Wall of Glass by Walter Satterthwait Page B

indirectly.”
    â€œYou’d be better off working against them. They’d probably treat you better.”
    â€œDoes that mean they’re not swell folks?”
    â€œAre we talking professionally or personally?”
    â€œBoth.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter. They’re not swell folks in either capacity.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhere do you want me to start?”
    â€œProfessionally.”
    He shrugged. “Leighton is one of those people who manages to raise mediocrity to new middles. He’s the guy who put up the Bel Grande.” A new luxury hotel on the outskirts of town, off one of the exits from the main highway. “Everything was substandard. His block, his mortar, even his rebar. The place’ll probably topple over in five years. Kill three hundred school teachers from Portland, Maine.”
    â€œPeter Ricard found crushed beneath the rubble.”
    â€œNot me. I’ll be off in the monastery, picking hops. Or hopping picks. Whatever it is they do in monasteries.”
    Peter was in the same business as Leighton, development and construction. Which was, after all, why I’d wanted to speak to him. But there might have been, I knew, some bias blended with his expertise.
    â€œHow’d he get away with it?” I asked. “What about the building codes?”
    He shrugged. “Money.”
    â€œYou know that for a fact?”
    â€œNot anything admissible in court. But a fact, yes. The guy’s been involved in more shady land deals than anyone in Santa Fe. And that, believe me, is saying something.”
    â€œHow’s his business doing?”
    â€œA whole lot better than it should.”
    â€œNo problems, no difficulties?”
    â€œHe was in some trouble for a while last year.” He sipped at his Amaretto. “A note came due on that project of his over on St. Michael’s, those rinky-dink condos, and he was strapped for cash. Overextended, like half the contractors in Santa Fe.”
    â€œWhen was this?”
    â€œFall sometime. September. October.”
    â€œDid he raise the money?”
    He nodded. “Probably printed it in his basement.”
    â€œHow much was involved?”
    â€œNot a lot. Thirty, forty thousand.” Peter, who’s been known to drive all the way to Albuquerque to save twenty dollars on a pair of slacks, could dismiss thirty or forty thousand with a shrug.
    â€œWhat about his wife?” I asked.
    â€œWhat about her?”
    â€œThe two of them get along all right?”
    â€œNow we’re into the personal stuff.”
    I nodded.
    â€œWell,” he said, “personally, the two of them are a bucket of worms.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œThey’re into kinky.”
    â€œWhat kind of kinky?”
    â€œDerek likes to watch.”
    â€œHis wife and other men?”
    â€œOther men, other women, dogs, cats. Otters. Woodchucks.”
    â€œI sense a certain level of exaggeration.”
    He grinned. “Okay, maybe not animals. But anything human the two of them can drag up there to the house. And just to keep from getting bored, both of them play around on the side. Derek likes little Indian girls. Felice likes truck drivers and props.”
    â€œProps.”
    â€œBondage stuff. Handcuffs, paddles. Punish me, you brute.”
    â€œGuns?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œAre you speaking here from personal experience?”
    â€œAlmost.”
    â€œAlmost?”
    He sipped at his Amaretto. “I drove her home one night from some charity thing at the Hilton. Derek was out of town. Probably off laundering money somewhere. We had a drink, Felice and I, and started playing around. She’s a good-looking woman, takes care of herself, and I admit I was tempted. But when she told me what kind of games she had in mind, I lost interest.”
    â€œWhat kind of games?”
    â€œLike I said. Handcuffs on the bedpost.” He shrugged, smiled.