“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
“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
