of a gizmoed-up Ford Aerostar and grinning and talking and throwing phony money into the air simultaneously.
Real money went like that sometimes, Carver thought.
Ignoring the incomprehensible low-volume chatter emitted by the TV, he stared at the van, picturing it dusty black with tinted windows, and decided it was probably the model van he’d seen pull into the lot outside his office a few minutes before the giant with mechanic’s fingernails had entered and beaten him.
The odds were, he decided, that his attacker had been trying to warn him away from asking questions concerning Marla Cloy. Of course, there was no way to be sure. But another run-in with the man wouldn’t be wise so soon after the first, so Carver decided to play the odds and follow Joel Brant tomorrow rather than Marla. He wasn’t too obstinate to give himself time to heal.
The commercial was over and the camera caught the pixielike actress with a serious expression. Damned if she didn’t look like a pocket-size Ava Gardner. Then she realized she was on camera and grinned, crinkling her nose. She moved over a seat as Leno stood, applauding vigorously, and Eric Clapton strolled into the picture, tall and lanky and smiling and waving to the audience.
Carver thought Clapton was great, and he decided that if he played his guitar and sang it might be worth risking waking Beth by raising the TV’s volume.
But within minutes after Clapton had sat down and selfconsciously scratched his scraggly beard with a forefinger, Carver was asleep.
He was awake before six the next morning and thought he’d be able to get away from the cottage without rousing Beth, but when he came out of the bathroom after showering and shaving, there she was in her terry-cloth robe, seated at the breakfast counter. She was drinking a cup of the coffee Carver had made in the Braun brewer.
“Where you going, Fred?”
“I plan on making it an easy day,” he said. “Maybe follow Brant around and see what kind of mischief he gets into.” He gripped his cane and made his way into the sleeping area.
By the time he’d dressed and returned to the kitchen, she was munching soda crackers and had poured a second cup of coffee for him. It was the second time in the last few days he’d seen her eating dry crackers.
“Maybe I should go with you,” she said.
“How can you eat crackers for breakfast?” he asked.
“So I’m not going,” she said, keying off his mood. She didn’t say anything about the crackers; she was still in some kind of denial and not willing to talk about how pregnancy had strangely altered her diet.
“How about using Burrow’s resources to see what you can find out about Brant Development?” he asked.
“Sure. That oughta keep me out of your hair for a while.”
He smiled, passing his hand over his bald pate.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Almost normal if I don’t do any deep breathing. Want to help me with this bracer?” He held up the elastic support that had been draped over a stool.
She came around the counter and he raised his pullover shirt while she fastened the brace around his lower ribs. He felt a little pain now, and he wondered if she’d deliberately cinched the support too tight so she could make her point that he should rest another day. They’d fallen into fighting petty subterranean duels.
“Want some breakfast?” she asked.
He tucked in his shirt. “No. I’ll get something to eat at a drive-through. People in construction start work early, so I want to be outside Brant’s condo before seven.”
“He’s a boss,” Beth said. “They don’t start at any seven o’clock.”
“They do if they own the company and they’re successful.” He downed half the coffee she’d poured for him. Now that his rib support was in place, he made his way back into the sleeping area.
As quietly as possible, he got his Colt .38 semiautomatic from where it was taped to the back of his top dresser drawer. He used the leather belt holster and concealed the gun beneath his shirt.
Beth seemed not to notice that his shirt was again untucked when he returned to the main room. Pregnancy might have taken the edge off her alertness.
“OK if I take your car today?” he asked. “Brant might recognize mine.”
She got down off her stool and walked to where her purse sat on a table near the door. After fishing out her key ring, she detached one of the keys and came to him, kissed him lightly on the lips, then handed him the key. Her kiss tasted like coffee. He held his body slightly away from her so she wouldn’t feel the gun.
“Don’t forget these,” she said, and with her other hand gave him the vial of pills Dr. Woosman had prescribed.
He brushed his lips against her forehead, which was surprisingly cool. “Thanks. I’ll take one if I need it.”
She returned to her stool at the breakfast counter, and he headed toward the door.
“Fred.”
He turned.
“Don’t wait any longer than you have to, if you’ve gotta use that gun.”
He nodded and left her drinking coffee and munching dry crackers and thinking God knew what.
22
BETH’S LEBARON CONVERTIBLE wasn’t as fast as the Olds, but it also wasn’t as noticeable; there were a zillion like it in Florida, most of them rentals driven by tourists living the fun-and-sun fantasies pictured in color travel brochures. Life was a series of illusions large and small, and some of them could be bought.
Carver had topped off the gas tank and now was parked near Brant’s condo. He had the car’s top up and the windows closed and the air conditioner humming away. It was cool in the LeBaron; it had a more efficient air conditioner than the Olds, maybe because it hadn’t labored through so many merciless summers. And the Olds was rusty enough to let some of the cold air escape.
At 7:30 Brant drove from between the white-brick mock guard kiosks marking the entrance to Warwick Village. He was behind the wheel of a LeBaron convertible, not the sleek black Stealth. His convertible was red, however, and he drove with the top down. Carver hadn’t figured him for a two-car kind of guy, but then maybe the Stealth was in the shop and he was driving a loaner. It was difficult to identify a rental car in Florida. The leasing agencies operated under new restraints, since some of the local criminals had decided to view tourists as game animals.
Carver depressed the accelerator and stayed well back of the red LeBaron. Another LeBaron convertible turned from a side street and rode between them. If they all lowered their tops and had beauty queens as passengers, they could have a parade. Brant was wearing a white shirt and had his sport jacket or suit coat folded and draped over the back of the passenger seat, so he was easy to track even in heavy traffic. Carver, wearing the horn-rimmed dark glasses that he fancied made him look a little like Jack Nicholson only with less hair, didn’t think he’d be at all conspicuous in Brant’s rearview mirror if he kept his distance.
