other driver was soused to the gills. Say, did Wade tell you about this?”
“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
“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.”
