Gone, But Not Forgotten

by Phillip Margolin

  Two months ago, when Rick told her he was leaving, Betsy was stunned. She knew they had problems, but she’d never imagined that he would walk out. Betsy had searched her memory for a clue to Rick’s jealousy. Had he changed or was he always so self-centered? Betsy had trouble believing that Rick’s love was too fragile to withstand her success, but she was not willing to give up her career to appease his ego. Why should she? The way she saw it, it was a matter of Rick accepting her as an equal. If he couldn’t do that then she could never stay married to him. If he loved her, it should not be such a hard thing to do. She was proud of his achievements. Why couldn’t he be proud of hers?

  Betsy poured herself a glass of milk and turned off the light. The kitchen joined the rest of the house in soothing darkness. Betsy carried her glass to the kitchen table and slumped into a chair. She took a sip and gazed sleepily out the window. Many of the houses in the neighborhood were dark. A streetlight cast a pale glow over a corner of the front yard. It was so quiet with Rick gone and Kathy asleep. No traffic sounds outside, no television on. None of the little noises people make shuffling around a house.

  Betsy had handled enough divorces to know that many estranged husbands would never have done what Rick had done for her tonight. He had done it for Kathy, because he loved her. And Kathy loved Rick. The separation was very hard on their daughter. There were times, like now, when the house was quiet and Betsy was alone, that she missed Rick. She was not certain she loved him anymore, but she remembered how good it had been. Sleeping alone was the hardest thing. She missed the lovemaking, but she missed the cuddling and the pillow talk more. Sometimes she thought they might get back together. Tonight, before Rick left, she was certain that there was something he wanted to tell her. What was he about to say? And if he said he wanted her back, what would she say? After all, he was the one who had walked out on ten years of marriage, a child, their life together. They were a family and Rick’s actions told her that meant nothing to him.

  The night Rick walked out, alone in bed, when she couldn’t cry anymore, Betsy had rolled on her side and stared at their wedding picture. Rick was grinning. He had told her he had never been so happy. She had been so filled with joy, she was afraid she could not hold all of it. How could a feeling like that disappear?

  CHAPTER 4

  One

  “Late night?” Wayne Turner’s secretary asked, trying, unsuccessfully, to conceal a grin.

  “It shows, huh?”

  “Only to those who know how perky you usually look.”

  The night before, Turner, Senator Raymond Colby’s administrative assistant, had gotten stinking drunk celebrating the senator’s nomination to the Supreme Court. This morning he was paying for his sins, but he didn’t mind. He was happy for the old gent, who had done so much for him. His only regret was that Colby had not run for President. He would have made a great one.

  Turner was five feet nine and slender. He had a narrow face, high cheekbones, close-cropped, kinky black hair that was graying at the temples and brown skin a few shades darker than his tan suit. Turner weighed about what he had when he first met Colby. He hadn’t lost his intensity, but the scowl that used to be a permanent feature had wilted over the years. Turner hung his jacket on a hook behind the door, lit his fourth Winston of the day and sat behind his cluttered desk. Framed in the window at his back was the shining, white dome of the Capitol.

  Turner shuffled through his messages. Many were from reporters who wanted the inside scoop on Colby’s nomination. Some were from a.a.s for other senators who were probably calling about Colby’s crime bill. A few were from partners in prestigious Washington law firms, confirmation that Turner need not be worried about what he would do after the senator became Chief Justice. Washington power brokers were always interested in someone who had the ear of a powerful man. Turner would do all right, but he would miss working with the senator.

  The last message in the stack caught Turner’s eye. It was from Nancy Gordon, one of the few people whose call he would have returned yesterday afternoon if he had made it back to the office. Turner assumed she was calling about the nomination. There was a Hunter’s Point, New York number on the message slip.

  “It’s Wayne,” he said when he heard the familiar voice at the other end. “How you doin’?”

  “He’s surfaced,” Gordon answered without any preliminaries. It took Turner a few seconds to catch on, then he felt sick.

  “Where?”

  “Portland, Oregon.”

  “How do you know?”

  She told him. When she was through, Turner asked, “What are you going to do?”

  “There’s a flight to Portland leaving in two hours.”

  “Why do you think he started again?”

  “I’m surprised he held out for so long,” Gordon answered.

  “When did you get the letter?”

  “Yesterday, around four. I just came on shift.”

  “You know about the senator?”

  “Heard it on the news.”

  “Do you think there’s a connection? The timing, I mean. It seems odd it would be so soon after the President made the announcement.”

  “There could be a connection. I don’t know. And I don’t want to jump to conclusions.”

  “Have you called Frank?” Turner asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Do it. Let him know.”

  “All right.”

  “Shit. This is the absolute, worst possible time for this to happen.”

  “You’re worried about the senator?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about the women?” Gordon asked coldly.

  “Don’t lay that trip on me, Nancy. You know damn well I care about the women, but Colby is my best friend. Can you keep him out of it?”

  “I will if I can.”

  Turner was sweating. The plastic receiver was uncomfortable against his ear.

  “What will you do when you find him?” he asked nervously. Gordon did not answer immediately. Turner could hear her breathing deeply.

  “Nancy?”

  “I’ll do what I have to.”

  Turner knew what that was. If Nancy Gordon found the man who had haunted their dreams for the past ten years, she would kill him. The civilized side of Wayne Turner wanted to tell Gordon that she should not take the law into her own hands. But there was a primitive side of Wayne Turner that kept him from saying it, because everyone, including the senator, would be better off if the man Homicide Detective Nancy Gordon was stalking died.

  Two

  The microwave buzzed. Alan Page backed into the kitchen, keeping one eye on the television. The CBS anchorman was talking about the date that had been set for Raymond Colby’s confirmation hearing. Colby would give the Supreme Court a solid conservative majority and that was good news, if you were a prosecutor.

  Alan took his TV dinner out of the microwave, giving the food the briefest of glances. He was thirty-seven, with close-cropped black hair, a face that still bore the scars of acne and a sense of purpose that made most people nervous. His rail-thin body suggested an interest in distance running. In fact, Alan was thin because he had no use for food and ate the bare minimum that would keep him going. It was worse now that he was divorced. On a good day, breakfast was instant coffee, lunch a sandwich and more black coffee and dinner a pizza.

  A reporter was interviewing someone who knew Colby when he was c.e.o. of Marlin Steel. Alan used the remote to jack up the volume. From what he was hearing, there was nothing standing in the way of Colby’s confirmation as Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court. The doorbell rang just as the Colby story ended. Alan hoped it wasn’t business. There was a Bogart classic on at nine that he’d been looking forward to all day.

  The woman standing on Alan’s doorstep held a briefcase over her head to shield herself from the rain. A small, tan valise stood beside her. A taxi was waiting at the curb, its wipers swinging back and forth and its headlight beams cutting through
the torrent.

  “Alan Page?”

  He nodded. The woman flipped open a leather case she was clutching in her free hand and showed Alan her badge.

  “Nancy Gordon. I’m a homicide detective with the Hunter’s Point P.D. in Hunter’s Point, New York. Can I come in?”

  “Of course,” he said, stepping back. Gordon signaled the taxi, then ducked inside. She held the briefcase at arm’s length, shook off the water on the welcome mat, then pulled in the valise.

  “Let me take your coat,” Alan said. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Hot coffee, please,” Gordon answered as she handed him her raincoat.

  “What’s a detective from New York doing in Portland, Oregon?” Alan asked as he hung the coat in the hall closet.

  “Does the phrase ‘Gone, But Not Forgotten’ mean anything to you, Mr. Page?”

  Alan stood perfectly still for a second, then turned around. “That information hasn’t been released to the public. How do you know about it?”

  “I know more than you can imagine about ‘Gone, But Not Forgotten,’ Mr. Page. I know what the note means. I know about the black rose. I also know who took your missing women.”

  Alan needed a moment to think.

  “Please sit down and I’ll get your coffee,” he told Gordon.

  The apartment was small. The living room and kitchen were one space divided by a counter. Gordon chose an armchair near the television and waited patiently while Alan mixed water from a tea kettle with Folger’s instant. He handed the cup to the detective, turned off the set, then sat opposite her on the couch. Gordon was tall with an athlete’s body. Alan guessed she was in her mid-thirties. Her blond hair was cut short. She was attractive without working at it. The most striking thing about the detective was her utter seriousness. Her dress was severe, her eyes were cold, her mouth was sealed in a straight line and her body was rigid, like an animal prepared to defend itself.

  Gordon leaned forward slightly. “Think of the most repulsive criminals, Mr. Page. Think of Bundy, Manson, Dahmer. The man leaving these notes is smarter and far more dangerous than any of them, because they’re all dead or in prison. The man you’re after is the man who got away.”

  “You know who he is?” Alan asked.

  Gordon nodded. “I’ve been waiting for him to surface for ten years.”

  Gordon paused. She looked into the steam rising from her cup. Then she looked back at Alan.

  “This man is cunning, Mr. Page, and he’s different. He’s not human, the way we think of human. I knew he wouldn’t be able to control himself forever and I was right. Now he’s surfaced and I can catch him, but I need your help.”

  “If you can clear this up, you’ve got all the help you want. But I’m still confused about who you are and what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry. I’ve been involved with this case so long, I forget other people don’t know what happened. And you’ll need to know it all or you won’t understand. Do you have the time, Mr. Page? Can I tell you now? I don’t think we can wait, even until morning. Not while he’s still out there, free.”

  “If you’re not too tired.”

  Gordon stared into Alan’s eyes with an intensity that forced him to look away.

  “I’m always tired, Mr. Page. There was a time when I couldn’t sleep without pills. I’m over that, but the nightmares haven’t stopped and I still don’t sleep well. I won’t until he’s caught.”

  Alan did not know what to say. Gordon looked down. She drank more coffee. Then she told Alan Page about Hunter’s Point.

  PART TWO

  HUNTER’S POINT

  CHAPTER 5

  One

  The sprawling, two-story colonial was in the middle of a cul-de-sac, set well back from the street. A large, well-tended lawn created a wide buffer zone between the house and those on either side. A red Ferrari was parked in the driveway in front of a three-car garage.

  Nancy Gordon knew it was going to be bad as soon as she saw the stunned expressions on the faces of the neighbors, who huddled just outside the police barriers. They were shocked by the presence of police cars and a morgue wagon in the quiet confines of The Meadows, where the houses started at half a million and crime was simply not permitted. She knew it was going to be really bad when she saw the grim faces of the two homicide detectives who were talking in low tones on the lawn near the front door.

  Nancy parked her Ford behind a marked car and squeezed through the sawhorses. Frank Grimsbo and Wayne Turner stopped their conversation when they saw her. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. The call had come while she was sprawled in front of the TV in a ratty nightgown, sipping a cheap white wine and watching the Mets smoke the Dodgers. The clothes were the first thing she could find and the last thing she thought about.

  “Newman said there’s a body this time,” she said excitedly.

  “Two.”

  “How can we be sure it’s him?” Nancy asked.

  “The note and the rose were on the floor near the woman,” Grimsbo answered. He was a big man with a beer gut and thinning black hair who wore cheap plaid jackets and polyester slacks.

  “It’s him all right,” said Turner, a skinny black man with close-cropped hair and a permanent scowl who was in his second year in night law school. “The first cop on the scene was smart enough to figure out what was going on. He called me right away. Michaels did the note and the crime scene before anyone else was let in.”

  “That was a break. Who’s the second victim?”

  “Melody Lake,” Grimsbo answered. “She’s six years old, Nancy.”

  “Oh, fuck.” The excitement she felt at finally getting a body disappeared instantly. “Did he … Was there anything done to her?”

  Turner shook his head. “She wasn’t molested.”

  “And the woman?”

  “Sandra Lake. The mother. Death by strangulation. She was beaten pretty badly, too, but there’s no evidence of sexual activity. Course, she hasn’t been autopsied.”

  “Do we have a witness?”

  “I don’t know,” Grimsbo answered. “We have uniforms talking to the neighbors, but nothing yet. Husband found the bodies and called it in to 911 about eight-fifteen. He says he didn’t see anyone, so the killer must have left way before the husband got home. We got a cul-de-sac here and it leads into Sparrow Lane, the only road out of the development. The husband would have seen someone coming in or out.”

  “Who’s talked to him?”

  “I did, for a few minutes,” Turner answered. “And the first cops on the scene, of course. He was too bent out of shape to make any sense. You know him, Nancy.”

  “I do?”

  “It’s Peter Lake.”

  “The attorney?”

  Grimsbo nodded. “He defended Daley.”

  Nancy frowned and tried to remember what she could about Peter Lake. She had not done much in the Daley investigation. All she recalled about the defense attorney were his good looks and efficient manner. She was on the stand less than a half hour.

  “I better go in,” Nancy said.

  The entryway was huge. A small chandelier hung overhead. A sunken living room was directly in front of her. The room was spotless. She could see a small man-made lake out back through a large picture window. Strategically placed around the room, most probably by an interior decorator, were bleached oak tables with granite tops, chairs and a sofa in pastel shades and macramé wall hangings. It looked more like a showroom than a place where people lived.

  A wide staircase was off to the left. A polished wood banister followed the curve of the stairs to the second floor. The posts supporting the banister were closely spaced. Through the spaces, halfway up the stairs, Nancy could see a small lump covered by a blanket. She turned away.

  Lab technicians were dusting for prints, taking photographs and collecting evidence. Bruce Styles, the deputy medical examiner, was standing with his back to her in the middle of the entryway between
a uniformed officer and one of his assistants.

  “You finished?” Nancy asked.

  The doctor nodded and stepped aside. The woman was facedown on the white shag carpet. She was wearing a white cotton dress. It looked well suited for the heat. Her feet were bare. The woman’s head was turned away. Blood matted her long brown hair. Nancy guessed she had been brought down by a blow to the head, and Styles confirmed her suspicion.

  “I figure she was running for the door and he got her from behind. She could have been partly conscious or completely out when he strangled her.”

  Nancy walked around the body so she could see the woman’s face. She was sorry she looked. If the woman had been attractive, there was no way to tell now. Nancy took a couple of deep breaths.

  “What about the little girl?” she asked.

  “Neck broken,” Styles answered. “It would have been quick and painless.”

  “We think she was a witness to the mother’s murder,” Turner said. “Probably heard her screaming and came down the steps.”

  “Where’s the husband?” Nancy asked.

  “Down the hall in the den,” Turner said.

  “No sense putting it off.”

  Peter Lake slumped in a chair. Someone had given him a glass of scotch, but the glass was still more than half full. He looked up when Nancy entered the den and she could see he had been crying. Even so, he was a striking man, tall with a trim, athletic build. Lake’s styled, gold-blond hair, his pale blue eyes and sharp, clean-shaven features were what won over the women on his juries.

  “Mr. Lake, do you remember me?” Nancy asked.

  Lake looked confused.