"Not at all," Max said, looking him over.
Landeau waited coolly for Harper to state his business, his expression one of tolerance with which he might regard a slow bank teller or inept service-station attendant.
"Perhaps I should be speaking with an estate manager," Max said. "Someone who would be familiar with your employees."
"I am familiar with my employees."
"I'm looking for information about Hurlie Farger, I'd like some idea of his work record, what kind of service he's given you, how long he's been with you."
Landeau looked puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't know the name. Are you sure this person worked here? When would that have been? We've had the estate only three years. In what capacity would he have been employed?"
"My information is that he works here now, part-time, odd jobs on the grounds crew and filling in as a mechanic."
Landeau shook his head. "We don't have a Farger. You had better speak with my estate foreman. He's working east of here about four miles, up that back, dirt road. They're cutting timber." He glanced at his watch. "But of course they'll have quit for the day."
Max slipped a mug shot of Gerrard Farger from his pocket. The brothers so closely resembled each other that a person would have to know them very well to see a difference. "You may not recall his name, but as owner of the estate you would remember the faces of those who serve you." Max smiled. "I see he looks familiar."
Landeau had let down his guard for an instant, lowering his eyes as if deciding which way to play his response.
"My information," Max said, "is that he's worked for you for several years."
"The face, yes," Landeau said smoothly. "I believe I recognize this man. If I'm correct, if I have the right man, I believe he was fired six months ago. Something, as I recall, about an arrest, which I won't tolerate. I believe he got into some kind of trouble down in San Andreas. Burglary or shoplifting, or maybe it was something to do with a woman, I don't recall." Landeau looked levelly at Harper. "We don't condone that kind of behavior, it leads to trouble for the estate. Has he been into more trouble? I hope nothing too serious. But it must be serious," Landeau added, "for a chief of police from the coast to come all the way up here."
"Not at all," Harper said. "We're on vacation, heading home. Thought it expedient to collect what information we could, not lay more work on your sheriff." He had no way to know whether Landeau was aware of the bombing in Molena Point. "You say Hurlie Farger hasn't worked for you in six months."
"To the best of my knowledge."
"Would you say that if we show otherwise, you would be open to a charge of obstructing justice?"
"I certainly wouldn't want that," Landeau said. "It may have been less than six months."
"Or perhaps you only considered firing him? Perhaps you changed your mind and let him stay on?"
Landeau shook his head. "It's possible my wife may have done so, in a fit of charity. You know how women are."
"What can you tell me about Farger?"
"If you would care to come into my study, I'll see what I can remember."
Harper moved with Landeau through a vast sitting area whose windows overlooked the top of the darkening pine forest. The mirrored walls reflected chrome-framed chairs, chrome-surfaced tables, and chrome-framed couches upholstered in silver-dyed leather, all straight from some futuristic space movie. The white marble fireplace boasted a huge gas log that either had never been lit, or was scrubbed clean after each use. The black marble floors were unadorned except where the furniture formed "seating areas," each set off by an ice-blue shag rug that made the chrome above it look blue.
"This is my wife's part of the house," Landeau said, watching Harper. "The portion reserved for entertaining." He led Max into a cypress-walled study furnished with natural-toned leather couches, framed antique maps, and a dark oriental carpet, a room that seemed to Max equally posed and out of character, planned for effect, not for any personal preferences. There were no papers on the desk, nothing of a personal or business nature visible, no photographs, no books, no shelves to put books on. Even Landeau's offer of brandy seemed a tired line from a tired old movie. Declining a drink, Max couldn't decide what kind of man Landeau might be. Everything about him seemed studied and timed for effect.
Stepping to a walnut credenza below the window, Landeau poured himself a Scotch and water, and turned to regard Max. And as the two men faced each other, outside on the large parking apron Charlie sat in the pickup studying the house and listening for any smallest sound from within. To her right stood five tennis courts, the heat from their green paving rippling across their chain-link barriers. She could see behind them a pool and ornate pool house in the Grecian style, set against the heavy pines in an idyllic tableau. She could imagine bathers there, beautiful women with figures as sculptured and polished as marble themselves, each woman's skimpy bikini costing more than her entire wardrobe. In the dimming afternoon, the carefully trimmed lawns and precisely shaped bushes seemed as artificial as the house. The six-foot concrete wall that encircled the acreage gave her not a feeling of security but of confinement. Far to her left stood ten dog runs with a kennel at the back of each. The three dogs she could see pacing behind their fences were German shepherds. Maybe the guard dogs had been acquired after the break-ins the sheriff had mentioned to Max.
And Ryan had told her that the Landeaus entertained some high-powered investors up here too, that apparently they had bought the mansion to accommodate Sullivan's real-estate clients. The timbering and whatever else the estate was involved in, Ryan had thought, was secondary to its prime purpose as an elegant business write-off.
Max said the Landeaus had had more than break-ins. That there'd been some trouble from local groups who didn't want them to raise and cut timber, that they had in fact suffered considerable loss from arson. Charlie supposed if she were rich and someone burned her property, she'd have guard dogs too. As she idly studied the kennels, two rottweilers appeared pacing inside their runs, their blunt heads down like bulls ready to charge. All five dogs watched her more intently than she liked. She'd feel easier when Max was out of there, when, safe together in the truck, they were headed back to the inn to a nice private supper before the fire, to a night of lovemaking and let the rest of the world go hang. She was watching for Max, watching for the black-lacquered front door to open, when behind the pool house a white van appeared moving along a service road or drive, parking behind the house.
At that distance, in the falling light, she couldn't read its logo; she could see a crown, with dark lettering beneath. They had passed two vans as they came up the narrow country road, both heading down, one belonging to a dry cleaner, one to a catering service, both seeming out of place in the backwoods setting.
Max had handed her the field book to jot down company names and license numbers. She had a sudden desire, now, to slip out of the car and take a look at this vehicle.
But something stopped her. She wasn't sure what Max would want her to do. This was not the kind of home where one was welcome to wander about the gardens for a friendly assessment of the flower beds. She imagined walking along the side of the mansion setting off some kind of electric eye that would open the kennel gates and bring that brace of hungry mutts charging out in a timed race to see who got the juiciest supper. She heard car doors open, and in a few minutes close again, and she watched the van head away, up a back road into the woods until soon it was lost from view. She sat looking after it, disgusted at her own hesitancy.