“At least this newspaper would appear to be looking into the matter of Moffett’s sudden resignation!”

“That’sall it would be, John. Appearance! Quotes from ten people who don’t know diddly, filled in with could-it-be crap. ‘Could it be that Mr. Moffett really needed more time to care for his ailing poodle?’ ‘Could it be that younger higher-ups were demanding more than the old commissioner could deliver?’”

“Kelly…”

“Maybe she’ll make it dramatic.” I put my hand over my heart and went into a Betty Boop voice, the closest I can come to imitating Dorothy. “‘There’s an empty office in city hall. Very, very empty. Outside, on the door of the office, an equally empty slot, a place where a narrow brass plaque bearing a very important name should be. Everyone here knows the missing name on the missing plaque. Could it be that these uneasy, silent coworkers know why it’s missing?’”

He started stabbing his blotter with a ballpoint pen. I went for broke.

“‘As this reporter looked at the sun-faded carpet, the little bitty indentations where the big oak desk used to sit, the really, really big oak desk that once had a really, really big leather chair behind it…’”

“That’s enough!”

“Oh, sure it is,” I said, dropping the act. “Give the story to Dorothy and you’ll get ten inches on the office decor alone, no sweat. Smoke and mirrors. But what the hell? You’re in a hurry. Go ahead and give it to her. Call me if you start to be curious about what really happened.” I started for the door.

“Sit down!”

I hesitated, decided to turn and face him. One look at his mottled red face convinced me I should sit down.

His eyes narrowed. “You are the most insolent, insubordinate-”

“This is so much better than what I expected.”

That stopped him for a moment. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You were in a good mood this morning. Scared the hell out of everyone in the building.”

He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Haven’t seen enough of you around here lately, Kelly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I was irritated with you, that’s all. A suggestion was made, and I thought it might solve some of our current difficulties.”

“What suggestion?”

He shook his head. “I’ve changed my mind.”

We sat there in silence for a moment. John started tapping the pen again.

“Can we start over?” I asked.

He looked up at me.

“I mean, about the Moffett story,” I went on. “I need you to forget two things.”

“Namely?”

“First, forget that I ever knew Lucas Monroe.”

His scowl returned. “And?”

“And forget that Lucas was homeless.”

“That’s quite an attack of amnesia you’re asking for.”

“Stay with me for a minute. Ben Watterson, Allan Moffett, and a handful of other civic leaders were very heavily involved in redevelopment in the 1970s, right?”

“Lotsof people got involved.”

“This group more than others. Think of how easy it would be for a group of investors to make money with the kind of inside information Allan Moffett could supply.”

“Give me your version.”

“A group of investors learns-very early on-that a certain area is going to be declared a redevelopment zone. They buy run-down buildings for a very low price. They pick up one seedy property after another. Just to stick with round numbers, let’s suppose we have two general partners who put in five thousand dollars each. They pick up a hotel for ten thousand.”

I saw him jot the numbers down on the back of a memo from Wrigley, more in the way of absent doodling than any serious preparation to do math. “Okay,” he said. “Go on.”

“Studies are done, and lo and behold, the city decides the hotel is within a redevelopment zone. The city might have reasonably decided this old hotel should be rehabilitated into low-cost housing, but the investors believe more money is to be made from office buildings. Another study is done, one that influences the Land Use Element, and somehow it reflects a need for office buildings.”

“And the tenants are evicted.”

“Maybe even beforehand. That might help to convince the city that this isn’t residential property. Now the investors get other benefits-low-cost loans, courtesy of the taxpayer; expedited permits and special construction variances; and so on. But for now, let’s just go back to our ten thousand. Their next move is to present a fancy brochure and prospectus to sell limited partnerships. Let’s say they sell one hundred shares at ten thousand dollars a share.”

“They’ve raised a million dollars,” he said. “Probably from people looking for tax shelters, maybe a group of doctors who don’t have any real estate experience.”

“Right about the real estate know-how, but these things attract teachers, firefighters, retirees-anyone with a nest egg. The general partners get ‘highest and best use’ studies and market surveys and all sorts of statistics together and dazzle the hell out of the investors. California real estate was booming then. Our general partners would work to convince everyone that the boom is permanent, that the downtown area will revive and that every lousy square foot of land in Las Piernas will be worth a fortune.”

“The downtown areahas revived.”

“Some of it. Certainly not all. You know what the office vacancy rate is. And not all of the construction was first-rate. But let’s go back to our general partners. They pay themselves administrative fees. Let’s say they charge each limited partner a five percent fee.”

“That’s five hundred each. Fifty thousand all together.”

I shook my head. “Fifty thousandper year. And since the limited partners can’t make decisions about the construction or leasing, if the hotel project goes to hell, they have no recourse-they pay those annual fees anyway.”

“Or sell their shares.”

“Which may be worthless,” I said. “The limited partners are at the mercy of the general partners.”

“Which is what the greedy little limited partners get for trying to avoid taxes.”

“I disagree, but we’ll argue that another time. Besides, what I just presented is probably a worst-case scenario. Let’s suppose the general partners just sell their own shares in the hotel building for a big profit and get out. Or maybe they don’t even bother with the limited partnerships-they sell the building for a more modest profit. No matter what happens, they’ve probably made money-and made it because they had inside information.”

“Your point being?” he said, but he was leaning forward in his chair now.

“Redevelopment was one of three things that Allan Moffett and Ben Watterson had in common. They were part of a group of men who often worked together on these projects, even if some of them-like Allan-supposedly weren’t personally profiting from it.”

“And?”

“Second, they were longtime, active civic leaders who seemed unwilling-until very recently-to step aside from their roles. No one would have predicted that Ben would commit suicide or that Allan Moffett would resign. And yet they did so within a day of each other. What are the odds of that happening, John?”

“Go on.”

“The third thing they have in common is Lucas Monroe. At least twice in each of their lives.”

“Twice?”

“Remember those studies? The earliest statistics Allan needed to set the wheels in motion-to declare an area of the city a redevelopment zone-came from a study Lucas Monroe worked on in the 1970s.”

“And Monroe saw each of them recently.”

“Contacted them anyway.” I told him about the photocopy.

“Hmm. Too bad he’s dead.” It was said in an offhand manner, a newsman’s regret for the loss of a source. But seeing my face he added, “Aw, Kelly, for Godsakes-”

“Forget it. I’ve given up getting so much as an obit for him. I just want you to realize that trying to find out what he was up to is not just a personal project.” Thou doth protest too much, a little voice said. I ignored it. “I’ll know more about Moffett’s resignation if I can learn why Lucas went to see these people.”