"That's just what I think he did in Kensington Park," I said.
"Can you prove it?"
"Not by myself," I said. "I was hoping maybe you could help me figure out what's going on at L'Arrondissement."
McAuliffe snorted. "Lady, I'm no detective. What makes you think I'd know whether Beemish is doing something illegal?"
"It's a long shot," I told him. "But I was guessing maybe he's building too close to the river or something. I know Fulton County wouldn't give him the zoning he wanted, so he got annexed into a town that would give him carte blanche."
"It's called zoning shopping," he said. "I walked that property the last time it was up for rezoning, before Beemish bought it and the surrounding parcels. I thought then that the land was in the floodplain, and I think the same thing now."
"Great," I said. "Do you have any reports or anything that would reflect that?"
"It never got that far. The previous owner lost his financing shortly after that and withdrew the rezoning request."
"So Beemish applied to Fulton County for rezoning, they denied his application, and he took the deal to Kensington Park," I continued. "Does the ARC have any jurisdiction to find out how Beemish got them to do that?"
"We're not an investigative agency. We don't have subpoena power or anything like that. But I can tell you from what I know about how things get done in Atlanta that some money or big favors changed hands over L'Arrondissement. It's an old story. What the ARC does have jurisdiction over is the Chattahoochee River Corridor. And L'Arrondissement is in it. I'm scheduled to begin a river review of the project next week."
"How long does that take?"
"A month or two," he said. "But until we issue our report, Beemish can't do any work out there. Then the city council has to comment on our report, and it has to go through a series of public hearings."
"Guess again," I said. "I told you I was over there yesterday. He's already started cutting roads and clearing lots. But he's not accepting any visitors just yet. I almost got my head blown off by two of his security guards, and when I complained about it, one of the Kensington Park city councilmen, a former friend of mine, told me I was trespassing and it served me right."
McAuliffe nodded his head in recognition. "It's the old blow-and-go strategy. Beemish has big money tied up in that land, and he can't afford any delays. So he told his contractors to fuck the regulations and start clearing. He figures by the time we catch up with him the lots will be sold, the roads in, and houses halfway up. He's betting we won't make him tear down houses and reforest lots. It's a good bet, too. And if we did take him to court and the court gave him a fine—what, ten thousand? Big deal. He's already written it into his development costs."
"They really do things that way?" I asked.
"Look around you," McAuliffe said. "Houses built right on the edge of the river. That's illegal. Tennis courts cantilevered out over the river. Same thing. Hell, there's a guy who built a glass office tower not five miles from here. The county denied him zoning, so he sued in federal court and won. He gets to sit in his penthouse office and watch storm water pour off his parking lot into the river. The asshole is polluting the river he paid a premium price to look at."
"What's wrong with a little rain?" I asked.
He shook his head at my ignorance. "If it were only rainwater it wouldn't hurt anything. But water draining off paved surfaces picks up oil and gas from cars parked there, and it drains soil off too. It all ends up in the river. And it ain't good for the trout and it ain't good for your drinking water, which the city of Atlanta gets from the river, as you know."
"Is that what's wrong with Beemish's development?"
"I don't really know until I get out there. I've looked at the preliminary plans. He's got a shopping center planned for the front part of the property. That's a lot of parking spaces, more than our river corridor plan permits. And then there's the floodplain. The first time we get a really bad rainstorm the river is going to rise, and a lot of those big fancy mansions are going to end up with more riverfront than they bargained for. And that's not even mentioning the fact that he's building higher density than any county in Atlanta would permit."
"What's density?"
"Houses per acre," McAuliffe said patiently.
I checked my socks. They weren't dry yet. I put my sneakers on and laced them up slowly, enjoying the late-afternoon sun on my back.
"It sounds as if nothing Beemish is doing out there is that big a secret to people like you," I said. "There must be something else. Something he paid somebody to help him hide. That must be why they're making such a big deal about security. They're hiding something else."
"Like what?" he said. His eyes were an odd gray-green color.
I smiled winningly. "That's why I put on these leaky waders and came out here to corner you on the river. I've been out to L'Arrondissement. All I saw was a big trash pile. I need somebody who knows about this stuff to take a look around."
"So hire an engineer," he said. He stood, picked up his fly rod and tackle box, and whistled for the Lab. "Come on, Rufus, let's go home." He started up the dirt path without looking back at me.
I grabbed my own gear and raced after him. "With what? I've told you, my client doesn't have any money, and neither do I. My best shot at helping her prove her innocence is by finding out who did kill Kristee Ewbanks. She was blackmailing Bo Beemish. I know that much. Now I need to find out why."
McAuliffe didn't slow down until he reached the Jeep. He unlocked the tailgate and carefully stashed his gear. Rufus leapt into the back and hopped over the seats, landing in the front passenger seat.
"Look, Callahan," McAuliffe said, turning to face me. "I can't help you. It's not my job. In sixty days, I'm going to file my report with the ARC. It'll probably say something like 'This project is not consistent with plans for the river corridor as set out in the Metropolitan River Protection Act.' I'll file it, the city will appeal it to the state, they'll kick it around for a year or two, and in the meantime Beemish will either finish the project and make millions or sell to another developer who'll start the whole process all over again."
"Screw the process, then," I said heatedly. "You say this shit happens all the time. I say it sucks. But this time there's a murder involved. I've got a client sitting in the Atlanta jail getting beat up every night by whores and crackheads. They stole her running shoes. I could maybe get her out, maybe, if I could get just one bureaucrat to go out on a limb and prove he gives a flying fuck about something besides the process."
He slammed the tailgate shut, opened the driver's door and slid into the seat. "I'm not a bureaucrat," he said evenly.
"So what are you?"
"I'm an engineer," he said. "Shit. All right. I'll regret this, I know. But if you really want to go over there and look around, we'll do it. Sunday morning, early, when no construction crews might show up to make a little overtime. There's a little store near there, or at least there was the last time I was out that way. Meet me in the parking lot at eight a.m."
He eyed the House Mouse van parked beside his jeep.
"That your car? I thought you told me you were a private investigator."
"It's a long story," I said. "I'll tell you about it Sunday."
23
EDNA HAD A POT GOING on each eye of the stove and something rising golden brown in the oven. She hummed an off-key version of "Sentimental Journey," and I couldn't swear, but it looked like she was doing a solo Lindy as she stirred a bubbling pot of black-eyed peas. The kitchen smelled like Sunday dinner and it was only Friday night, which usually is pizza night at Chez Garrity.
"You're in a good mood," I said as I sat toweling my hair dry. Some women go shopping when they're happy. Some women sip champagne. When Edna's happy she cooks. Which explains why I'm always twenty pounds overweight. "What are we having?"
"Black-eyed peas that Ruby put up from her garden last summer. Corn I froze from old Mr. Byerly's garden. Fresh green beans from the
De Kalb Farmer's Market, the sliced tomatoes the Easterbrooks brought us from Florida. Biscuits with Ruby's homemade fig preserves. And banana pudding with vanilla wafers." She frowned. "It's not much. And I don't know how those green beans will be; they looked a little wilted. I was gonna do a ham, but they wanted a dollar fifty-nine a pound at the A&P. I'm not paying that for pig meat."
"All this just for us?" I was immediately suspicious. "Who did you invite to dinner? If it's Maureen and Steve I'm going out."
She poured me a tall glass of iced tea and squeezed a wedge of lemon into it. "What are you talking about? This is just some odds and ends I had in the freezer. I'd be ashamed to fix this for company."
That's Edna for you. She'll knock herself out fixing a huge dinner with fried chicken and pot roast, five kinds of vegetables, two kinds of hot breads, a chocolate cake, and a sour-cream pound cake; then she'll spend the whole dinner apologizing for "just dibs and dabs." She doesn't fool me.
"What are we celebrating?"
My mother took a long drink of her own tea. "Well, for starters, we're not out of business. Half the cancellations had a sudden change of heart after the girls called them back, and we also picked up enough new jobs that Jackie's cousin LaSonya is going to come to work, just part-time for now. And you were right about the moonlighting. Every single one of those girls, except Ruby, had off-the-book jobs. It looks like most of them are going to come on the books."
"Fantastic," I said. "I should have given you that promotion long ago. Handle this job right, and you might make V.P. for Public Relations next week."
"Shut up," she said happily. "I haven't told you everything yet. I called that Mormon church about Whit Collier. The woman on the phone acted real funny when I asked about him. She said they didn't give out information about members. But then she said if I wanted to talk about 'Brother Collier' I'd have to talk to the ward president."
"Did you?"
"Sort of."
"What's that mean?"
"The woman put me on hold for a long time. I could hear voices talking back and forth in the background. Then a man came on. 'Brother Collier is a member in good standing of this church,' he said. 'He has been spoken to about past transgressions, and we will say no more about it.' Then he hangs up."
"What the hell do you suppose that means?"
"I haven't a clue," Edna said. "Now let's eat before it gets cold."
During dinner we gossiped about the girls, and Edna filled me in on my brother's current marital woes. Kevin was separated from his wife, Peggy, and Edna was clearly on Peggy's side. "I told your brother if the two of them split up not to bother coming home to me," she said, dousing her tomato with a dollop of homemade mayonnaise. "That Kevin is just cheap. I don't know how a child I raised could be such a tightwad. He's even drinking generic beer these days. Generic."
After thirty minutes of filling my face, I had to push myself away from the table. "My God, Edna, that was good," I told her. "If the House Mouse goes bankrupt, you could always open a restaurant."
"Don't think I haven't thought of that," she shot back. "I got a name and everything. Edna's Eats."
I started clearing the table, but she waved me to sit back down. "You haven't asked me about the rest of my mission," she said expectantly.
"I've been waiting for your report," I said.
"I checked the Secretary of State's office. WDB Enterprises' officers are W. DuBose Beemish, Lilah Rose Beemish, and Lenore Carter Beemish."
"Lenore must be his mother," I offered.
"Agent of record is a lawyer named Tucker Taliaferro," she added.
"Hmm. That's the lawyer who showed up to represent Lilah Rose when the cops were questioning us at Rich's," I said. "Good work. What else have you got?"
"I took a drive out to Kensington Park," she said. "I don't know why you and that nice city clerk didn't get along."
"Just because she's a racist old bag who's suspicious of anybody asking a few honest questions, I guess. I take it you were more successful?"
"We are dear friends," she assured me. "I told her I was with the North Fulton branch of Women for Better Government, and she hauled out a bound copy of council meeting minutes for the last year. She even gave me an empty desk to work at and a cup of Mocha Mint Delight. We had an International Coffee moment. I gave her my sour-cream pound cake recipe. She gave me a recipe for a hideous orange Jell-O salad I wouldn't feed a cat."
She got up and opened a kitchen drawer and brought out a small spiral-bound notebook, then sat down and donned her bifocals.
"My notes," she said. "You'll need these for our file. Let's see, on July seventh, Councilman Shaloub made a motion that the city act to annex the old Harper property. There was some discussion about the heavy cost of extending services that far from the city limits, especially sewer and water lines, but the motion passed three to two, with Mayor Corinne Overmeier breaking the tie. Voting for it were Vice Mayor Shaloub and Edwin Strong. Voting against were Calvin Rainwater and Miriam Butler."
"Did you say Rainwater?" I asked.
Edna glanced over the rim of her bifocals. "Yes. Wilona is a terrible gossip. She gave me the rundown of everybody on the council. Corinne Overmeier is divorced;
she's in real estate sales with Buckingham Brokers."
"That makes sense," I said. "The mayor votes for Beemish's annexation deal, and he rewards her by giving her company the contract to market houses in L'Arrondissement."
"Edwin Strong manages the Wal-Mart over at the mall. Ruth thinks he wears a toupee. Calvin Rainwater is a Kensington Park fireman. And, yes, his great-aunt is crazy Miss Inez, whose property Beemish bought. You'd think he'd be for the annexation since it gave his loony aunt some money, but no. Miriam Butler is a housewife, vice president of the Kensington Park Jaycettes, and active in the Democratic party."
Edna gave me a long disapproving look.
"And we know who Eddie Shaloub is. He's that character you used to date. He's got a telephone-pager business now."
"I know," I said.
"Well, I never did like him when you were dating," she said. "And what I found today proves I was right about him."
"What?"
"Just about every motion that had anything to do with the Harper property was introduced either by Shaloub or Corinne Overmeier," Edna said.
"So? Maybe he's in favor of progress."
"What he's in favor of is lining his own pockets," Edna said. "Wilona let it slip that Shaloub has already bought a lot at L'Arrondissement, and he's gonna build some swanky house there. I don't know what kind of money those telephone pagers sell for, but it's hard for me to believe that somebody who was an Atlanta cop not too long ago is making that kind of money. I know you certainly aren't rolling in the dough."
"Come to think of it," I admitted, "the last time I saw Bucky Deaver he mentioned that Eddie invited him and some other guys to play golf at his country club up there. Those clubs charge as much as fifty thousand for initiation fees and ten thousand a year for dues. That's some heavy money."
"I know where he got it, too," Edna insisted. "After I got done looking at the council minutes I got Wilona to tell me the name of Shaloub's business. Phone-Home, it's called. Cute, huh? When I got back here I called the Secretary of State's office to see who his corporate officers are. Miles Norman, the Kensington Park Chief of Police, is his corporate secretary, but his agent of record is Tucker Taliaferro.
"Bo Beemish's lawyer." She smirked. "Are we starting to see a pattern here?"
I was starting to feel sick to my stomach. Shaloub's elastic interpretation of ethics had always been a joke around the cop shop, but I'd never thought of him as someone who'd sell his vote for cash on the barrelhead. The idea made my flesh crawl.
"Oh, Jesus, Ma," I said. "You're right. And that country club Eddie belongs to. Wilona told me Beemish took the council members to lunch at his fancy club in Gwinnett County. I bet that's the one Eddie belongs to. And I'll bet he didn't pay the full membership price
either."
Edna paged through her notes, looking for details she'd overlooked. "Corinne Overmeier certainly sold her vote too," she pointed out. "And this Wal-Mart guy probably didn't vote for the annexation out of the goodness of his heart."
"Favors," I said. "It's the name of the game when it comes to developers and politicians, from what I hear. But I've got a feeling Eddie is more deeply involved with Beemish than those other two. He called me right after those goons shot at me. At the time he told me he knew about it because he has a police scanner on his desk, and they called the cops. What a laugh."
A small yellow envelope was sticking out of the edge of Edna's notebook.
"What's that?" I asked, plucking it out.
She looked at it like she hadn't seen it before. "Oh. Oh, yes. A cop was sticking it in the mailbox as I pulled in the driveway this afternoon. I stuck it in here and didn't even look at it because I was in a hurry to get in the house and get to the bathroom after all those International Moments."
I ripped the envelope open. It was a citation from the city. For operating a business in a residential neighborhood. There was a $500 fine and a demand to cease operations immediately.
"Look at this," I said, handing the notice to her. "Who could have ratted on us?"
We get along fine with all our neighbors. Most of them are working people like us, who mind their own business. Old Mr. Byerly next door swaps us vegetables from his garden for a once-a-month house cleaning, and Erik and James, a gay middle-aged couple who live across the street, are close friends. We keep their dog when they go on buying trips for their antique business.
"First the cancellations and now this," Edna moaned. We exchanged stares. "You get the feeling somebody is trying to put us out of business?" she asked.
"Don't worry about it," I told her. "We'll get this straightened out. Now, anything else you forgot to mention to me? Anybody wanna haul us in for jaywalking or throw us in the pokey for tearing the tags off our pillows?"
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