by John Lutz
“No.”
She shrugged her athlete’s shoulders and sighed into her diet Coke. “Well, Mr. Brant shouldn’t torture himself. But you know how it is, he was driving, so I guess it’s hard for him not to feel he was in some way responsible.”
“That’s a shame,” Carver said. “Maybe the Bream woman will be good for him.”
“Maybe they’ll be good for each other, but they’ve probably got a lot to work through. From what I hear, Mr. Brant has terrible dreams about his wife’s death.”
“What kind of dreams?”
“Just horrible dreams. His wife—Portia was her name— well, her head was cut off in the accident and he was trapped in the wreckage with her for a long time. I mean, to have to live with that kind of memory. What do you think that does to a man?”
“I’m not sure. Nothing very pleasant.”
“I’d think it would have more of an effect on Mr. Brant than he’s shown.”
“Everyone’s different,” Carver said.
“Yeah. Makes horse races, I guess. Come to think of it, there have been some stories about Mr. Brant being accused by some weird woman of pestering her.”
“Pestering her how?”
“I don’t know. They’re only rumors anyway, I’m sure. A successful businessman like Mr. Brant, young and handsome in the bargain, and single now, he’s bound to attract the attention of kooks. I thought maybe Wade Schultz had mentioned it to you.” She picked up the lemon wedge that had been stuck on the rim of her glass and that she’d removed and placed on a napkin. Holding her hand to shield him from any wayward spurts of juice, she squeezed the wedge over her glass, then with an odd reluctance dropped it into what was left of her Coke, as if committing a body to the sea.
It struck Carver that maybe Nancy Quartermain didn’t believe for a second that he was really a prospective home buyer. She’d seen him trying to pump Wade Schultz for information and become curious.
“How long have you been with Brant Development?” he asked.
Something in her eyes over the rim of her raised glass told him she knew that he knew. There was a slight smile on her lips as she lowered the glass. She’d play the game. “About three years. Usually I’m in the main office in town, but when we reach a certain stage of a project, I spend some of my time at the site.”
“You like working for Brant?”
“Yes, quite a lot.”
“Do you like Wade Schultz?” He leaned toward her. Soul-to-soul time. Two posers leveling. “I mean, really?”
She pursed her lips, thinking about it. “I don’t like him much, I guess. He’s arrogant.”
“What about Gloria Bream? You like her?”
“She seems fine, what I’ve seen of her. She doesn’t work for Brant Development; but she comes into the office now and then to see Mr. Brant, and sometimes on business.”
“Business?”
“She’s a sales agent for Red Feather Reality. They have the listings on some of the Brant properties. And they drive red company convertibles as a promotional gimmick. That was probably Gloria’s car Mr. Brant was driving today.” Her eyes were thoughtful as she sipped her Coke, buying time to formulate what she was about to say. “What’s this actually about? Are you really a prospective home buyer?”
“Sure. We all have to live somewhere.”
“Uh-huh.” She grinned at him. “I won’t mention it, you know, if you confide in me.”
“There’s nothing to confide about,” Carver said.
“You wouldn’t be with the police, would you?”
“Nope. If I were, would you be honest and tell me Brant might be the type to harass a woman?”
“Nope,” she said, in the same tone he’d used.
Carver finished his beer. “I guess one ‘nope’ deserves another.” He figured his conversation with Schultz, and possibly with Nancy Quartermain, would get back to Brant, so he might as well own up to the truth partway. “I’m not with the police, Nancy, but I am looking into the woman’s complaint. So your opinion of Joel Brant is important to me.”
“Well, I told you all I know about him,” she said, wary now.
He could see that he’d lost her. She didn’t want to say too much and have word get back to her boss.
He stood up. She noticed his cane for the first time, her eyes flicking up and down. No change of expression, though.
“We can keep this conversation just between us if you want,” he told her.
“Sure,” she said, “even if there’s nothing to be confidential about.”
“The truth is, we can’t be certain of that until later,” Carver admitted.
He thanked her for talking to him, then he moved toward the door to follow Wade Schultz out into the heat and glare of harsh reality.
After leaving the Egret Lounge, he drove past Brant Estates again. The red convertible was parked exactly where it had been this morning, in front of the middle display house. Brant had probably gone to lunch while Carver was at the library researching Portia’s death.
Off in the distance, the brown pickup was parked behind a blue work van with aluminum ladders stacked on a rack on its roof, and Schultz was standing alongside a man in white overalls in the front yard of a framed-in house.
Instead of hanging around watching more construction, Carver drove to his office.
There were two messages on his machine. One was from a woman he’d never heard of who said she’d call back. The other was McGregor, telling him to return his call sooner than soon.
The machine indicated that McGregor had called at 2:02, just ten minutes ago. Carver sat down behind his desk, phoned police headquarters, and asked for the despicable lieutenant’s extension.
“Listen, dickface,” McGregor said, even before Carver had finished identifying himself, “your client’s been at it again. Marla Cloy phoned and said Joel Brant threatened her, pretended to shoot her with his finger.”
“What time was this?” Carver asked.
“She said it happened about twelve-thirty this afternoon.”
Terrific. That was when Carver was in the library and, as it turned out, should have been watching Brant.
“Any witnesses to this threat?” he asked McGregor.
“No. It happened on the parking lot of a McDonald’s near the Cloy cunt’s house. He drove up close to her and mimed bang, bang with his finger and thumb and scared the living shit out of her.”
“Does Brant deny it?”
“Who knows? We’re looking for him now.”
“If there were no witnesses, and he denies it, you can’t nail him for violating the restraining order.”
“What are you, his goddamn attorney now?”
“No, it was just an observation.”
“Well, observe this: I’m telling you to control your client, and I mean it.”
“You’ve got it backward,” Carver said. “I work for him. And like you pointed out, I’m not his attorney.”
“Maybe you got something there. And maybe Brant oughta trade you in for one, after what happened today.”
“You mean, what Marla Cloy says happened.”
“Don’t be such an asshole and make something so simple seem so complicated. Brant’s got a thing for Marla Cloy. Can’t help himself, Like bears with honey. Happens all the time. This guy’s paying you, so you’re making something else out of it.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Carver admitted. “Thanks for telling me about the complaint.”
He should have known better than to thank McGregor. That sort of thing infuriated the lieutenant.
“I’m not doing you a fucking favor, Carver. I’m warning you. This Brant jerkoff is your client, and if he keeps harassing Marla Cloy and eventually winds up killing her, I see you as his accomplice.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“I’m not, but sometimes juries are. Once you’re indicted and your ass is hauled into court, there’s at least a chance you’ll be convicted. Keep fucking with me, and I’ll see you’ve gotta tak
e that chance. And you look exactly like the kind of prick who’s guilty until proven innocent.”
“What about the big guy who did a job on my head? Have you made any progress finding out who he is? After all, you’re a public servant and he beat up a taxpayer.”
“You say he beat you up, just like Marla Cloy says Brant is threatening her.” McGregor laughed and slammed down the receiver.
Carver slowly hung up the phone and thought about what McGregor had said. Maybe he was right and it was all really very simple. Brant was a closet psychosexual harasser, or even killer, who’d set his sights on Marla Cloy. Misogynists who raped and murdered looked and acted like other men. They were expert at leading outwardly normal lives that concealed their compulsions; sometimes the only clue was their model citizenship.
But something in his gut told Carver that McGregor was wrong about this one being simple. Even if Brant really was stalking Marla Cloy, it was complicated. And Beth was wrong, too.
Despite her assumption that not everything in human affairs was understandable, he’d somehow work through the maze of deception and find out the truth. Discovering the truth was what he was about; he wouldn’t—he couldn’t—stop trying.
His headache was threatening to flare up. He gulped down one of Dr. Woosman’s pills without water. Then he picked up the phone again and called Joel Brant’s cellular number.
24
“I WANTED TO TALK to you,” Brant said in an angry voice. “The police were just here to see me.”
“Where’s here?” Carver asked.
“Brant Estates. The subdivision I’m building. I was turning from the subdivision main drive onto the highway, on my way to see you, when you called.”
“I heard that—”
“Wait!” Brant interrupted. “Cellular phones can be eavesdropped on by anyone with a scanner. It sounds paranoid, but the way things have been going lately ...”
“Do you want to come the rest of the way to my office and talk?”
Brant said that he did, then hung up.
Fifteen minutes later Brant entered the office looking more worried than mad. He was again handsome in his chinos and sport jacket, his white shirt and paisley tie, a boyish operator on the way up. But there were faint circles beneath his innocent blue eyes, and a weariness showed on him like a thin layer of dust.
“She accused me again, Carver,” he said, not bothering to sit down. It was “Carver” again, not “Fred.”
Carver leaned far back in his swivel chair until he was on the very edge of teetering, keeping his balance with his fingertips on the desk. “I know. I’ve talked to the police.”
“She said I threatened her in the lot of a McDonald’s restaurant, a place I’ve never even been to. That I leered at her and pretended I was shooting her with my finger.” Brant’s expression suggested a bug had just flown into his mouth. “Hell, I’m not sure I even know how to leer. The police came to Brant Estates and talked to me where my employees and the subcontractors could see what was happening. Some of the buyers, too.” He brushed back his wavy dark hair with his hand in a quick, nervous gesture. “This is no damned good for my reputation, Carver, or for business. In my case, they’re one and the same.”
“How did the police treat you?”
“Like a criminal. As if I’d already killed Marla Cloy, who I admit I’m feeling more and more like killing,”
“But they didn’t take you in.”
“Only because they can’t come up with a witness at McDonald’s who saw either me or Marla Cloy there. Which is easy for me to understand, having been somewhere else at the time of the supposed attack.”
“Where were you?” Carver asked.
“Eating lunch at Belle’s Cafeteria in downtown Del Moray.”
Carver knew the place, a large and impersonal restaurant without any sort of table service. It did a booming lunch business; it was doubtful anyone would recall Brant as one of hundreds in a cafeteria line. “Were you alone?” he asked.
“Of course,” Brant said. “If I hadn’t been alone, she wouldn’t have accused me. She knows nobody there will remember me. And she knows nobody at McDonald’s will be able to swear that neither of us wasn’t there! She must be watching me, following me, making sure I can’t supply an alibi for the times she accuses me. And I tell you, it’s convincing the police I’m really stalking her.” He dragged a pack of Camels from his pocket. “I gotta light up. You mind?”
“Go ahead.” Carver watched him go through the ritual of flame to tobacco to smoke to a measure of calm that was bought with addiction.
Brant held the smoldering cigarette up and stared at it as if it had saved his life.
“Do you own a gun?” Carver asked, taking his hands away from the desk and dropping forward in his chair.
“The police asked me that. The answer is no. But I’m considering getting one.”
“Wouldn’t be wise.”
“Maybe not. But who knows what Marla Cloy has in mind? She might be setting me up so she can kill me and make it look like self-defense. If one of us has to die, Carver, it’s going to be her!”
More talk of guns and killing. Only talk, Carver hoped. “You’re getting into dangerous territory, thinking like that.”
“No, no—I’m goddamned in dangerous territory already, because I was pushed there.” He drew on the cigarette again; a lifeline burning like a fuse.
Convincing, Carver thought. If Brant was actually stalking Marla Cloy, he was doing a great job of enlisting Carver as a witness to his innocence and persecution. A victim of an evil woman’s wiles, unable to stem the tide of political correctness and approaching catastrophe. Usually it was the woman pinned helpless by official apathy while the crushing sphere of unfair destiny rolled toward her. But it was possible to put a reverse spin on the thing: What do you mean, no one would help her? No one would help me!
“The police gave me a stern warning. They’re within an inch of arresting me. Charging me with violating the restraining order. What do you think I should do, Carver?”
Carver smiled. “Hire a private investigator.”
Brant stared at him for a long time, then released a long breath and slumped down in the chair by the desk. He killed his half-smoked cigarette in the sea-shell ashtray on the desk corner.
“Yeah, I’m sorry,” he said resignedly, staring at the floor. “I guess there are limits to what can be done when a crazy woman is out to get somebody.”
“There are limits to what the crazy woman can do, too,” Carver said. “She can’t manufacture witnesses any easier than you can.”
“But she can establish a record of circumstantial evidence. There’s no way for me to establish a record of not harassing her.”
Carver said, “Gloria Bream.”
Brant looked at him, frowning. “What? How do you know about Gloria?”
“The information turned up when I was asking questions. You and this Gloria Bream are supposed to be close. I suggest you make it a point to spend a lot of time with her. When you’re with someone else and can prove it, you can’t be harassing Marla Cloy.”
Brant stared at the floor again. He had his hands cupped over his knees and was squeezing hard. “My wife hasn’t been dead long enough, Carver.”
“I understand, but maybe you shouldn’t be alone at night.”
A helpless, shadowy smile crossed Brant’s face. “I’m not alone, in a way. It’s true I’m involved with Gloria, but I can’t get Portia out of my thoughts. I wake up sometimes at night thinking she’s lying beside me. Knowing it.” He stared at Carver in a kind of beseeching agony. “I mean, I can hear her breathing there in the dark.”
“Ghosts,” Carver said. “We all have ghosts. Sometimes in a crowd I think I hear my son calling me. For an instant the fact of his death isn’t real, and I turn around and expect to see him. Then I remember, and it falls on me like a wall.”
“I’m sorry,” Brant said. “How long has he been dead?”
“Almost fi
ve years.”
Brant shook his head slowly from side to side. “And it hasn’t stopped for you yet.”
“Maybe it never will,” Carver said. “I’ve learned to accommodate it.”
Brant released his grip on his kneecaps and stood up. “I suppose that’s the best we can hope for.”
“Think about Gloria Bream. About my advice.”
“Sure.” Brant moved toward the door. “Incidentally,” he said, “I checked and I’m sure Marla Cloy never wrote anything about Brant Development.”
“I’ve checked way beyond that,” Carver said, “and I haven’t found any connection at all between you and Marla.”
“Because there isn’t any.”
“I’ll keep searching.”
“Sure,” Brant said again. “I can tell that about you, but I’m getting more and more afraid it isn’t going to help.” He bowed his head and closed his eyes for a few seconds, almost as if offering up a silent prayer, appealing to a power infinitely higher than Carver. Then he went out, leaving behind him a haze of smoke in the sunlight near the ceiling, and the acrid smell of the snuffed-out cigarette.
Carver stared for a long time at the closed door. Right now Brant seemed innocent. And even if he was the real stalker, he’d stay away from Marla for a while after the McDonald’s incident,
Carver decided to take up the watch on Marla again, beginning that evening. In the meantime, he wanted to see Beth. Wanted very much to see her. He understood why at times they lay desperately locked together so far into the night.
It wasn’t always love and lust.
Each of them had ghosts to hold at bay.
25
“I’VE BEEN TO the library,” Beth said when Carver had parked the car and limped toward the cottage. She was sitting in the shade on the porch, her Toshiba computer glowing in her lap. Carver didn’t blame it.
“So have I,” he said, taking the porch steps and lowering himself into the webbed lounger next to her aluminum-framed chair. “In the middle of the afternoon.”
“I went there not long after you left here this morning,” she said. “Had to go out for crackers anyway.”
He didn’t know if she was kidding, so he kept quiet.
