A horrible memory overwhelmed Amanda. Without warning, she was naked, her hands bound, running in the dark, prodded by the point of a sharp knife. She fought for air, her breath coming in short gasps, just as it had on that terrible night in the tunnel. For a moment she even thought that she smelled damp earth. Amanda jammed her fist into her mouth to keep from screaming. She flung herself out of her chair and huddled on the floor in a corner of her office, bringing her knees to her chest and squeezing her eyes shut. The blood had drained from her face. Her heart was racing.
Amanda had a very clear memory of the first time she saw an autopsy photograph. She had graduated from New York University School of Law near the top of her class and had been offered a clerkship at the United States Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit. One morning, Judge Buchwald had asked her to review the file in a death penalty case. From the briefs, Amanda learned that the defendant's wife had died from shock after he shot her in the shoulder with a shotgun. Shortly before lunch, Amanda noticed an innocuous-looking brown envelope buried under some papers. She became curious and opened the flap. The envelope contained a stack of photographs. When she turned the first one over, she almost passed out. In retrospect, this black-and-white photograph of a dead woman on an autopsy table had been rather tame. The only wound was in the victim's shoulder. Without color, it was hard for Amanda to tell that she was seeing torn and mutilated flesh. Still, she had been dizzy and disoriented for the rest of the day.
In the intervening years, Amanda had viewed photographs portraying every manner of cruelty that can be inflicted on a human being. Soon the most gruesome sights had no effect on her. Then the surgeon--a sadistic murderer--had entered her life. Policemen or medical examiners are sometimes viewed as callous by civilians who hear them cracking jokes while standing over a victim, but people who deal with violent death on a daily basis have to shield themselves from the horrors that they encounter, so they can continue to function. Amanda's trauma had ripped away her shield.
When Amanda opened her eyes, she saw where she was. She didn't remember hiding in the corner. She had no idea how she'd gotten from her desk to the floor.
Amanda parked in the basement garage of a converted red-brick warehouse in Portland's Pearl District and took the elevator to her loft. It was twelve hundred feet of open space with hardwood floors, high ceilings, and tall windows that gave her a view of the metal arches of the Freemont Bridge, tankers churning the waters of the Willamette River, and the snow-covered slopes of Mount St. Helens.
Amanda double-locked her door and checked the apartment. It was irrational to think that someone was lurking inside, but she knew that she wouldn't be able to relax until she made sure that she was alone. Amanda thought back to her equally irrational reaction to Toby Brooks. She had to stop being afraid of everything. Every person she met was not a monster.
Amanda changed into sweats and went to her liquor cabinet. She was still upset by her reaction to the autopsy photographs and she needed a drink. The doorbell made her jump. Who . . . ? Then she remembered. She looked at her watch. How had it gotten so late? She peered through the peephole. Mike Greene was in the hall. He had a bouquet of flowers. Shit! What was she going to do?
Mike had been the prosecuting attorney in the Cardoni case, and Amanda had gone out with the deputy district attorney a few times since its violent conclusion. Mike was a bear of a man, with curly black hair and a shaggy mustache. Despite having a body that made people think football or wrestling, he had never competed in any sport. Greene was a gentle soul who played tenor sax with a local jazz quartet and had a passion for chess. She knew that he also cared about her, but she found it impossible to make any kind of emotional commitment since her encounter with the surgeon.
"Hi," Mike said when Amanda opened the door. Then he saw the way she was dressed.
"I'm sorry. I forgot we were going out."
Greene could not hide his disappointment. She felt terrible.
"I'm not feeling well," she said, only half lying. She felt drained and knew that she'd never have the energy to make it through their date. Greene's shoulders sagged. The hand holding the bouquet dropped to his side.
"What's going on, Amanda?"
She lowered her gaze, unable to look Mike in the eye.
"I know I should have called."
"I thought you forgot about our date."
"Don't cross-examine me," Amanda snapped, angry at being caught in a lie. "We're not in court."
"No, we're not," Mike said evenly. "There are rules in court. People have to follow them. You seem to be playing by your own rules when it comes to the two of us, and I have no idea what they are."
Amanda looked down at the rug. "I'm going through some . . . things. I just . . ."
She broke off and walked half way to the window. A river of headlights was flowing across the Freemont Bridge. She fixed on the lights.
"Look, Amanda, I know what you've been through, so I've tried to be understanding. I . . . I like you. I want to help."
"I know, Mike. I just can't . . . ."
She shook her head, her back still to him. She waited for him to say something, but he didn't speak and she did not hear him move. When she turned, she saw that Mike had laid the flowers on the coffee table.
"If I can help, call me. I'll be there for you."
Mike left, taking care to close the door quietly. Amanda sat on the couch. She felt terrible. Mike was so nice, and Amanda felt safe with him. She wondered if that wasn't what attracted her to him.
An image of Toby Brooks flashed into her head. If Mike made Amanda think of a teddy bear, Toby made her think of a cat. He made her think of someone else, too. She started to feel the way she had at the office. Fear began to overwhelm her again, and she struggled to hang on. All of a sudden, she was sorry that she had sent Mike away. She needed someone with her. She did not want to be alone.
Chapter Six.
A little after three on Thursday afternoon, Tim Kerrigan met with the detectives who were working a case involving a child pornography ring. Then he brainstormed with another DA about the best way to handle a tricky suppression motion. When the deputy left, Kerrigan checked his watch. It was after five, and Jack Stamm, the Multnomah County district attorney, would be by in forty-five minutes to take him over to the dinner that would kick off the National Association of Trial Lawyers convention.
There were so many other things Tim would rather be doing than attending that dinner. He put his feet up on his desk and closed his eyes. He rubbed his lids and drifted for a moment. His thoughts turned to the crumpled scrap of paper in his wallet, on which he had scrawled Ally Bennett's phone number. Stan Gregaros said Bennett's working name was Jasmine. He said the name to himself, drawing it out. He felt a nervous buzz in his belly and heat below his waist.
Jasmine would not be the first prostitute he'd been with but, somehow, Kerrigan knew that Ally Bennett would be different from the others--different from any woman he'd ever been with. Her breasts would be perfect, her buttocks would be exquisite, and her mouth would perform miracles. "Tell me what you want," she would say, and he would tell her what he needed, he would tell her the things that he could never tell Cindy.
Someone knocked on his doorjamb. Tim's eyes opened. Maria Lopez was standing in the doorway, looking like she'd lost her best friend. Kerrigan dropped his feet to the floor. He was suddenly aware of the ringing of a phone and the murmur of conversations outside his office.
"Do you have a moment?"
Tim managed a nod. Maria crossed the room and sat down.
"What's up?" Kerrigan asked the young DA.
"A hiker found Lori Andrews in Washington Park."
"Ah shit."
"It's Dupre. He killed her."
"You know that for a fact?"
Lopez shook her head. "But I know he did it." She rubbed her forehead. "I saw the pictures, Tim. She was naked. She'd been beaten so badly. Then that bastard dumped her like a sack of garbage." Maria paused.
She looked devastated. "Her little girl will probably go into foster care."
"Don't beat yourself up like this. We all make mistakes," Kerrigan said unconvincingly, thinking of his own.
Silvio Barbera, a senior partner in a major Wall Street law firm and the current president of the National Association of Trial Lawyers, looked out over the crowd in the Hilton ballroom from behind the podium that had been set up for the keynote speaker.
"I have been a football fan my whole life," he confessed. "I remember Doug Flutie throwing the Hail Mary pass that beat Miami and Franco Harris's Immaculate Reception, but my greatest football moment came eight years ago when Michigan played Oregon in the Rose Bowl. Remember the game? Both teams were unbeaten, and the national championship was on the line. When the fourth quarter started, Michigan led by twenty points and the announcers had written off the Ducks. That's when one of the greatest comebacks in college football history started.
"On the first play from scrimmage, Oregon's star running back ran sixty-five yards and Oregon was only down by thirteen. Michigan missed a field goal with seven minutes left on the clock. Two plays later, the same running back sliced through Michigan's line again for forty-eight yards and cut Michigan's lead to six. The teams traded field goals. When Oregon took over for its final series on its own ten, there were only forty-three seconds left on the clock.
"Oregon's quarterback had a good arm. Everyone expected him to fling a pass toward the end zone and pray for a miracle. Instead, he handed off to his back one more time. Ninety yards later, Oregon was the national champion. That year no one questioned who deserved the Heisman Trophy as the nation's best college football player.
"Now most young men who win the Heisman make millions by turning pro, but this young man was cut from a different cloth. He went to law school. As we all know, many young law-school graduates sign on with firms like mine, but this young man showed his character." Barbera paused while the audience laughed. "He turned his back on riches once again and opted instead for a job with the district attorney's office here in Portland, where he has dedicated his life to public service ever since.
"When I learned that this year's convention was going to be in Oregon I knew immediately who I wanted as our keynote speaker. He is one of the greatest college football players who ever lived, he is a great prosecutor, but most important, he is a man of great integrity and an example to us all.
"So, it is with great pleasure that I introduce our keynote speaker, Tim Kerrigan!"
Tim had lost track of the times he'd delivered "The Speech." He'd made it before youth groups and Rotary Clubs, at sports camps and churches. Appearance fees for "The Speech" had paid his law-school tuition and the down payment on his first house. Every time he gave "The Speech" it was greeted with enthusiastic applause. Afterward people wanted to shake his hand just so they could say they had touched him. Sometimes people told him that he had changed their lives. And Tim stood there and smiled and nodded, as a knife turned in the pit of his stomach.
Kerrigan had tried to beg off when Jack Stamm told him about Silvio Barbera's call. Stamm had misinterpreted his reluctance as modesty. He'd emphasized the honor of having a Multnomah County prosecutor as the convention's keynote speaker. Kerrigan gave in. If it wasn't for the scotch he'd consumed before going to the banquet and the other drinks he'd put down during dinner, he wasn't certain he would have been able to go through with it again.
As usual, when the speech was over, a crowd formed around Kerrigan. He put on his best smile and listened with feigned enthusiasm to everyone who spoke to him. When most of the well-wishers had cleared the ballroom, Tim spotted Hugh Curtin lounging alone at a table near the dais. Their eyes met and Hugh raised a glass in a mock toast.
It didn't take a genius to figure out why the former All-American lineman had been nicknamed "Huge." After four years of opening gaping holes for Kerrigan, Curtin had gone on to play pro ball for the Giants. A knee injury had ended his career after three seasons but "Huge," who had always seen pro ball as a quick path to financial security, had started law school while playing in the NFL. He had just made partner at Reed, Briggs, Stephens, Stottlemeyer and Compton, Portland's biggest law firm.
As soon as the last well-wisher left, the smile drained from Tim's face and he slumped onto a chair next to Curtin, who had a tall glass of scotch waiting for him. Hugh raised his glass.
"To The Flash!" he said, using the nickname a publicist had dreamed up during Kerrigan's Heisman campaign. Kerrigan gave him the finger and downed most of his drink.
"I hate that name and I hate giving that fucking speech."
"People eat it up. It makes them feel good."
"A one-legged man could have run ninety yards with the holes you guys made for me. That was probably the best offensive line in college history. How many of you made it big in the pros?"
"You were good, Tim. You'd have found out how good if you'd turned pro."
"Bullshit. I'd never have made it. I was too slow and I didn't have the moves. I'd just have embarrassed myself."
It was the excuse he always gave for not turning pro. He'd given it so many times that he'd actually come to believe it.
Curtin rolled his eyes. "We have this same discussion every time you get maudlin. Let's talk about something else."
"You're right. I shouldn't cry on your shoulder."
"Damn straight. You're not pretty enough."
"I'd be the best-looking piece you ever had," Kerrigan retorted. Hugh threw his head back and laughed, and Kerrigan couldn't help smiling. Hugh was his best friend. He was a safe haven. Whenever he got down on himself, Hugh would trick him back through time to college and the parties and the beers with the team. Hugh could make him forget about the guilt that weighed him down like a two-ton anchor.
"You want to head over to the Hardball and tip a few brewskis?" Curtin asked.
"I can't do it. I promised Cindy I'd come home as soon as this fiasco was over," Kerrigan lied.
"Suit yourself. I have to be in court in the morning anyway."
"But we'll do it soon, Huge," Kerrigan said, slurring his words slightly. "We'll do it soon."
Curtin studied his friend carefully. "You okay to drive?"
"No problem. The old Flash isn't gonna get tagged for DUII."
"You're sure?"
Kerrigan got teary-eyed. He leaned over drunkenly and hugged his friend.
"You always look out for me, Huge."
Curtin was embarrassed. He disengaged himself and stood up.
"Time to get you home, buddy, before you start crying on the good linen."
The friends walked outside to the parking lot. It had rained during dinner and the cold air sobered Kerrigan a little. Curtin asked again if he was sure he could drive and offered Tim a lift home, but Kerrigan waved him off. Then he sat in his car and watched his friend drive away. The truth was that he wasn't okay and he did not want to go home. He wanted something else.
Megan was probably asleep by now and thinking of her almost stopped him, but not quite. Kerrigan walked back inside the hotel and found a pay phone. Then he took the slip of paper with Ally Bennett's number out of his wallet and smoothed it out so he could read it. He felt sick as he dialed, but he could not stop himself. The phone rang twice.
"Hello?"
It was a woman and she sounded sleepy.
"Is . . . is this Jasmine?" Kerrigan asked, his heart beating in his throat.
"Yes?"
The voice was suddenly husky and seductive now that he'd used her working name.
"I heard about you from a friend," Kerrigan said. "I'd like to meet you."
Kerrigan's chest was tight. He closed his eyes while Bennett spoke.
"It's late. I hadn't planned on seeing anyone tonight."
Her answer let him know that he could change her mind.
"I'm sorry. I . . . I wasn't sure . . . I should have called earlier."
He was rambling and he forced himself to stop.
"Tha
t's okay, honey. You sound . . . nice. You might be able to charm me out of bed, but it will be expensive." There was a pause. Kerrigan heard her breathing on the other end of the phone. "Expensive, but worth every penny."
Kerrigan grew hard, and a pulse pounded in his temple.
"What . . . how much would it cost?"
"What's your name?"
"Why do you need to know that?"
"I like to know who I'm talking to. You have a name, don't you?"
"I'm Frank. Frank Kramer," Kerrigan said, giving her the name on a set of false identification he'd had made for this type of occasion.
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