Michael Collins - Walk a Black Wind

“But first it benefits Abram Zaremba-a lot,” I said.

Anthony Sasser spoke from my left. “Abram Zaremba is a businessman, he made a smart investment. It’s all legal.”

“You in on the project?” I asked Sasser.

“I wish I was,” Sasser said. “It’s a good deal for everyone. Marty there is right.”

“Mark Leland didn’t think it was a good deal for everyone, did he?” I said.

Sasser tilted his chair back and rocked in the quiet office. I had a feeling that I had just started walking on eggshells. Mayor Crawford’s voice was low and smooth. The lawyer addressing a jury he wanted to impress with his gravity, but firmly set straight at the same time.

“How do you know that, Fortune?” the big Mayor said. “The police here don’t know what Leland was doing in Dresden. We found no documents, and his lone partner doesn’t even know what Leland was really doing. If you have information about Leland, you should tell our police and Crime Commission.”

“You don’t know he was investigating the Black Mountain Lake project?” I said.

“No,” Crawford said, “we don’t. Why would he, there’s nothing to investigate. How do you think you know?”

“Leland talked to Francesca about it. Didn’t she tell you?”

“No, she didn’t,” Crawford said, “not a word.”

“She told Felicia.”

Sasser said, “Hearsay. Maybe Felicia got it wrong. My Crime Commission found no evidence of what Leland was doing, and nothing wrong with the project. I’m not in the project, but I’ve worked a lot with Commissioner Zaremba, and I’d be careful about accusing him or the city government.”

His voice was matter-of-fact, but I heard the warning in it. So did Martin Crawford. His lawyer manner slipped into a smile, man-to-man, smoothing the ruffled waters.

“There are always nuts who think every public deal has to be crooked, Fortune,” he said, friendly. “They smell a shady deal when there isn’t one. It’s a way to get a reputation with the public. You get used to that in government.”

“This nut was dangerous enough to someone to be killed,” I said. “Someone thought there was trouble around.”

Anthony Sasser said, “No one knows why Leland got killed. Maybe he got in trouble someplace else.”

“A coincidence he was killed here, and that Francesca saw the killer, and now she’s dead?”

Crawford said, “The police, and Tony there, questioned her carefully, showed her every mug book. All she saw was a man running, her identification was useless.”

“Maybe she saw more than she said, or someone thought she had,” I said. “You seem pretty anxious to think Francesca wasn’t mixed up in the project.”

Crawford let a silence stretch for a time as if he were thinking about Francesca and the project-a daughter and an important political situation.

“I back the project, Fortune,” he said slowly. “We need the housing, that land is the best we can get. I must follow my judgment. It’s a normal, legal business arrangement.”

“Maybe that’s what’s wrong with it-it’s legal, but not exactly ethical or moral,” I said.

“If you can find anything legally unethical,” Crawford snapped, “I’ll kill the project myself.”

“You’re a good lawyer, and Abram Zaremba probably has better lawyers,” I said. “It’ll be legal as hell, but there are legal deals that aren’t so moral. Favors, collusion, private arrangements that never show, little tricks of dealing. I’ve known legal deals that sent citizens for their guns when they figured out how they were getting fleeced. That drainage district, for instance. I’ll bet the only land in it is that swamp of Zaremba’s. A neat way of making the public foot the bill for draining one man’s land.”

Crawford said, “The city, in my judgment, needs the project. Inducements are often necessary to entice a private businessman to help the city.”

Sasser said, “Every public project benefits someone in our country, Fortune. You can’t build a sandbox without using someone’s land and paying him for it. A man has a right to make money on his property.”

“It looks like Mark Leland didn’t think so.”

Sasser said, “Maybe Leland was a crook out for himself. Blackmail to get cut in. A guy like that could ruin a good project, and that could make some people awful mad.”

“That justifies murder, Sasser?” I said.

“No, but maybe it explains it,” Sasser said softly.

They both sat like impassive Buddhas in the quiet office. Were they telling me something? Had Mark Leland been out to make a nuisance of himself, stir up doubts, in the hope of being bought off? It had happened before.

I said, “Tell me about Joel Pender. He works for you?”

“Pender?” Crawford said, surprised. “He’s a minor employee, useful for small jobs, yes.”

“He’s worked for the city quite a while?”

“Eighteen years, yes. He’s useful, sort of an errand boy. He’s good at that kind of thing, reliable.”

“Would he like to be part of your family?”

“My family? How the devil-”

Sasser said, “He means Francesca and Frank Keefer. You know, Marty, Keefer was making a big play for Fran.”

Crawford watched me. “You think Keefer, or Joel Pender, might have killed her? That’s crazy, no.”

“Keefer was in New York when it happened, she’d dropped him just before she vanished. Pender had a fight with her. I’ll bet she could make people pretty mad, right?”

“She had a sharp tongue,” Crawford admitted. “But if Keefer wanted her, why would he-”

“Men lose their heads over women. Or maybe make mistakes.”

“Then find out, Fortune!” Crawford said.

Sasser said, “What makes you think the motive has to be up here, Fortune? She was gone three months. A wild kid.”

“She was excited by something here before she left, and she’d been involved with Mark Leland and the housing project.”

Martin Crawford leaned across his desk at me. “Listen, Fortune. We don’t know why Mark Leland was killed, but it’s clear that whatever the reason was it ended with Leland. Three months have passed with no trace of the killer. Leland had a partner, George Tabor. No one has touched Tabor. If Francesca or Tabor had known anything, do you think the killer would have waited three months, let them walk around to talk to almost anyone in that time? No. Do you think I’d cover anything that had led to the murder of my daughter? Do you?”

I said, “I don’t know what you’d do.”

They both just looked at me.

I checked into a motel not far from Black Mountain Lake. George Tabor was listed in the telephone book. I called from my room, late as it was, and he answered. I told him my name, and that I wanted to talk to him about Mark Leland. He had a flat, colorless voice.

“There’s nothing I know,” he said. “I told the police.”

“It’s two murders now, Tabor,” I said. “Your partner had talked to Francesca Crawford, now she’s dead. I want to know what he was doing with her.”

“Using her,” Tabor’s blank voice said. “The way he used everyone else.”

“I still want to talk to you,” I said.

He breathed slowly on the other end. “All right. Come over,” and he gave me the address.

I got my old pistol from my bag. Tabor had been close to Mark Leland. I drove to the address. It was a large park of garden apartments in a new suburb. A place for professional men, junior executives on the way up, and middle-aged businessmen who were as high as they would go. Tabor lived in the second building, third floor. He met me at his door.

He was a tall, thin man with the unsure eyes of a door-to-door salesman who wasn’t doing well. He walked me inside without speaking. The television set was on to a football game. A can of beer stood on a table beside an easy chair. Tabor sat down in the easy chair, his eyes fixed toward the TV set. He waved me to a seat. I sat down.