Widow’s Walk

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.

I said, “We’re way past that, Mr. Bisbee. You’re a material witness to a case of multiple homicide. You could be arrested.”

I was careful not to say that I would arrest him, as I had been careful not to say I was a police detective. But misunderstanding was possible.

“God, Jesus!” he said.

“So why didn’t you press charges?”

“If I tell you, would I still be arrested?”

“No,” I said.

I wasn’t exactly lying. His arrest was not contingent on him telling me anything.

“It was the woman lawyer,” he said.

“Ann Kiley?”

“Yes. She said she represented the two men who attacked me, and that she also represented Marvin.”

“Marvin Conroy?”

“Yes. And Marvin wanted me to drop the charges.”

“And why did you care what Marvin wanted?”

He looked at me as if I had blasphemed. “He… Marvin is very dangerous.”

“What was your relationship?” I said.

“With Marvin?”

“Yes.”

Across the way three laborers were moving the cement chute. Two more guys watching. Good ratio, I thought.

“I appraised some property for him.”

“And?”

“He didn’t like the appraisal.”

“Why not?”

“He wanted me to inflate the appraisal.”

“So he could get a bigger loan?”

“Something like that.”

“So why’d you get beat up, to make you change your appraisal?”

“No. To keep me from telling anybody. Marvin was up to something. Probably flipping real estate, maybe covering some real shaky loans. I don’t know. But I told him that I was suspicious and the next day he sent me a message.”

“The message being?”

“To keep my mouth shut.”

Bisbee had thin hands. He was holding onto the clipboard with both of them so tightly that the knuckles were white.

“Which you did?”

“Yes… There was another name you mentioned. Soldiers Field Development.”

“Yeah?”

“That was the company that was developing the property.”

“That Conroy wanted you to appraise?”

“Yes.”

“You know anything about Nathan Smith?”

“No.”

“Any other names mean anything to you?”

“No.”

Bisbee’s shoulders were hunched and he was sitting stiffly on the stone wall as if it were cold. Which it wasn’t. He hung on to his clipboard.

I took a card out of my wallet and tucked it into the breast pocket of his plaid shirt.

“Anyone threatens you,” I said, “call me. I’ll take care of it.”

Bisbee nodded without looking at the card, or at me. Across the field the driver of the cement truck was hosing down the cement chute. Five men were watching. Bad ratio.

“Thanks for your help,” I said.

Bisbee nodded again. I left.