couldn’t lie about that one. Impersonating the police could be trouble. “No, it isn’t. The court granted Ms. Cloy her request for a restraining order. There’s only so much official manpower. Better than our taxes going up, I suppose.”
“So you’re employed by the court?”
He smiled again, tolerantly this time, as if used to the question. “We independent investigators have all sorts of clients,” he said, walking the fine line. “I’ll be glad to come back later, if this is a bad time.” So nonthreatening and reasonable.
She stared at him for another half minute.
“Now and then time can turn out to be important,” he told her. “That’s why I came by this evening instead of waiting till tomorrow.”
“Just a second,” she said at last.
The door closed, the chain rattled, and she opened the door to let him enter. She glanced at his cane, surprised and reassured. If she had to, she could outrun him, maybe even immobilize him first.
She was wearing a white blouse with a pale rose design, and navy blue slacks that hung loose on her gaunt, shapeless body. Her thin brown hair was just curly enough to be unmanageable and stuck out in wispy revolt behind her small, protruding ears. “What was your name again?” she asked.
“Carver. Fred Carver.” He knew she’d probably read it when he’d flipped open his wallet. She would be testing him now. He wished he’d brought his insurance agent’s notepad, now that he wasn’t a cop. “I’ll only take up a little of your time with a few questions.”
They continued standing just inside the door. She didn’t invite him to sit down. He limped a few feet farther into the room and leaned on his cane. The apartment was cluttered and dusty, with a threadbare oriental rug and meanly upholstered, spindly brown chairs and a sofa. Everything seemed to have been where it was for a long, long time, and there were few bright colors. It was a drab apartment for a drab woman. The place contained the same faint mothball scent he’d first noticed on W. Krull. On one wall was a dime-store print of Moses on the mount, clasping the stone engraved with the Commandments to his breast while sunlight and lightning played simultaneously among the clouds. Above the console television on the adjoining wall was a large crucifix, a pale Christ nailed to a dark plastic cross and gazing down at the TV with pain and pity. Next to the crucifix, also mounted on the wall, was a small glass display box containing a semiautomatic handgun. Florida in a nutshell, Carver thought.
“That’s a Russian Tokarev 7.62-millimeter,” W. Krull said, noticing him staring at the gun. “It was the official Russian sidearm during World War Two.”
“Are you a collector?”
“Only in a small way.”
“Then you like guns.”
“I’ve learned to like them. It’s become necessary.”
He moved to the sofa and sat down without being asked, leaning his cane against the thinly padded arm. The sofa was even more uncomfortable than it looked, and he could feel its frame straining to support his weight.
“Exactly what is your relationship with Marla Cloy?” he asked.
“We’re business associates and friends.”
Carver’s gaze fell on the neat stack of magazines on the table. Shooter’s World lay on top. Its glossy cover showed an attractive woman dressed for a casual suburban barbecue blasting away with a shotgun at a clay pigeon. The subscription mailing label, conveniently upside down on the magazine’s cover, was made out to Willa Krull.
“Do you shoot?” she asked.
Carver smiled. “No, the sort of work I do isn’t as exciting as it seems in novels or the movies.”
“I mean, for sport.”
“Now and then at the police pistol range, to keep my eye.” He tapped Shooter’s World with his cane. “You seem to be quite a gun enthusiast.”
“I bought my first gun and learned to shoot three years ago. You see, I’m a rape survivor, Mr. Carver. It won’t happen to me again if
“So you’re employed by the court?”
He smiled again, tolerantly this time, as if used to the question. “We independent investigators have all sorts of clients,” he said, walking the fine line. “I’ll be glad to come back later, if this is a bad time.” So nonthreatening and reasonable.
She stared at him for another half minute.
“Now and then time can turn out to be important,” he told her. “That’s why I came by this evening instead of waiting till tomorrow.”
“Just a second,” she said at last.
The door closed, the chain rattled, and she opened the door to let him enter. She glanced at his cane, surprised and reassured. If she had to, she could outrun him, maybe even immobilize him first.
She was wearing a white blouse with a pale rose design, and navy blue slacks that hung loose on her gaunt, shapeless body. Her thin brown hair was just curly enough to be unmanageable and stuck out in wispy revolt behind her small, protruding ears. “What was your name again?” she asked.
“Carver. Fred Carver.” He knew she’d probably read it when he’d flipped open his wallet. She would be testing him now. He wished he’d brought his insurance agent’s notepad, now that he wasn’t a cop. “I’ll only take up a little of your time with a few questions.”
They continued standing just inside the door. She didn’t invite him to sit down. He limped a few feet farther into the room and leaned on his cane. The apartment was cluttered and dusty, with a threadbare oriental rug and meanly upholstered, spindly brown chairs and a sofa. Everything seemed to have been where it was for a long, long time, and there were few bright colors. It was a drab apartment for a drab woman. The place contained the same faint mothball scent he’d first noticed on W. Krull. On one wall was a dime-store print of Moses on the mount, clasping the stone engraved with the Commandments to his breast while sunlight and lightning played simultaneously among the clouds. Above the console television on the adjoining wall was a large crucifix, a pale Christ nailed to a dark plastic cross and gazing down at the TV with pain and pity. Next to the crucifix, also mounted on the wall, was a small glass display box containing a semiautomatic handgun. Florida in a nutshell, Carver thought.
“That’s a Russian Tokarev 7.62-millimeter,” W. Krull said, noticing him staring at the gun. “It was the official Russian sidearm during World War Two.”
“Are you a collector?”
“Only in a small way.”
“Then you like guns.”
“I’ve learned to like them. It’s become necessary.”
He moved to the sofa and sat down without being asked, leaning his cane against the thinly padded arm. The sofa was even more uncomfortable than it looked, and he could feel its frame straining to support his weight.
“Exactly what is your relationship with Marla Cloy?” he asked.
“We’re business associates and friends.”
Carver’s gaze fell on the neat stack of magazines on the table. Shooter’s World lay on top. Its glossy cover showed an attractive woman dressed for a casual suburban barbecue blasting away with a shotgun at a clay pigeon. The subscription mailing label, conveniently upside down on the magazine’s cover, was made out to Willa Krull.
“Do you shoot?” she asked.
Carver smiled. “No, the sort of work I do isn’t as exciting as it seems in novels or the movies.”
“I mean, for sport.”
“Now and then at the police pistol range, to keep my eye.” He tapped Shooter’s World with his cane. “You seem to be quite a gun enthusiast.”
“I bought my first gun and learned to shoot three years ago. You see, I’m a rape survivor, Mr. Carver. It won’t happen to me again if
Similar Books
