“I don’t know Brant’s motive,” Carver said. “I’m not even sure he’s actually harassing her. Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I figure the guy’s burning and wants to fuck or kill her or both. I seen it before. I also figure she’s the type that did something stupid and’s got it coming to her. Probably deep down she even wants it. Women are like that, you know. Most of them, anyway.”
“I’m dazzled by your psychological insight.”
“It’s from when I worked the sex crime unit, taking statements from rape victims.”
“Have you talked to Brant?”
“Not personally. Couple of uniforms who took Marla Cloy’s calls talked to him. He denies he’s out to get her. They all deny it. Hell, I’d deny it too.”
“Maybe he’s telling the truth.”
“Hah! Maybe I am.”
“What are you doing to protect her?”
“Nothing. If the restraining order comes through, we’ll run a few extra patrols past her house at night. You know we don’t have the manpower to stand guard over every scheming cunt that claims she’s being stalked. What we do is, when the guy pesters her again, we take him into custody and the courts nail him to the wall.”
“What if it’s too late and he’s already done whatever it is he’s planning?”
“Well, that’s how it usually works out. We get the call after it all happens, then we go there and clean up the mess.”
“Seems kind of counterproductive.”
“Yeah, but that’s the kind of trouble women cause in this world. If they learned to dress and act with a little more good sense and respect for their husbands and boyfriends, they wouldn’t all of a sudden find themselves in such deep shit they need the police. But I guess it’s human nature, genetics or some such crap. In my job, you learn to be philosophical about these things or they drive you nuts. You know that.”
Carver knew it, but he didn’t have quite the same slant on the problem as McGregor. “You don’t seem to have much concern for Marla Cloy.”
“Oh, if we get the call in time, we’ll save her fucking ass. I think that’s concern enough.”
The clang of hammer on steel became even louder, as did the ratchety scream of the drill. Carver was getting a headache, and his clothes were clinging to his perspiring flesh. It was truly miserable in the stifling office; he was glad McGregor was stuck there. “What do you know about Joel Brant?” he asked, noticing a bead of sweat dangling from the tip of McGregor’s nose.
“The guy that wants to plant her?” The drop of sweat plummeted to his already stained tie to join coffee and gravy and maybe blood on the polyester. Clang! Clang! went the hammer. Eeeeek! screamed the drill. The workmen were persistent, probably suffering in the heat themselves and eager to finish the job. “From what I can recall, he builds houses or something. Doesn’t have a record of violence, but that doesn’t mean much in these cases.” Clang! Clang! Eeeeek! “Guy’s in his forties, probably got the hots for this Marla Cloy, then she did him dirty and now he wants to get even. Way the world works. Maybe if we knew what this cunt did to him, we’d think she deserved whatever it is he wants to do to her.”
“You ever talk to him?”
“Not my department. Uniforms talked to him. Gave him the usual speech, I suppose. He hasn’t done anything yet, so we can’t charge him with a crime.”
Clang! Clang! Eeeeek! “What about Marla Cloy? What if she does something to him?”
“That’s his problem. If she snaps and picks up a gun or knife, or if he comes at her and she kills him in self-defense, then I get involved in a professional way.”
“You think she’s telling the truth about how Brant’s stalking her? I mean, the details?”
Eeeeek! “Sure. They’re usually telling the truth. Sometimes they deserve to have the holy hell scared outa them, sometimes not. It doesn’t concern me until a crime’s actually committed.”
“Then?”
“Then I’ve got more paperwork.” He picked up a few of the papers on his cluttered desk and let them fall back onto the felt pad, where a ballpoint pen lay. “Speaking of which, it’s time for you to leave so I can get back to something worthwhile.”
Carver’s head was throbbing with pain and he found himself waiting anxiously for the next noisy assault on the faulty air conditioner. He didn’t mind leaving. He used the back of his wrist to wipe sweat from his forehead. “Why don’t you open the window?”
“Air conditioner works from time to time, and maybe you haven’t noticed, but it’s ninety-two degrees outside.”
“You’d get a little breeze, maybe.”
“The breeze I wanna feel is from you walking out the door, Carver.”
“Me, too,” Carver said, smiling. Eeeeek! He turned around and made for the door.
“Carver.”
He paused and twisted his upper body over the cane so he could look at McGregor.
McGregor was standing up now, leaning forward with his knuckles on the desk and glowering at him. “I don’t care if this Marla Cloy bitch is your client. Far as I’m concerned, she’s just another citizen gets protected or stuffed in a body bag-whatever the job calls for.”
Carver stood silently, letting McGregor assume Marla Cloy was his client.
“Even if that restraining order doesn’t get granted,” McGregor said, “I don’t want you meddling in this and getting in the way of the police. You just peek through keyholes like usual and hang around your place on the beach and fuck that dark meat of yours. Be the best way for you.”
Carver knew McGregor wouldn’t let him leave without trying to infuriate him. It was a little game McGregor played with everyone. He fed on other people’s rage and frustration, his own misery seeking company.
“It sure is hot in here,” Carver said, keeping his voice calm even though sweat was stinging the corners of his eyes and his head was pounding, “You should try not to get overwrought. You could have a heart attack-if you had a heart.”
And he went out the door into the equally hot hall, leaving McGregor seething and stinking behind him. Clang! Clang! Eeeeek!
He craved untainted air.
Carver found Marla Cloy’s address easily enough in the phone directory. A freelance writer had to be listed and available for jobs from all comers. Then he picked up the phone and called his friend Lieutenant Alfonso Desoto at police headquarters in Orlando and asked him to get some information on Marla Cloy from when she lived in that city.
Desoto agreed to help, though he sounded reluctant. Carver understood. Desoto was basically paid to solve crimes, not prevent them. Which was also true of McGregor. That was how the system worked; there wasn’t much emphasis on prevention. Perpetrators were caught and punished. Victims were finally finding much-needed help, in statutes and in support groups.
Everyone seemed to be covered except for intended victims.
4
This was one of those times when Carver loved the wind. It seemed to scatter troubles like leaves in its wake, though he knew that was only fancy. Trouble could hang on through a hurricane.
But he drove with the canvas top down on his ancient Oldsmobile convertible until he neared Marla Cloy’s address on Jacaranda Lane. Then he pulled over to the curb and raised the top, but he left the windows down. The old car’s air conditioner worked only slightly better than the one at police headquarters, and since it was now late afternoon some of the heat had gone out of the day. The breeze that swirled in the car when he began to drive again felt cool when he got up enough speed.
Jacaranda Lane was lined with scruffy-looking palm trees and untrimmed foliage, but there were no jacaranda blossoms in sight. The houses were small, relatively cheap, and not in very good repair. Most of them were stucco and some had faded red tile roofs. What residents were visible suggested the neighborhood was a mixture of whites, African-Americans, and Hispanics. Some of the houses had freshly painted shutters or well-tended lawns or flower beds, and one of them appeared to have a new porch roof. Though the area had declined, it was a long way from being a slum. It still had a chance.