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 take 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 Mc shy;Donald’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.”