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Russo went on, “Everybody wanted Bancroft Bluff to be a success, so Owen ignored everything he knew, and anything anybody said, and went ahead and green-lighted the project. It was lame-assed, but we all kinda kept our fingers crossed. I mean, nobody wanted a failure. When the dune started failing, we scrambled to put riprap down, trying to stop the erosion.”
“Riprap?”
“Big chunks of rock, mostly. Stuff to stabilize the slide and build up a wall, stop the erosion. We put it at the foot of the dune and piled high, but the bluff’s right on the ocean. Duh. That’s why people want to build there, and the elements don’t give a shit, if you know what I mean. The ocean eroded the dune behind the riprap, anyway. Big waste of time.”
“Do you think the motive for the Donatella homicides had to do with the development failure?” Savvy asked.
“Seems likely, doesn’t it? Isn’t that why you’re reinterviewing us?”
“One of the reasons,” she acknowledged. “‘Blood money’ was written on the Donatellas’ wall with red spray paint.”
“Yeah, I know. Somebody was really pissed off. Doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?” Russo mused. “Although . . .”
“Although?”
“Blood money sounds so . . . I don’t know . . . like revenge or something, and yet Donatella’s house is gonna go, too. Sure, it’s still standing now, but the whole area’s shut down and basically condemned. Donatella was hurting as much as the next guy.”
Savannah nodded. Her own feeling was that logic wasn’t the overriding factor in the whole scenario. Why write “blood money?” Everyone knew about Bankruptcy Bluff and the fact that the Donatellas and the Bancrofts were taking it in the shorts, all the while trying to make good on the properties.
It seemed more like misdirection the more she interviewed people close to the real estate debacle.
She asked Russo a few more questions, reexamining where he’d been the night of the murders—to dinner in Seaside with two friends, who’d vouched for him then and would again. Then, as Vledich came back in, she posed a couple more questions to him for good measure. Vledich told her he was in Portland at the time of the homicides and had the word of his live-in girlfriend to back him up.
Savannah asked him his thoughts about motive, and he said, “The can of red paint was just there. Available. Whoever killed ’em just used what was handy.”
Vledich was echoing Russo’s thoughts and Savannah’s, as well.
She checked her watch. Two p.m. “I would like to get in touch with Nadine Gretz and Owen DeWitt before I go, if at all possible.”
“Nadine’s working at the eastside apartments,” Vledich said.
“I thought she quit,” Savannah said, surprised.
“She did.” Russo shrugged. “But she couldn’t find work in this economy, so we’re using her as a temp. Mostly she just wants to hang with Henry, though. He’s the number two guy after Neil here. If Neil’s busy on a project, Henry’s the man.”
Vledich made a sound of disgust.
Russo said mildly, “Henry would like Neil’s job.”
“Henry Woodworth is an asshole.” Vledich’s brows were a sharp, dark line.
Russo told her the address of the eastside apartment complex, and Savannah committed it to memory. “RiverEast Apartments. It’s on the sign,” he told her.
“And DeWitt?” she asked.
“Should be at the Rib-I. Place used to be a great steak house, but it’s kinda gone downhill. Did you hear? They found two dead bodies in an SUV there yesterday. Doesn’t do well with the clientele, I’d imagine.” Russo smirked.
“Do you know of any theories on that?”
Her cell phone blooped, and she saw it was another message from Lang. As if he’d heard her last question, he’d texted that Curtis wouldn’t be able to meet with her, because he was involved in a double homicide. Bound to be the same one.
“We keeping you from something?” Russo asked.
“No.” She tucked her phone away and waited, and Russo seemed to run their last few words around in his head and realize she was still waiting for an answer.
“Love triangle, somebody said. The jilted lover killed ’em.” He shrugged.
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