“William Smithback Jr., of the New York Times.”
“Moment,” mumbled the guard, picking up a telephone. He dialed, then handed it to Smithback. A crisp voice sounded. “May I help you?”
“This is William Smithback Jr. of the New York Times. I’m here to see Mr. Fairhaven.”
It was Saturday, but Smithback was gambling he’d be in his office. Guys like Fairhaven never took Saturdays off. And on Saturdays, they were usually less fortified with secretaries and guards.
“Do you have an appointment?” the female voice asked, reaching down to him from fifty stories.
“No. I’m the reporter doing the story on Enoch Leng and the bodies found at his jobsite on Catherine Street and I need to speak with him immediately. It’s urgent.”
“You need to call for an appointment.” It was an utterly neutral voice.
“Good. Consider this the call. I’d like to make an appointment for”—Smithback checked his watch—”ten o’clock.”
“Mr. Fairhaven is presently engaged,” the voice instantly responded.
Smithback took a deep breath. So he was in. Time to press the attack. There were probably ten layers of secretaries beyond the one on the phone, but he’d gotten through that many before. “Look, if Mr. Fairhaven is too busy to talk to me, I’ll just have to report in the article I’m writing for the Monday edition that he refused to comment.”
“He is presently engaged,” the robotic voice repeated.
“No comment. That’ll do wonders for his public image. And come Monday, Mr. Fairhaven will be wanting to know who in his office turned away the reporter. Get my drift?”
There was a long silence. Smithback drew in some more air. This was often a long process. “You know when you’re reading an article in the paper, and it’s about some sleazy guy, and the guy says I have no comment? How does that make you feel about the guy? Especially a real estate developer. No comment. I could do a lot with no comment.”
There was more silence. Smithback wondered if she had hung up. But no, there was a sound on a line. It was a chuckle.
“That’s good,” said a low, pleasant, masculine voice. “I like that. Nicely done.”
“Who’s this?” Smithback demanded.
“Just some sleazy real estate developer.”
“Who?” Smithback was not going to stand being made fun of by some lackey.
“Anthony Fairhaven.”
“Oh.” Smithback was momentarily struck speechless. He recovered quickly. “Mr. Fairhaven, is it true that—”
“Why don’t you come on up, so we can talk face-to-face, like grownup people? Forty-ninth floor.”
“What?” Smithback was still surprised at the rapidity of his success.
“I said, come up. I was wondering when you’d call, being the ambitious, careerist reporter that you so evidently are.”
Fairhaven’s office was not quite what Smithback had envisioned. True, there were several layers of secretaries and assistants guarding the sanctum sanctorum. But when he finally gained Fairhaven’s office, it wasn’t the vast screw-you space of chrome-gold-ebony-old-master-paintings-African-primitives he’d expected. It was rather simple and small. True, there was art on the walls, but it consisted of some understated Thomas Hart Benton lithographs of yeoman farmers. Beside these was a glassed panel—locked and clearly alarmed—containing a variety of handguns, mounted on a black velvet backdrop. The sole desk was small and made of birch. There were a couple of easy chairs and a worn Persian rug on the floor. One wall was covered with bookshelves, filled with books that had clearly been read instead of purchased by the yard as furniture. Except for the gun case, it looked more like a professor’s office than that of a real estate magnate. And yet, unlike any professor’s office Smithback had ever been in, the space was meticulously clean. Every surface sparkled with an unblemished shine. Even the books appeared to have been polished. There was a faint smell of cleaning agents, a little chemical but not unpleasant.
“Please sit down,” said Fairhaven, sweeping a hand toward the easy chairs. “Would you care for anything? Coffee? Water? Soda? Whisky?” He grinned.
“Nothing, thanks,” said Smithback as he took a seat. He felt the familiar shudder of expectation that came before an intense interview. Fairhaven was clearly savvy, but he was rich and pampered; he no doubt lacked street-smarts. Smithback had interviewed—and skewered—dozens like him. It wouldn’t even be a contest.
Fairhaven opened a refrigerator and took out a small bottle of mineral water. He poured himself a glass and then sat, not at his desk, but in an easy chair opposite Smithback. He crossed his legs, smiled. The bottle of water sparkled in the sunlight that slanted through the windows. Smithback glanced past him. The view, at least, was killer.