A Fountain Filled With Blood (19 page)

“Nah. Elliott’s truck broke last week and he’s been bumming rides with Whitey ever since.”

Clare blinked. “His truck?”

“Yeah. Whitey lives out in Glens Falls, and he drives right past where Elliott—”

“What kind of truck? What color?”

Ray looked at her as if the heat and the bouncing Jeep ride had scrambled her brains. “I don’t know. Let me think. It’s a Chevy two ton. Red. Why?”

The first thing Russ saw when he turned into the construction site was Clare’s car. He was following Opperman and Peggy Landry, who were undoubtedly a hell of a lot more comfortable in Landry’s well-sprung Volvo sedan than he was in a five-year-old cruiser that needed new shocks bad. He hadn’t been real gung ho on the idea of the two of them alone in their car, able to coordinate their stories, but since they had both shown up promptly at the station when asked and were about to open their office for a voluntary search, he was willing to extend himself a little.

Then he saw her car.

What is it with her and tiny red cars? More important, why was he stumbling over her every time he made a move on these cases? Next thing he knew, he was going to start seeing her in the urinal when he went to take a leak.

He rolled in beside Landry’s sedan and threw his cruiser into park. He sucked in a lungful of air-conditioned air. The hell with it. He was here for background on Ingraham. Clare had nothing to do with it, or with him, or with this case.

Except, of course, that she had found Ingraham’s body. For a moment, he allowed himself to think of her sitting on the damp ground, barricaded behind those two dogs. Then he snorted. She was about as weak and vulnerable as a Sherman tank. And about as subtle. He turned off the engine and stepped into the midafternoon heat.

Bill Ingraham’s business partners were waiting for him. John Opperman, who looked like the kind of guy who took his suit and tie off only to shower, seemed awkward and out of place standing in dust and scrub grass, framed by construction machinery. Landry could have stepped off the cover of one of his wife’s Martha Stewart books. Although, as Linda liked to point out, Martha ran her own billion-dollar empire. He suspected he ought to keep that in mind when dealing with Peggy Landry.

“The site office is this way, Chief Van Alstyne,” Opperman said. “Though as I told you at the station, I doubt there will be much of use to you there. It’s used strictly for work—I don’t know of Bill ever mingling his private and professional life.”

Russ followed the pair up a slight incline to a trailer set up on a concrete foundation at the edge of the work site. Several men sprang up from picnic tables set in the shade behind the trailer. Opperman stopped and pointed at them.

“Go home,” he said. “You’re off for the rest of the day. You’ll get a call about tomorrow.”

“Do we get full pay today?” one man shouted.

“Yes, yes, you’ll get your full eight hours today.” Opperman turned to Landry and gave her a look as if to say, See what I have to put up with? “Right in here, Chief,” he said over his shoulder, mounting the trailer steps and opening the door. He disappeared inside, and Russ could hear him speaking to someone in the office. With a sense of inevitability, Russ shouldered through the narrow aluminum door and saw exactly whom he expected, Clare Fergusson. She was seated beside a metal desk with a fake wood top, and her eyebrows tried to climb off her forehead and hide in her hair when she caught sight of him. Opperman was talking with a heavily muscled man in his fifties. The man, who had the easy stance of a crew chief who knew what he was worth, folded his arms and nodded toward Peggy Landry.

“Yes, sir, I understand. But Reverend Fergusson was invited here by Ms. Landry,” he said.

Landry stepped forward. “He’s right. I’m so sorry, Clare, but this afternoon has turned out to be”—she shot a glance at her surviving business partner—“the worst-possible time to show you around. Let me walk you out and we’ll reschedule.”

Russ intended to ignore her holiness, but he couldn’t help it. “You know her?”

Landry frowned, probably at the irritated tone in his voice. “Reverend Fergusson is marrying my niece Diana in August. Well…not marrying. Officiating. You know what I mean.” She braced her hand on the Con-Tact-paper wood and gestured to Clare. “This really isn’t a good time, Clare.”

Clare opened her mouth and closed it again. She rose from the folding chair she had been sitting in and obediently followed Landry toward the door, giving Russ as wide a berth as possible in a single-width trailer crowded with tables and chairs.

She paused at the exit, framed by a stack of soda cans in cartons and a flimsy-looking water machine. “I’d like a chance to talk with you at some point, Chief Van Alstyne,” she said in a fakely chirpy voice. Russ grunted noncommittally, and Landry practically dragged the priest onto the steps. Opperman swung the door shut behind the two women. “Ray, we’re shut down for the rest of the day. Peggy or I will give you a call to let you know when we’re starting up again.” Ray nodded and headed for the door. “And Ray?” Opperman kept his hand over the doorknob, denying access for a fraction of a second. “Don’t let an unauthorized person onto the site unless one of us is here. Ever.” He smiled. “Insurance, you know.”

“It’s your site, Mr. Opperman,” Ray said, shrugging. He let himself out.

“Okay,” Opperman said, clasping his hands in front of him. “What is it you’d like to see?”

Russ looked around at the suddenly empty office. A large drafting table with an elaborate CAD setup occupied one end of the trailer. A messy desk flanked by filing drawers and a fax machine filled the other end. In between were folding tables layered with rolled blueprints, manila envelopes, and torn-open FedEx packages. “Like the Supreme Court justice said, ‘I’ll know it when I see it.’” He pointed to the desk. “Was that Ingraham’s?”

“Yes.” Opperman dragged aside two folding chairs and pulled out a sturdy metal chair upholstered in vinyl. “Bill wasn’t one for show. Function—that’s what he wanted.” He pressed his lips together for a moment, then let out a cross between a snort and a smile. “He had this old chair for as long as I knew him. I was ribbing him about it once, telling him he should get something more ergonomic. He said it performed perfectly—it kept his ass off the floor. Anything else was just bells and whistles.” He looked out the small window set horizontally beside the desk.

“Was he like that about his construction projects? Did he build just enough to function?”

“God no. When it came to BWI Developments, he was a true perfectionist.” He waved at the cramped interior of the trailer. “He always spent as much time as possible at or near a site. Got to know the contractors, the subcontractors, the workers. I swear, he probably knew the name of the quarryman who chiseled the marble for the bathroom floors. And God help him if those tiles were anything less than top quality.”

“And what’s your role in BWI? Did you work for Ingraham?”

“Not
for
him. I’m his partner. Bill handled the physical plant, and he did so beautifully. I handle everything else: land acquisition, limited partnerships, permits, financing, insurance.” Opperman smiled faintly. “Which is why, unlike Bill’s, my office fits inside a laptop.” His smile faded. “I don’t know what I’m going to do now that he’s gone.”

“Will this project have to fold? Or will you be able to replace Ingraham?”

Opperman gave him a sharp look. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to
replace
Bill. If I can find a sufficiently skilled construction manager, we can proceed. I hope we can. It would be a damn shame if his final project were left unfinished.”

“What happens to BWI if you do have to abandon the project?”

Opperman rubbed his knuckles against the bottom of his chin. “It’s going to be tough. We’re insured for any catastrophe that might cancel the project. But our reputation will take a hit. Then again, our reputation will take a hit just because Bill’s gone. He was the driving force behind BWI. He was the reason people invested in our projects.”

“What about Peggy Landry? How would she fare if you had to cancel?”

“Peggy? She’s one smart businesswoman. Part of our deal was primary partners’ insurance and a pay-or-play clause.” Russ’s blank look must have given him away. Opperman laughed. “I won’t bore you with the legal details. The end result is, she’s a beneficiary of our partners’ insurance policy. And if the Algonquin Spa doesn’t get built, she still receives rental on her land for five years. Or until she finds another developer.”

“She gets a payout from insurance? Insurance on Ingraham?”

“That’s correct.”

“How about you?”

“The death benefit for either Bill or myself goes directly into the business. That’s the purpose of having partners’ or principals’ insurance—to cover the business losses when one of the key players dies.” He sat down in his late partner’s chair and spread his hands. “To be blunt, if you’re looking for a financial motive for either Peggy or myself to have…have”—he looked away, then back at Russ—“butchered a man we respected, you’re going to come up blank. We both relied on Bill.”

Russ leaned back, catching the edge of a long folding table under his thigh. It felt too insubstantial to sit on. He folded his arms across his chest instead. “Seems to me you’ll do okay. She gets a big insurance payoff and money for her property, and you get sole control over the business. It’s not public, right? So all the profits go back to whoever owns it.”

“In the first place, I can show you projected net and gross earnings of the future Algonquin Spa for the next ten years. Peggy Landry stands to make considerably more money if the project goes through. To address your second point, yes, I am the sole surviving partner of our privately held company. But not for long.” Opperman pushed himself out of Ingraham’s chair. “Despite the fact that we do very upper-end, high-margin projects, this is still fundamentally a construction company. And I don’t do construction. I can quote you the cost of bricks and the provisions of our contract with the bricklayers’ union and the amortization rates of the equipment needed to haul them here, but I couldn’t lay one brick on top of another to save my life. I’m a lawyer. And if I’m not going to become a retired lawyer, I need to find another partner who can step into Bill’s shoes.” He leaned over and turned on the desk computer. “I understand why you need to pursue this line of inquiry.” He tapped in a name and password. “I just hope you aren’t letting whatever scum took Bill’s life slip away while you’re digging through our old files.” He stepped back from the desk. “It’s all yours. Hard copies and correspondence are in the filing cabinet. There’s no diary. As far as I know, Bill kept his schedule on his computer and in his Palm Pilot.”

Russ made a mental note to ask Lyle MacAuley if he had found a Palm Pilot after searching Igraham’s room at the inn. He looked at Opperman. “Thank you. And I can assure you that Bill Ingraham’s killer isn’t going anywhere. We’ll find him.”

Which was bold talk, since the initial autopsy and the early-morning search of the crime scene hadn’t given them anything new. Ingraham had had a meal and some booze a couple of hours before his death. He hadn’t engaged in any sexual activity—or at least none that left any traces on him. MacAuley’s and Durkee’s search of the grounds down to the river had turned up several cotton threads that might be helpful to the state prosecutor,
if
they ever found a viable suspect and
if
they could find a matching article of clothing belonging to him.

“If you don’t need us to be here, I’m going to have Peggy take me into town to retrieve my car.” He handed Russ a business card. “Here’s the number for my cell phone. “I’ll be heading back here afterward to close up, so we can talk again if you need to.”

“Okay,” Russ said. “That’s fine by me.” He had originally planned to question Landry and Opperman while he was going through the files, but one look at the office had told him he would need several hours just to get a grasp on what he was reading. “I understand you frequently travel back and forth for your business, Mr. Opperman.”

“That’s correct.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d stay in the tricounty area for the immediate future. I want to be sure I can reach you if anything comes up.”

Opperman didn’t even blink. “Of course.” He thrust his hand at Russ, who shook it perfunctorily. “I’ll leave you to your investigative chore, then. Contact me as soon as you have any questions.” Then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him with a dull aluminum clank.

Three hours later, Opperman still hadn’t come back. Which probably wasn’t a loss, as Russ had been wading through the history of the project and still didn’t have any information he could use to hook a line of questioning to. If there was a money trail leading to something that stank, he sure as hell couldn’t find it. He could stand in line for one of the state’s forensic accountants—a description that conjured up an image of a guy with a scalpel and eyeshades—but their backlog of work was so huge, he’d probably be retired before they could fit this case in.

He stood and stretched, cracking his back. God, that felt good. People thought you were getting old when you couldn’t run around the way you used to. But the really depressing thing about middle age was not being able to sit as long as you used to. He checked his watch. Seven o’clock. He had called Linda an hour ago to tell her not to hold dinner, and she had gotten ticked off and told him if he couldn’t manage to get home to spend some time with her, she might as well eat out with her friend Meg. Now his stomach growled. He needed to eat something, even if only leftovers. And his brain was fried. No matter what else he read tonight, he wasn’t going to absorb it. He turned off the computer and the desk lamp, walked to the door, stumbling slightly as he shook feeling back into his legs, and let himself out.

The long shadows cast by the setting sun softened the hard angles of the construction site and turned the tangled north woods pines into a hazy dark cloud. He cracked his back again and strode down to his cruiser, the sole remaining occupant of the parking lot. There was something tan beneath his windshield wiper. He sighed and slid it free.