Anthony's second conclusion was that the woman would rather be someplace else. Her slender hands fidgeted in her lap and she sat too straight, as if preparing for flight. Anthony walked over to her and she stood up quickly. The detective figured her for five four, but she seemed taller because she was wearing heels.
"My name is Lou Anthony. I'm the detective in charge of the Lamar Hoyt case. I understand you have something you wanted to tell me."
The young woman looked lost. She glanced around the reception area. Anthony guessed that she had something to say but was not sure that this was the place she should be saying it.
"Why don't you come back with me?" Anthony said, holding open the door that led to the wide-open spaces where the detectives worked on the thirteenth floor of the Justice Center. The woman walked through the door and Anthony directed her to an empty interrogation room, where they would have some privacy.
"Can I get you something? Coffee?" Anthony asked. The room was small and barely held a gray metal table and four chairs.
"Coffee, please. Black," the woman answered.
"I'll be right back," the detective told her with a reassuring smile. When he returned with two steaming cups of coffee, she was still wearing her raincoat. Her hands were in her lap and she was twisting in her seat so she could look around the tan-painted, concrete-block room.
"Are you cold?" Anthony asked. The woman looked puzzled. "I noticed you're still wearing your raincoat."
Fargo looked down, as if she had not realized that she still had on the coat. She took it off and Anthony draped it over a chair. Drops fell from the coat onto the metal legs and ran down them toward the floor. When she sat, she picked up her coffee, wrapping both hands around the Styrofoam cup for warmth.
"I'm sorry," Anthony apologized, "but I didn't get your full name."
The woman nervously ran her tongue across her lips before answering.
"I'm Karen. Karen Fargo." "Is that Miss or Mrs.?" "I'm not married."
"The receptionist said you wanted to speak to someone about Lamar Hoyt's murder. Like I said, it's my case, so you can tell me anything you have to say."
Fargo hesitated and Anthony waited. Then she said, "I read in the paper that a man broke in and shot Lamar. Is that what happened? I mean, are you certain that this man . . . that he killed Lamar?"
Anthony caught the use of Hoyt's first name but did not change his expression.
"We found the bullet that killed Mr. Hoyt and we gave it to the people at the police lab. They checked the gun we found next to the intruder. The bullet came from that gun, and the intruder's fingerprints were on the gun."
"Oh." Fargo looked down as if she were losing the courage that had brought her to police headquarters.
"Did you think that someone else may have shot Mr. Hoyt?" Anthony asked gently. "I . . . Well, I thought . . ." "Yes?"
When she answered, Anthony could see that Karen Fargo was very frightened. "It wasn't her? His wife? You're certain?"
"Why would you think that Ms. Crease shot her husband?"
Fargo looked down again. "I ... I shouldn't have come here," she said, and started to stand.
"Miss Fargo, what was your relationship to Mr.
Hoyt?"
Karen Fargo burst into tears and collapsed on her chair.
"I'm so sorry," she managed.
"Do you want some water?"
"No. I'll be okay."
Fargo took two deep breaths. "We loved each other. We ..." Fargo looked down. "We were going to be married."
"Mr. Hoyt was already married," Anthony said carefully.
Fargo dabbed at her tears again. "He was going to divorce her. He told me so. Lamar was going to wait until after the campaign. Then he was going to divorce her and marry me."
"How long did you have this relationship with Mr. Hoyt?"
"About a year. A little less. It started six months after I went to work for his company. I'm ... I was a secretary at Hoyt Industries."
"And you met Mr. Hoyt there?" Anthony prodded.
"At the company picnic. We just started talking. It didn't last for long. He asked me my name and how long I'd been there and if I was enjoying my job. I thought he was asking to be nice. I was sure he wouldn't even remember me. But he did. About a week later, he saw me in the cafeteria and he remembered my name. Then a week after that, he called me at my apartment and asked if he could come over. I didn't know what to say. I mean, he was the boss of the whole company. I couldn't very well say no, could I?"
She looked toward Anthony for approval and he gave it to her. She bit her lip and looked down at the tabletop.
"I was afraid. I ... I thought . . . Well, I knew he was married and I'm not naive. But Lamar was a perfect gentleman. He was always a perfect gentleman.
"After that first time, he just started visiting. Sometimes he'd take me out to eat. Usually when his wife was busy in Salem at the legislature. He didn't come on to me. It was just to talk. He said he liked being with me and how he felt he could just be at ease when he was with me. There's so much pressure for a businessman like Lamar, you know, and he felt that his wife was so busy with her own work that she didn't have time for him.''
"So you started sleeping with him?"
Fargo looked straight at Anthony.
"He was lonely. It was sad. He had all that money and his big house, but he was lonely."
"When did Mr. Hoyt start talking about marriage?"
"Right around when his wife said she was going to run for the U. S. Senate. That really upset Lamar, because it meant that she would be living in Washington, D. C., and he would never get to see her. He said that it would be like they weren't even married."
"Miss Fargo, Lamar Hoyt was murdered on January seventh. Why did you wait until now to come see me?"
Karen Fargo's eyes widened with fright. Then she looked away.
"I don't know," she answered. "It's just been eating at me. Lamar dying like that. It didn't seem right."
"Do you have anything concrete that would prove Ms. Crease was behind her husband's death?"
"No. Just that Lamar said he thought she might know about us."
"He did? When did he say that?"
"A few weeks before he was killed. He said she was acting funny around him and that we had to be careful. He wanted to know if anything unusual had happened. Strange phone calls or anyone watching or following me."
"And did any of that happen?"
"Not that I knew of."
Anthony tried to think of something else to ask Fargo, but he couldn't. He was not surprised to discover that Hoyt had a mistress. It fit his pattern. Ellen Crease was a little older than the first two wives when she'd become wife number three, but not much older. She was now around the age of the other exes when Hoyt cut his ties with them.
"Thank you for coming in to talk to me, Miss Fargo. I can see how hard it was for you."
Anthony thought Fargo looked relieved that he was not going to ask her any more questions. Anthony shook her hand and showed her out. Back at his desk, he swiveled his chair and looked out the wide windows. Rain again. Surprise, surprise. Some days he would give everything he owned for one sunny day.
Anthony felt sorry for Karen Fargo. He imagined that Hoyt's attentions must have seemed like something out of a fairy tale to a secretary who is suddenly transformed into the mistress of a millionaire. Was Hoyt really intending to dump Crease for Fargo or was he simply dangling the possibility of marriage in front of Fargo to keep her in his bed?
As Anthony went to get a fresh cup of coffee, he thought about a question Fargo had asked. Was he certain that Jablonski had killed Hoyt? Definitely, as far as the physical act went, but what about the blood spatter evidence and the money? And then there was the fact that all the security systems at the estate were off when Jablonski broke in. Crease had a reasonable explanation for that, but did he believe it? Crease had definitely benefited from Hoyt's death. She had skyrocketed in the polls, and there was the insurance an
d the will. These were all motives for murder. Now there was another motive for Crease to hire Jablonski.
Anthony let the thought hang in the air. He turned it around and examined it. He did not want to believe that Ellen Crease was a murderer. Anthony liked Crease.
He had no doubt that Hoyt's death had really hurt her. She had shown little emotion other than anger in her press conferences, but he had seen her right after the murder and he would swear that her grief was real. That actually weighed against her. If Ellen really loved Lamar, the knowledge that he had a lover and was ready to leave her would be a powerful motive to kill. Anthony decided that it was time to have another meeting with the district attorney.
Chapter 10.
[1]
Ryan Clark entered the pool house just as United States Senator Benjamin Gage began the final lap of his morning workout. Clark was six feet tall, darkly handsome and very fit. When he moved, he exuded a quiet confidence that warned off muggers and attracted the attention of beautiful women, who found the jagged scar on Clark's right cheek fascinating. They always asked about it and Clark had invented a story that seemed to satisfy their curiosity.
The only time Benjamin Gage had ever mentioned the scar was at the end of Clark's interview for a job at StarData, Gage's high-tech company. The conversation had taken place eight years earlier when Clark was twenty-nine and Gage was thirty-eight. Clark was wearing a beard at the time and the scar was barely visible. The formal part of the interview, which had been conducted in Gage's office at company headquarters, was over and the two men had adjourned to a smart restaurant in Northwest Portland for dinner. Their booth was in the back. Gage was a frequent customer. When he dined at the restaurant it was understood that the booth next to his would be kept vacant. Gage paid a premium for this that he could easily afford.
"Where did you get the scar?" Gage had asked. His own face was unmarked and ruggedly handsome.
Clark had hesitated before answering. That was when Gage knew that the scar had something to do with the five years on Clark's resume that read "Naval Intelligence--Administrative Responsibilities.'' When Gage had asked Clark to describe his administrative duties during the interview at the office, Clark had been creatively evasive and Gage had let it pass. He knew he would pursue the question at dinner.
Gage had leaned back against the wine-red leather. There was no one else around. Their corner of the restaurant was suitably dark. When he spoke, Gage looked directly into Clark's eyes. A few years later, during Gage's first successful run for Congress, this ability to look people in the eye had convinced voters of Gage's sincerity. Clark was not affected at all and he was able to keep eye contact long enough to make Gage blink first, something few people could accomplish.
"Look, Ryan, you're not interviewing to be a security guard. If I wanted a rent-a-cop, I'd call Pinkerton. I wouldn't conduct my job search through the chairman of the Senate Committee on Covert Operations. I need a man who can be counted on to do odds and ends that other people can't, or won't, do," Gage had said, proving that he could be as creatively evasive as Clark. "You want me to pay you six figures to do these odd jobs. I'm not going to pay that kind of money or trust someone with this type of work without knowing everything there is to know about the man I'm hiring. So tell me about the scar."
There had been no more hesitation. Gage liked that. It meant Clark could make important decisions quickly. He also liked the fact that Clark did not touch the scar or do anything else to indicate that he even thought about it.
"This is a knife wound I received in a Mideast country. The man who stabbed me was lying next to two other bodies. I thought he was dead. When I leaned down to secure his weapon, he stabbed me."
"Who were these men?"
"It was two men and a woman," Clark had answered without emotion. "They were terrorists who directed the suicide bombing of the American Embassy in Paris."
"I remember the bombing, but I don't remember reading that the people behind it were caught."
"You wouldn't have."
"What happened to the man who stabbed you?"
"Another member of my team shot him."
"I see. Tell me, Ryan, did this incident occur when you were a navy SEAL?"
"No."
"Was this one of your 'administrative responsibilities' in Naval Intelligence?"
"I'm afraid I can't answer that question, Mr. Gage."
"Not even if refusing to answer costs you the job?"
Clark had smiled. He knew he had the job. He knew Gage was trying to play with him. Gage had held his ground for a moment. Then he had returned the smile. Clark had been doing this and that for Gage ever since.
Moments after Clark was admitted to Gage's house, a servant placed a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice, a pot of steaming coffee and a plate with two croissants on a table that stood on the tiled deck of Gage's twenty-five-meter lap pool. The lap pool was four lanes wide and heated. Entering the humid air of the pool house caused beads of sweat to form on the brow and upper lip of Senator Gage's administrative assistant. Clark sat down at the table and watched Gage make his final turn. Then he lost interest and glanced out through the wall of glass on the east side of the pool house. On most days, Clark would have seen the apple orchards, lush farmlands and green foothills that stood between Gage s twelve-thousand-square-foot home of glass and cedar and the snow-covered slopes of Mount Hood. But today the landscape was gray with mist and there was little to see.
Gage boosted himself out of the pool. He was forty-six years old, but he was only slightly slower in the pool than he had been in his days as a competitive swimmer. Some of the hair that covered Gage's lanky body was starting to silver.
Gage toweled himself dry, then crossed the pool deck and sat opposite Clark.
"Have you seen the latest polls?" he asked Clark angrily.
"Crease has fifty-one percent, you've got forty-four and the rest are undecided," Clark answered calmly.
"That's right. Before the murder, we were dead even. Crease has gotten everyone's sympathy for losing a husband, and the press has made her out to be a female version of Rambo. I am sinking fast."
Gage took a bite of his croissant. Clark waited patiently.
"Did you listen to Crease's press conference in Bend?"
"I missed it."
"A reporter asked Crease how her husband's murder affected her. She stared him down for a second or so. Then she told him that she would be dead, too, if the gun control lobby had its way and that Hoyt would be alive if the tough crime measures she's advocating were law. After that, she looked into the camera for a few seconds more. Then she told all those voters that she couldn't bring her husband back, but she could dedicate the rest of her life to trying to prevent similar catastrophes from happening to them and to seeing that those who break the law regret it."
Gage smiled without humor and shook his head in wonder. "She is one heartless bitch and she has played Hoyt's murder like a violin virtuoso."
Clark allowed himself a rare smile.
"She may be playing a different tune by next week," he said.
"Oh?"
"Cedric Riker called me. He wanted to make certain that you knew before the press. He's going to the grand jury this morning. It looks like Fargo tipped the scales."
Gage grinned broadly.
"That's that, then," the senator said with satisfaction. "Once the indictment comes down, she's dead."
"That's how I see it."
"Good work, Ryan. Very good work."
[2]
Henry Orchard knocked loudly on Ellen Crease's hotel room door because he knew she would be sound asleep after an exhausting day of campaigning. Crease's campaign manager was a slovenly, overweight dynamo who was uninterested in anything but politics. Until minutes ago, Orchard had been a happy man. His candidate had exploded in the polls, breaking away from a dead heat to take a substantial lead over Benjamin Gage.
"Who is it?" Crease snapped. She sounded wideawake. Orchard w
as not surprised. Crease never seemed to tire and she needed little sleep. When she did sleep, she had a knack for waking up fully alert.
"It's Henry. Open up. Something's happened."
Orchard heard Crease cross the room. Her door opened and he walked in. Orchard was unshaven and there were dark shadows along his fleshy jowls. The shirt he had thrown on was dotted with stains and his socks did not match. Crease was wearing a quilted bathrobe over a floor-length flannel nightgown. Only the bedside light was on in the room, but Orchard did not turn on any other lights. He spotted an armchair near the window and dropped into it.
"I just talked to a source in the Multnomah County District Attorney s Office. Tomorrow Cedric Riker is going to ask a grand jury to indict you for murder."
"What?"
"He's looking for two counts. Lamar and the guy who shot him."
Crease looked stunned. "Is this the first you've heard about this?"
"Absolutely. I knew the investigation was still open, but I haven't heard a thing suggesting that you were under suspicion."
"What have they got? What's the evidence?"
"I don't know and neither does my informant. The first thing I asked him was what Riker's got, but only Riker and the investigating officer ..."
"Lou Anthony?"
"Right, Anthony. They're the only ones who know for now. What do you think they have?"
"There's nothing out there, Henry," Crease answered bitterly. "And this really hurts. I loved that old bastard."
Crease found a cigar in her purse and lit it. Then she paced across the room until she arrived at a writing desk. She pulled out the desk chair and sat on it, facing Orchard.
"This is unbelievable. An indictment will kill us." Crease thought for a moment.
"It's Gage," she said angrily. "It has to be. He contributed heavily to Riker's campaign and they go way back. Gage and Riker cooked up this whole thing to help Gage climb back in the polls/'
"I'd like to think that," Orchard replied cautiously, "but this isn't any old dirty trick. We're talking an indictment for murder. Riker would have to have some evidence to show the grand jury. And even if Riker's a prick, Lou Anthony isn't. He's an old friend of yours, isn't he?"
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