Blood Bond by Sophie Littlefield Page B

Bergmans that well.”
    Joe pretended to read something from his notebook. Considered Engler’s reaction. Not quite cold, but . . . unaffected. As though he were accustomed to houseguests dying in his driveway on a regular basis. “Yes. I was wondering, though, if you and he ever discussed things. Things like business, for instance. Did he tell you about his job?”
    Bryce pursed his lips, drummed his fingers on the desktop. “I think he was out on his own, some sort of consulting, but to be honest, I don’t even remember what business he was in.”
    â€œWhat about his leisure activities? Did he talk to you about what he liked to do? Golf, cars, anything like that?”
    â€œNo. I don’t golf, myself—no time.”
    â€œWomen?”
    Bryce raised an eyebrow, gave a hint of a predatory smile.
    â€œI assume you mean other than his wife?”
    Joe knew he was being baited; people often assumed he would be prudish about sex—just one of the many puzzling facets of suburban ideas about Islam. He’d learned not to back down around these guys: used to having their way, they always seemed to hover on the brink of a challenge. “Yes,” he said coldly, maintaining eye contact and enunciating carefully. “I am asking you if Mr. Bergman had a sexual relationship with anyone outside his marriage.”
    â€œHell, I wouldn’t know. We weren’t close, and I can’t imagine he’d be stupid enough to dip his wick in the neighborhood. Excuse me, I apologize. That was crude.” Engler didn’t look the least bit apologetic. “I mean no offense to your, uh, religious beliefs.”
    â€œMmm. And things with his wife, his kids?”
    â€œThat would be more Gail’s department. I think their daughter plays with our daughter Lainey—she’s four. But you’d have to ask Gail.”
    Joe made an x on his pad. It didn’t mean anything, but with some guys you wanted to look like you were taking notes.
    â€œSo, the Bergmans—people you don’t know well—how did they come to be invited to your home for dinner?” Joe had Marva’s take on the party, but he wanted to see what Engler would say.
    The man shrugged. “I’ll plead ignorant again, since my wife’s in charge of our social life, but I have to admit we had a bit of an ulterior motive. I’m considering a run for county supervisor.”
    Engler had inherited his father’s company, his lifestyle was funded, and as he said, he didn’t care for golf—the county post would keep him busy and possibly set him up to be an even bigger fish in the local pond.
    â€œAnd your guests could help you . . . how?”
    â€œThe campaign might get expensive, and I’m lining up support. Harold Gillette’s looking good in that regard. But we invited another couple because, frankly, it makes it seem less like I’m working the guy and more like, you know, a few friends having drinks. I asked Gail to invite someone apolitical, or at least noncontroversial. That way I could steer the conversation the way I wanted it.”
    â€œClever,” Joe said, not bothering to keep the chill out of his voice.
    â€œI won’t apologize for the way that sounds, Detective,” Bryce said. “A guy who doesn’t play the game is a guy who won’t get on the ballot. And I happen to believe in my vision for Monte Vista County.”
    Joe assumed that vision included plenty of development opportunities for Bryce’s company, but he kept that thought to himself. “Did it work? Did Bergman make a good, what would you call it, straight man?”
    Bryce’s smile slid toward a smirk. “You could say that. I got an email from Harold this morning—we’re talking numbers next week.”
    Joe had had about all he could take of this topic and decided to switch angles.
    â€œThe body, Mr. Engler—how did you