by Frank Zafiro
“Yes.”
“—but you don’t want to way overbid the competition, either.”
“Exactly.”
“Because every extra dollar you bid that you didn’t have to was dollars you didn’t have to spend.”
She nodded.
I thought about it for another minute. Then I asked, “How much money are we talking?”
Lara looked me straight in the eye. “Enough to kill someone over, you mean?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s what I mean. Was it that kind of money?”
She nodded. “Oh, yeah. It was.”
We sat in silence for a while, each lost in our own thoughts. Then I reached out slowly touched her softly on the shoulder. She jumped slightly, but then looked over at me.
“Lara, I need to see anything about these bids that you still have at the office.”
“I’m not supposed to –”
“I know that. But if I’m going to figure this out, I need more information.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Talking is one thing, but if those get out, it’s a crime. There are regulations, and –”
“Everything is going to come out eventually,” I interrupted her. “The part about him being gay isn’t going to stay secret long. That will be what people remember about him. But if I’m right and he was murdered, especially over something like this, then at least he will be something more of a victim in the people’s minds. He’ll never be a martyr, but he won’t get dragged through the mud quite the same way, either.”
She shook her head again, but less forcefully this time.
“There’s something else, too,” I pressed. “It’s one thing if someone decides to take their own life. But it’s something else to have it taken from them. You can help me find out who killed Tate. Maybe we can hold them accountable for what they did.”
Tears sprang up in her eyes. She had stopped shaking her head and was staring at me. “Do you even really care?” she whispered. “Or is this just about money for you, too?”
I thought about Rolo and the six months’ worth of rent he’d given me. I thought about Tate and how the paper was going to thrill in this revelation. Mostly, though, I thought of Monique lying unconscious up at the hospital.
“I care,” I said, my voice low and a little choked. “I actually do care.”
Lara watched me for a few more moments. Then she said, “Let me think about it. If I decide to help you, then I’ll meet you at Roper’s. Seven o’clock.”
“I’ll see you there,” I said.
She stared at me for another moment, then stood up without a word and walked away.
19
Roper’s was a low key sports bar. I grabbed a booth in the corner and nursed a Kokanee. There were several TVs on, showing basketball games. I stared at them without really following the play, thinking.
I wondered if Lara was going to show up.
I wondered what Tate was really into, and with whom.
I wondered if I was getting into something bigger than I could handle. Maybe I should give it all to Adam and let him pass it on to Detective Browning. He was a good detective, and would be able to put it all together. He could follow the money, probably faster than I could. More importantly, he had the authority to do something with whatever he found.
I sipped my Kokanee. For all the mental gymnastics my mind was going through, I knew good and well that I wasn’t going to hand this over to anyone. At least not yet. And it wasn’t because Rolo paid me, though that was part of it.
I just couldn’t let it go. Plain and simple. I had my teeth in it, and I was going to see it through.
What was the old saying?
In for a penny, in for a pound.
Of course, my grandmother would have probably had another old saying from her native Czechoslovakia for this situation. One involving a blázen. A fool.
A short while later, Lara Monroe came through the door. She looked around the place, saw me and approached the table. She’d changed into a pair of jeans and a casual red blouse. I tried to read her expression, but it seemed to be a mix of worry and relief. She carried a thin manila envelope tucked under her arm.
“Thanks for coming,” I said when she reached the table.
She sat down hurriedly, dropping her purse and the envelope onto the bench seat next to her. “I almost didn’t.”
“Yeah?”
She nodded. “Yeah. I almost called the cops instead.”
I shrugged. “There still may be time for that.”
“That’s what I figured. I’ll ride this out and see what you come up with. But then we take it to the police. Right?”
“Right.”
She stared at me for a long moment as if she were trying to decide whether or not to believe me. I stared back, hoping she saw what she was looking for.
I’m poor but clean, I thought, and smiled.
“What’s so funny?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. Just thinking about people. About how we judge each other.”
She frowned slightly. “There’s plenty of that going around.”
“You mean Tate. Him being gay.”
“Yes.”
“Who knew?”
She shrugged. “Me. His wife, I think. And whoever he…was with.”
I leaned forward. “You mean he had a boyfriend?”
I felt foolish. I’d spent all this time talking with Monique and following the money, I hadn’t even considered this possibility. And it was so basic, I was a fool to have overlooked it.
Blázen, I heard my grandmother’s voice chastise softly.
But Lara shook her head. “No, no one. At least not here in River City. A few years ago, he had a scare when a policeman caught him at an adult theater, so he didn’t do anything here.
“I knew about that,” I said.
She raised her eyebrows. “Really? I thought it stayed a secret.”
“It did,” I said. “I only heard about it recently. The cop that came across him at that theater kept it to himself.”
“Why did he do that?” Lara wondered.
“Duty,” I said. As much as I hated to give Glen Bates credit, I knew that’s what it was. “Cops come across information all that time that is sensitive, or can’t be made public for one reason or another. Being trustworthy is part of the job.”
“He’s talking now, though.”
I shrugged. “When someone dies and their death is being investigated, everything has to be looked at. He’d be remiss to keep it to himself at this point.”
She seemed to accept that. “Well, after that I think he may have had affairs when he was out of town, but nothing her in River City.”
He was having an affair here in town. Just not the kind she was thinking about.
I motioned toward the envelope. “You brought something?
She nodded but didn’t reach for the envelope. I waited, watching her. After a short while, she slowly lifted it from the seat beside her and slid it across the table to me.
“There are three of them,” she said.
“Three?”
“Contractors. There were a whole bunch of them at first, but then after the first round of bids, the committee narrowed it to three. Then they bid again.”
“And high bid wins?”
She shook her head, then shrugged. “Technically, the best bid. But all of the criteria outside of the bid amount is pretty standard. Licensed, bonded, established business history, that kind of stuff. All three had that, so yes, high bid was what mattered.”
“Who got the high bid?”
“I don’t know. The bids are sealed until the next committee meeting.”
I thought about that. “Can you get an advance look?”
“No. If I could, I already would have.”
“When will the information go public?”
“The committee was supposed to meet two days from now, but I don’t know if they will or not. I suppose they’ll have to assign another co
uncil member to take Mr. Tate’s chair.” She paused, a flash of grief crossing her face. “Things must go on, right?”
I nodded. “They do.”
She dabbed at her eyes with a napkin, and continued. “The committee will review the bids and make their recommendation to full council. The information will be in the advance agenda. I can get a look at that before it goes out to the public.”
“You’ll know how the bids turned out then?”
“Yes. I should be able to.”
“Good. In the meantime—” I held up the envelope, “—I’ll talk to our friends.”
She sighed and nodded, dabbing at her eyes some more. “You should be careful,” she said.
“Because one of them may have killed Tate?”
She shook her head. “No, because any one of them could have. And I don’t want you to screw this up. My ass is on the line.”
I thought about that, then raised my beer in salute. “Mine, too,” I said.
20
I went home and spread the contents of the envelope on my kitchen table. There wasn’t much. Three packets with a few sheets in each. I studied each of the three contractors who were in the final bid process for the Looking Glass condos.
Don Markham owned Markham & Son. I reviewed the data sheet about him and his company. It made for dry reading. He had all his permits, licenses and proper insurance. That was no surprise. I’m sure they all did.
The second contractor was Twin City Construction, owned by Lyle Beurkens. His company had the same bona fides as Markham. The only difference I could see was that Beurkens was licensed to operate in Idaho, too. His letterhead showed a second office address just across the state line in Coeur d’Alene.
Last came Memphis Rossiter, whose Caroline Contracting showed the same legitimacy as the other two. The only thing different that I saw in his paperwork was a notation that read “MBID.”
There was nothing else. Nothing to point me in a direction, other than at least now I knew who to talk to. For all the good that might do me.
I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my eyes. How should I approach things? I couldn’t just waltz in and start asking questions. I had no authority. And if I passed myself off as a private investigator, I was likely to end up in jail.
“Take a step back,” I whispered, remembering one of the few detective lessons I’d learned when I was a police officer over a decade ago. Ironically, this lesson came from Browning, the very same detective working the Tate suicide.
That gave me pause. Was he really working it? From my experience, most cops wouldn’t work it that hard. A man has a secret that is in danger of being exposed or that he can’t live with, so he commits suicide. The cops come and check things over but unless something leaps out at them that suggests it wasn’t what it looks like, the case is closed as a suicide. And that is that.
For all I knew, Browning had already closed the case and moved on. There were plenty of other cases for a Major Crimes detective to work on.
I frowned doubtfully. If Ray Browning was half the detective he was eleven years ago, he’d still be poking and prying, even if it was just between other more pressing cases. He’d want to figure out if those sleeping pills in Tate’s stomach were insurance against chickening out in the garage or not.
Or hell, maybe not. Maybe he was cruising into retirement and was willing to take things at face value. How was I supposed to know? I’d have to ask Adam next time.
I turned back to my case. Tate didn’t kill himself. He was murdered. I started with that assumption, because if that weren’t true, then I was wasting my time with these contractors.
So why would someone want to kill him? Did he have a secret lover that Lara was unaware of? Someone besides Monique? Or was it about money? And if it was about money, how?
I thought about the exchange Adam and I had watched at the Rocket Bakery. More and more, I believed that money was involved. Who was the white-haired guy with the red caddy? What was the money for? Tate’s vote and influence on the committee?
I returned to that thought. It seemed plausible. Simple, straightforward corruption. Pay the councilman, get the lucrative government contract. But that wasn’t quite enough, was it? Tate couldn’t deliver the entire package, because there were two other committee members. He’d have to convince at least one of them to follow his lead because if he wanted his choice to sail through full council, he’d need at least two votes.
I opened my tired eyes and stared down at the three thin packets of paper on my table. How on earth was I supposed to get anything from any one of these guys? I was a busted up, ex-cop with no authority and nothing to go on.
I had to try.
21
Things didn’t look any brighter to me the next morning. Nor did inspiration strike in my dreams. So I did the only thing to do in situations like that. I put on my clothes, got in my car and drove.
I lacked any good ideas on which contractor to talk to first, so I decided to let Fate take a hand and see them in the order they’d come out of Lara’s envelope. That meant Markham & Son was first up.
Their offices were located in a trendy new business park just north of downtown. The lobby had cathedral ceilings and a small water fountain that appeared to flow down the long wall from the second floor. I could feel the coolness of the water and the creek-like sound was elegant and soothing.
I took the elevator to the third floor and found that Markham & Son occupied the entire floor. An attractive young woman sat at a large, ornate reception desk. She looked bored, but a mask of friendliness went up as soon as she saw me.
“Welcome to Markham and Son,” she chirped. “What can I help you with.”
The nameplate on her desk read Maya.
“Hi, Maya,” I said. “I’m here to speak with Mr. Markham.”
I’d already decided to leave my request vague, even to the point of who to talk to. If she asked me if I wanted to talk to the father or the son, I figured I’d take the son. He might be easier to crack, even if he wasn’t in charge.
But Maya didn’t ask. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I should,” I lied. “The name is Kopriva.”
“Kopriva?” she asked.
I nodded. “Stef Kopriva.”
She consulted the computer screen in front of her. “I don’t show an appointment, sir.”
I shrugged. “My secretary must have screwed up, then. Is he available? I drove in from the work site and I don’t want to waste a trip.” I smiled at her thinly. “Time is money, right?”
She gave me an appraising look. I knew I didn’t look like a businessman, but I hoped I was scruffy enough to at least not look out of place on a construction site. “What is this concerning?” she asked.
“Business,” I answered, letting a little gruffness seep into my tone.
Maya’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t reply. Instead, she consulted her screen again, then picked up the phone. A moment later, she said, “Sir? There’s a Mr. Kopriva to see you.” There was a pause. “No, sir, he doesn’t.” Another pause. “He won’t say, sir.” Then, “Yes, sir.”
She hung up the phone and stood. “If you’ll follow me,” she said, and strode away from the desk.
I followed. It was hard not to notice the way her skirt clung to her hips and how shapely her legs were. She walked with a purpose down a wide hall to the corner office. Once there, she rapped twice on the door, waited a moment, then opened it and stepped aside for me to enter.
I walked past her into the opulent office, and she closed the door behind her.
I saw immediately that the man behind the massive mahogany desk was not the same man I’d seen in the Rocket Bakery with Monique. This man was a little older than I, with a touch of gray in his sideburns. He had a face that had probably been chiseled at one time but had grown soft in recent years. I had a vision of him still playing racquetball or some other manly endeavor, though. His hard eyes confirmed that.
He rose and ex
tended his hand. I walked forward and took it. He offered one of those overly firm handshakes that are meant to intimidate but are not so crushing as to be flat out rude.
He smiled, and I guessed that many years ago, he’d been the high school quarterback, or the student body president, or king of the prom. Probably all three.
“Don Markham,” he said, maintaining his grip on my hand.
“Stefan Kopriva,” I answered. When I pulled my hand away, he let go of it but remained standing.
“Yes,” he said. “So Maya told me. But do I know you?”
I motioned toward the seat in front of his desk. “May I?”
He glanced at the chair, then back of me. “Oh, yes. By all means.” He sat back down in his own high backed chair and regarded me studiously. “What is it I can do for you, Mr. Kopriva.”
I glanced around his office. It was adorned with various pieces of art. Some were framed prints, others were objects that looked ancient, at least to me. The entire room had an air of power and money and legacy.
“Are you the Markham or the son?” I asked.
He frowned. “Why are you asking?”
“Just curious.”
He eyed me for a long moment, then shrugged. “I guess I’m the son. My father founded the company in the 1960s. I joined after college.”
I nodded like that meant something to me. “But you’re in charge now.”
Markham’s jaw set. “Seeing as how my father’s been dead for ten years, you could say that. What’s this about?”
I gave him a long stare. “It’s about Councilman Tate,” I said quietly.
I watched him for a reaction. Only he didn’t have one. He just stared at me, his face a blank slate. Then he asked, “Who exactly are you, Mr. Kopriva?”
“Just someone who’s being paid to ask some questions,” I answered vaguely.
“So you’re a PI?”
“No.”
“A reporter?”
I shrugged. “I’m not at liberty to disclose my client or my role, Mr. Markham. All I can say is that it is important that I find out all I can about the truth of what happened.”
