The Perfect Alibi

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Vanessa Cole, Multnomah County’s Chief Criminal Deputy, was a slender, fifty-two-year-old black woman with sharp features and fierce brown eyes. She’d grown up in a wealthy area of Portland’s West Hills and gone to Stanford for college and law school. Cole was known for her smarts and high ethical standards, and stood out from the moment she joined the Multnomah County District Attorney’s Office, moving quickly from trying misdemeanors to trying felonies to handling murder cases and then death penalty murder cases.

Vanessa had always been anal. She almost never missed a school assignment from elementary school through law school, and a rare B had caused endless soul-searching. Her office reflected her obsession with order. The case files on her blotter were arranged in neatly squared stacks, and her computer monitor sat in the exact center of her desk.

Carrie Anders knew how much Vanessa detested chaos, and that was why she dreaded explaining the results of the lab tests in Jessica Braxton’s case.

“Have you got a moment?” Anders asked from the doorway to the prosecutor’s office.

Cole looked up from the memo she’d been reading and motioned the detective in. As she took a seat, Anders tried to think of the best way to explain what had happened. She decided to be blunt.

“We’ve got a problem in one of Rex’s cases.”

“Which one?”

“Hastings.”

Cole’s brow furrowed. “That case was open and shut. What’s the problem?”

“A bad one. A woman named Jessica Braxton was raped last week by a guy who said his name was Ray. She met Ray at the Blue Unicorn nightclub. Does that name ring a bell?”

It took Cole only a few seconds to make the connection. “Isn’t that where Hastings’s victim, Randi Stark, says she was when she saw the man who attacked her behind that gas station?”

Anders nodded. “It’s a club she said she went to a lot. Now, get this: Braxton described the rapist she met at the Blue Unicorn as a handsome blond who was over six feet tall and very muscular.”

Cole frowned. “That could be a description of Blaine Hastings. But he’s in jail. So, what’s the problem?”

“That is the problem. Braxton says she and Ray went back to her apartment and that’s where he raped her. According to Braxton, Ray penetrated her without a condom, ejaculated inside her, wiped himself with her panties, and left after throwing the panties on the floor. That meant that the lab had plenty of semen to test for DNA.”

Anders looked directly at Cole. “Ray’s DNA and Blaine Hastings’s DNA match.”

“What do you mean ‘match’?”

“They’re identical.”

“That’s impossible!”

“The lab retested Ray’s DNA as soon as the computer made the match between Ray’s DNA and Hastings’s DNA. When they got the same result, they sent a sample of the semen in the Braxton case to a private lab, and that lab got the same result.”

“Fuck!” exclaimed Cole, who never swore. “It’s got to be a mistake.”

“It’s not.

“Can two people have the same DNA?” asked Cole, who already knew the answer but hoped that she was wrong.

Anders nodded. “If they’re identical twins. But Hastings doesn’t have an identical twin. He’s an only child. And no, he and his evil twin were not separated at birth. I went to the hospital where he was born with a search warrant. Gloria Hastings gave birth to one child and only one.”

“What explanation do the lab techs have?”

“The only thing they can think of is that someone screwed up Hastings’s DNA test.”

“What’s the implication if that’s true?”

“One possibility is that Randi met Ray at the Blue Unicorn and had sex with him. Then she went to the frat party and accused Blaine of rape.”

Vanessa shook her head. “That still doesn’t explain why the two DNA samples match.”

“Correct.”

“So, we’re back to square one.”

“More like one to the nth degree.”

“Have you told Rex yet?”

“No.”

“Then let’s go break the news.”

“He’s not going to like it,” Anders said.

Vanessa led the way down the hall to Rex’s office. He looked up when the women walked in and started to smile. But the smile faded when he saw the looks on their faces.

“That’s not possible,” Kellerman said when Anders finished explaining the DNA match.

“Everyone I talked to agrees with you,” Anders said, “but the samples match.”

Kellerman shook his head. “It’s a trick, a scam. Have you checked the visitor logs? Did this Braxton woman visit Hastings? Could they have fucked in the jail?”

“Hastings’s only visitors were his new lawyer, Les Kreuger, and his parents.”

“There’s got to be an explanation.”

“The crime lab is working on it. They’ve hired Paul Baylor at Oregon Forensics to run tests on the semen in the two cases.”

“Does Kreuger know about this?”

“I’ve got to tell him, Rex.”

Kellerman looked lost. “He’ll try to get Hastings out of jail. He’ll move for a new trial.”

“I expect so,” Vanessa said. “You better brush up on DNA because bad things will happen if we can’t figure out how two people can have the same DNA.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Tyler Harrison III watched Frank Nylander walk toward the elevator before closing the door to his office. Nylander had come to New York assuming that Leonard Voss’s case would be settled by the end of their meeting. That hadn’t happened, and both lawyers were upset by the intransigence of Nylander’s client.

Harrison walked over to his window. Twenty stories below, the traffic crawled along Park Avenue. As he watched it, Harrison thought about how he was going to break the bad news to Marvin Turnbull. A few minutes later, he returned to his desk and dialed Turnbull’s private number at Norcross Pharmaceutical.

The CEO picked up after one ring. “What happened?” Turnbull asked.

“Voss rejected the offer.”

“You’re kidding! It was more than generous.”

“Voss sees this as a matter of principle. He’s on a crusade.”

“Is there any way we can keep the case from going to trial? The publicity could be disastrous.”

“I’ll take another shot at a settlement,” Harrison said, “but Nylander told me both Voss and his wife are dead set on—and I quote—‘exposing Norcross.’ He didn’t seem any happier about having to take the case to trial than I am.”

“Fucking fanatics,” Turnbull mumbled. There was silence for a moment. Then Turnbull said, “Okay, take another shot at settling. It looks like that’s all we can do.”

Marvin Turnbull hung up on Harrison. Then he took out a disposable cell phone and dialed a number in Portland, Oregon.

“Yes,” Ivar Gorski answered.

“We’ve hit a snag, and I may need you to implement plan B, so be prepared.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Robin was in her office when Vanessa Cole phoned.

“Are you representing Randi Stark in her civil suit against Blaine Hastings?” Cole asked.

“Yes.”

“Les Kreuger is Blaine Hastings’s new attorney. He filed a motion for a new trial and release on bail, and Judge Redding is hearing it this afternoon. You should be there.”

“Why?”

“I’ll let it be a surprise.”

“Should I bring Randi?”

“No.”

“Why the heads up?”

“You’ll find out.”

Judge Redding’s courtroom was packed, and Robin guessed that someone in Blaine Hastings’s camp had tipped off the press. Robin found a seat just as Les Kreuger called Paul Baylor, a slender, bookish African American, as his first witness. Kreuger was a bear of a man with a florid complexion and gray-streaked black hair. He had trained for the opera in his youth and used his deep voice for dramatic emphasis.

“Mr. Baylor, are you self-employed?” Kreuger asked.

“I am.”

“What is your business?”

“I own Oregon Forensic Investigations.”

“What do you do there?”

“I provide forensic expertise to individuals and institutions.”

“With regard to criminal investigations, do you work for the prosecution and defense?”

“I do.”

“What are your credentials?”

“I have a degree in forensic science and criminal justice from Michigan State University, and I worked at the Oregon State Crime Lab for ten years before leaving to open my own business.”

“Can you tell the Court a little about DNA?”

Baylor turned to Judge Redding. “DNA is shorthand for deoxyribonucleic acid, a chemical entity that is found in all living things. With regard to human beings, DNA is an instruction manual that helps us carry out all the necessary life processes.

“DNA is also genetic material that we inherit half from our mother and half from our father. In addition to being life’s instruction manual, DNA is capable of copying itself so that new cells in the body have identical content.”

“Is DNA consistent throughout a person’s body?” Kreuger asked.

“Yes.”

“So, a sample taken from a person’s hair, blood, skin, or semen will give the same result upon DNA testing?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Baylor, will two human beings ever have the same DNA?”

“No. The only exception we know of is identical twins. So, other than identical twins, no two human beings should have the same DNA.”

“Let’s move on to the subject of this hearing. A short time ago, were you contacted by the Oregon State Crime Lab and asked to conduct DNA testing on samples of semen obtained in two rape cases involving two different individuals?”

“Yes.”

“Why did they contact you?” Kreuger asked.

“There is a database for DNA in which samples from an unknown individual can be compared to DNA from known individuals to see if they match. If semen from a rapist is found on his victim, a lab can determine the structure of the DNA in the semen and compare it to the DNA from people whose DNA is in the database.”

“Did the State Crime Lab have semen from an unknown person known only as Ray who was accused of rape?”

“Yes.”

“Were they puzzled by the results when they fed their information into the DNA database?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I was told that the DNA was a match for a man known as Blaine Hastings Jr.”

“Why was that a problem?”

“Mr. Hastings was incarcerated at the time of the rape. The lab wanted me to conduct an independent test because they knew this result was impossible.”

“What was the result of your test?”

“It was the same as the crime lab. Ray’s DNA and Mr. Hastings’s DNA are identical.”

“How do you explain that?” Kreuger asked.

“There is a theoretical possibility that there are two humans who are not identical twins with identical DNA, but the odds are so astronomical that it is not a possibility in the real world. Therefore, the only explanation I can think of is that there were errors in the DNA tests conducted on one or both samples.”

“Has any police lab ever made errors when testing DNA?”

“The Houston Police Department shut down the DNA and serology section of its crime laboratory in early 2003 after a television exposé revealed serious deficiencies in the lab’s procedures, a Seattle newspaper documented DNA testing errors in the Washington State Patrol lab, and there have been similar problems detected in independent labs that test for DNA.”

“Have these errors led to the conviction of innocent individuals?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Baylor, as an expert in the field of DNA testing, can you say with any certainty that the test of the semen in the case in which Blaine Hastings was convicted was an error-free test given the fact that identical DNA was found in semen ejaculated in a rape case in which it was physically impossible for Blaine Hastings to have been the perpetrator?”

“No. I cannot.”

“Thank you. No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Kellerman?”

“Mr. Baylor, if an error occurred, can you say whether it occurred in the tests in the Ray case or in the test in Mr. Hastings’s case?”

“No.”

“Then the DNA test in Mr. Hastings’s case may be accurate?”

“Yes.”

“No further questions,” the prosecutor said.

After Paul Baylor was dismissed, forensic experts from the crime lab were examined. Robin heard the testimony, but she had a hard time believing it. It was obvious that Judge Redding was also having difficulty accepting the only conclusion that could be drawn from the evidence.

When all the witnesses had been questioned, Les Kreuger pitched his argument for his client’s release on bail and a new trial.

“It is obvious, Your Honor, that my client has suffered a grave injustice. Defense Exhibit Three is a copy of the lawsuit filed by Randi Stark against my client after Mr. Hastings was convicted. She is suing for millions of dollars, which gave her a very strong motive to lie about what happened between her and my client.

“One explanation of what happened in this case is that Miss Stark had intercourse with the man identified by Miss Braxton as Ray. Miss Braxton met Ray at a club Miss Stark frequents and Miss Braxton’s description of Ray could be a description of Mr. Hastings. After having sex with Ray, Stark went to the fraternity party and saw Mr. Hastings. She realized that he resembled Ray and this gave her a diabolical idea.

“During cross-examination at Mr. Hastings’s trial, Your Honor heard Miss Stark admit that she bore a grudge against Mr. Hastings for beating up a former boyfriend. I suggest that she saw a way to avenge herself against Mr. Hastings and make a pot full of money in the process.

“Mr. Hastings was intoxicated. Miss Stark lured him into a bedroom with the promise of sex. There were no other witnesses in that bedroom and no one to contradict her when she accused my client of rape.”

“How do you explain the fact that the DNA identified in the sample in Miss Stark’s rape kit matches your client’s DNA?” Judge Redding asked.

“I do not have the scientific training to answer that question, Judge, but none of the witnesses with that training have been able to answer it either. All I can say is that the evidence in the Braxton case raises a reasonable doubt about my client’s guilt.

“Your Honor should grant Mr. Hastings bail and a new trial,” Kreuger continued. “I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that any jury would have had a reasonable doubt about Mr. Hastings’s guilt if it heard the evidence concerning the DNA in the Braxton case that you heard today.”

“Mr. Kellerman?” Judge Redding said.

“I urge the Court to deny the request for bail. Mr. Hastings is a very dangerous man. If he’s freed, Miss Stark may be in danger, as may other women Mr. Hastings may assault.”

“Mr. Kellerman, you are arguing that Mr. Hastings is dangerous, but is he? The crucial evidence in your case against him was the DNA evidence that has been called into serious question by the testimony we heard today. Do you concede that there is an excellent chance Mr. Hastings would have been acquitted if the jury had heard this evidence?”

“I… There was Miss Stark’s testimony.”

“True, but the case boiled down to a ‘he said, she said’ situation with Miss Stark admitting that she had a grudge against Mr. Hastings and her lawsuit giving her a reason to present false testimony. It’s clear to me that it was the DNA evidence that tipped the scales in favor of a conviction. Can you convince me otherwise?”

Kellerman started to say something. Then he stopped and shook his head. “I can’t disagree in good conscience with your analysis, but the fact is that the DNA in Miss Stark’s rape case matches Mr. Hastings’s DNA.”

“I can’t accept that as a fact, given what I heard today,” the judge said. “There’s a real scientific mystery here, and I’m going to give you time to solve it by setting a hearing on Mr. Kreuger’s motion for a new trial for a month from today. In the meantime, I am going to release Mr. Hastings on one million dollars’ bail.”

Blaine Hastings didn’t move a muscle until the judge left the bench. Then he leaped to his feet and pumped Les Kreuger’s hand. “You were amazing! I can’t thank you enough for getting me out of that hellhole.”

“We’re not out of the woods yet, Blaine,” Kreuger cautioned. “All the judge did was set bail. It will take a lot more to convince her to give you a new trial.”

Before Blaine could say anything else, Blaine’s father and mother swarmed Kreuger.

Vanessa Cole had been sitting in the back of the courtroom. Robin followed her up the marble steps to the DA’s office.

“What’s going on, Vanessa?”

“I have no idea. Rex and I spent a good part of yesterday afternoon talking to some of the top scientists who deal with DNA, and they’re all stumped. All they could say was that we were describing something that was not possible and that one of the tests had to be in error.”

“Do you have any idea which one?”

“Not at this time. But if it’s the test from Blaine Hastings’s case, your client could be in a lot of trouble. So, I suggest that you try to figure out why Blaine Hastings’s DNA and Ray’s DNA are identical.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

As soon as Robin was back in her office, she called Randi Stark, who put the call on her speakerphone so her mother could hear.

“There’s been a development in your case,” Robin said.

“What happened?”

“Blaine Hastings is free on bail.”

“How could that happen?” Maxine shouted. “He’s supposed to be locked up.”

“A woman was raped while Hastings was in jail. The rapist didn’t use a condom, so they found his sperm and tested it for DNA. The DNA in the rapist’s sperm is a match for Blaine Hastings’s DNA.”

“So, this other rapist has the same kind of DNA. What does that matter?” Maxine said.

“That’s impossible, Mrs. Stark. Except for identical twins, no two people can have the same DNA.”

“I don’t understand,” Randi said. “I know Blaine raped me, so it has to be his DNA.”

“There’s been a suggestion that you had intercourse with someone else before you went to the party,” Robin said. “That it was this man named Ray, the man who raped this other woman.”

“They’re calling my Randi a liar?” Maxine spat out.

“No, but everyone, including the forensic experts, are very confused. This has never happened before.”

“I did not lie,” Randi said forcefully. “And I did not have sex with any man that night before Blaine.”

“I believe you, but everything is up in the air until the scientists figure out what’s going on.”

“Are we going to get police protection while that animal is out?” Maxine demanded.

“The police don’t protect citizens unless there’s something concrete like a threat or an assault.”

“So, my Randi has to be brutally murdered before the police will act?” Maxine asked belligerently.

“I don’t think it will come to that,” Robin said. “Hastings knows he’ll be right back in jail if he calls Randi or comes near her. But you should be on your toes. Record any calls you get and call me if you see someone suspicious hanging around.”

“Blaine is smart. He won’t do anything himself,” Randi said. “He’ll get someone else to hurt me, someone like Marlon Guest.”

Robin knew Randi was right. She’d seen Hastings’s hair-trigger temper in court, and she’d saved Randi when Marlon Guest attacked her. Hastings was violent, and he’d want revenge on the person who put him in prison.

“I can talk to Vanessa Cole about protecting you, but I want to be honest. The police don’t have the manpower to assign someone to Randi twenty-four hours a day.”

“And meanwhile, that animal is free and we’re in danger,” Maxine said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Doug Armstrong had just flown in from Seattle, where he’d negotiated a very favorable settlement in a difficult case, so he was in a great mood when he walked into the reception room of his law office at five thirty on Tuesday evening. Doug would have been in a great mood even if the case hadn’t brought the firm a terrific attorney fee. His law practice was prospering and, more important, his marriage was on the mend.

Doug remembered how depressed Marsha had been after her miscarriage and the dark days when he’d been banished to their guest room because she didn’t want to make love anymore. But, miracle of miracles, Marsha had asked Doug to come back to her. The lovemaking had been tentative at first, but it hadn’t been a one-time thing and he had high hopes that they would be able to rekindle the passion that had ignited the early years of their marriage.

Kate Monday, the firm’s receptionist, was getting ready to leave when Doug walked in. “Welcome back,” she said. “How did it go?”

“Fantastic. I can’t wait to tell Frank. Is he back from the Big Apple yet?”

“Yes. He got in this afternoon. He’s in his office. He wanted to see you if you got back before he left for the party.”

“What party?”

“Did you forget? Chad is getting married this weekend, and there’s a party.”

“Damn, I did forget. Where is it?”

“The Monaco steak house.”

Doug walked down the hall to his office. His good mood continued until he answered a voice message from Vanessa Cole.

“Blaine Hastings is free on bail,” Cole said as soon as they were connected.

“How is that possible?”

Vanessa explained what had happened at the bail hearing. “Judge Redding is holding off on deciding if Hastings should get a new trial until we get a handle on how the two DNA samples could match. But I thought you’d want to know what happened.”

“Thanks. I have to admit that I don’t feel safe with Hastings on the street. He threatened me when the trial went south.”

“Do you think you’re in danger?”

Doug thought about Cole’s question for a few seconds. “Probably not,” he answered. “Hastings is a mean son of a bitch, but he was probably just blowing off steam.”

“If he gives you any problems, call me immediately. I might be able to get the judge to revoke his bail.”

“Will do. And thanks for the call.”

Doug hung up and stared out the window of his corner office. Below, the lights of Portland were starting to wink on, and the high hills that loomed over the city were beginning to fade into shadow as the sun set.

Was he really in danger? Blaine Hastings Jr. was not someone to take lightly. Despite the question raised by the DNA tests, Doug was convinced his former client was a vicious sociopath. But Hastings wasn’t stupid, and he had to know that attacking an attorney could only work to his disadvantage. No, Doug decided, he was probably safe.

Doug dialed Marsha. “Hi, hon.”

“Did everything go okay?” Marsha answered.

Doug smiled because Marsha sounded happy. “Yeah, better than I thought it would.”

“Will you be home soon?”

“I can’t come now. Chad Spenser is getting married, and there’s an office party at the Monaco. I forgot all about it, but I’ve got to go. You eat without me.”

“Okay,” Marsha said. She sounded disappointed.

“I know, babe. I miss you, too. I won’t stay late. I promise.”

They talked some more. Then Doug hung up and started to go through his mail. That’s when he remembered that Frank wanted to talk to him.

Doug smiled. The luckiest thing that had ever happened to him occurred twenty years ago. He’d moved to Oregon from Arkansas looking for work, and Frank Nylander had taken a chance on him when no one else would hire him.

Doug’s personal life had also profited because of Frank. His partner had introduced him to Lois, his first wife, and later, after Lois passed, he’d hired Marsha as his secretary.

Doug sobered when he remembered Lois’s final days. There had been endless rounds of chemo and the beyond-sadness moment when she’d passed. Doug didn’t know how he would have survived without Frank’s support in the dark days of depression and grief that had followed Lois’s death. Frank was his best friend, and Doug owed Frank everything.

Doug decided that the stuff on his desk could wait. He got his coat and headed down the hall to Frank’s office. They could talk about Seattle and New York on the way to the restaurant.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A narrow hallway ran between two banks of elevators on the eleventh floor of the Pacific Northwest Bank building. The hallway connected an insurance company with offices that took up one side of the building with the law offices of Douglas Armstrong and Frank Nylander, which took up the other side. At the request of the police, the building had blocked all the elevators save one from going to the eleventh floor.

A deputy district attorney was always dispatched to the location of a homicide so he could see the scene before the body was removed. Rex Kellerman was squeamish and he hated going to crime scenes, but he was excited to discover the identity of the body that was waiting for him in the offices of Nylander & Armstrong. What if the victim was Douglas Armstrong? He smiled as he imagined Marsha Armstrong’s tears.

Kellerman assumed a serious demeanor when he entered the firm’s reception area. Roger Dillon, Carrie Anders’s partner, a lanky African American with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, was talking to someone from the crime lab, but he cut the conversation short when he spotted the DA.

“Sorry it took me so long,” Kellerman said. “Traffic was awful coming in.”

“Not a problem.”

“So, what do we have?”

“There was a party last night at a steak house for one of the firm’s associates, who’s getting married. Most of the employees left the office Tuesday evening between four thirty and five to go to the party. Kate Monday, the receptionist, says that Frank Nylander returned from New York around four fifteen and Douglas Armstrong came back from Seattle around five thirty. They were the only ones left in the office when she left for the party around five forty-five. Neither Nylander nor Armstrong showed up at the restaurant, which surprised everyone.

“Ken Norquist, one of the associates, came in around seven this morning because he had been doing some work on one of Armstrong’s cases. Armstrong wasn’t in his office, so he went to Nylander’s office to see if he was there. He found Nylander’s body and called 911.”

“Cause of death?” Kellerman asked as he hid his disappointment.

“That one is easy. Unless the autopsy turns up an exotic poison, I’m going with massive head trauma inflicted by the bloodstained stone sculpture we found on the floor next to the body.”

“Was the sculpture from Nylander’s office?”

Dillon nodded. “It’s some abstract thing with a lot of curves. Unfortunately, it also has a lot of heft. The receptionist told me that Nylander’s wife got it for him as a birthday present and he kept it on his desk.”

“Fingerprints?”

Dillon shook his head. “It was wiped clean.”

“Do we have an estimate for the time of death?” the prosecutor asked.

“Sometime last night between five thirty and ten.”

“Where is Armstrong?”

“He hasn’t shown up yet.”

“Does anyone know where he is?” Kellerman asked.

“No. The receptionist called Armstrong’s house to tell him that Nylander was dead. Armstrong’s wife said he wasn’t home and didn’t come home last night.”

“Hmm.”

“The receptionist said that Mrs. Armstrong was very upset.”

“Let me take a look at the body,” Kellerman said. “Then let’s talk to the employees.”

Kellerman tried to breathe through his mouth as he followed Dillon down the hall, but he still smelled the cloying scent of death before he arrived at Nylander’s spacious corner office. Inside the office, Carrie Anders was talking to a lab technician who was snapping photographs of the room. Another forensic expert was taking measurements and placing an occasional object in a Ziploc bag.

“Morning, Rex,” Anders said.

Kellerman didn’t answer. He was stunned by the violence that greeted him. It was so extreme that it was hard for the DA to take in.

Frank Nylander was sprawled across a Persian rug. His arms were stretched out in front of his head with the palms of his hands touching the carpet as if he’d tried to break his fall. His legs were spread apart and his shoe tips were pointing toward the windows. It was his head that commanded Kellerman’s attention. The back of Nylander’s skull had been crushed to pulp, and his face was surrounded by a halo of blood. The lawyer’s hair was drenched in blood, the scalp had been split in two places, and Kellerman thought he saw a piece of brain peeking through where the bone had been crushed.

“Jesus,” Kellerman whispered. “Someone really had it in for this guy.”

Dillon and Anders didn’t respond. Kellerman looked around the room. Most of the objects on the desk had been swept to the floor, files and desk drawers had been wrenched open, and furniture had been overturned.

Anders noticed another member of the team from the crime lab standing in the door. “Do you need to see anything else in here? If not, we should leave so these guys can do their job.”

“I want to see Armstrong’s office,” Kellerman said, eager to get away from the fetid odor and the gore.

Dillon led the way to the other end of the suite and the second corner office. A photographer was leaving when the detectives and the district attorney arrived. The contrast between the two offices was stark. Armstrong’s desk was a bit messy. He’d thrown his attaché on top, and mail and files were spread across the blotter, but the rest of the room was orderly.

Kellerman looked at the walls. The one behind the desk was floor-to-ceiling glass. A colorful abstract oil hung on the wall opposite the windows and over a couch. The wall to the left of the desk held diplomas from West Virginia University, the Warren E. Burger School of Law at Sheffield University in Arkansas, and certificates attesting to Armstrong’s membership in various state and federal bars. The fourth wall was covered with clippings from Armstrong’s successful cases and plaques from civic organizations and the bar. Under the plaques and clippings was a bookcase. Most of the books were law-related, but Kellerman spotted several old-time mysteries including a number by Erle Stanley Gardner, Ellery Queen, Dorothy Sayers, and Agatha Christie. Next to Murder on the Orient Express was a biography of Dame Agatha.

“Let’s interview the employees,” Kellerman said when he was satisfied that nothing of importance to their case had occurred in Armstrong’s office.

Dillon led the way to the conference room, where several people sat around a long table, talking quietly, sipping coffee, or staring at the tabletop. After he introduced the DA, he asked Ken Norquist to follow him to another room.

Norquist was a short, stocky man in his late twenties who was sitting at the far end of the table. The associate wore his blond hair short and sported a trim beard and mustache. He was dressed in a tan suit, white shirt, and tie. The top button of his shirt was undone, and the tie had been pulled down so that the skin at the base of his neck showed. He looked pale and shaky, and sweat beaded his brow.

Dillon led the way to an empty office and closed the door. “Have a seat,” he said.

Norquist sat down and began tapping the toes of his right foot rapidly.

“Are you okay?” Anders asked.

“No. I keep seeing Frank’s head.” He shivered. “I’ve never seen so much blood.”

“Do you want some water?”

Norquist shook his head.

“Mr. Kellerman would like to ask you some questions. Do you feel up to answering them?” Anders asked.

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“Can you tell me the last time you saw Mr. Nylander alive?” the prosecutor asked.

“It was four something. I left early to pick up my date for the party. I passed him coming in when I headed out.”

“How did he look?”

“Normal, I guess. Maybe a little distracted. I said hello, but he didn’t answer me.” Norquist shrugged. “I just saw him for a second, though. I thought he’d show up at the restaurant, but he and Doug never made it.”

“Did that surprise you?”

“Yes, it did. We’re not a big firm, and Frank and Doug always show for stuff like this.”

“I notice that you call the partners by their first names.”

Norquist smiled sadly. “Doug and Frank encouraged everyone to be informal. They wanted everyone to work hard but have fun.”

“Did you see Mr. Armstrong last night?”

“No.”

“Why did you come in so early this morning?”

“Doug called me before noon from Seattle and gave me a research project. He said it wasn’t a rush, but I knew he wanted it done as soon as possible. I finished most of it yesterday, but I still wasn’t through when I left. I wanted to get it done first thing.”

“Was Mr. Armstrong in at all this morning?” Kellerman asked.

“Not that I know. I went to his office shortly after I finished my work. He wasn’t there, so I went looking for him.” Norquist took a deep breath. “That’s when I found Frank.”

“You seem to think highly of Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Nylander,” Kellerman said. “Was there anyone in the firm who didn’t like them?”

“Honestly, everyone thought they were great.”

“Were there any former employees who might hold a grudge?”

“I’ve been here three years, and I never heard anyone say anything bad about them.”

“What about the people they sued or represented?” Kellerman asked.

Norquist paused. “You know, recently there was a client who fired Doug.”

“What case was that?” Kellerman asked.

“The rape. That athlete, Hastings. I did a little work on it, so Doug and I talked about Hastings. I think he said something to Doug that scared him.”

“Was Mr. Nylander involved in the case?” Kellerman asked.

“Not that I know.”

“Can you think of anyone else who might have a reason to do this?”

“No, I can’t. I mean, no one likes to be on the losing side of a case, but I can’t remember anyone talking about being afraid of a client or someone we sued.”

“How did Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Nylander get along?” Kellerman asked.

Norquist’s mouth gaped open, and he stared at the prosecutor. “If you’re thinking that Doug… That’s ridiculous. Frank and Doug were like brothers. They did everything together. It was a mutual admiration society.”

“They never argued?” Kellerman asked.

“Well, yeah, about cases. But it wasn’t angry arguing. It was strategy or whether to take on a client. Business stuff.”

“Was the firm doing well?”

“I’m just an associate. But from what I picked up, this was their best year.”

“Do you have any more questions, Rex?” Dillon asked.

“Not now.”

“Have you given a statement already?” Dillon asked Norquist.

“Yes, to one of the officers.”

“Then why don’t you go home. You look pretty upset.”

“Thanks. I really don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to.”

Kellerman, Anders, and Dillon talked to the other employees. They all said that the partners were the best of friends, and no one could think of anyone with a grudge against Nylander or Armstrong.

When they were through, Kellerman motioned the detectives into the hallway outside the law office. “Get names and addresses, then send everyone home,” the prosecutor said.

Dillon nodded.

“What do you think?” Kellerman asked. “Could Norquist have killed Nylander this morning when they were alone in the office?”

“I thought of that,” Dillon said, “but he’s a really good actor if that’s what happened.”

“So, who did kill Nylander?” Kellerman asked.

“My gut says it’s a robbery gone wrong,” Dillon said. “Nylander’s wallet, cell phone, watch, and keys are missing. I tried to have his secretary walk through the office to do an inventory, but she lasted two minutes before she ran to the ladies’ room. I’ll have her come back when the body is gone.

“What about Armstrong, Roger?” Kellerman asked. “He and Nylander were the only people in the office after the receptionist left.”

“I don’t know. Every person we talked to said they were best friends.”

Anders chimed in. “If I killed Nylander, I would have made the office look like it had been robbed. Then I would have gone to the party and pretended Nylander was fine when I left.”

“Carrie’s right,” Dillon said. “It doesn’t make sense for Armstrong to run away when he could have deflected suspicion by going to the party.”

“Maybe he panicked,” Kellerman said.

“That doesn’t fit the facts,” Anders said. “If Armstrong killed his partner, he was cool enough to wipe his prints off the murder weapon and mess up the office.”

“There is Blaine Hastings,” Dillon said. “He’s violent, he threatened Armstrong, and he’s out on bail.”

“Okay. Look, I’ve got a court appearance. Why don’t you two go to Armstrong’s house. Then talk to Hastings and Nylander’s wife. Let me know what you find out,” Kellerman said as he rang for the elevator.

Kellerman smiled as soon as the elevator doors closed. Wouldn’t it be great if Doug Armstrong killed his partner and he was the one who sent the wimp away? Rex’s smile widened as he pictured the suffering that would inflict on Marsha Armstrong. Just before the car arrived at the lobby, Kellerman remembered a phrase he thought was from the Bible. Something like, “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Armstrongs lived in an early-twentieth-century Tudor home in Portland’s West Hills, one of the city’s premier residential areas. The house was close to the top of the hill and looked out across the city and the river to the mountains. The lawn was manicured, and there was a wide variety of flowers in the garden. Anders spotted rhododendrons, roses, tulips, and some other varieties she couldn’t name.

Anders figured the blond woman who answered the bell for her early thirties. Marsha Armstrong was wearing jeans and a man-tailored white shirt. She hadn’t bothered to put on makeup or jewelry, but she was still very attractive and she looked very worried.

“Mrs. Armstrong?” Anders asked.

“Yes. Are you the police?”

Anders nodded as she and Dillon showed Marsha their shields.

“Do you know where Doug is?” Marsha asked.

“We were hoping you could tell us,” Anders said.

“I can’t, and I’m very worried. This isn’t like him.”

“Do you mind if we come in?” Dillon asked.

“Yes, please. I’m sorry. I’m just upset.”

Armstrong’s wife led the detectives into a living room and gestured toward a sofa. The detectives sat. Marsha was stiff-backed, her hands clasped in her lap and her body rigid.

“Kate Monday called. She told me that Frank was murdered.”

“I’m afraid that’s true, and no one seems to know where your husband is,” Anders said. “When was the last time you saw him, or spoke to him?”

“I saw him on Sunday, when I drove him to the airport. He had a case in Seattle.”

“How did he seem?”

“Fine.”

“He wasn’t worried about anything?”

“No, the opposite. He was excited about how he thought the case would go.”

“When was the next time you spoke to him?”

“He called that evening from the hotel after he checked in.”

“Was there any change in his mood?”

“Not that I noticed. He was upbeat because he was certain that the case was going to settle to his client’s advantage. Then he called Monday night to tell me that everything was going the way he thought it would and he anticipated wrapping things up on Tuesday morning and flying back Tuesday afternoon, then taking a taxi to the office.”

“Did you talk to him after that conversation?”

“Doug flew back from Seattle on Tuesday afternoon and called me when he got into his office. He said the case had ended better than he thought it would. He also told me that Chad Spenser, one of the associates, was getting married and there was a party for him at a restaurant. He said he had to go and I shouldn’t wait for him to eat dinner.” Marsha teared up. “He never came home.”

“Mrs. Armstrong,” Anders said, “we have no evidence that your husband has come to harm.”

“Then, where is he?”

“We’re looking for him.”

“In hospitals and the morgue? You can be honest with me, Detective. Kate told me that Frank was beaten to death and his office was wrecked. If Doug was there when that happened…” Marsha choked up and pulled out a handkerchief.

“We don’t want to jump to conclusions,” Anders said. “Can you think of someplace he might be?”

“No. This is his home. He’d come here.”

“Do you know someone who might want to harm your husband or Frank Nylander?”

Rex Kellerman came to mind immediately, but she couldn’t imagine he would murder Doug or his partner to get back at her for breaking off their affair. And she didn’t want anyone to know she’d cheated on Doug.

“I can’t think of a soul who would want to harm either of them,” Marsha said. “Unless…”

“Yes?” Dillon asked.

“There was a client who scared Doug.”

“Who?”

“Blaine Hastings, the football player who raped that girl. Doug told me that he threatened him when the case started to go bad. I think he was relieved when Hastings was denied bail.”

Norquist had also mentioned Hastings. Anders definitely wanted to know if Hastings had an alibi for the evening of Nylander’s murder.

“How did Mr. Nylander and your husband get along?” Dillon asked.

“They were the best of friends. Doug believed he owed everything to Frank.”

“Why did he feel that way?” Dillon asked.

“Doug grew up in West Virginia. He was an only child, and his family was not well off. His father worked in a coal mine and died when Doug was in high school. His mother worked in a department store and passed away before I met Doug.

“Doug went to the state university. He always wanted to be a lawyer, but he didn’t do that well in college, so he ended up at the only place that accepted him, a third-tier law school in Arkansas.

“Doug took a trip to the West Coast in the summer before his senior year in college, and he fell in love with Oregon. After he graduated from law school, he drove to Portland. He passed the bar exam, but he didn’t know a soul—and no one would hire him, because he didn’t go to a great law school.

“Doug told me that he was terribly depressed and ready to go back home when he met Frank at a bar. Frank had just opened his own office after leaving a big firm where he’d worked for several years. Frank didn’t have a lot of business, and he couldn’t afford to hire an associate at the going rate. Doug said he’d work for a secretary’s salary and a share of what he brought in. Frank took a risk when no one else would and hired him.

“Doug and Frank took court appointments and anything that came in the door. At the end of his third year, Doug won a big personal injury case, and the business started to grow. Doug always told me how grateful he was to Frank for taking a chance on him and how proud he was of being able to pay him back by helping the firm grow.”

“Is there any reason you can think of that would lead your husband to attack Mr. Nylander?” Carrie asked.

“I can’t imagine a situation where Doug would do anything to harm Frank. He owed him everything. He’s told me that more than once.”

Anders and Dillon talked to Marsha for twenty minutes more. Then Anders stood and handed Marsha her card. “If Mr. Armstrong contacts you or you think of somewhere he might be, call me anytime, day or night. Don’t worry about waking me up.

“And if you remember anything—and I mean anything—you think may help us solve Mr. Nylander’s murder, tell us, even if you think it’s silly. Let us decide. Sometimes the smallest clue can break open a case.”

“Finding your husband and bringing in Mr. Nylander’s killer is a priority with both of us,” Dillon assured her.

Marsha showed the detectives to the door.

“Let’s drive to Hastings’s house and have a talk with him,” Dillon said as they walked to their car.

“Mrs. Armstrong wanted us to believe her husband had nothing to do with Nylander’s murder. Do you think she laid it on too thick?” Dillon asked.

“I think she was being straight with us. Everyone we’ve talked to says the same thing. Have you met Armstrong or Nylander?”

“No,” Dillon said.

“I’ve never met Nylander, but Armstrong tried the Hastings case and I did some work on it. I also worked two other cases he handled. He seemed like a nice guy, very ethical. He also seemed—I don’t know—soft. I really can’t picture him bashing his best friend’s head in.”

Dillon smiled. “We don’t have time for me to go through a list of people I’ve arrested for the most heinous crimes who I had a hard time imagining committing them.”

Anders sighed. “I know, Roger. If criminals looked like criminals, we wouldn’t have to work so hard.”

“Amen to that.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Hastingses lived in an estate across the Willamette River from the Westmont Country Club. The detectives called the house on an intercom attached to a stone pillar. Moments later, a wrought iron gate swung open and they drove up a paved driveway to a four-story Italianate McMansion.

Blaine Hastings Sr. was waiting at the front door. He greeted the detectives with a scowl. “What do you want?”

“We’d like to speak to your son,” Anders said.

“About what?”

“A case that has nothing to do with his conviction.”

“What case?”

“It’s a homicide, Mr. Hastings. Douglas Armstrong’s partner was murdered in his office last night, and we’ve heard that your son threatened Mr. Armstrong.”

“Now you people are trying to frame Blaine for a murder? You’ve got some balls coming here. Do you have a warrant?”

“No, sir,” Dillon said.

“Then get off my property.”

“Your son is a convicted rapist who has been released on bail,” Dillon said. “It would be to his advantage to cooperate with us.”

Hastings laughed. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to fall for that? You’re not talking to my boy, so get lost.”

Hastings watched the detectives drive away. When they were out of sight, he went inside and slammed the door.

“What did they want, Dad?” Blaine Junior asked.

“Armstrong’s partner was murdered, and they wanted to know where you were last night.”

“Me?! Why do they want to know about me?”

“They know you threatened Armstrong. I guess that faggot whined to someone and they heard about it.”

“What’s that got to do with his partner getting killed?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask them. I told them to shove off as soon as I heard what they wanted.”

“Well, I didn’t murder anyone.”

“But you were out last night,” Senior said. “Did you go anywhere near Armstrong’s office?”

“Of course not. Why would I want to go there? I was at a club. I’ve been locked up, and I wanted a night out.”

“You’ve got to be smart, Blaine. You can’t go clubbing. There’s drugs, someone might pick a fight with you just because you’re famous. You’re out now, but the cops will use any excuse to put you back in.”

“You’re right, Dad. No more clubbing. I’ll stay home at night until this blows over.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Jessica Braxton spotted the buyer sitting at the end of the hotel bar where Harry said he would be. He was a big dude in a leather jacket and black turtleneck who looked like a character in Shaft, one of those blaxploitation movies out of the seventies. Jessica scanned the bar for anyone who looked like a cop before taking the stool next to him.

“A Cuba Libre,” she told the bartender, using the code Harry had instructed her to use.

“That’s a pretty powerful drink for a little woman,” the man said, giving her the response she was expecting. They made small talk until Jessica finished the Cuba Libre. Ten minutes after she walked to her car, the buyer was sitting in her passenger seat.

“You got the stuff?” he asked.

“You have the money?”

The man handed Jessica a wad of cash. She counted it and gave him the heroin. That’s when he showed Jessica his badge.

“Hi, Miss Braxton,” the chubby young man in the mismatched jacket and slacks said. “My name is Ron Jenkins, and I’ve been appointed by the Court to represent you.”

Jessica was sick and she had trouble paying attention. Withdrawal was a bitch, and she was in its throes. “Can you get me out?” she asked. “I gotta get out of here.”

“That may be a problem. The amount of heroin the police say you delivered to the undercover agent was large enough to warrant sending this case to the feds.”

Jessica put her head in her hands. “I gotta get out. I’m really sick. I’ll do anything.”

“I did talk to the district attorney, but they have such a strong case against your supplier, Harry Newcomb, that they aren’t inclined to deal.”

Jessica ran her tongue across her lips. “What if I had something bigger than Newcomb to trade? Could you get me help? I really need help.”

“Big like what?”

Carrie Anders opened the door to the interview room. Jessica Braxton was sitting on one side of a wooden table, and her public defender was sitting beside her. Anders thought Braxton looked awful. She was a lot skinnier than she’d been when Anders had interviewed her at the hospital about her rape case, and she was twitching and scratching like someone who was really hurting.

“Hi, Jessica,” the detective said. “I’m a little surprised we’re meeting under these circumstances.”

“Yeah, well, I fucked up big-time, but it’s not my fault.”

“Whose fault is it?”

“I’m an addict, Detective Anders. I wasn’t thinking straight. You can see that, can’t you? I’m not a criminal. I’m sick and I need help.”

“Being an addict and being a criminal aren’t mutually exclusive, Jessica. The way I see it, you’re an addict who needs medical help and you’re a criminal who sold a shitload of heroin to an undercover agent. You’re facing a ton of jail time.”

“But you’d help me get into rehab if I told you something important, right? Mr. Jenkins says that we could make a deal.”

“That depends on what this important thing is.”

“This is all off the record until we have a deal?” Jenkins interjected.

Anders nodded. “I’m here to listen. If Miss Braxton has something useful to trade, I’ll work with her. So, Jessica, what do you want to tell me?”

“It’s about Blaine Hastings.”

“What about him?”

“It was a scam.”

“What was?”

“I wasn’t raped. His father paid me to say I was raped. He told me to say a guy named Ray did it, and he gave me a description of this Ray I was supposed to give to the cops.”

“You had a black eye and a split lip. How did that happen?”

“Blaine’s father did it. He said it would make the story more believable. He gave me a little extra. He called it combat pay.”

“Let’s back up here,” Anders said. “When did Mr. Hastings ask you to say you were raped?”

“Right after his kid was convicted.”

“How do you know the Hastingses?”

“I was working at his company and I got in a little trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I took some money to buy drugs, and he found out—so I had to go to a motel and work it off.”

“You had sex with Mr. Hastings so he wouldn’t call the police?”

“Yeah.”

“When was this?”

“About a year and a half ago.”

“Did you keep working for the company?”

“No, he fired me.”

“Did you see him after that?”

“Not until he called me after his kid went down. He said he would give me five thousand dollars if I told the cops I’d been raped. I was down on my luck and out of a job, so I said I would.”

“This doesn’t make sense. The DNA test showed a match to Blaine Junior’s DNA. How did they figure out a way for you to have sex with him while he was in jail?”

Braxton laughed. “It was simpler than that. Junior jacked off into a ketchup packet and slipped it to his dad when Senior visited him in jail. Then I put some of it inside me and wiped the rest on my panties.”

Anders stared at Braxton, dumbfounded. Then she started laughing, too. “A ketchup packet?”

Braxton nodded. “We sure fooled everybody.”

“You sure did,” Anders agreed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Rex Kellerman was reviewing the police report of Carrie Anders’s interview with Jessica Braxton when Les Kreuger walked into Judge Redding’s courtroom.

“What’s going on, Rex?” Kreuger asked when he walked through the gate that separated the bar of the court from the spectator section.

Rex suppressed an urge to gloat as he handed Kreuger a copy of Carrie Anders’s report. “There’s been a new development in Mr. Hastings’s case. Read that. Then we can talk.”

Kellerman watched Kreuger’s face. When he got to the paragraph where Braxton described the scam, Kreuger’s mouth opened and Kellerman grinned.

“Interesting, huh?” he said.

“A ketchup packet,” Kreuger said.

“Yeah, that’s everyone’s reaction.”

“You can do that?” Kreuger asked.

“We ran it by the people at the crime lab, and they agreed that it would work. One of the lab guys even remembered hearing about a perp in Milwaukee who ran the same scam about twenty years ago.”

“What are you going to do?” Kreuger asked.

“I’m asking the judge to revoke Hastings’s bail, of course.”

Rex checked his watch. “And speaking of Mr. Hastings, where is your client? It’s almost two.”

“I called his house as soon as you notified me about the hearing. I assume his folks are driving him down.”

“You didn’t speak to him?”

“I told Mrs. Hastings.” Kreuger looked at the clock on the courtroom wall. “He’s still got a few minutes.”

Rex was about to reply when the bailiff called the Court to order and Judge Redding took the bench.

The judge surveyed the courtroom and frowned. “Where is Mr. Hastings?” she asked Les Kreuger.

“On the way, Your Honor.”

“He’d better be.”

Kreuger took out his phone. “Let me check.”

At that moment, Gloria and Blaine Senior walked in. They both looked upset.

“Where is your son?” Judge Redding asked.

Senior looked flustered. “We don’t know, Your Honor.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I told him about the hearing when your clerk called yesterday, but he wasn’t in his room this morning,” Gloria said.

“Are you telling me that he’s run off?” the judge asked.

“We don’t know that,” Blaine said, straining to sound reasonable. “There may be some explanation.”

Judge Redding looked grim. “If there is, he’ll be telling me about it in prison clothes. I’m revoking bail and denying the motion for a new trial.”

The judge turned to Kellerman. “You tell your people to bring him in.”

“It will be the first thing I do as soon as I get to my office. But there’s another matter I’d like to take care of right now.”

“What is that, Mr. Kellerman?”

The DA nodded toward Carrie Anders and Roger Dillon, who had been sitting in the back of the courtroom. “I am placing Blaine Hastings Sr. under arrest for obstruction of justice.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Robin was talking about a case with Jeff Hodges when the receptionist told her that Carrie Anders was on the phone.

“Hey, Carrie, what’s up?” Robin said.

“I have some news about Blaine Hastings.”

“What about him?”

Anders told Robin about the Hastingses’ scam.

“That is ingenious,” Robin said. “But why are you telling me about it?”

“You know Doug Armstrong was Hastings’s lawyer?”

Robin nodded.

“I assume you know that Armstrong’s partner was murdered.”

“Yeah, it was on the news.”

“Frank Nylander was beaten to death, and Armstrong is missing. Hastings threatened Armstrong. He’s a suspect in Nylander’s murder and Armstrong’s disappearance. You had a run-in with Hastings at the sentencing, and I wanted to give you a heads-up in case he decides to go after you.”

Robin’s features hardened. “I hope he does.”

“I know all about your martial arts background,” Anders said, “but Hastings is a beast, and he doesn’t have any qualms about hurting women.”

“We’ll see who hurts who.”

“Don’t handle this by yourself, Robin. You call 911 if Hastings comes anywhere near you.”

“I will, and thanks for warning me.”

Robin told Jeff what Anders had told her.

“You have a gun, right?”

Robin nodded.

“Don’t go anywhere without it until this shakes out.”

“I won’t.”

Jeff hesitated. “Look, I know you can take care of yourself, but I’d like to babysit you until we have a clearer picture of what’s going on.”

“I appreciate the offer, but—”

Jeff smiled. “Face it, Robin. You’re a damsel in distress, and you need a brawny knight to protect you. I’m also a terrific cook. From what I know about your eating habits, you need a decent meal even more than you need a bodyguard.”

Robin couldn’t help smiling. Even if she wasn’t in danger, she found the thought of spending an evening with Jeff appealing.

“Are you going to be stubborn?” Jeff asked.

“I don’t need a he-man to protect me, but I can use a good meal.”

“Good. Let’s finish up our work on this case. Then I’ll see you home.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Randi Stark had been a mess ever since Robin’s call. It was terrifying to think that Blaine Hastings was on the loose, and her mother’s wails and hand-wringing didn’t help. When she couldn’t stand to be in her mother’s presence another minute, Randi said she was going to bed. She was so anxious, she didn’t see how she could sleep—but she had to get away from Maxine.

As soon as she was in her room, Randi texted Annie Roche and told her the news. Annie panicked. She wanted to know if she was in danger. Randi told her that Blaine wouldn’t go after her, but Randi cautioned Annie to be careful. Randi would be the one he went after if he went after anyone,

After she turned off her phone, Randi tried to do some schoolwork, but she couldn’t concentrate. She had a television in her room. She turned down the sound so her mother wouldn’t hear it and come barging in. Then she tried to find a show that would distract her and eventually put her to sleep. Nothing worked.

Randi got into bed and turned out the lights. She closed her eyes and Blaine Hastings glared at her. Randi got out of bed and walked to her window. She pulled the edge of the shade aside and gazed into the night. Then she froze and her heart started tripping. Halfway down her block was a streetlight. Someone was leaning against it; someone with a build like Blaine Hastings’s. Randi leaned forward. Was it Blaine?

Robin had given Randi her cell phone number, and she punched it in.

“Yes?” Robin answered after several rings.

“It’s Randi Stark. I think Blaine is watching my house.”

“Calm down and tell me why you think he’s watching you.”

“There’s a man standing under the streetlight. He’s staring at the house.”

“And you’re certain it’s Blaine?”

“I… No, but who else would be watching my house at this hour?”

“Okay, here’s what I want you to do,” Robin said. “I’m coming over. Meanwhile, call 911 and tell them Blaine was outside your house. If he’s still there, the cops will either arrest him or he’ll run.”

Randi called the police, but the person who had been watching her house had vanished by the time the squad car arrived. Robin and Jeff showed up soon after and explained the situation to the two officers. When they drove away, Robin sat at the kitchen table with Maxine and Randi.

“Do you have someplace safe where you can stay?” Robin asked.

“My aunt,” Randi replied.

Maxine nodded. “Camille will put us up.”

“Good. Call her now. Then pack and go while Hastings is not around.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Marvin Turnbull had just come back from a contentious meeting with his board when Tyler Harrison called.

“I have bad news, Marvin,” Harrison said.

“What happened?”

“I called Frank Nylander in Portland on the Voss case. He’s dead, murdered.”

“You’re kidding?”

“I wish I were.”

“What happened?”

“He was killed in his office the evening he got back from our meeting.”

“Do they know who killed him?”

“I just talked to the receptionist. She told me that no one has been arrested.”

“Where does that leave the case?”

“It’s too early to say. Nylander had a good relationship with Voss. If anyone could convince him to settle, it would have been Frank.”

“Shit,” Turnbull muttered.

“Yeah,” Harrison agreed.

“So, what happens now?”

“Barring a miracle, we prepare for trial.”

“And the newspapers get hold of the story, which means we’re fucked.”

“I’m afraid so. I could try to get a gag order, but I had an associate research the question, and our chances would be almost zero.”

Turnbull’s end of the line went silent and Harrison waited.

“Voss will need a lawyer,” Turnbull said. “It will probably be someone in Nylander’s firm, but he could hire someone else. Either way, it will take a while for the new attorney to get up to speed, and that gives us time. Hell, a new lawyer might even be able to convince Voss to settle.”

“You’re right. If two lawyers advise the same thing, he might see the light.”

“This might work to our advantage, Tyler. Let me know what happens.”

“Will do,” Harrison said.

Turnbull disconnected and closed his eyes. The board had been informed about Leonard Voss’s refusal to settle, and they were in panic mode. Turnbull had sounded confident during his conversation with the firm’s attorney, but he was a realist. Voss was on a mission. He would never settle. If his lawsuit made headlines, the company would be ruined. More important, he would lose his job, and his stock would be worthless. Something had to be done, and he could see only one solution that would solve his and the company’s difficulties.

Ivar Gorski’s burner phone rang while he was in his motel room, performing katas, dancelike exercises that karate practitioners use to simulate combat. Gorski stopped in mid-kick and answered the call.

“We need to implement plan B,” Turnbull said.

Gorski hung up without saying anything in case someone was listening. He knew this wasn’t likely, but Gorski had stayed alive by being paranoid.

As soon as he ended the call, he continued his exercises. They calmed him and helped him think clearly. By the time he was showered and shaved, he had decided how he would carry out his mission.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Marsha Armstrong called Carrie Anders at seven in the morning on Tuesday.

“I just got a call from Saint Francis Medical Center. Doug’s there on the third floor. I’m getting ready to drive over.”

Carrie was headed to work, but she changed direction. Anders’s phone rang again just as she was about to get out of her car, in the hospital parking lot.

“Carrie?” Robin said.

“What’s up?” Anders replied.

“I wanted to give you a heads-up. Randi Stark called me last night. She was very upset. She thought she saw Blaine Hastings watching her house.”

“Is she sure it was Hastings?”

“No. She told me she saw a man from her bedroom window. He was about a block away, it was dark, and his face wasn’t illuminated. The best she can do is say that the person she saw had a build similar to Hastings’s.”

“Do you want me to have a car drive by tonight?”

“That won’t be necessary. They’re staying with a relative for a while.”

“Okay. Give Randi my number, and tell her to call if she thinks she’s in danger.”

“Will do.”

Marsha had not arrived when Anders walked into Reception, so she went to the nurses’ station on the third floor and had the doctor who was treating Armstrong paged.

Moments later, a young man wearing a white coat walked down the hall.

“Dr. Sanchez?” the detective asked as she flashed her ID.

The doctor nodded. “You’re here about Mr. Armstrong?”

Anders nodded in turn, and the doctor started walking toward a room that was halfway down the corridor. “Can you tell me what happened to him?” Anders asked.

“Mr. Armstrong was wandering around downtown at three in the morning. An officer spotted him and brought him here. He told me he didn’t know who he was or what had happened to him, and he didn’t have a wallet or phone we could use to identify him. This morning, he remembered his name and we called his wife.”

Anders stopped in front of the room. “What injuries does he have?”

“There’s some superficial damage to his face—a gash on his forehead, a split lip, black eyes, and cuts and abrasions on his nose, but nothing serious.”

“Does he remember how he was injured?”

“No. He told me the last thing he remembered before the police found him was flying back from Seattle last Tuesday.”

“Do you think his injuries caused his amnesia?”

“Neurological amnesia can result from a brain injury, but I found no sign of that.”

“Last week, Mr. Armstrong’s partner was beaten to death in an extremely violent manner. I’ve heard that amnesia can be caused by witnessing a traumatic event. If Mr. Armstrong witnessed his partner being bludgeoned to death, could that have brought on the problem?”

“There is a rare type of amnesia called dissociative amnesia, which is caused by emotional shock or trauma, such as being the victim of a violent crime.”

“Can a person who develops dissociative amnesia recover lost memories?

“Loss of memory caused by emotional shock is usually brief.”

“Can I talk to Armstrong?”

“Yeah, but I’ll want to be in the room to observe. If I think he’s getting too upset, I’m going to stop the interview.”

Anders started to open the door to Armstrong’s room. Then she thought of something. “Can I tell Mr. Armstrong that his partner is dead?”

Dr. Sanchez frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now. If he remembers, you can ask him what happened. But the news that his partner was murdered would probably upset him.”

“Okay,” Anders said as she opened the door.

When the detective walked into the room, Doug stared at her.

“Good morning, Mr. Armstrong,” Anders said as she walked to the side of the bed and displayed her shield. “How are you feeling?”

“Not great.”

“Do you know who I am?”

Armstrong’s brow knitted and he looked closely at Carrie. “Did you work on one of my cases?”

“Yes. My name is Carrie Anders, and I’m a detective with the Portland Police Bureau. We’ve met on a few occasions in connection with some of your cases.”

Doug shook his head. “I’m sorry, but my memory…”

“No need to apologize. Dr. Sanchez told me that you’re experiencing some memory loss. In spite of that, I’d like to ask you a few questions. Do you feel up to answering them?”

“I’ll try.”

“Can you tell me how you were injured?”

“No.”

“What is the last thing you remember?”

“I… There was a plane. I was at the airport. I think I flew from Seattle. After that, nothing.”

Anders was about to continue when Marsha Armstrong rushed into the room. Dr. Sanchez blocked her.

“Please, I’m Doug’s wife.”

The doctor looked at Anders. The detective nodded. Sanchez stepped aside. Marsha walked to Doug’s side. She took his hand and teared up.

“Hey, I’m okay,” he said. “Don’t cry.”

Marsha wiped her eyes. “When I heard Frank was dead and you disappeared, I thought you were dead, too. I was so scared.”

Doug stared at Marsha. “What do you mean, Frank is dead?”

“Oh God, you don’t know?”

Doug looked bewildered. “How could he be dead? What happened?”

Dr. Sanchez stepped forward. “Mrs. Armstrong, you don’t want to excite your husband. This is too much information right now.”

Doug looked desperate. “You can’t just leave it like that. Does Frank’s death have something to do with what happened to me?”

Anders looked at the doctor.

“Go ahead,” Dr. Sanchez said.

“Frank Nylander was killed in his office on Tuesday evening, the night you returned from Seattle,” Carrie said. “We have no idea who killed him. We’re hoping you can help us when your memory returns.”

Doug closed his eyes and let his head sink into his pillow. “How could this happen?” Doug muttered. “It makes no sense.”

“This is enough for now,” Dr. Sanchez said. “I’d like everyone to leave me with Mr. Armstrong.”

“Wait!” Doug said. “I do remember something. Is… Was Blaine Hastings… Is he still in jail?”

“No,” Carrie answered. “There was a problem with some of the evidence in his case, and he was released the day you flew back to Portland from Seattle.”

Doug closed his eyes for a moment. Then he looked at Carrie. “My memories are all jumbled. But I’m sure I told Frank that Hastings was out.” Doug’s brow furrowed and he looked upset. “That’s all,” he said after a moment. “I can’t even be sure it happened.”

“That’s enough for today,” Dr. Sanchez said.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Marsha said after casting an anxious look at her husband. When she and Carrie were in the hall, Marsha said, “I’m sorry. I thought Doug knew that Frank was dead.”

“He does now.”

“You don’t think… I didn’t hurt him, did I?”

“No. We had to tell him sometime.”

“What did the doctor tell you? Is Doug going to be okay?”

“Dr. Sanchez says his memory loss is probably temporary. You can see that it’s starting to come back already.”

“But will he remember who killed Frank?”

“I hope so. That would make my job a hell of a lot easier.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Roger Dillon parked in a lot next to the Oregon State Medical Examiner’s office. When Rex Kellerman got out of the car, he put on his game face. He hated attending autopsies, but he couldn’t let Dillon and Anders see that he was afraid of making a fool of himself when the medical examiner started cutting into dead flesh.

Roger Dillon’s phone rang as the detectives and the prosecutor approached the front door. Dillon paused to take the call. He frowned when he disconnected.

“What’s up?” Anders asked.

“Frank Nylander left his car in the economy lot at the airport when he flew to New York. Nylander’s secretary assumed that he drove from the airport to the office on Tuesday afternoon and parked in his reserved space in the building garage. On Friday, she remembered that Nylander’s keys were missing, so she checked the space. The car wasn’t in it. The secretary called Mrs. Nylander. The car wasn’t at their house, and it just turned up in a parking lot, two miles from downtown.”

“This is beginning to look more and more like a robbery gone bad,” Anders said.

“I’m starting to lean that way,” Dillon agreed.

The receptionist told Dr. Sally Grace, the assistant medical examiner, that she had visitors. Moments later, a slender woman with frizzy black hair and sharp blue eyes walked down the hall with a big smile on her face.

“You guys ready to slice and dice?” she asked.

“Always,” Rex lied, hoping that he had successfully disguised the dread he felt at the thought of seeing a corpse disemboweled and its skull sawed open.

Dr. Grace led Kellerman and the detectives to the back of the building, where they put on blue, water-impermeable gowns, masks, goggles, and heavy black rubber aprons. When they entered the autopsy room, Frank Nylander’s naked body lay on one of the two stainless steel autopsy tables that stood on either side of the room. He had been cleaned up, but there was no way to disguise the injuries he’d suffered.

“Mr. Nylander had some interesting things to tell me,” Dr. Grace said.

“Oh?” Anders replied.

“When you were in his office, he was lying facedown, so you only saw the damage to the back of his skull. Those were the blows that caused his death. But he was struck on the front of his face first.”

Dr. Grace pointed to a large gash over the dead lawyer’s left eye, then at his nose, which had been crushed. “Now, look at his knuckles and the bruises on his forearms.”

Kellerman studied Nylander’s hands and forearms and saw the bruises and abrasions to which Dr. Grace was referring.

“I think Mr. Nylander fought with his killer but was stunned by blows to his face inflicted by the stone statute. Based on the blood spatter, I’d guess that the killer drove him to the floor with one or more of the blows to the front of his head, then finished him off while he was facedown on the carpet.”

“Did you find any trace evidence the killer may have transferred to Nylander?” Kellerman asked.

Dr. Grace lifted Nylander’s right hand. “I did scrape a minute sample of blood from one of his fingernails. It may not be enough to work with, but that’s not my job. You’ll have to ask the techs at the crime lab.”

“Anything else—hair, saliva?” Dillon asked.

Dr. Grace shook her head. Then she flipped on her goggles, pulled up her mask, and picked up an electric saw. “Shall we?”

Kellerman felt his gut clench.

“Peter?” Kellerman asked when Peter Okonjo answered his call to the Oregon State Crime Lab.

“Hi, Rex. What can I do for you?”

“I’m calling about Frank Nylander’s case. I just attended the autopsy, and Sally told me she sent over a small sample of blood that was scraped from one of Nylander’s fingernails.”

“She did.”

“Has it told you anything?”

“It was a microscopic amount, Rex. Way too small to work with.”

“And you didn’t find anything else at the crime scene we can use to identify the killer?”

“There were a ton of fingerprints, but they all matched the people who work at the firm.”

“So, no one who didn’t belong?”

“No, but there were no prints on the statue, so the killer may have worn gloves.”

“Okay,” Kellerman said, unable to hide his disappointment. “Let me know if you come up with anything.”

Kellerman was just about to hang up when Okonjo said, “There is something we might try with the blood.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a lab in town that uses low-template DNA analysis to determine genetic probabilities when analyzing minuscule amounts of genetic material that other methods can’t interpret.”

“Okay,” said Kellerman, who had no idea what the forensic expert was talking about.

“I don’t remember the name of the lab offhand, but I can look it up and see if they can do something with it. It’s a long shot.”

“Try it. We’ve got nothing to lose. And Peter, if they can analyze the sample, have the lab call me with the result. No sense making you act as a middle man.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

After Blaine Hastings Jr. went on the run, life at Robin’s condo fell into a routine. In the morning, Jeff would drive Robin to her gym or the office. In the evening, he would drive her home. After checking to make sure no one was inside Robin’s apartment, Jeff would whip up a delicious meal. Then Jeff and Robin would read, work, or watch TV. When they got tired, Robin would go to sleep in her bedroom and Jeff would sack out on the couch.

“This has gotten very domestic,” Robin joked one night when they were seated side by side on the couch, watching a movie.

Jeff smiled. “We have started acting like an old married couple.”

Robin returned the smile. “That’s not so bad, is it?”

They looked at each other, and Jeff stopped smiling. Then he looked away.

Robin put a hand on his arm. “I really appreciate what you’re doing.”

“Hastings is dangerous,” Jeff said.

Robin took a deep breath. “Vanessa called this afternoon, right before we left the office. They think Hastings is probably out of the country.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Robin looked directly at Jeff. “I was afraid you’d stop staying with me.”

When Jeff didn’t say anything, Robin said, “You don’t have to sleep on the couch tonight. You can stay with me.”

Jeff looked nervous. “We discussed this in Atlanta, Robin.”

“I almost died in Atlanta. When I asked you to make love to me, you were right when you said it was my adrenaline talking. It’s not now. I care about you, Jeff. And I think you care, too, or you wouldn’t be here every night, protecting me.”

“An office romance is a bad idea,” Jeff said, sounding like a man torn between duty and desire.

“It can be, but it doesn’t have to be. Making love isn’t a trivial decision for me. I don’t sleep around, and I don’t think you do. If you care about me as much as I do for you, you shouldn’t be sleeping on the couch tonight.”

Jeff hesitated.

Robin gathered her courage. Then she leaned into Jeff and kissed him.

Jeff tensed for a second. Then he said, “God damn it, Robin,” and he crushed her in his arms.

Robin woke up with a big smile. She’d wondered what Jeff would be like in bed, and now she knew.

“Wipe that stupid grin off your face,” Jeff said.

“Who put the stupid look on my face, Mr. Hodges?” Robin said as she reached under the covers.

Jeff slapped her hand. “Stop that. You have to be in court at nine, and we don’t have time for any more debauchery.”

“Not even for a quickie?” Robin asked with an evil smile.

“Cut it out or I’ll dial 911.”

Robin faked a frown. “You’re no fun.”

Jeff kissed her and rolled out of bed.

Robin had been relieved to find out that the explosion that had scarred Jeff’s face had not impaired his other functions, and she’d been right when she guessed that he would be a considerate lover. Actually, he’d been much more than considerate. He’d been downright accommodating.