“I didn’t… I…”
Graff looked at Quirk. “I just don’t think this is about me,” Graff said.
Quirk nodded.
“Do I have to answer his questions?” Graff said.
“Nope.”
“Well then, I won’t.”
“So,” Quirk said. “Did you know Smith before he was married or not?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Mrs. Smith?” Quirk said.
“What?”
“Did Mr. Graff introduce you to your husband?”
“Yes. I told you that.”
“He says he didn’t.”
“Larson, you did, too,” Mary said. “You called me up and told me you had a rich friend that wanted to be married, and it was Nathan.”
Graff didn’t say anything.
“Larson,” Mary said. “You did.”
“Do I have to stay here?” Graff said.
Nobody responded. Graff looked around the table for a moment. Then he stood and left the room.
“Well, my God,” Mary said. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Maybe a lot,” I said.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Thomas Bisbee, wearing a yellow hard hat, was standing in the middle of a big building lot where three foundations were being poured. Since I hadn’t seen anything that could fall on my head when I had parked on the street and started in, I risked the area without a hard hat. Bisbee had a clipboard, too, and work boots, and a tape measure on his belt-everything necessary to look exactly like a general contractor. In fact, of course, he was simply an appraiser and could have worn an Armani suit for all the heavy lifting he was going to perform. But apparently he liked the look.
“My name is Spenser,” I said. “I’m a detective working on a murder.”
“So how can I help you?” Bisbee said.
“We need to talk,” I said.
“About what?”
“Felton Shawcross,” I said, “Soldiers Field Development, Nathan Smith, Marvin Conroy, Brinkman Tyler, Ann Kiley, Jack DeRosa.”
If you don’t know which bait to use you throw it all out and let the fish tell you. Bisbee stood stock-still.
After a pause he said, “Who?”
I repeated the names. He listened, his face grimly blank. When I finished, he said, “We can sit on that wall,” and walked over and sat on a stone wall that had probably belonged to the old farmhouse that was being replaced. I sat beside him.
“What’s this about Marvin Conroy?” he said.
“You tell me,” I said.
“What makes you think I have something to tell?”
“Because Marvin had two guys beat you up a while ago, and you wouldn’t press charges.”
“I… They didn’t really hurt me,” he said.
“Because a postal cop came along and stopped them before they did,” I said. “Why didn’t you press charges?”
“I… What’s this about a murder?”
“Four or five murders,” I said.
“My God.”
“Why didn’t you press charges?” I said.
Across the open field a big cement truck had backed in against the foundation forms and begun to sluice a gray slurry of concrete into the first foundation. There were some dandelions in the field, and a few buttercups. The breeze riffled the surface of the uncut grass.
“I don’t want to discuss it,” Bisbee said.
He was a thin-faced man with a gray-streaked black mustache and goatee. I waited.
