but the right half your face is sunburned, so I know you been facing north in the afternoon. Now, from the scratches on your arms, I know you’re in briars, but the kind of scratches only match the kind that grows in a certain place in West Feliciana Parish. So, putting three and two together …”
“How did you know, Lars?”
He shrugged. “Because somebody else was in here right before, asking the same questions. That’s how I got the commission maps right here still: I was going over it with her.”
“Her?”
“Yah, pretty girl she was, too, and not married. I look for the fingers, you know, to see rings. None.”
I took a deep breath. “This girl …”
But Lars was fumbling in his desk drawer.
“She give me a card. Here.”
I didn’t have to look at it, because I already knew what it would say:
Courtney & Associates .
It took me ten minutes to make my way back through the body-melting heat so that by the time I got to my car it was just after four. I’d need another quarter of an hour to reach her office and I didn’t know if she’d still be there.
I was too irked not to try.
I took the road between the lakes, with the raised freeway on my left, and caught Perkins Road just before Stanford. On the maps of the last century, the road was shown as a track to Dr. Perkins’s Plantation. Today it’s a clogged ar tery leading east, from the outskirts of the Garden District to the new suburbs on the city’s eastern edge. About a mile along, on the right, in some land I remembered as woods when I was a little boy, an enterprising developer had built a small park of gray, wooden buildings that housed suites of offices. According to the sign, there was a home improvement service, an insurance office, and a clinical psychologist. I didn’t see any shingle for Courtney & Associates, but then I reminded myself that she was new. If she stayed more than a month she’d probably get around to it.
As I pulled into the parking lot I glimpsed the white Integra a few doors down. I stopped next to it and saw that Suite 107 was the door in front of me. I took a deep breath and pushed it open.
I found myself in a carpeted room with a front desk and a couple of plastic basket chairs. The paintings on the wall were generic rivers and mountains—only a step up from black felt Elvis. There was no one at the desk and no sign that anyone had ever worked there. To the left of the desk a door led into the rear of the complex.
“Hello,” I said. “Is anybody here?”
I heard a shuffling from somewhere in the rear, then steps padding toward me.
“Who is it?” She materialized in the doorway, a manila folder in her hand, and froze as she saw me.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Who did you think it was?” I asked acidly. “The world beating a path to your door?”
“No, I thought it was the insurance salesman down the way,” she said coolly. “He keeps finding excuses to come in and orientate me.”
“And you don’t like him.”
“I don’t like the word orientate . And I don’t like being slobbered over by married men.”
“I’d think you were safe,” I said and got a withering look in return.
“So what do you want?” she demanded, folding her arms.
“I want to know why you went to Lars Kjelgard,” I said.
She stared at me for a second, as if trying to decide whether to retreat or brazen it out. Finally she shrugged.
“I was curious about the landform,” she said. “I was wondering if there could possibly be anything old on that island or whether it would have to be recent.”
“I see. You don’t understand yet that this isn’t your project?”
“It seems to me that almost getting killed out there gives me some rights,” she said.
“Our workers’ comp and general liability cover accidents to our people. When somebody else invites themselves along, it throws our legal situation into a cocked hat.”
P. E. Courtney shook her head slowly and tsked.
“I would have thought you could do
“How did you know, Lars?”
He shrugged. “Because somebody else was in here right before, asking the same questions. That’s how I got the commission maps right here still: I was going over it with her.”
“Her?”
“Yah, pretty girl she was, too, and not married. I look for the fingers, you know, to see rings. None.”
I took a deep breath. “This girl …”
But Lars was fumbling in his desk drawer.
“She give me a card. Here.”
I didn’t have to look at it, because I already knew what it would say:
Courtney & Associates .
It took me ten minutes to make my way back through the body-melting heat so that by the time I got to my car it was just after four. I’d need another quarter of an hour to reach her office and I didn’t know if she’d still be there.
I was too irked not to try.
I took the road between the lakes, with the raised freeway on my left, and caught Perkins Road just before Stanford. On the maps of the last century, the road was shown as a track to Dr. Perkins’s Plantation. Today it’s a clogged ar tery leading east, from the outskirts of the Garden District to the new suburbs on the city’s eastern edge. About a mile along, on the right, in some land I remembered as woods when I was a little boy, an enterprising developer had built a small park of gray, wooden buildings that housed suites of offices. According to the sign, there was a home improvement service, an insurance office, and a clinical psychologist. I didn’t see any shingle for Courtney & Associates, but then I reminded myself that she was new. If she stayed more than a month she’d probably get around to it.
As I pulled into the parking lot I glimpsed the white Integra a few doors down. I stopped next to it and saw that Suite 107 was the door in front of me. I took a deep breath and pushed it open.
I found myself in a carpeted room with a front desk and a couple of plastic basket chairs. The paintings on the wall were generic rivers and mountains—only a step up from black felt Elvis. There was no one at the desk and no sign that anyone had ever worked there. To the left of the desk a door led into the rear of the complex.
“Hello,” I said. “Is anybody here?”
I heard a shuffling from somewhere in the rear, then steps padding toward me.
“Who is it?” She materialized in the doorway, a manila folder in her hand, and froze as she saw me.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Who did you think it was?” I asked acidly. “The world beating a path to your door?”
“No, I thought it was the insurance salesman down the way,” she said coolly. “He keeps finding excuses to come in and orientate me.”
“And you don’t like him.”
“I don’t like the word orientate . And I don’t like being slobbered over by married men.”
“I’d think you were safe,” I said and got a withering look in return.
“So what do you want?” she demanded, folding her arms.
“I want to know why you went to Lars Kjelgard,” I said.
She stared at me for a second, as if trying to decide whether to retreat or brazen it out. Finally she shrugged.
“I was curious about the landform,” she said. “I was wondering if there could possibly be anything old on that island or whether it would have to be recent.”
“I see. You don’t understand yet that this isn’t your project?”
“It seems to me that almost getting killed out there gives me some rights,” she said.
“Our workers’ comp and general liability cover accidents to our people. When somebody else invites themselves along, it throws our legal situation into a cocked hat.”
P. E. Courtney shook her head slowly and tsked.
“I would have thought you could do
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