sandwich on rye bread and ate it with a cold Budweiser. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He made himself another sandwich, and while he ate it he finished a small bag of barbecue potato chips Beth had eaten most of, then sealed with a wooden clothespin. He wondered where she’d obtained such a domestic item. She looked like a beautiful tribal queen. He couldn’t imagine her hanging wash.
After returning the turkey and mayonnaise to the refrigerator, he propped his sandwich plate in the dishwasher, then opened another beer. He carried the beer can and the cordless phone out onto the porch, sat down in a webbed lounge chair, and leaned his cane against the cottage wall.
He sat sipping beer and looking out at the ocean for a long time, watching a high bank of clouds move out to sea as gulls cried and wheeled in the dying light. Then he smoked a Swisher Sweet cigar, picked up the cordless phone, and called Vic Morgan.
“It’s Carver,” he said, when Morgan had answered the phone.
“You sure, Fred? You sound like you’re talking from the bottom of a barrel.”
“It’s this cordless phone.” Carver was often frustrated by technology that kept getting newer as he grew older. “I’m on a weak channel or something.”
“Then change the channel.”
“It does that automatically. I paid extra for that feature.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can you hear me well enough?”
“Sure. As long as I just take your word for it that it’s you.”
“Given that it’s me,” Carver said, “I’d like to ask what you know about Joel Brant.”
“The guy who’s got the nutcase woman after him?”
Carver could tell where Morgan’s sympathies lay. Like a lot of cops, he’d developed a negative view of women from his years on Vice. “Same Brant. He’s my client now.”
“I don’t know anything about him personally,” Morgan said. “But I had the strong sensation he was telling me the truth. And you know how it goes when a woman’s accusing a man of anything these days. He’s got a hell of a problem even if he’s innocent. I thought you’d be the guy to get to the bottom of why this Cloy woman is out to get him.”
“Assuming he’s telling the truth.”
“You think he’s lying, Fred?” Morgan sounded surprised.
“I didn’t at first, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Hmm. That’s odd. I’ve developed a feel for these things over the years, and I’d bet the ranch and all the livestock he’s telling it straight. For some reason the Cloy broad is out to get him.”
“What if she’s the one telling the truth?”
“Then he kills her. That’s the way the law works, Fred. Can’t arrest a man for thinking about a crime—he’s got to commit it.”
“Kind of tough on the potential victim,” Carver said.
“I’m not saying it isn’t. I’m saying it’s impossible to arrest somebody who hasn’t done anything. And that’s the way it has to be. Listen, Fred, I’ve seen plenty of stalkers, and this Brant isn’t one of them. I’m convinced of it.”
“You must be, or you wouldn’t have sent him to me.”
“That’s something to remember,” Morgan said. He sounded miffed that Carver would doubt his cop’s instincts. “I might be retired, but some things don’t change. When I hear a man’s story, it counts for something if I feel in my gut he’s telling the truth.”
“It counts for plenty,” Carver assured him. “Or I wouldn’t have taken on Brant as a client.”
After breaking the connection, he laid the phone on the floor beside his chair and lit another cigar, watching the smoke he exhaled roll under and off to the side. The breeze had shifted and was blowing in off the ocean, cooling the hot sand and rattling palm fronds to make them sound as if they were tapping out a complex code. The surf whispered like a conspirator on the beach, but neither it nor the palms had the answers Carver needed.
He sat there, smoking and thinking, until dark.
When Beth arrived he was in bed
After returning the turkey and mayonnaise to the refrigerator, he propped his sandwich plate in the dishwasher, then opened another beer. He carried the beer can and the cordless phone out onto the porch, sat down in a webbed lounge chair, and leaned his cane against the cottage wall.
He sat sipping beer and looking out at the ocean for a long time, watching a high bank of clouds move out to sea as gulls cried and wheeled in the dying light. Then he smoked a Swisher Sweet cigar, picked up the cordless phone, and called Vic Morgan.
“It’s Carver,” he said, when Morgan had answered the phone.
“You sure, Fred? You sound like you’re talking from the bottom of a barrel.”
“It’s this cordless phone.” Carver was often frustrated by technology that kept getting newer as he grew older. “I’m on a weak channel or something.”
“Then change the channel.”
“It does that automatically. I paid extra for that feature.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can you hear me well enough?”
“Sure. As long as I just take your word for it that it’s you.”
“Given that it’s me,” Carver said, “I’d like to ask what you know about Joel Brant.”
“The guy who’s got the nutcase woman after him?”
Carver could tell where Morgan’s sympathies lay. Like a lot of cops, he’d developed a negative view of women from his years on Vice. “Same Brant. He’s my client now.”
“I don’t know anything about him personally,” Morgan said. “But I had the strong sensation he was telling me the truth. And you know how it goes when a woman’s accusing a man of anything these days. He’s got a hell of a problem even if he’s innocent. I thought you’d be the guy to get to the bottom of why this Cloy woman is out to get him.”
“Assuming he’s telling the truth.”
“You think he’s lying, Fred?” Morgan sounded surprised.
“I didn’t at first, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Hmm. That’s odd. I’ve developed a feel for these things over the years, and I’d bet the ranch and all the livestock he’s telling it straight. For some reason the Cloy broad is out to get him.”
“What if she’s the one telling the truth?”
“Then he kills her. That’s the way the law works, Fred. Can’t arrest a man for thinking about a crime—he’s got to commit it.”
“Kind of tough on the potential victim,” Carver said.
“I’m not saying it isn’t. I’m saying it’s impossible to arrest somebody who hasn’t done anything. And that’s the way it has to be. Listen, Fred, I’ve seen plenty of stalkers, and this Brant isn’t one of them. I’m convinced of it.”
“You must be, or you wouldn’t have sent him to me.”
“That’s something to remember,” Morgan said. He sounded miffed that Carver would doubt his cop’s instincts. “I might be retired, but some things don’t change. When I hear a man’s story, it counts for something if I feel in my gut he’s telling the truth.”
“It counts for plenty,” Carver assured him. “Or I wouldn’t have taken on Brant as a client.”
After breaking the connection, he laid the phone on the floor beside his chair and lit another cigar, watching the smoke he exhaled roll under and off to the side. The breeze had shifted and was blowing in off the ocean, cooling the hot sand and rattling palm fronds to make them sound as if they were tapping out a complex code. The surf whispered like a conspirator on the beach, but neither it nor the palms had the answers Carver needed.
He sat there, smoking and thinking, until dark.
When Beth arrived he was in bed
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