Gone ,but not forgotten

by Philip Margolin

  "it looks like you were right." lake shrugged his shoulders, stifling a smile.

  "Say," lake asked sheepishly, "you didn't tell anyone about my stakeout, did you?"

  "That's our little secret."

  "Thanks. I feel like a fool, going off on my own like that. you were right. if Waters caught on, he probably would have killed me."

  "You must feel relieved, knowing Sandy's and Melody's killer has been caught," Nancy said, watching for a reaction.

  Lake suddenly looked somber.

  "It's as if an enormous weight was taken off my shoulders. Maybe now my life can go back to normal."

  "You know, Peter," Nancy said casually, "there was a time when I tossed around the possibility that you might be the killer."

  "why?" Peter asked, shocked.

  "You were never a serious suspect, but there were a few inconsistencies in your story.

  "Like what?"

  "The time, for instance. You didn't call 911 until eight-fifteen, but a neighbor saw you driving toward your house around seven-twenty. I couldn't figure out why it took you so long to call the police."

  "You've got to be kidding."

  Nancy shrugged. "I was a suspect because of this time thing?"

  "What were you doing for 'almost an hour?"

  "Jesus, Nancy, I don't remember. I was in a daze. I mean, I might have blacked out for a bit."

  "You never mentioned that."

  Lake stared at Nancy, openmouthed.

  "Am I still a suspect? Are you interrogating me?"

  Nancy shook her head. "The case is closed, Peter.

  The chief is going to hold a press conference in the morning. There were three black roses and another one of those notes on a shelf in the basement. And, of course, there was poor Patricia Cross."

  "But you don't believe it? You honestly think I could have…?"

  "Relax, Peter," Nancy answered, closing her eyes.

  "I'm real tired and not thinking straight. It's been one very long day."

  "I can't relax. I mean, I really like you and I thought you liked me.

  It's a shock to find out you seriously thought I could do something… something like what was done to that woman."

  Nancy opened her eyes. Lake looked distant, like he was visualizing Patricia Cross's eviscerated body. But he had not been to the crime scene or read an autopsy report. The media had not been told the condition of Patricia Cross's body.

  "I said you were never a serious suspect and I meant it," Nancy lied with a forced smile. "If you were, I would have told Turner and Grimsbo about the stakeout, wouldn't I?"

  "I guess."

  "Well, I didn't and you can't be a suspect anymore, what with Waters dead, can you?"

  Lake shook his head.

  "Look," Nancy told him, "I'm really whacked out. I have one more report to write and I'm gone. Why don't you go home too, and start getting on with your life."

  Lake stood. "That's good advice. I'm going to take it.

  And I want to thank you for everything you've done for me. I don't know how I would have gotten through this without you."

  Lake stuck out his hand. Nancy stared at it for a second. Was this the hand that ripped the life out of Patricia Cross and Sandra and Melody Lake or was she crazy?

  Nancy shook Lake's hand. He held hers a moment longer than necessary, then released it after a brief squeeze.

  "When things get back to normal for both of us, I'd like to take you to dinner," Lake said.

  "Call me," Nancy answered, her stomach churning.

  It took every ounce of control to keep the smile on her face.

  Lake left the room and Nancy stopped smiling. Waters was too good to be true. She did not believe he was responsible for the carnage in his basement. Lake had to know about the alley and the back door. With Waters at work and the mother an invalid, it would have been simple to drive behind the house without being seen, put the body in the basement and butcher it there. Lake was the anonymous caller, she was certain of it. But she had no proof. And O'Malley would soon tell the world that Henry Waters was a serial killer and the case of the missing women was closed.

  Part Three

  CLEAR AND CONVINCING EVIDENCE.

  Chapter Six

  "And that's what happened, Mr. Page," Nancy Gordon said. "The case was closed. Henry Waters was officially named as the rose killer. Shortly after, Peter Lake disappeared. His house was sold. He closed his bank accounts.

  His associates were handed a thriving business. And Peter was never heard from again."

  Page looked confused. "Maybe I'm missing something. Your case against lake was purely circumstantial.

  Unless there was more evidence, I don't understand why you're so certain Peter Lake killed those women and framed Waters."

  Gordon took a newspaper clipping and a photograph of a man leaving a motel room out of her briefcase and laid them side by side.

  "Do you recognize this man?" she asked, pointing to the photograph. Page leaned over and picked it up.

  "This is Martin Darius."

  "Look carefully at this newspaper picture of Peter Lake and tell me what you think."

  Page studied the two pictures. He imagined Lake with a beard and Darius without one. He tried to judge the size of the two men and compare builds.

  "They could be the same person," he said.

  "They are the same person. And the man who is murdering your women is the same man who murdered the women in Hunter's Point. We never released the color of the rose or the contents of the notes. Whoever is killing your women has information known only by the members of the Hunter's Point task force and the killer."

  Gordon took a fingerprint card from the briefcase and handed it to Page.

  "These are Lake's fingerprints. Compare them to Darius's. You must have some on file."

  "How did you find Lake here?" Page asked.

  Gordon took a sheet of stationery out of her briefcase and laid it on the coffee table next to the photograph.

  I've had it dusted for prints," she said. "There aren't any."

  Page picked up the letter. It had been written on a word processor. The stationery looked cheap, probably the type sold in hundreds of chain stores and impossible to trace. The note read: "Women in Portland, Oregon are "Gone, But Not Forgotten." The first letters of each word were capitalized like those in the notes found in the homes of the victims.

  "I received this yesterday. The envelope was postmarked from Portland.

  The photograph of Darius and an Oregonian profile of him were inside. I knew it was Lake the minute I saw the picture. The envelope also contained a clipping about you, Mr. Page, your address and a ticket for a United Airlines flight. No one met me at the airport, so I came to see you."

  "What do you suggest we do, Detective Gordon? We certainly can't bring Darius in for questioning with what you've given me."

  "No!" Gordon said, alarmed. "Don't spook him. You have to stay away from Martin Darius until your case is airtight. You have no idea how clever he is."

  Page was startled by Gordon's desperation.

  "We know our business, Detective," he assured her.

  "You don't know Peter Lake. You've never dealt with anyone like him."

  "You said that before."

  "You must believe me."

  "Is there something else you aren't telling me?"

  Gordon started to say something, then she shook her head.

  "I'm exhausted, Mr. Page. I need to rest. You don't know what this is like for me. To have Lake surface after all these years. If you had seen what he did to Patricia Cross There was a long pause and Page said nothing.

  "I need a place to stay," Gordon said abruptly. "Can you suggest a motel? Someplace quiet."

  "There's the Lakeview. We keep out-of-town witnesses there. I can drive you.

  "No, don't. I'll take a cab. Can you call one for me?"

  "Sure. My phone book is in my bedroom. I'll be right out."

  "I'll leave you
the fingerprint card, the photograph and the newspaper clipping. I have copies," Gordon said as she gathered up the note.

  "You're certain you don't want me to drive you? It's no trouble."

  Gordon shook her bead. Page went into the bedroom and called for a cab.

  When he returned to the living room, Gordon was slumped on the couch, her eyes closed.

  "They'll be here in ten minutes," he said.

  Gordon's eyes snapped open. She looked startled, as if she had drifted off for a few minutes and had been scared awake.

  "It's been a long day," the detective said. She looked embarrassed.

  "Jet lag," Page said to make conversation. "I hope you're right about Darius."

  "I am right," Gordon answered, her features rigid. "I am one hundred percent right. You believe that, Mr. Page. The lives of a lot of women depend on it."

  Chapter Seven

  Something was definitely wrong with Gordon's story. It was like a book with a great plot and a flat ending. And there were inconsistencies. The way Gordon told it, she, Grimsbo and Turner were dedicated detectives.

  If they were convinced Lake murdered six women and framed Waters, how could they simply let the case go? And why would Lake suddenly leave a thriving practice and disappear, if he thought he was in the clear? Had he ever followed up on his romantic interest in Gordon? She hadn't mentioned any contact after the night of Waters's arrest. Finally, there was the question Page had forgotten to ask. What about the women? Gordon had not told him what happened to the missing women.

  While he waited for someone in the Hunter's Point Detective Bureau to pick up the phone, Page listed these points on a yellow legal pad.

  Rolling black storm clouds were coming in from the west. Page was awfully tired of the rain. Maybe these clouds would give him a break and float across the city before dropping their load. Maybe they would leave a space for the sun to shine through when they left.

  "Roy Lenzer."

  Page laid his pen down on the pad.

  "Detective Lenzer, I'm Alan Page, the Multnomah County district attorney. That's in Portland, Oregon."

  "What can I do for you?" Lenzer asked cordially.

  "Do you have a detective in your department named Nancy Gordon?"

  "Sure, but she's on vacation. Won't be back for a week or so."

  "Can you describe her?"

  Lenzer's description matched the woman who had visited Page's apartment.

  Is there something I can help you with?" he asked.

  "Maybe. We have an odd situation here. Three women have disappeared. In each case, we found a note in the bedroom pinned down by a rose.

  Detective Gordon told me she was involved with an identical case in Hunter's Point, approximately ten years ago."

  "It seems to me I heard something about the case, but I've only been on the force for five years. Moved here from Indiana. So I wouldn't be much help."

  "What about Frank Grimsbo or Wayne Turner? They were the other detectives."

  "There's no Grimsbo or Turner in the department now."

  Page heard a rumble of thunder and looked out the window. A flag on the building across the way was snapping back and forth. It looked like it might rip off the pole.

  "I don't suppose there's any chance I can get a copy of the file. The guy who was eventually arrested was Henry Waters "W-A-T-E-R-S?"

  "Right. He was shot resisting. I think there were six dead women. One of them was named Patricia Cross.

  Then there was Melody Lake, a young girl, and Sandra Lake, her mother. I don't remember the names of the others."

  "If this happened ten years ago, the file is in storage.

  I'll get on it and let you know when I find it. What's your address and phone number?"

  Page was telling them to Lenzer when Randy Highsmith, the chief criminal deputy, opened the door for William Tobias, the chief of police, and Ross Barrow, the detective in charge of the black rose case. Page motioned them into seats, then hung up.

  "We may have a break in the case of the missing women, Page said. He started relating Gordon's version of the Hunter's Point case.

  "Before the body was found at Waters's house, the chief suspect was Peter Lake, a husband of one of the victims," Page concluded. "There was enough circumstantial evidence to raise the possibility that Lake framed Waters. Shortly after the case was officially closed, Lake disappeared.

  "Two days ago, Gordon received an anonymous note with the words' women in Portland, Oregon are "Gone, But Not Forgotten." The first letter in each word was capitalized, just the way our boy does it. Enclosed was a photograph of Martin Darius leaving a motel room. Martin Darius may be Peter Lake. Gordon thinks he's our killer."

  "I know Martin Darius," Tobias said incredulously.

  "Everyone knows Darius," Page said, "but how much do we know about him?"

  Page pushed the photograph of Darius and the newspaper with lake's picture across the desk. Barrow, Tobias and Highsmith huddled over them.

  "Boy," Highsmith said, shaking his head.

  "I don't know, Al," Tobias said. "The news photo isn't that clear."

  "Gordon left me Lake's prints for comparison. Can you run them, Ross?"

  Barrow nodded and took the print card from Page.

  "I'm having a hard time buying this," Tobias said.

  "I'd like to talk to your detective."

  "Let me call her in. I'd like you to hear her tell the story," Page said, not revealing his doubts, because he wanted them to have an open mind when they heard Gordon.

  Page dialed the number for the Lakeview Motel. He asked to be connected with Gordon's room, then leaned back while the desk clerk rang it.

  "She's not? Well, this is very important. Do you know when she left? I see. Okay, tell her to call Alan Page as soon as she gets back."

  Page left his number and hung up. "She checked in last night around one, but she's not in now. It's possible she's having breakfast."

  "What do you want to do, Al?" Highsmith asked.

  "I'd like a twenty-four-hour surveillance on Darius, in case Gordon is right."

  "I can do that," Barrow said.

  "Make sure you use good people, Ross. I don't want Darius to suspect we're watching him.

  "Randy, run a background check on Darius. I want his life story as quickly as you can get it."

  Highsmith nodded.

  "As soon as Gordon calls, I'll get back to you."

  Highsmith led Tobias and Barrow out of the office and closed the door.

  Page thought of dialing the Lakeview again, but it was too soon after the first call. He swiveled toward the window. It was pouring.

  Why hadn't he spotted the flaws in Gordon's story last night? Was it Gordon? She seemed barely in control, on edge, as if electrical charges were coursing through her. He could not take his eyes off her when she talked.

  It was not a physical attraction. Something else drew him to her. Her passion, her desperation. Now that she was out of sight, he could think more clearly. When she was near him, she created a disturbance in the field, like the lightning flashing over the river.

  Betsy scanned the restaurant for single women as she followed the hostess between a row of tables. She noticed a tall, athletic woman wearing a bright yellow blouse and a navy blue suit seated in a booth against the wall, As Betsy drew near, the woman stood up.

  "You must be Nora Sloane," Betsy said as they shook hands. Sloane's complexion was pale. So were her blue eyes. She wore her chestnut-colored hair short. Betsy noticed a few gray streaks, but she guessed they were about the same age.

  "Thank you for meeting me, Mrs. Tannenbaum."

  "It's Betsy and you're a good saleswoman. When you called this morning and mentioned a free lunch, you hooked me."

  Sloane laughed. "I'm glad you're this easy, because a free lunch is about all you're going to get out of me. I'm writing this article on spec. I got the idea when I covered your suit against the anti-abortion protestors for the Arizona Republic.r />
  "You're from Phoenix?"

  "New York, originally. My husband got a job in Phoenix. We separated a year after we moved. I was never crazy about Arizona, especially with my ex living there, and I fell in love with Portland while I was covering your case. So, a month ago I quit my job and moved.

  I'm living on savings and looking for a job and I decided now was as good a time as any to write this article. I ran the idea by Gloria Douglas, an editor at Pacific West magazine, and she's definitely interested. But she wants to see a draft of the article before she commits."

  "What exactly will the article cover?"

  "Women litigators. And I want to use you and your cases as the centerpiece."

  "I hope you're not going to make too much of me."

  "Hey, don't get bashful on me," Sloane said with a laugh. "Until recently, women attorneys were relegated to the probate department or handled divorces. Stuff that was acceptable as 'woman's work." My whole point is that you're at the vanguard of a new generation of women who are trying murder cases and getting million-dollar verdicts in civil cases. Areas that have traditionally been m-ale-dominated."

  "It sounds interesting."

  "I'm glad you think so, because people want to read about you. You're really the hook for the article.

  "What will I have to do?"

  "Not much. Mostly, it will be talking to me about Hammermill and your other cases. On occasion, I may want to tag — along when you go to court."

  "That sounds okay. I think talking through my cases might help me put them in perspective. I was so close to what was happening when they were going on."

  The waiter arrived. Sloane ordered a Caesar salad and a glass of white wine. Betsy ordered yellowfin tuna on pasta, but passed on the wine.

  "What did you want to do today?" Betsy asked, as soon as the waiter left.

  "I thought we'd go over some background material. I read the piece in the Times, but I felt it was superficial. It didn't tell me what made you the way you are today. For instance, were you a leader in high school?"

  Betsy laughed. "God, no. I was so shy. A real gawk."

  Sloane smiled. "I can understand that. You were tall, right? I had the same problem."