He turned his attention back to the man. Black wavy hair, strong brow, athletic frame, easy movements, sardonic look in the eye. Could be thirty, thirty-five. He jotted a few impressions.
“So,” Fairhaven said with a small, self-deprecating smile, “the sleazy real estate developer is ready to take your questions.”
“May I record this?”
“I would expect no less.”
Smithback slipped a recorder out of his pocket. Of course he seemed charming. People like him were experts at charm and manipulation. But he’d never allow himself to be spun. All he had to do was remember who he was dealing with: a heartless, money-grubbing businessman who would sell his own mother for the back rent alone.
“Why did you destroy the site on Catherine Street?” he asked.
Fairhaven bowed his head slightly. “The project was behind schedule. We were fast-tracking the excavation. It would’ve cost me forty thousand dollars a day. I’m not in the archaeology business.”
“Some archaeologists say you destroyed one of the most important sites to be discovered in Manhattan in a quarter-century.”
Fairhaven cocked his head. “Really? Which archaeologists?”
“The Society for American Archaeology, for example.”
A cynical smile broke out on Fairhaven’s face. “Ah. I see. Well of course they’d be against it. If they had their way, no one in America would turn over a spadeful of soil without an archaeologist standing by with screen, trowel, and toothbrush.”
“Getting back to the site—”
“Mr. Smithback, what I did was perfectly legal. When we discovered those remains, I personally stopped all work. I personally examined the site. We called in forensic experts, who photographed everything. We removed the remains with great care, had them examined, and then properly buried, all at my own expense. We did not restart work until we had direct authorization from the mayor. What more would you have me do?”
Smithback felt a small twinge. This was not proceeding quite as expected. He was letting Fairhaven control the agenda; that was the problem.
“You say you had the remains buried. Why? Was there anything perhaps you were trying to hide?”
At this Fairhaven actually laughed, leaning back in his chair, exposing beautiful teeth. “You make it sound suspicious. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I’m a man with some small religious values. These poor people were killed in a hideous way. I wanted to give them a decent burial with an ecumenical service, quiet and dignified, free of the whole media circus. That’s what I did—buried them together with their little effects in a real cemetery. I didn’t want their bones ending up in a museum drawer. So I purchased a beautiful tract in the Gates of Heaven Cemetery in Valhalla, New York. I’m sure the cemetery director would be happy to show you the plot. The remains were my responsibility and, frankly, I had to do something with them. The city certainly didn’t want them.”
“Right, right,” said Smithback, thinking. It would make a nice sidebar, this quiet burial under the leafy elms. But then he frowned. Christ, was he getting spun here?
Time for a new tack. “According to the records, you’re a major donor to the mayor’s re-election campaign. You get in a pinch at your construction site and he bails you out. Coincidence?”
Fairhaven leaned back in the chair. “Drop the wide-eyed, babe-in-the-woods look. You know perfectly well how things work in this town. When I give money to the mayor’s campaign, I am exercising my constitutional rights. I don’t expect any special treatment, and I don’t ask for it.”
“But if you get it, so much the better.”
Fairhaven smiled broadly, cynically, but said nothing. Smithback felt another twinge of concern. This guy was being very careful about what he actually said. Trouble was, you couldn’t record a cynical grin.
He stood and walked with what he hoped looked like casual confidence toward the paintings, hands behind his back, studying them, trying to frame a new strategy. Then he moved to the gun case. Inside, polished weapons gleamed. “Interesting choice of office decor,” he said, gesturing at the case.
“I collect the rarest of handguns. I can afford to. That one you are pointing at, for example, is a Luger, chambered in .45. The only one ever made. I also have a collection of Mercedes-Benz roadsters. But they take up rather more display space, so I keep them at my place in Sag Harbor.” Fairhaven looked at him, still smiling cynically. “We all collect things, Mr. Smithback. What’s your passion? Museum monographs and chapbooks, perhaps: removed for research, then not returned? By accident, of course.”