“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.
10
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.
“The Jets are ahead,” Tabor said. “Fourth quarter.”
On the TV the quarterback completed a long pass. Tabor sipped his beer, leaned forward to watch the dark-shirted defenders swarm down the white-shirted receiver.
I said, “You worked with Leland on the Black Mountain Lake project? Investigating it?”
“I don’t know what Mark was working on,” he said. “Damn!”
The damn was for an interception on the TV. The Jets had been stopped. Tabor watched the teams change.
“His partner?” I said. “And you don’t know his work?”
“We need linebackers,” Tabor said as the enemy gained five yards up center on the TV. “Mark wanted publicity, had ideas of running for office. He was working on his own.”
“Not working for any client? Any group?”
There was time out on the screen, but Tabor continued to watch. “No,” he said.
“You know that much? Negative, but nothing positive?”
“Mark didn’t tell me what he was doing, or what he’d found if anything,” Tabor said, drank his beer, watched the TV screen where the Jets had the ball now.
“Why did he go to Francesca Crawford?”
“I don’t know he did,” Tabor said, moved forward in his chair as the Jets acted. “Look at that? What a catch! Go, go, go! He’s loose! He… damn! It’s okay, we’ll score soon.”
I said, “You can’t help me at all?”
“There! Off-tackle, right, right-” Eager in his chair, battling through the line with the ball carrier. “I’m in all private practice now. Corporation stuff. No politics.”
“Leland’s work dropped? That was fast.”
“Touchdown!” Tabor cried, turned to me with glittering eyes. I didn’t even look at the screen. His eyes looked away. “I’m no hero, Mr. Fortune. Mark is dead, buried.”
“Dead and forgotten?”
Tabor watched the kickoff on the screen. Behind us the outer door opened. Tabor didn’t turn. I had heard no key in the door lock, it had been left open. I turned. Abram Zaremba stood in the room, the door shut behind him. He was alone.
“Out,” Abram Zaremba said.
He wasn’t talking to me. George Tabor went to a closet, got a coat, and walked out of his apartment. Zaremba went to the TV set and turned it off.
“Jets win by two touchdowns,” he said, sat down facing me. “Who are you working for, Fortune?”
“So you got to Tabor? Gave him some business work?”
“I got to Tabor,” he said. “Now I get to you. How much?”
“For what?”
“For your client’s name, and for walking away.”
“I don’t have a client. I liked Francesca Crawford.”
“You never met the girl until a morgue slab.”