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clump on the right side of his head. It made him look boyish. And not at all the sort of lad who’d stalk and murder a woman.
    Brant drew a pack of Camels from the same pocket the pen and slide rule were in and glanced at Carver questioningly. Carver nodded, and Brant got out his silver lighter and touched flame to the tip of a cigarette. Then, eyes narrowed to see through the resultant smoke, he looked at Carver inquisitively again.
    “I followed her last night,” Carver said.
    And he told Brant about Marla Cloy’s evening.
    Brant snuffed out the butt of his cigarette in the sea-shell ashtray Carver had pulled from a desk drawer, then lit another immediately. The light streaming through the window invested the smoke he exhaled with a faint but colorful rainbow before the cool breeze from the vent caught it and dissipated it, not quite chasing away the heat and moisture that had permeated the office during the night and early morning. The tropics.
    “She got her restraining order,” Brant said.
    “Was it in effect last night?”
    “No. This morning. I’m not supposed to go anywhere near her or contact her in any manner.”
    “Should prove no inconvenience,” Carver said. “I’d give you the same advice.”
    “But you must see how this is part of her strategy. The next time she accuses me of threatening her, I’m in deeper trouble. It’s a more serious offense.”
    “I don’t think the law will take action unless she has corroboration,” Carver said.
    “Hah! Don’t kid yourself. When a woman cries wolf, there’s an immediate hunting party.”
    “I was just hearing the opposite argument.”
    Brant let out more breath than was necessary to exhale smoke. He glanced around the office as if suspecting the walls were about to close in and crush him. “What am I gonna do, Mr. Carver?”
    “It’s Fred. And don’t feel defeated. I’m going to find out more about Marla Cloy and discover why she’s doing this to you.”
    Brant bowed his head and studied his cigarette, then looked up at Carver. “You do believe me, don’t you, Fred?”
    “I believe you.” But Carver wasn’t certain, the truth being the amorphous and slippery beast Beth had described. As soon as he discovered Marla Cloy’s motive, he’d know for sure that Brant was leveling with him.
    Brant reached around for the wallet he carried in his hip pocket and got out a business card. He scribbled something on it with his ballpoint pen, then he stood up and laid the card on the corner of Carver’s desk. “My cellular phone number is on there. I’m going to be out of the office and in the field most of the day, where we’re grading for the extension of Brant Estates. Please call if you have anything at all to tell me.”
    “I will,” Carver assured him. “And it would be a good idea for you to stay around people as much as possible, so they can verify your whereabouts in case Marla says you were someplace you weren’t.”
    “That isn’t easy to do, with my work,” Brant said. “I spend a lot of time alone, either at the office or driving between construction sites. Anyway, the woman is devious. When she’s ready to accuse me again, I’m sure she’ll make certain it’s for a time when I won’t have an alibi.”
    “That won’t be easy for her. And she’ll probably wait a few days before making another accusation, knowing you’re on your guard.”
    Brant snuffed out his second cigarette, began to light a third one, then changed his mind and replaced it in the pack. There was a rustling sound as he stuffed the crinkled, cellophane-wrapped pack back in his shirt pocket behind the slide rule or whatever it was. “Stay on this, Mr. Carver—Fred. Find out why she’s doing this to me!”
    Carver told him to try not to worry, he’d ferret out Marla’s motive. He thought that right now he’d settle for discovering “if” rather than “why.”
    He knew “why” was a tough one.
    Nobody knew much about motive, even if they