Big Red Tequila (Tres Navarre #1)(68)

"This way, " I suggested to Maia.

At the French doors that led to the backyard, Guy White stood waiting for us, his parabellum pointed lazily in our direction. He had apparently just walked in from the patio, and was leaning against the door frame in his khakis, an untucked blue button-down, and slippers. His mole-colored hair was carefully combed and gelled, and his expression was completely peaceful.

"You are the most persistent man," he told me.

Fortunately there was no Waterford crystal to shoot at in the room. Maia dropped her three guns on the nearby desk.

Guy White smiled at her. "Thank you, my dear."

Then he lowered his Glock and waved his other diamond bedecked hand toward his seven-acre backyard.

"I have some exceptional croissants from Pour la France," he said. "I was just reading Roddy Stinson out in the gazebo. Won’t you join me?"

41

"Beau Karnau," said White. "Quite a colorful character. "

He laughed without making a sound. Then he sat back in his white wicker chair and proceeded to dissect his croissant. He peeled off each layer and ripped it into small squares with perfectly manicured fingers. If the croissant had been alive I think White would’ve had the same unconcerned smile on his face.

"You know him, then," I said.

I drank my mimosa out of my crystal glass. It was mixed from Veuve Cliquot instead of Dom Pérignon, but the orange juice had probably been fresh squeezed by illegal aliens who had just been flown in from the Valley that morning, so I had decided not to send it back. White said: "Only peripherally, because of my patronage to local art galleries. Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity. And the fact that Karnau’s just about the only one besides you and me with an interest in the disk who isn’t dead at the moment."

No reaction. White looked out over his gardens and waved his champagne glass toward the north.

"What do you think, Miss Lee?" he said. "I’m thinking about tomatoes over in that corner, next to the mountain laurels. "

If Maia was trying to look hard and unapproachable, she was failing miserably. She smiled without even looking at the future tomato patch and agreed that it would be a lovely spot for gardening. I swear to God, White’s eyes twinkled at her on command. When he was ready to entertain my questions again, he pushed the croissant carcass and the Express-News away. He leaned forward across the table, looking earnest and helpful.

"I assure you, Mr. Navarre, Beau Karnau is no associate of mine. I’ve only met him on a few occasions, and I found him . . . tiresome."

He let his eyes reveal just a hint of annoyance, a benign peevishness toward that quite colorful character Mr. Karnau.

“And Dan Sheff?" Maia ventured.

Guy paused momentarily, then decided to smile. I thought for a minute he would pat Maia’s head.

"What of him, my dear?"

“Read your paper," I suggested. "I think the Moraga murder story dropped below the fold today, but you’re still getting page one press."

I couldn’t get White’s attention away from his imaginary tomato patches. His tone stayed pleasantly distracted.

"As I said to you before, my boy, faulty assumptions?

"So you have no relations with Sheff Construction," I said. "No knowledge of how their business changed in the mid-eighties." I finished my mimosa. "I’d’ve thought about that time you would’ve been looking for less high-profile opportunities yourself. The drug trafficking trial, the investigation of my father’s murder. It must’ve been very . . . tiresome."

I warranted only a strained sigh from our host, but you take what you can get.

“All I can tell you about Sheff Construction, my boy, is that Mr. Sheff, that would be Mr. Sheff, Jr., has little to do with the—shall we say the day-to-day running of business. Perhaps—" He raised a finger, as if he’d finally spotted the ideal place for some pink azaleas. "Perhaps you should speak to Terry Garza, the business manager. That might be more enlightening."

"We’d made arrangements," I said. "They were canceled last night, when we found him with an anticucho skewer sticking out of his neck."

That did it. White lifted his eyes off his future garden and stared at me. I think he was genuinely surprised. Then it passed.

"How unfortunate."

"Once the police come to question you, yes."

I put the photo we’d found in Garza’s trailer on top of Guy White’s newspaper, facing toward him.  "What I think," I told him, "is that you are either in this photo, or you know who is. Sheff Construction started some extremely lucrative and extremely questionable dealings with city construction contracts ten years ago, Mr. White, and it’s an arrangement which is still going on. I would be surprised if anything that large could’ve escaped your notice. Either you were involved directly, or you’d make it your business to know who was."

White looked over at Maia, smiled like one parent to another when their child has said something cute and foolish.

"Mr. Navarre, I do not appreciate being scapegoated. As I told you, I went through much grief ten years ago, when your father died. Much unwarranted suffering."

"You’re telling me you’re being scapegoated again?"

He stretched like a cat. "Convenient solutions, Mr. Navarre."