Gone, But Not Forgotten

by Phillip Margolin

  The line was quiet for a moment, then Stewart said, “Oh, shit.”

  “Exactly. We know Oberhurst lied to Lisa. He told her he hadn’t started investigating the Hunter’s Point case, but he was in Hunter’s Point. And he’s disappeared. I talked to every lawyer I could find who’s employed him. No contact. He doesn’t return calls. The John Doe is Oberhurst’s size and build. What do you want to bet the corpse has a broken nose?”

  “No bets. What are you going to do?”

  “There’s nothing we can do. Darius is our client. We’re his agents. This is all confidential.”

  “Even if he killed the guy?”

  “Even if he killed the guy.”

  Betsy heard a sharp intake of air, then Stewart said:

  “You’re the boss. What do you want me to do next?”

  “Have you tried to set up a meeting with Wayne Turner?”

  “No go. His secretary says he’s too busy, because of the confirmation hearings.”

  “Damn. Gordon, Turner, Grimsbo. They all know something. What about the police chief? What was his name?”

  “O’Malley. Lenzer says he retired to Florida about nine years ago.”

  “Okay,” Betsy said with a trace of desperation. “Keep trying to find Samantha Reardon. She’s our best bet.”

  “I’ll do it for you, Betsy. If it was someone else … I gotta tell you, I usually don’t give a fuck, but I’m starting to. I don’t like this case.”

  “That makes two of us. I just don’t know what to do about it. We’re not even certain I’m right. I have to find that out, first.”

  “If you are, what then?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Three

  Betsy put Kathy to sleep at nine and changed into a flannel nightgown. After brewing a pot of coffee, Betsy spread out the papers in Friday’s divorce case on the dining room table. The coffee was waking her up, but her mind wandered to the Darius case. Was Darius guilty? Betsy could not stop thinking about the question she had put to Alan Page during her cross-examination: With six victims, including a six-year-old girl, why would the mayor and chief of police of Hunter’s Point close the case if there was any possibility that Peter Lake, or anyone else, was really the murderer? It made no sense.

  Betsy pushed aside the documents in the divorce and pulled a yellow pad in front of her. She listed what she knew about the Darius case. The list stretched for three pages. Betsy came to the information she had learned from Stewart that afternoon. A thought occurred to her. She frowned.

  Betsy knew Samuel Oberhurst was not above blackmail. He’d tried it on Gary Telford. If Martin Darius was the rose killer, Darius would have no compunction about killing Oberhurst if the investigator tried to blackmail him. But Betsy’s assumption that John Doe was Samuel Oberhurst made sense only if Samantha Reardon identified Martin Darius as the rose killer. And that’s where the difficulty lay. The police would have questioned Reardon when they rescued her. If the task force suspected that Peter Lake, not Henry Waters, was the kidnapper, they would have shown Reardon a photograph of Lake. If she identified Lake as her kidnapper, why would the mayor and the police chief announce that Waters was the killer? Why would the case be closed?

  Dr. Escalante said that Reardon was institutionalized. Maybe she couldn’t be interviewed immediately. But she would have been interviewed at some point. Grimsbo told Reggie that Nancy Gordon was obsessed with the case and never believed Waters was the killer. So, Betsy thought, let’s assume that Reardon did identify Lake as the killer at some point. Why wouldn’t Gordon, or someone, have reopened the case?

  Maybe Reardon wasn’t asked until Oberhurst talked to her. But wouldn’t she have read about Henry Waters and known the police had accused the wrong man? She could have been so traumatized that she wanted to forget everything that happened to her, even if it meant letting Lake go free. But if that was true, why tell Oberhurst that Lake was her kidnapper?

  Betsy sighed. She was missing something. She stood up and carried her coffee cup into the living room. The Sunday New York Times was sitting in a wicker basket next to her favorite chair. She sat down and decided to look through it. Sometimes the best way to figure out a problem was to forget about it for a while. She had read the Book Review, the Magazine and the Arts section, but she still hadn’t read the Week in Review.

  Betsy skimmed an article about the fighting in the Ukraine and another about the resumption of hostilities between North and South Korea. Death was everywhere.

  Betsy turned the page and started reading a profile of Raymond Colby. Betsy knew Colby would be confirmed and it upset her. There was no more diversity of opinion on the Court. Wealthy white males with identical backgrounds and identical thoughts dominated it. Men with no concept of what it was like to be poor or helpless, who had been nominated by Republican Presidents for no reason other than their willingness to put the interests of the wealthy and big government ahead of individual rights. Colby was no different. Harvard Law, c.e.o. of Marlin Steel, governor of New York, then a member of the United States Senate for the last nine years. Betsy read a summary of Colby’s accomplishments as a governor and senator and a prediction of the way he would vote on several cases that were before the Supreme Court, then skimmed another article about the economy. When she was finished with the paper, she went back to the dining room.

  The divorce case was a mess. Betsy’s client and her husband didn’t have children and they had agreed to split almost all of their property, but they were willing to go to the mat over a cheap landscape they had bought from a sidewalk artist in Paris on their honeymoon. Going to court over the silly painting was costing them both ten times its value, but they were adamant. Obviously it was not the painting that was fueling their rage. It was a case like this that made Betsy want to enter a nunnery. But, she sighed to herself, it was also cases like this that paid her overhead. She started reading the divorce petition, then remembered something she had read in the article about Raymond Colby.

  Betsy put the petition down. The idea had come so fast that it made her a little dizzy. She walked back to the living room and reread Colby’s biography. There it was. He had been a United States senator for nine years. Hunter’s Point Chief of Police John O’Malley retired to Florida nine years ago. Frank Grimsbo had been with Marlin Steel, Colby’s old company, for nine years. And Wayne Turner was the senator’s administrative assistant.

  The heat was on in the house, but Betsy felt like she was hugging a block of ice. She went back to the dining room and reread her list of important facts in the Darius case. It was all there. You just had to look at the facts in a certain way and it made perfect sense. Martin Darius was the rose killer. The Hunter’s Point police knew that when they announced that Henry Waters was the murderer and closed the case. Now Betsy knew how Peter Lake could walk away from Hunter’s Point with the blood of all those innocent people on his hands. What she could not imagine was why the governor of New York State would conspire with the police force and mayor of Hunter’s Point to set free a mass murderer.

  CHAPTER 16

  One

  The sun was shining, but the temperature was a little below freezing. Betsy hung up her overcoat. Her cheeks hurt from the cold. She rubbed her hands together and asked Ann to bring her a cup of coffee. By the time Ann set a steaming mug on her coaster, Betsy was dialing Washington, D.C.

  “Senator Colby’s office.”

  “I’d like to speak to Wayne Turner, please.”

  “I’ll connect you to his secretary.”

  Betsy picked up the mug. Her hand was trembling. She wanted to sound confident, but she was scared to death.

  “Can I help you?” a pleasant female voice asked.

  “My name is Betsy Tannenbaum. I’m an attorney in Portland, Oregon. I’d like to speak to Mr. Turner.”

  “Mr. Turner is very busy with the confirmation hearings. If you leave me your number, he’ll call you when he gets the chance.”

  Betsy knew Turner would ne
ver return her call. There was only one way to force him to get on the phone. Betsy was convinced she knew what had happened in Hunter’s Point and she would have to gamble she was right.

  “This can’t wait. Let Mr. Turner know that Peter Lake’s attorney is on the phone.” Then Betsy told the secretary to tell Turner something else. The secretary made her repeat the message. “If Mr. Turner won’t talk to me, tell him I’m sure the press will.”

  Turner’s secretary put Betsy on hold. Betsy closed her eyes and tried a meditation technique she had learned in a YWCA yoga class. It didn’t work, and she jumped when Turner came on the line.

  “Who is this?” he barked.

  “I told your secretary, Mr. Turner. My name is Betsy Tannenbaum and I’m Martin Darius’s attorney. You knew him as Peter Lake when he lived in Hunter’s Point. I want to talk to Senator Colby immediately.”

  “The senator is extremely busy with the confirmation hearings, Ms. Tannenbaum. Can’t this wait until they’re over?”

  “I’m not going to wait until the senator is safely on the Court, Mr. Turner. If he won’t speak to me, I’ll be forced to go to the press.”

  “Damn it, if you spread any irresponsible …”

  “Calm down, Mr. Turner. If you thought about this at all, you’d know it would hurt my client to go to the papers. I’ll only do it as a last resort. But I won’t be put off.”

  “If you know about Lake, if you know about the senator, why are you doing this?” Turner pleaded.

  Betsy paused. Turner had asked a good question. Why was she keeping what she knew to herself? Why hadn’t she confided in Reggie Stewart? Why was she willing to fly across the country for the answer to her questions?

  “This is for me, Mr. Turner. I have to know what kind of man I’m representing. I have to know the truth. I must meet with Senator Colby. I can fly to Washington tomorrow.”

  Turner was silent for a few seconds. Betsy looked out the window. In the office across the street, two men in shirtsleeves were discussing a blueprint. On the floor above them, a group of secretaries were working away on word processors. Toward the top of the office building, Betsy could see the sky reflected in the glass wall. Green-tinted clouds scudded across a green-tinted sky.

  “I’ll talk to Senator Colby and call you back,” Turner said.

  “I’m not a threat, Mr. Turner. I’m not out to wreck the senator’s appointment. Tell him that.”

  Turner hung up and Betsy exhaled. She was not used to threatening United States senators or dealing with cases that could destroy the reputations of prominent public figures. Then she thought about the Hammermill and Peterson cases. Twice she had shouldered the burden of saving a human life. There was no greater responsibility than that. Colby was just a man, even if he was a United States senator, and he might be the reason Martin Darius was free to murder three innocent women in Portland.

  “Nora Sloane is on one,” Ann said over the intercom.

  Betsy’s divorce client was supposed to meet her at the courthouse at eight forty-five and it was eight-ten. Betsy wanted to concentrate on the issues in the divorce, but she decided she could spare Sloane a minute.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Sloane said apologetically. “Remember I talked to you about interviewing your mother and Kathy? Do you suppose I could do that this weekend?”

  “I might be out of town. My mom will probably watch Kathy, so you could talk to them together. Mom will get a kick out of being interviewed. I’ll talk to her and get back to you. What’s your number?”

  “Why don’t I call you? I’m going to be in and out.”

  “Okay. I’ve got court in half an hour. I should be done by noon. Call me this afternoon.”

  Betsy checked her watch. She had twenty minutes to prepare for court and no more time to spend thinking about Martin Darius.

  Two

  Reggie Stewart found Ben Singer, the attorney who handled Samantha Reardon’s divorce, by going through the court records. Singer had not heard from Reardon in years, but he did have an address near the campus.

  Most of the houses around the University were older, single-family dwellings surrounded by well-kept lawns and shaded by oak and elm trees, but there was a pocket of apartments and boardinghouses that catered to students located several blocks behind the campus near the freeway. Stewart turned into a parking lot that ran the length of a dull-gray garden apartment complex. It had snowed the night before. Stewart stepped over a drift onto the shoveled sidewalk in front of the manager’s office. A woman in her early forties dressed in heavy slacks and a green wool sweater answered the door. She was holding a cigarette. Her face was flushed. There were curlers in her strawberry-red hair.

  “My name is Reggie Stewart. I’m looking for the apartment manager.”

  “We’re full,” the woman answered brusquely.

  Stewart handed the woman his card. She stuck her cigarette in her mouth and examined it.

  “Are you the manager?” Stewart asked. The woman nodded.

  “I’m trying to find Samantha Reardon. This was the last address I had for her.”

  “What do you want with her?” the woman asked suspiciously.

  “She may have information that could clear a client who used to live in Hunter’s Point.”

  “Then you’re out of luck. She’s not here.”

  “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  “Beats me. She’s been gone since the summer.” The manager looked at the card again. “The other investigator was from Portland too. I remember, because you two are the only people I ever met from Oregon.”

  “Was this guy big with a broken nose?”

  “Right. You know him?”

  “Not personally. When did he show up?”

  “It was hot. That’s all I remember. Reardon left the next day. Paid a month’s rent in advance. She said she didn’t know how long she’d be gone. Then, about a week later, she came back and moved out.”

  “Did she store anything with you?”

  “Nah. The apartment’s furnished and she hardly had anything of her own.” The manager shook her head. “I was up there once to fix a leak in the sink. Not a picture on the wall, not one knickknack on a table. The place looked just like it did when she moved in. Spooky.”

  “You ever talk to her?”

  “Oh, sure. I’d see her from time to time. But it was mostly ‘good morning’ or ‘how’s it going’ on my part and not much from her. She kept to herself.”

  “Did she have a job?”

  “Yeah. She worked somewhere. I think she was a secretary or receptionist. Something like that. Might have been for a doctor. Yeah, a doctor, and she was a bookkeeper. That was it. She looked like a bookkeeper, too. Real mousy. She didn’t take care of herself. She had a nice figure if you looked hard. Tall, athletic. But she always dressed like an old maid. It looked to me like she was trying to scare men off, if you know what I mean.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a picture of her?”

  “Where would I get a picture? Like I said, I don’t even think she had any pictures in her place. Weird. Everyone has pictures, knickknacks, things to remind you of the good times.”

  “Some people don’t want to think about the past,” Stewart said.

  The manager took a drag on her cigarette and nodded in agreement. “She like that? Bad memories?”

  “The worst,” Stewart said. “The very worst.”

  Three

  “Let me help you with the dishes,” Rita said. They had left them after dinner, so they could watch one of Kathy’s favorite television shows with her, before Betsy put her to bed.

  “Before I forget,” Betsy said as she piled up the bread plates, “a woman named Nora Sloane may call you. I gave her your number. She’s the one who’s writing the article for Pacific West.”

  “Oh?”

  “She wants to interview you and Kathy for background.”

  “Interview me?” Rita preened.

  “Yeah, Mom. It’s you
r chance at immortality.”

  “You’re my immortality, honey, but I’m available if she calls,” Rita said. “Who better to give her the inside story than your mother?”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Betsy rinsed the plates and cups and Rita put them in the dishwasher.

  “Do you have some time before you go home? I want to ask you about something.”

  “Sure.”

  “You want coffee or tea?”

  “Coffee will be fine.”

  Betsy poured two cups and they carried them into the living room.

  “It’s the Darius case,” Betsy said. “I don’t know what to do. I keep on thinking about those women, what they went through. What if he killed them, Mom?”

  “Aren’t you always telling me that your client’s guilt or innocence doesn’t matter? You’re his lawyer.”

  “I know. And that is what I always say. And I believe it. Plus I’m going to need the money I’m making on the case, if Rick and I … if we divorce. And the prestige. Even if I lose, I’ll still be known as Martin Darius’s attorney. This case is putting me in the major leagues. If I dropped out, I’d get a reputation as someone who couldn’t handle the pressure of a big case.”

  “But you’re worried about getting him off?”

  “That’s it, Mom. I know I can get him off. Page doesn’t have the goods. Judge Norwood told him as much at the bail hearing. But I know things Page doesn’t and I …”

  Betsy shook her head. She was visibly shaken.

  “Someone is going to represent Martin Darius,” Rita said calmly. “If you don’t do it, another lawyer will. I listen to what you say about giving everyone, even killers and drug pushers, a fair trial. It’s hard for me to accept. A man who would do that to a woman. To anyone. You want to spit on them. But you aren’t defending that person. Isn’t that what you tell me? You’re preserving a good system.”

  “That’s the theory, but what if you feel sick inside? What if you can’t sleep because you know you’re going to free someone who … Mom, he did this same thing in Hunter’s Point. I’m certain of it. And, if I get him off, who’s next? I keep thinking about what those women went through. Alone, helpless, stripped of their dignity.”