A Fountain Filled With Blood

“The site office is this way, Chief Van Alstyne,” Opperman said. “Though as I told you at the station, I doubt there will be much of use to you there. It’s used strictly for work—I don’t know of Bill ever mingling his private and professional life.”

Russ followed the pair up a slight incline to a trailer set up on a concrete foundation at the edge of the work site. Several men sprang up from picnic tables set in the shade behind the trailer. Opperman stopped and pointed at them.

“Go home,” he said. “You’re off for the rest of the day. You’ll get a call about tomorrow.”

“Do we get full pay today?” one man shouted.

“Yes, yes, you’ll get your full eight hours today.” Opperman turned to Landry and gave her a look as if to say, See what I have to put up with? “Right in here, Chief,” he said over his shoulder, mounting the trailer steps and opening the door. He disappeared inside, and Russ could hear him speaking to someone in the office. With a sense of inevitability, Russ shouldered through the narrow aluminum door and saw exactly whom he expected, Clare Fergusson. She was seated beside a metal desk with a fake wood top, and her eyebrows tried to climb off her forehead and hide in her hair when she caught sight of him. Opperman was talking with a heavily muscled man in his fifties. The man, who had the easy stance of a crew chief who knew what he was worth, folded his arms and nodded toward Peggy Landry.

“Yes, sir, I understand. But Reverend Fergusson was invited here by Ms. Landry,” he said.

Landry stepped forward. “He’s right. I’m so sorry, Clare, but this afternoon has turned out to be”—she shot a glance at her surviving business partner—“the worst-possible time to show you around. Let me walk you out and we’ll reschedule.”

Russ intended to ignore Her Holiness, but he couldn’t help it. “You know her?”

Landry frowned, probably at the irritated tone in his voice. “Reverend Fergusson is marrying my niece Diana in August. Well…not marrying. Officiating. You know what I mean.” She braced her hand on the Con-Tact-paper wood and gestured to Clare. “This really isn’t a good time, Clare.”

Clare opened her mouth and closed it again. She rose from the folding chair she had been sitting in and obediently followed Landry toward the door, giving Russ as wide a berth as possible in a single-width trailer crowded with tables and chairs.

She paused at the exit, framed by a stack of soda cans in cartons and a flimsy-looking water cooler. “I’d like a chance to talk with you at some point, Chief Van Alstyne,” she said in a fakely chirpy voice. Russ grunted noncommittally, and Landry practically dragged the priest onto the steps. Opperman swung the door shut behind the two women. “Ray, we’re shut down for the rest of the day. Peggy or I will give you a call to let you know when we’re starting up again.” Ray nodded and headed for the door. “And Ray?” Opperman kept his hand over the doorknob, denying access for a fraction of a second. “Don’t let an unauthorized person onto the site unless one of us is here. Ever.” He smiled. “Insurance, you know.”

“It’s your site, Mr. Opperman,” Ray said, shrugging. He let himself out.

“Okay,” Opperman said, clasping his hands in front of him. “What is it you’d like to see?”

Russ looked around at the suddenly empty office. A large drafting table with an elaborate CAD setup occupied one end of the trailer. A messy desk flanked by filing drawers and a fax machine filled the other end. In between were folding tables layered with rolled blueprints, manila envelopes, and torn-open FedEx packages. “Like the Supreme Court justice said, ‘I’ll know it when I see it.’ ” He pointed to the desk. “Was that Ingraham’s?”

“Yes.” Opperman dragged aside two folding chairs and pulled out a sturdy metal chair upholstered in vinyl. “Bill wasn’t one for show. Function—that’s what he wanted.” He pressed his lips together for a moment, then let out a cross between a snort and a smile. “He had this old chair for as long as I knew him. I was ribbing him about it once, telling him he should get something more ergonomic. He said it performed perfectly—it kept his ass off the floor. Anything else was just bells and whistles.” He looked out the small window set horizontally beside the desk.

“Was he like that about his construction projects? Did he build just enough to function?”

“God no. When it came to BWI Developments, he was a true perfectionist.” He waved at the cramped interior of the trailer. “He always spent as much time as possible at or near a site. Got to know the contractors, the subcontractors, the workers. I swear, he probably knew the name of the quarryman who chiseled the marble for the bathroom floors. And God help him if those tiles were anything less than top-quality.”

“And what’s your role in BWI? Did you work for Ingraham?”