Kilpatrick started to go for the rebound.
Amanda snaked the ball and put it down on the closest chair. “We’re ready when you are, Mr. Kilpatrick.”
He eyed the basketball but thought better of it. “This way.” He started down the hallway. “The development is scheduled to break ground next week. We’re calling it the All-Star Complex.”
She asked, “We?”
“Yeah, that’s thanks to you guys.” Kilpatrick led them past a bunch of closed office doors. “Funny thing about that jacked-up rape charge you laid on Marcus. The other investors were looking for someone else to step in, and we realized we were missing a larger opportunity.”
“Meaning?”
“We pitched the investment to some of our higher-end clients. We realized we could expand the complex into a live/work community.”
Amanda said, “So, like Atlantic Station, but in an area that is historically more crime-ridden.”
Will smiled. She had a point. Atlantic Station had been pitched to the city as a dream development that would turn an area of blight into a thriving tax base. As with most dreams, reality had come crashing down in the form of a spike in sexual assaults, muggings, carjackings, and vandalism. At one point, a couple of more enterprising bank robbers had strapped a chain around an ATM machine and pulled it out of the wall with their truck.
Kilpatrick had obviously handled the Atlantic Station question before. “Those were growing pains. It happens. The whole thing’s been turned around, as I’m sure you know. And also, the developers didn’t have the benefit of eight of the most talented, tremendous athletes the world has ever known ready to promote the project to make sure it succeeds.” He threw his hands out like a carnival barker. “Think about it. Marcus Rippy alone has over ten million Facebook fans. His Tweets and Instagram reach twice as many as that. He puts up one post about a dope club or a hip shop he’s excited about and within the hour, the place is flooded. He’s a tastemaker.”
Kilpatrick turned the corner and they were facing a vast, glass-walled conference room with a table that could accommodate fifty people. Will forced himself not to flinch in disgust when he noticed the four lawyers already in the room. Kilpatrick must have called in the big guns the minute Amanda had requested a meeting.
Will recognized them all from the Rippy rape investigation. The interchangeable Bond villains: two old white men, each with a gorgeous, thirty-ish woman dressed to kill sitting beside him. Kilpatrick ran through the introductions, but Will had already designated their Bond status from before. Auric Goldfinger was at the head of the table, his patches of Chia-like gold hair and thick German accent earning him the name. Obviously, his blonde underling was Pussy Galore. Then there was Dr. Julius No, a man who for some reason always kept his hands under the table. His sidekick was Rosa Klebb, named not for her looks, which were fantastic, but because her pointy high-heeled shoes seemed like the type that would have poison-tipped knives inside of them.
Goldfinger said, “Deputy Director, Agent Trent, thank you both for coming. Please sit.” He indicated a chair with a cup of tea in front of it, two seats away from Rosa Klebb.
Will pulled out two chairs from the opposite end of the table, about half a mile away from the Bond quartet, because he knew that’s how Amanda would want to play it. She glanced up at Will as they sat down, her eyes going to his bare neck, and he got the feeling that she was really annoyed that he wasn’t wearing a suit and tie.
Will was annoyed, too. He could’ve at least worn his gun on his hip. He needed some armor against these people. They didn’t roll out of bed for less than three thousand bucks an hour. Each. The combined receipt for this meeting was probably more than Will’s take-home pay.
He looked at Kilpatrick, but Kilpatrick was obviously no longer in charge. He had slumped into a chair, rolling an unopened bottle of red BankShot between his hands.
“So.” Amanda chose to forgo subtlety. “I’m trying to understand why it takes four lawyers to answer one simple question.”
Goldfinger smiled. “It’s not a simple question, Deputy Director. You asked for details on the property in which the victim was found. We are simply here to give you the larger picture of the situation.”
Amanda said, “In my experience, there’s always a larger picture where murder is concerned, but again, it’s never taken so many lawyers to draw it for me.”
Will watched them carefully. No one spoke. No one moved. Despite her question, Amanda didn’t seem displeased to find herself talking to the lawyers. If someone had asked Will for his opinion, he would’ve guessed that she’d somehow contrived to put them all in this room.
The only question was why?
Amanda set aside the tea bag and drank some tea.
Finally, Goldfinger looked at Dr. No, who in turn nodded to Rosa Klebb.
Klebb stood up. She stacked together some folders. She walked around the conference table, which was about the width of a sequoia. Will could hear her panty hose scratching against her tight skirt. He looked down at her extremely high-heeled shoes. The soles were red because they could stop a man’s heart. Sara had a pair from the same designer. He preferred them on Sara.
“This is a packet on the development,” Goldfinger told them. “It’s the same presentation we shared with the mayor and governor last month.”
Amanda would’ve already heard about the project. She had talked to the mayor this morning and was briefing the governor at the capitol when Will had given her the slip. She didn’t volunteer this information. Instead, she glanced at the folder, which had a massive star logo in the center. She handed her packet to Will. He put it on top of his packet and placed both at his elbow.
Dr. No leaned over, his hands still tucked under the table. “We’ll have to ask you to keep this information to yourselves. There’s a press embargo until the official announcement. You can read the details about the development in the packet.”
Amanda waited.
Goldfinger explained, “The All-Star Complex will have a sixteen-screen movie theater, a thirty-story hotel, a twenty-story condominium complex, a farmer’s market, an outdoor shopping mall with high-end boutique and chain stores, exclusive townhomes, a members-only nightclub, and of course a full-sized basketball court adjacent to what we’re calling the All-Star Experience, an interactive museum showcasing all that is wonderful about NCAA basketball.”
Amanda asked, “How will this be financed?”
“We have several private investors whose names I’m currently not at liberty to release.”
“And foreign investors?” Amanda prodded.
Goldfinger smiled. “A project of this scope requires many, many investors, some of whom wish to remain behind the scenes.”
“Including yourselves?”
He smiled back a nonanswer.
She said, “The construction company is LK Totalbyg A/S, based in Denmark.”
“That is correct. As you know, Atlanta is an international city. We reached out to international investors. It’s a win-win for everyone involved.”
Will thought about the people who actually lived in Atlanta who would be investing, whether they wanted to or not. The perks that the government handed out for these kinds of project were phenomenal. City-funded bond initiatives, decades-long state and local tax deferments, new roadways, new infrastructure, new traffic lights and cops to keep the area safe—basically all the cold, hard cash that always made these developments possible for the rich guys who touted the glories of private enterprise and talked about pulling themselves up by their bootstraps.
The American Dream.
“Deputy Director.” Dr. No leaned toward Amanda as if they weren’t separated by an ocean of hardwood. “As both the mayor and governor have repeatedly expressed, both the city and state are very excited about the development. The proximity to the Georgia Dome, Georgia Tech, Centennial Village, and SunTrust Park means the complex will be a mecca for tourists.”
Will thought that Chattahoochee Av
enue was a bit far out to be a mecca for anything, but he had to assume these guys had seen a map.
Goldfinger said, “We’re hoping that the All-Star Experience will rival downtown’s College Football Hall of Fame. I don’t have to tell you what it would do for the city’s economic opportunities if we could secure more vital slots in the March Madness rotation.”
“Sounds impressive.” Amanda didn’t have to know about sports to understand that this was big business. She looked down the table, expectant. “And?”
Dr. No took over. “And we would hope that you would understand that this is a delicate undertaking.”
Pussy Galore chimed in. “It’s not just the nuts and bolts of building such an impressive complex. We’ve put a lot of time and effort into making the announcement about the project’s existence. You only get one opportunity to make that first, big splash. We’ve got all of our all-star investors lined up to attend. We’re flying in reporters from New York, Chicago, and L.A. We’ve booked suites and restaurants. We have a massive, two-day party planned, culminating in a ground-breaking at the site. We’ve worked the press into a frenzy. It’s very important that none of this is tainted by lingering doubt about any of the investors.”
Goldfinger added, “Or about the site.”
Amanda said, “If that means you’re worried we’re going to charge your client with rape again, I can put your minds at ease.” She smiled. “This is a murder case, so if we make any charges, it will be for murder.”
The room lost all of its air.
Goldfinger smiled, and then the smile turned into a laugh.
Dr. No joined in, his hands still below the table so that he looked like a lemming caught in a blender.
Amanda asked, “When is this party planned?”
“This weekend.”
“Ah,” she said, as if she finally understood, but Will would’ve bet his life that she knew about the launch before she walked through the door. The mayor and the governor would’ve both been pressuring her harder than the lawyers to wrap up the investigation so the project could get under way. The city needed the jobs. The state needed the money.
Amanda told them, “The fact remains that a dead man was found inside the nightclub. We’ve got a large crime scene to process. Even with overtime, it will take at least until Saturday to catalog and photograph all of the evidence.”
Not for the first time, Will admired Amanda’s lying skills, because there was no way that crime scene would take that long to clear. She was playing the long game here. He just couldn’t see the end point.
Goldfinger said, “This is the problem at which we have arrived. Saturday is a bit of a difficulty for us.”
“Not just a bit.” Galore supplied, “We promised an early peek of the club to the L.A. Times. They’re scheduled for first thing Friday morning. They want to do a before-and-after kind of thing with Marcus, take some photos of him behind the bar, maybe standing on the balcony, then the later photos will show the same shots after the club is finished.”
“Can’t you postpone that?” Amanda asked.
Galore wrinkled her nose. “The word postpone is catnip to reporters. We’d be looking at a lot of bad press.”
Amanda told them, “I was inside that club this morning. It looked more like a crack den than the anchor to a two-point-eight-billion-dollar project.”
None of them seemed to notice that she had the price tag at her fingertips.
Galore supplied, “We had cleaners scheduled to go in this morning to start making the club more presentable. Obviously, that was well after your crime scene people arrived.” She added, “But, still, we’d need at least two days, balls to the walls, to get that place spiffed up.”
“You realize the press has already gotten wind of the murder?” Amanda said, “They know that a body was found inside the club.”
“Yes, they know that a body was found,” Galore said. “They don’t know that the man was anything other than a vagrant.”
“Both the GBI and the Atlanta Police were on scene. The media is going to assume that we wouldn’t put that much effort into solving the murder of a vagrant.” She smiled at them. “Not that any death isn’t a tragedy, but the local police normally don’t ask the state for help in such circumstances.”
“So it’s a drug deal gone bad, or two homeless men fighting over a forty,” Galore suggested. “That would only serve to highlight another positive aspect of the All-Star development, taking an area that is prone to crime and turning it into a safe, clean, family-friendly neighborhood.”
“But he wasn’t a vagrant. He was a retired Atlanta police detective.”
No one had an answer for that.
Amanda said, “I’m sorry, folks, I understand the dilemma, but I can’t rush a murder investigation for your grand opening. I have to think of the victim’s family. The detective had a wife. She’s only twenty-two years old.”
Will worked to keep the surprise off his face. Because of the age, he had to assume that the wife was Delilah Palmer. He had no idea why Amanda hadn’t shared this detail with him. There was a big difference between Harding being Delilah’s guardian angel and being her husband. Wives knew things. They had access to information. If Harding was targeted for knowing too much, then Delilah would be the next person on the list.
Amanda continued, “Harding and the girl were married for only a few months. I already had to tell her that she’s a widow. Am I supposed to go back now and tell her that her husband’s death takes a backseat to a press event?” Amanda shook her head, as if the very thought made her sad. “And speaking of the press, Mrs. Harding is incredibly photogenic. Blonde hair, blue eyes, very pretty. The press will be all over her.”
“No, no,” Dr. No said. “We wouldn’t want any of that, Deputy Director. We’re not trying to impede your investigation.” He shot Goldfinger a look, because of course they were trying to impede the investigation.
And Amanda would’ve known this already, so again Will had to wonder what she was angling for.
“Deputy Director,” Goldfinger began. “We would just ask that you do all you can to speed things along.” He held up his finger. “Not speed, of course, because that would imply rushing. I would just say that you could please handle this expeditiously.”
She nodded. “Of course. I’ll do what I can. But I can’t have my people cleared out by Saturday. There are simply not enough hours in the day.”
Dr. No asked, “Is there anything we can do to help expedite the process?”
Will felt an invisible zap come off of Amanda. Dr. No’s question was exactly what she had been waiting for.
“I wonder if—” She stopped herself. “No, never mind. We’ll do all we can.” She started to stand. “Thank you for your time.”
“Please.” Goldfinger motioned for her to sit. “What can we do?”
She sat back down. She gave a heavy sigh. “I’m afraid it all comes back to Marcus Rippy.”
“Fuck no!” Kilpatrick had jumped to attention. “You’re not talking to Marcus. No fucking way, no fucking how.”
Amanda spoke to Goldfinger. “Look at this from my perspective. I have a highly decorated, much respected, ex-police detective found murdered inside a building that is under construction. In the course of a normal investigation, the first thing I would do is talk to the building owner to eliminate him or her as a suspect and to generate a list of people who would have access to the building.”
“I can give you a fucking list,” Kilpatrick sputtered. “You don’t need to talk to Marcus.”
“I’m afraid I do.” She held out her hands in a helpless shrug. “I just need a few moments of his time, and a promise that he’ll have an open and honest conversation with us. It would go a long way toward repairing his reputation if he was shown to be helping a police investigation. On the record.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? On the record?” Kilpatrick had jumped to his feet. He told Goldfinger, “You can get five-to-ten years in this state for ly
ing to a cop.”
Amanda asked, “What is your client planning to lie about?”
Kilpatrick ignored her, telling Goldfinger, “This fucking spider is trying to trap Marcus into saying something that—”
“Kip,” Dr. No said, and Kilpatrick’s mouth shut like a trout.
Goldfinger told Amanda, “Deputy Director, perhaps you and I could speak in private?”
The three other lawyers stood in unison.
Amanda touched Will’s arm, releasing him. He headed toward the door.
Kilpatrick threw his hands into the air. “This is bullshit, man. Bullshit!” The trio of lawyers had already dispersed. Will watched Kilpatrick from the hallway. He said “bullshit” two more times before leaving the room. He tried to slam the glass door behind him, but it was on a pneumatic closer.
Like magic, Laslo appeared at Will’s elbow. Kilpatrick jabbed his finger at both of them, red-faced, furious. “Walk this peckerhead to the lobby, then come back to my office. Pronto.” Kilpatrick punched the wall. The Sheetrock flexed, but didn’t puncture. He kicked it to the same effect before stalking away.
“Hey, Peckerhead.” Laslo indicated the long walk back to the lobby. “This way.”
“Laslo.” Will looked over the guy’s head, taking advantage of the half foot difference. He wasn’t going to leave without Amanda, and something about the thug had rubbed him the wrong way. “You gotta last name?”
“Yeah, it’s Go Fuck Yourself. Now start moving.”
“Laslo Go Fuck Yourself.” Will didn’t move. “You gotta card?”
“I got my size ten up your ass if you don’t get movin’, buddy.”
Will forced a chuckle. He put his hands in his pockets like he had all day.
“What the fuck are you laughin’ at?”
Will couldn’t tame the thing inside of him that wanted to piss this guy off. He thought about the old lady from the lobby, the way her bottom lip had trembled. Was that because of Laslo? Kip Kilpatrick? Will felt instinctively that something was there.
He told Laslo, “Mrs. Lindsay warned me you’re a pistol.”
Laslo’s expression darkened, which meant Will had hit a nerve. Will wondered what the guy’s rap sheet looked like back in Boston. He imagined there was some weight to it. He had prison ink on the side of his neck and the look of a man who could take a beating and still win the fight.