reflected on this. “Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts between eleven last night and six a.m.?”
Givens clicked the monitor off with his remote and came around the front of the desk. He walked hoppingly, usingthe desk for support. “Would you like to know how it works?” His body blocked the light from the window behind. The glow from the kliegs around the Fremont house made a halo of gauzy light around his body. “First, you buy some shitty land somewhere between a city and where people really wish they could live when they retire. You can sell them bungalows with a shopping centre or brick-veneer semis with a mosque or fully detached, luxury living with a golf course. In some US states you can even give them a casino. The key is to sell forty-nine per cent. Fifty-one per cent unsold and you’re still the majority shareholder, and you can walk away. You’ve made a killing on forty-nine per cent of the cheap houses you built. Notice how only half the houses advertised have been built.”
“I noticed that. Is it all legal?”
“Yeah, it’s legal. You have to insure the hell out of it. But when the lawsuits come, if they do, you’ve not only got that all-important one per cent on your side. People always settle. They just want money anyway. You’d be amazed what they settle for.”
“Why are you telling me this? Is someone pissed off?”
“How much you want to bet I’m the next body?” He grunted a laugh.
Wingate had left his notebook in his pocket. Being more or less off-duty, he wasn’t supposed to be taking notes, but it would look good, he thought. “You sound like you’re looking forward to it.”
“Anything to get out of this racket. Living in half-finished paradises a year at a time? Think you can meet a woman like that?”
“No?”
“No.”
“And get this,” he said, ready to spill. “The homeowners own their dwellings and the land they’re on, but the corporation owns all the common property and runs its services. A lot of places they’re the gas resellers, even.”
“Gas resellers?”
“They buy natural gas in bulk and become the vendors to their own developments at higher-than-market prices. It’s written into the contract. Something about the cost of new infrastructure. They make a killing.”
“Do you think someone associated with this development killed the Fremonts?”
“Look at this,” Givens said. He hobbled back behind his desk. He unlocked a drawer out of sight and returned with a huge hanging file folder. “I think you may find this interesting reading.”
“What is this?”
“All the deals. You know the second course got sold to a consortium? They’re the ones that are building the low-rise. No one wants to fucking play golf here except the homies. You know, the people who own the homes. No green fees, no events. It’s a par sixty-three for chrissake. The land is worth more with people in boxes than balls in holes.”
“What about with bones scattered all over it?”
“
Much
less,” said Givens, raising his glass as if to give a toast. “Much less.”
The following morning, the field team was back out in the stalks, sweeping. They were on rotating eight-hour shifts. Willan had signed off on it without hesitation. It took the rest of that day, and most of the next, to complete the sweep. By the end of the weekend, they had collected nine more bone fragments, bringing the total to twelve.
There had not been a word about or from Melvin Renald. Macdonald had come up empty. There were no surveillance cameras keeping track of what was happening in the northern parts of the swampy field, where Sergeant Costamides had last seen Renald; for all intents and purposes, he’d vanished without a trace. His wife, Janet, was apoplectic. She was already accusing someone of “dusting” her husband.
“How much do
you
know about the guy?” Hazel asked Ray Greene near the end of her Sunday shift. “He’s your boy now.”
“I’ve known him exactly as
Givens clicked the monitor off with his remote and came around the front of the desk. He walked hoppingly, usingthe desk for support. “Would you like to know how it works?” His body blocked the light from the window behind. The glow from the kliegs around the Fremont house made a halo of gauzy light around his body. “First, you buy some shitty land somewhere between a city and where people really wish they could live when they retire. You can sell them bungalows with a shopping centre or brick-veneer semis with a mosque or fully detached, luxury living with a golf course. In some US states you can even give them a casino. The key is to sell forty-nine per cent. Fifty-one per cent unsold and you’re still the majority shareholder, and you can walk away. You’ve made a killing on forty-nine per cent of the cheap houses you built. Notice how only half the houses advertised have been built.”
“I noticed that. Is it all legal?”
“Yeah, it’s legal. You have to insure the hell out of it. But when the lawsuits come, if they do, you’ve not only got that all-important one per cent on your side. People always settle. They just want money anyway. You’d be amazed what they settle for.”
“Why are you telling me this? Is someone pissed off?”
“How much you want to bet I’m the next body?” He grunted a laugh.
Wingate had left his notebook in his pocket. Being more or less off-duty, he wasn’t supposed to be taking notes, but it would look good, he thought. “You sound like you’re looking forward to it.”
“Anything to get out of this racket. Living in half-finished paradises a year at a time? Think you can meet a woman like that?”
“No?”
“No.”
“And get this,” he said, ready to spill. “The homeowners own their dwellings and the land they’re on, but the corporation owns all the common property and runs its services. A lot of places they’re the gas resellers, even.”
“Gas resellers?”
“They buy natural gas in bulk and become the vendors to their own developments at higher-than-market prices. It’s written into the contract. Something about the cost of new infrastructure. They make a killing.”
“Do you think someone associated with this development killed the Fremonts?”
“Look at this,” Givens said. He hobbled back behind his desk. He unlocked a drawer out of sight and returned with a huge hanging file folder. “I think you may find this interesting reading.”
“What is this?”
“All the deals. You know the second course got sold to a consortium? They’re the ones that are building the low-rise. No one wants to fucking play golf here except the homies. You know, the people who own the homes. No green fees, no events. It’s a par sixty-three for chrissake. The land is worth more with people in boxes than balls in holes.”
“What about with bones scattered all over it?”
“
Much
less,” said Givens, raising his glass as if to give a toast. “Much less.”
The following morning, the field team was back out in the stalks, sweeping. They were on rotating eight-hour shifts. Willan had signed off on it without hesitation. It took the rest of that day, and most of the next, to complete the sweep. By the end of the weekend, they had collected nine more bone fragments, bringing the total to twelve.
There had not been a word about or from Melvin Renald. Macdonald had come up empty. There were no surveillance cameras keeping track of what was happening in the northern parts of the swampy field, where Sergeant Costamides had last seen Renald; for all intents and purposes, he’d vanished without a trace. His wife, Janet, was apoplectic. She was already accusing someone of “dusting” her husband.
“How much do
you
know about the guy?” Hazel asked Ray Greene near the end of her Sunday shift. “He’s your boy now.”
“I’ve known him exactly as
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