After Dark

"I'm only eighteen," he pleaded. A tear trickled down his cheek. "I don't want to spend my life in prison." Joel slumped in his chair and buried his face in his hands.

Matthew leaned forward and placed a hand on Joel's shoulder. "What, Joel?"

"I'm scared," the boy sobbed.

"I know, Joel. Everyone I've ever represented has been scared when it was time to decide. Even the tough guys."

Joel raised his tear-stained face toward Matthew. He was just a baby now and it was impossible to imagine what he must have looked like when he straddled Mary Harding's naked body and slammed the log down over and over until he had smashed the life out of her.

"What will I do, Mr. Reynolds?"

"You'll do what you have to to make a life for yourself. You won't stay in prison forever. You'll be paroled. Your parents love you. They'll be there for you when you get out. And while you're in, you can take college courses, get a degree."

Matthew went on, trying to sound upbeat, wanting Joel to have hope and knowing it was all a lie. Prison would be hell for Joel Livingstone. A hell he would survive, but one from which he would emerge a far different person from the boy he was today.

Matthew Reynolds and Tracy Cavanaugh had been in court for three solid days of pretrial motions when Joel Livingstone's lateafternoon guilty plea abruptly ended the case. As the judge took the plea, Tracy had glanced at Joel's parents, who were elegantly dressed, barely under control and totally at peace in the Fulton County Circuit Court.

Bradford Livingstone, a prominent investment banker, sat stiffly, hands folded in his lap, uncomfortable in the company of cops, court watchers and other types with whom he did not normally associate. On occasion, Tracy caught Bradford staring at his son in disbelief. Elaine Livingstone pulled into herself, be coming more distant, pale and fragile every day. When the judge pronounced sentence, the couple seemed to age before Tracy's eyes.

After court, there was a tearful meeting between Joel and his parents, then an exhausting meeting between the parents and Matthew, which Matthew handled with great compassion.

It was almost seven when Tracy joined Reynolds in the hotel dining room for their final dinner in Atlanta. Tracy noticed that Reynolds was indifferent to food and every night had ordered steak, a green salad, a baked potato and iced tea. This evening, Tracy was as disinterested in food as her boss. She was toying with her pasta primavera and replaying the events of the day when Reynolds asked, "What's bothering you?"

Tracy looked across the table. She knew Reynolds had said something, but she had no idea what it was.

"You've been distracted. I was wondering if something was wrong," he said.

Tracy hesitated, then asked, "Why did you convince Joel to take the deal?"

There was a piece of steak on Reynolds's fork. He put the fork on his plate and leaned back in his chair. "You don't think I should have?"

Reynolds's tone gave no clue to what he was thinking. Tracy had a rush of insecurity. Reynolds had been trying cases for twenty years. She had never tried a case and she had worked for the man she was questioning for all of one week. Then again, Reynolds struck her as a man who welcomed ideas and would not take offense if she had a sound basis for her views.

"I think Folger made the offer because he was afraid he might lose our motion to suppress the confession."

"I'm sure you're right."

"We could have won it."

"And we could have lost."

"The judge was leaning our way. Without the confession, we might have had a shot at manslaughter. There's no minimum sentence for manslaughter. Joel would have been eligible for parole anytime."

"There's no minimum sentence with death either."

Tracy started to say something, then stopped. Reynolds waited a moment, then asked, "What was our objective in this case?"

"To win," Tracy answered automatically.

Reynolds shook his head. "Our objective was to save Joel Livingstone's life. That is the objective in every death case. Winning is one way of accomplishing that objective, but it must never be your main objective.

"When I started practicing, I thought my objective was always an acquittal." Reynolds's lips creased into a tired smile. "Unfortunately, I won my first three murder cases. It's difficult to avoid arrogance if you're young and undefeated. My next death case was in a small eastern Oregon county. Eddie Brace, the DA, was only a few years older than I and he had never tried a murder case. The rumor was that he'd run for DA because he wasn't making it in private practice. The first time we were in court, Brace stumbled around and spent half his time apologizing to the judge.

"The night before we were to start motions, Mr. Brace came to my hotel, just like Folger did. We jawed for a while, then he told me flat out that he felt uncomfortable about asking a jury to take a man's life. He wanted to know if my client would take a straight murder if he'd give up the death penalty. Well, I had a winnable case and I'd gotten not-guilty verdicts in every murder case I'd tried, so I figured what you figured with Folger, that Brace was afraid to lose. I knew I was so good I'd run right over him."

Reynolds looked down at his plate for a moment, then directly at his associate.

"The worst words a lawyer can hear is a verdict of death for his client.

You don't ever want to hear those words, Tracy. I heard them for the first time in the case I tried against Eddie Brace."

"What went wrong?"

"Only one thing. Brace stumbled along, I tried a brilliant case, but the jury was for hanging. They really wanted to see my client die. With hindsight I could see that it really didn't matter who tried the case, my man was going to die if a jury was deciding the matter. Brace knew that. He knew his people. That's why he tried so hard to convince me to take the deal. Not because he was afraid he would lose, but because he knew he couldn't lose."

"But Joel's case... It's different. The judge might have . . ."

"No, Tracy. Not while there was any kind of argument on Folger's side.

I know you don't believe that now, but you will after a while. What's important is that I know the judge would have found a way to keep the confession in and the jury would have no sympathy for a spoiled rich kid who took the life of that lovely girl."

Reynolds looked at his watch.

"I'm going to take a walk, then turn in. There'll be a limousine waiting to take us to the airport at seven. Get a good night's sleep.

And don't let this case keep you up. We did a good job. We did what we had to do. We kept our client alive."

Matthew Reynolds closed the door to his hotel room and stood in the dark. The sterile room was immaculately clean, the covers on his bed neatly tucked in at the corners, a chocolate mint centered on the freshly laundered pillowcase. It looked this way every night.

Reynolds stripped off his jacket and laid it over the back of a chair.

The conditioned air dried the sweat that made his shirt stick to his narrow chest. Outside the hermetically sealed window, Atlanta sweltered in the sultry August heat. The lights of the city flickered all around.

This was the last time Reynolds would see them. Tomorrow he would be home in Portland and away from the reporters, his client and this case.

Reynolds turned away from the window and saw the red message light blinking on the phone next to his bed. He retrieved the message and punched in Barry Frame's number, anxious to hear what he had uncovered in the Coulter case. "Bingo!" Frame said.

"Tell me," Reynolds asked anxiously.

"Mrs. Franklin hung a picture over the bullet hole. This horrific black velvet Elvis. The cops never thought to move it because they have no aesthetic taste. Fortunately for Jeffrey Coulter, I do.)

Frame paused dramatically.

"Stop patting yourself on the back and get to it."

"You can relax, Matt. We don't have to worry about this case anymore.

I' guarantee Griffen will dismiss once she reads the criminologist's report. See, the picture was too high. No one would hang it like that.

Not even someone with Mrs. Franklin's awful taste. It bothered me in the crime-scene photos and it was worse when I walked into the hall.

"In Jeffrey's version of the shooting, he fell back when Franklin pulled out the gun. When he tripped, Franklin's shot missed him. Jeffrey is tall. If Franklin shot for the head, he'd be aiming high. We found a snapshot in the family album showing the hallway three months before the shooting with the Elvis on another wall. I moved the picture and there was a freshly puttied hole. We've got everything on videotape, as well as stills. We dug out the putty. The expert's pretty certain its a bullet hole. The bullet's gone. Ma Franklin must have deep-sixed it."

"When will we have the criminologist's report?"

"By the end of the week."

"Let's step up the background investigation of Franklin. Put another man on it if necessary."

"What for? The fact that Mrs. Franklin puttied over the bullet hole, then moved the picture to conceal it, proves she was covering up for her son. Griffen will have to drop the charges."

"Never bank on the prosecution acting reasonably, Barry. Abigail Griffen is not the type to roll over. She may not draw the same conclusions from the evidence that we did. We go full-bore until the moment the indictment is dismissed."

"You got it," Barry said wearily. "I'll put Ted French on the backgrounder. How are things in Atlanta?"

"Joel took the deal."

"That's what you hoped, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"How are his parents doing?"

"Not well." Matthew paused for a moment and rubbed his eyes. "I'm flying back tomorrow, Barry, but don't tell anyone. I want to take a few days off."

"Are you okay? You don't sound so good."

"I'm tired. I need some time to myself."

"I've been telling you that for years. When do you land? I'll pick you up at the airport."

"I'll be in at three-ten. And, Barry, that was good work at the Franklin house. Very good work."

Matthew hung up. His eyes were glazed with fatigue and he was bone weary. He lay back on the bed in the dark and thought about Joel Livingstone and Jeffrey Coulter back in Portland and Alonso Nogueiras in Huntsville, Texas, and all the other people for whom he was the sole difference between life and death. It was too much for one man to do and he was beginning to think he just couldn't do it anymore.

Matthew thought about Tracy Cavanaugh's drive and desire.

There had been a time when he moved from one cause to another with the energy of a zealot. Now the cases just seemed to grind him down, and it was taking all his strength to stand up after he was done with them. He needed time away from the clients and the ever present specter of death.

He needed something . . . someone.

Matthew turned on his side and hugged a pillow to his cheek.

The linen felt cool and comforting. He closed his eyes and remembered the way Abigail Griffen looked in one of the photographs he kept in the manila envelope in the lower right drawer of his desk. The photo was his favorite. In it, she stood relaxed and happy outside the French windows of her home, her arms at her side, her right knee slightly bent, looking toward the woods, as if she was listening to some faint sound that carried to her on the wind.

Chapter NINE

The morning had been cool and overcast, but the fog burned off by noon and the sun was shining. Abbie circled the cabin taking pictures from different angles with her Pentax camera. She tried to capture the cabin from every angle, because she needed a photographic record of the place that in all the world had come to be her favorite.

When she was finished photographing the cabin, Abbie followed a narrow dirt path through the woods to a bluff overlooking the Pacific. She took some shots from the bluff, then walked down a flight of wooden steps to the beach.

Abbie was wearing a navy-blue tee shirt, a bulky, hooded gray sweatshirt and jeans. She hung the camera around her neck and took off her sneakers and socks. There had been a storm the previous day and the Pacific was still in turmoil. Abbie pushed her toes through the sand until she reached the waterline. Gulls swooped overhead, She set up a shot, stepping sideways toward the bluff whenever the freezing water came too close. A wave rose skyward, spraying foam, then fell in a fury.

Abbie finished the roll of film and continued down the beach.

She loved the ocean and she loved the cabin. The cabin was the place she came to escape. She would awake with the sun, but stay in bed reading. When she was hungry, Abbie would whip up marionberry, ginger or some other type of exotic pancakes and a caff latte. She would nurse the latte while reading the escapist fiction she had no time for when she was in trial and which helped her to forget the grim work of prosecuting rapists and murderers. Then, for the rest of the day, she would continue to do absolutely nothing of importance and revel in her idleness.

Abbie hunched her shoulders against a sudden gust of wind.

The sea air was bracing. The thought of losing the cabin was unbearable, but she was going to lose it. The cabin belonged to Robert and he had made it clear that she would never use it once the divorce was final, taunting her with the loss because he knew how dear the place was to her. It gave Abbie one more reason to hate him.

The sun began to set. Abbie reached a place where the beach narrowed at the base of a high bluff. She turned for home, leaning forward to fight the tug of the sand. By the time she arrived at the stairs that led back up to the cabin, she was feeling melancholy. She sat on the lowest step and tied her sneakers. She would be able to buy another cabin, but she doubted she would find one that suited her so perfectly.

Abbie rested her forearms on her thighs and lost herself in the rhythm of the waves. What would she do after the divorce? She would not mind being alone. She had lived alone before. She was living alone now.

Living alone was better than living with someone who used you and lied to you. What she would miss was the special feeling of being in love she had experienced with Larry Ross and during the early days of her marriage to Robert. Abbie wondered if she would take the risk of falling in love again, knowing how easily love could be snatched away.

When the chill reminded her of the advent of night, Abbie hoisted herself to her feet and climbed the stairs. She walked slowly along the short path through the woods. Something moved deep in the forest and Abbie froze, hoping it was a deer. She had been on edge since the attempted break-in at her house. When Matthew Reynolds commented that Charlie Deems was the type of person who would seek revenge, Abbie remembered that the burglar's physique vaguely resembled Deems's. The thought that a man like Deems might be stalking her was profoundly unsettling.

Abbie waited nervously in the shadows cast by the pines, but the source of the sound remained a mystery. She returned to the cabin, showered, then made a nice dinner, which she ate on the front porch. She sipped a chilled Chardonnay that went well with the trout amandine and saffron rice pilaf. Overhead, the stars were a river of diamonds so sharp they hurt her eyes. They never looked like this in the city.

Abbie loved to cook and usually felt upbeat after consuming one of her creations. Tonight, she was thinking about losing the cabin and she felt logy and maudlin. After dinner, she sipped a mug of coffee, but soon felt her eyelids drag. She emptied the coffee onto the packed earth below the porch rail and went inside.

Abbie sat up in bed, certain she had heard a noise but unable to tell what it was. Her heart was beating so loudly, she had to take deep breaths to calm herself. The moon was only a sliver and the room was pitch black. According to the clock on her nightstand, she had only been asleep for an hour and a half.

Abbie tried to identify the sound that had awakened her, but heard only the waves breaking on the beach. Just as she convinced herself that she was only having a bad dream, a stair creaked and her heart raced again.

Abbie had taken to carrying her handgun since the attempted break-in, but as she reached for it, she remembered that her purse was downstairs.

She had been too exhausted to change her clothes when she went to bed, so Abbie was wearing her tee shirt and panties and had tossed her sneakers, socks and jeans onto the floor next to the bed. She rolled onto the floor and slipped on her jeans and sneakers.

There was a deck outside the bedroom window. Abbie grabbed the doorknob and tried to open the door quietly, but the salt air had warped the wood and the door stuck. Abbie pulled a little harder, afraid that the intruder would hear her if she jerked open the door. It would not move.

Another step creaked and she panicked. The second she wrenched the door open footsteps pounded up the stairs toward her room. Abbie ran onto the deck. She slammed the deck door closed to slow the intruder, then she rolled over the low deck rail just as the door to her bedroom slammed open. For a brief moment, Abbie could see the silhouette of a man in her doorway.

Then she was falling through the air and slamming against hardpacked earth.

The deck door crashed against the outside wall and Abbie was up and running. A dirt trail ran between the woods and the edge of the bluff for a mile until it reached the neighbors' property.

There was no fence and the trail was narrow, but Abbie streaked along it, praying she would not be followed.

A hundred yards in was a footpath that led into the woods.

Abbie's brain was racing as she weighed her choices and decided her chances of survival were better in the woods, where there were more places to hide. She veered to the left and shot down the trail, then moved off it and into the woods as silently as she could.

Abbie crouched behind a tree and strained to hear the man who was chasing her. A second later, footsteps pounded by on the path. Abbie gulped air and tried to calm herself. She decided to move deeper into the woods. She would hide until daylight and hope the man would give up before then. She had almost regained her composure when she heard a sound on her right.

Adrenaline coursed through her and she bolted into the underbrush, making no effort to be quiet. Her feet churned. She surged into the woods and away from the cliff, oblivious to the pain from branches that whipped across her face and ripped her shirt. Then she was airborne.

She tried to cushion her fall but her face took the brunt of it.

Blinding lights flashed behind her eyes.

The air was momentarily crushed from her lungs. She hugged the earth, praying she would be invisible in the dark. Almost immediately, she heard the loud crack of branches breaking and the snap of bushes as they swung back after being pushed apart.

The sound was nearby and there was no way she could run.

On her right was a massive, rotting tree trunk. Abbie burrowed under it, pressing herself into the earth, hoping that the mass of the log would shield her.

Something wet fell on Abbie's face. It started to move. Tiny legs scrambled across her lips and cheek. An insect! Then another and another. Abbie desperately wanted to scream, but she was afraid the insects would crawl into her mouth. She clamped her jaws shut and took in air through her nose. Every part of her wanted to bolt, but she was sure she would die if she did.

The woods were silent. The man had stopped to reconnoiter.

Abbie brought a hand to her face and brushed off the bugs. She expelled air slowly. Her heart was beating wildly in her ears and she calmed herself so she could hear.

There was cool earth against her cheek and the silhouettes of tall evergreens against the night sky. Suddenly the space between two large trees was filled by the outline of a man. His back was to her, but she was certain he would see her if he turned and looked down. Abbie pressed herself closer to the log, praying that the man would not turn.

He did. Slowly. A few inches more and he would see her. Abbie felt for a rock or a thick tree limb she could use as a weapon, but her hand closed on nothing of substance.

Now the man was facing the log. He started to look directly at Abbie.

Then the sky lit up.

The ringing of the phone wrenched Jack Stamm out of a deep sleep. He groped for the receiver. When he knocked it off the cradle, the ringing mercifully ceased.

District Attorney Stamm?

Stamm squinted at the bright red numerals on his digital alarm clock. It was 4:47 A. M.

"Who's this?"

"Seth Dillard. I'm the sheriff in Seneca County. We met at a law-enforcement conference in Boise two years ago."

"Right," Stamm said, trying to picture the sheriff and coming up blank.

"What couldn't wait until morning?"

"We have one of your people here. Abigail Griffen."

"Is she all right?" Stamm asked, suddenly wide awake.

"Yes, sir, but she's mighty shaken up."

"Why? What happened?"

"She says someone tried to kill her."

Seneca County was two hours west of Portland and it was almost seven-thirty when Jack Stamm stopped beside one of the two county police cars that were parked in front of an A-frame that belonged to Evelyn Wallace, Abbie's neighbor. When Stamm stepped out of his car, he could see the sun through breaks in the trees and heard the dull shoosh of the surf through the woods behind the house.

A Seneca County sheriffs deputy opened the front door and Stamm showed his ID. The A-frame was small. A kitchen and the living room took up the ground floor. Abbie was huddled on the living-room couch wrapped in a blanket and sipping a cup of coffee. Evelyn Wallace, a slender woman in her mid-sixties, sat beside her.

Stamm was shocked by the way Abbie looked. Her hair was uncombed, there were streaks of dirt on her cheeks and her eyes were bloodshot. Stamm also noticed a number of cuts and bruises on her face.

"My God, Abbie. Are you all right?" Stamm asked.

Abbie looked up at the sound of Stamm's voice. At first she did not seem to recognize her boss. Then she mustered the energy for a tired smile.

"I'm exhausted but I'm okay. Thanks for coming."

"Don't be ridiculous. Do you think I'd let you drive yourself to Portland after what the sheriff said."

Before Abbie could answer, the door opened and a tall man with leathery skin and a salt-and-pepper mustache entered. He wore a Stetson and the uniform of the Seneca County sheriffs office.

"Mr. Stamm?" asked the uniformed man.

"Sheriff Dillard?"

"Yes, sir. Thanks for comin'."

The sheriff turned his attention to Abbie.

"Do you think you're up to going back to the cabin? My men are almost through and I'd appreciate it if you could walk me through what happened."

Abbie stood up. The blanket slipped down. She was wearing a tee shirt without abra, jeans and sneakers without socks, and she was covered with caked brown-gray mud from head to toe.

"You're sure you're up to it, dear?" Mrs. Wallace asked.

"I'm fine. Thank you so much, Mrs. Wallace. You've been wonderful."

When Abbie was ready, she got in the sheriffs car. Stamm followed along a short driveway until they reached the highway.

The sheriff turned left and drove for a little over a mile, then turned down the narrow dirt road that led to the Griffen cabin.

Abbie and the sheriff were going inside by the time Stamm parked and climbed the steps to the front porch.

The front door of the Griffen cabin opened into a large living room with a stone fireplace. There were two bedrooms and a kitchen on the first floor and two more bedrooms, plus the deck, upstairs.

"Forensic people through?" Sheriff Dillard asked a lanky deputy who was waiting in the living room holding a Styrofoam cup filled with lukewarm coffee.

"Left a few minutes ago."

"Before you tell us what happened," the sheriff asked Abbie, "can you check to see if anything was stolen?"

Abbie went through the downstairs as quickly as possible, then led everyone upstairs to the bedroom. Her terrifying ordeal had drained her physically and emotionally, and she climbed the stairs slowly. When she reached the bedroom doorway, she paused, as if expecting to find the intruder inside. Then she took a deep breath and entered.

The shades on the big picture window were open and pale morning light filled the room. Only a lamp that lay with its shade askew on the floor next to an oak chest of drawers suggested an intruder, but Abbie could feel a presence in the bedroom that made her skin crawl. She hugged herself and shivered slightly.

She had been scared after the burglary attempt, but the fear passed quickly because she convinced herself that the attempted burglary was a random incident. Now she knew it wasn't.

"Are you all right, Mrs. Griffen?" Sheriff Dillard asked.

"I'm fine, just tired and a little scared."

"It wouldn't be normal if you weren't."

Abbie checked the chest of drawers and her end table. She went through her wallet carefully. Then she looked in the closets.

"As far as I can see, nothing's missing."

"Why don't you come on out to the deck so you can sit down and get some fresh air," the sheriff said solicitously.

Abbie walked out of the room into the bracing salt air and sat on one of the deck chairs. She looked out past the rail and saw the wide blue plain that was the sea.

"Do you think you're up to telling us what happened?" the sheriff asked.

Abbie nodded. She started with the sound she had heard in the woods before dinner and walked Stamm and Sheriff Dillard through the events of the night, stopping occasionally to give them specific details she hoped would prove helpful to the investigation. Remembering what happened was almost more terrifying than experiencing it, because now she had time to think about what would have happened if she hadn't escaped. To her surprise, Abbie found she had to pause on occasion to fight back tears.

When Abbie told the sheriff about seeing the intruder in the doorway, Sheriff Dillard asked her if she could describe the man.

"No," Abbie replied. "I only saw him for a second before I dropped off the deck. I just had an impression of someone dressed in black. I'm certain he wore a ski mask or a stocking over his face, but I saw him for such a short time and it was just before I jumped. I was mostly concentrating on the ground."

"Go on."

"When I hit I rolled and took off. There's a dirt trail along the bluff. I heard the deck door slam. He must have pushed it hard.

Then I was running in the dark. I could hear the ocean and see the whitecaps, but that was it. I was scared I'd go off the trail and fall from the bluff.

"About a hundred yards along the cliff, the trail branches into the woods. I saw a gap in the woods and took the offshoot, hoping the man would go straight. I tried to be quiet. He passed on the trail. I could hear his footsteps and his breathing. I was starting to feel like I'd gotten away when I heard something off to my right."

"What kind of thing?"

"I don't know. Just . . ." Abbie shook her head. "Just something. It spooked me."

"Could there have been a second person?"

"That's what I thought. When I heard the sound, I jumped off the trail and dodged through the undergrowth. I was really scared and not making any effort to be quiet. Just plunging away from the bluff and the place where I'd heard the sound."

Abbie told Stamm and the sheriff about her hiding place under the log.

She remembered the insects and shivered involuntarily.

"For a while it was quiet," she continued. "I hoped the man had gone off. Then a shadow moved between two large trees a short distance from me. I think it was the man I'd seen in the doorway."

"Couldn't you be sure?" the sheriff asked.

"No. He seemed to be the same size and shape, but it was so dark and I only saw the man in my room for a second."

"Go on."

"I knew if he turned and looked down he'd see me. I was certain he could hear me breathing. Suddenly, he did turn and I was sure I'd been discovered. Then the woods lit up."

"Lit up?" Sheriff Dillard repeated.

"There was a brief, but intense flash. It came from the other side of the log."

"Do you know what caused the flash?" the sheriff asked.

"No. I was under the log. I could just see a change in the light."

"Did you recognize the man?" the sheriff asked.

Abbie hesitated. "Two weeks ago, a man tried to break into my house in Portland. I scared him away, but I got a good look at him while he was on my back porch. He was dressed like the man who broke into the cabin tonight. I'm certain it was the same person. I could never identify him in a lineup. He was wearing something over his face both times, but something about him reminded me of Charlie Deems."

Stamm looked startled.

"Who is Charlie Deems?" the sheriff asked.

"A man I convicted on a murder charge more than a year ago.

He was sentenced to death, but the Supreme Court reversed his sentence recently and he's out of prison."

"Right. I knew the name sounded familiar. But why do you think it was Deems?"

"The size, his build. I could never swear it was Deems. It was just a feeling."

"Did you report the attempted break-in in Portland?" the sheriff asked.

"No. I didn't see any purpose in reporting it. I couldn't identify the man and nothing was taken. He wore gloves, so there wouldn't be any prints. And at the time I thought he reminded me of someone, but I didn't make the connection with Deems then."

The sheriff nodded and said, "Okay. Why don't you finish telling us what happened tonight, so you can go home."

"After the flash, the man froze for a second, then took off in the direction of the light. I heard him crashing through the underbrush away from me. After a while, ! couldn't hear him anymore. I decided to stay still for a long time. I wanted to be sure he wasn't waiting for me to move. I didn't have a watch, so I don't know how long I stayed put, but it seemed forever. When I thought I was safe I made my way to the Wallace cabin and Mrs. Wallace called you."

"When the man ran off, did you hear anything else?"

"No, but there had to be someone else out there. The flash, those sounds."

"Okay. I guess you'd like to shower and change. Why don't I take Mr.

Stamm downstairs. We'll be in the living room when you're ready to go."

"Tell me some more about Charlie Deems," Sheriff Dillard said when they were downstairs.

"If Deems is after Abbie, she's in serious trouble," Stamm said. "He's a stone killer. As cold as they come. He tortured a rival drug dealer to death, then he killed a little girl and her father to keep the father from testifying. I sat in on Deems's interrogation.

He never blinked. Smiled the whole time. Super polite. He treated the whole thing as if it was a joke. I watched his face when the jury came in with the death sentence. I'll bet his heart rate didn't go up a beat."

"Would he try to kill Mrs. Griffen?"

"If he wanted to, he would. Charlie Deems is basically a man without restraints. I just don't know why he'd go to the trouble, now that he's out. Then again, rational thought is not one of Deems's biggest assets."

Sheriff Dillard looked distracted and troubled.

"I'll tell you what concerns me, Mr. Stamm. Nothing was stolen. That could mean that the intruder was a thief who panicked. But I don't think so. If he was a thief, why follow Mrs. Griffen into the woods?

Why hunt for her? No, I think the intruder was here to do your deputy harm."

Chapter TEN

The Griffens' yellow three-story colonial stood at the end of a winding gravel drive on five acres of wooded land. A sawhorse blocked entry to the driveway. Despite the late hour, curious neighbors milled around in front of the barrier straining for a glimpse of the house and debating the cause of the explosion that had shattered the silence of their exclusive Portland residential neighborhood.

Nick Paladino drove through the crowd slowly, pausing in front of the sawhorse. A uniformed officer ducked his head down and looked through the driver's window. Paladino had the face of a gym-scarred boxer. The officer studied him suspiciously until the homicide detective flashed his badge, then he quickly moved the barrier aside.

Jack Stamm stared morosely out of the passenger window as the unmarked police car rolled slowly up the drive. The news of the explosion had stunned Stamm, who spent the ride to the crime scene blaming himself for not doing "something" in the week following the attack on Abigail Griffen.

Paladino parked near a Fire Rescue Unit. The men from Fire Rescue were watching the bomb squad work. There was nothing else for them to do.

There was no fire, just the shattered remains of a new Mercedes-Benz.

There was definitely no one to rescue.

The driver of the Mercedes was unquestionably dead.

Paul Torino, the Team Leader of the Explosive Disposal Unit, intercepted the district attorney and the detective before they crossed the barriers the squad had erected around the blast site.

Torino was balding, five-eleven, thick through the neck and shoulders and bowlegged. He was wearing the unit's black combat fatigues under a Tyvex paper throwaway chemical suit, which protected against blood-borne pathogens.

"Put these on and I'll give you the grand tour," Torino said, handing Stamm and Paladino Tyvex suits. Stamm slipped into his easily, but Paladino struggled to pull the paper suit over his beer gut.

"When did the bomb explode?" Stamm asked.

"The 911 came in at 10:35 P. M.," Torino answered as he led them through the police barrier. Portable lighting had been set up to illuminate the front yard and someone had turned on all the lights in the house. The bomb squad members were searching the crime scene for parts of the bomb so they could discover how it had been made. One officer had been designated evidence custodian. Another sketched the area to show where each piece of evidence was found.

Stamm noticed a man photographing a jagged hole in the garage door. The ruined Mercedes was just outside the garage, facing the door. Stamm guessed that the car had been parked in the driveway and was backing out when the bomb exploded. He circled the Mercedes before looking inside.

An acrid smell that had not been dispersed by the evening breeze hung in the air. The safety glass in the windshield was shattered but intact, but the side and rear windows had been blown out by the blast. There were shards of glass and chunks of bent and twisted metal scattered across the driveway and the front lawn. The roof on the driver's side was puffed out from the inside as if a giant fist had struck upward with tremendous force. Torino pointed out two one-inch holes in the roof and explained that they'd been made by pipe fragments. Then he motioned the two men toward the driver's window.

"When we get the chance to examine the underside," Torino said, "we're gonna find a large hole in the floorboard under the driver's seat.

That's where the bomb was attached. Notice the seat belt." It had been sheared in two. "The victim was blown up into the roof, breaking the restraint. Then the body settled back in the bucket seat."

Stamm took a deep breath and looked inside. Viewing a murder victim was never easy. It was infinitely harder if the victim was someone you knew. What helped here was the impression that the victim, slumped to the right, eyes closed, seemed merely asleep. The upper torso and head were intact, as was the body from the knees down, but there were massive injuries to the body between the knees and the torso. The pieces of flesh Stamm discerned were confined to the roof and the inside of the windshield on the driver's side and there was not as much blood as Stamm expected because death was the result of internal injuries. Stamm gathered himself and focused on the face once more, remembering it in life. He felt light-headed and turned away.

"Paul," someone shouted from the garage. "Look at this."

The garage door was up now. Inside, a member of the bomb squad squatted in front of a white refrigerator that stood against the back wall.

Torino bent over him and Paladino and Stamm looked in from the side.

Embedded in the refrigerator door was a rounded piece of metal.

"Did it come through the hole in the garage door?" Torino asked the man who had summoned them into the garage.

"Yeah. We measured the trajectory. I'm glad I wasn't looking in here for a beer. I'd have me two assholes."

"Have Peterson photograph this," Torino said. "Don't pry it out until he gets here."

Stamm bent closer and noticed two short pieces of copper wire and something he could not identify embedded in the piece of metal.

"That's one of the end caps from the bomb," Torino explained, "and that's the remains of a lightbulb that was used as the bomb's initiator.

When the bomb exploded, the end caps flew off like bullets in the direction they were pointing. This one penetrated the garage door and wedged itself in the refrigerator door."

The squad member returned with the sketch artist and the evidence custodian.

"It's getting crowded in here," Torino said. He led Stamm and Paladino outside.

"Paul," Stamm asked the captain, "you worked the Hollins bombing, didn't you?"

"The Deems case?"

Stamm nodded.

"I'm not surprised you asked," Torino said, "because I started getting a dose of d(jh vu as soon as I saw that end cap. I just didn't want to say anything until the investigation was complete.

I'll know for sure when we get all the pieces of the bomb, but I'd bet a year's salary that this bomb is identical to the bomb that killed Hollins and his little girl."

Shortly before midnight, Jack Stamm followed Harvest Lane through Meadowbrook, a development consisting of twenty small but attractive homes scattered over three winding streets on the outskirts of Portland, a twenty-minute drive from the site of the explosion. Stamm parked in the driveway of a modern, one-story gray house with an attached garage.

By the time a marked police car was parked at the curb, Stamm was ringing the bell and pounding on the front door. The small house was only a few years old. The development was so new that the trees provided no shade. The house was loaded with glass to catch the sun in the daytime. Stamm peered into the dark interior of the living room through the front window, then he turned to the uniformed officers whom he had ordered to follow him.

"Check the rear. See if there's any sign that someone's broken in."

The officers separated and circled the house. Stamm was worried. Why was the house deserted? Just then headlights appeared at the end of the street. A car started to turn into the driveway, then braked. The driver's door opened and Abbie got out. She was dressed in jeans, a dark long-sleeved cotton shirt and a navy-blue windbreaker. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail.

Abbie looked at the marked patrol car just as the police officers came around the side of the house. Abbie looked from the officers to Stamm.

"What's wrong, Jack?" Abbie asked anxiously.

"Where were you?" Stamm said, avoiding her question.

"On a wild-goose chase. What's going on?"

Stamm hesitated. Abbie gripped his arm.

"Tell me," she said.

Stamm put his hands firmly on Abbie's shoulders. "I've got bad news,"

Stamm said. An array of emotions flashed across Abbie's face. "It's Robert. He's dead."

"How?" was all she managed.

"He was murdered."

"Oh my God."

"It was a car bomb, Abbie. Just like the one Charlie Deems used to kill Larry Hollins and his little girl."

Abbie's legs gave way and Stamm helped her to the front stoop, where he eased her down.

"I want you to listen carefully," Stamm told Abbie. "There's no evidence Deems did this, but the bombs are very similar. So I'm not taking chances. These officers are going to stay with you tonight and I'm going to arrange twenty-four-hour police protection."

"But why Robert?" Abbie asked in apparent disbelief. "He's responsible for taking Deems off of death row."

"Deems is a sadist. Maybe he wants to kill you, but only after he's made you suffer by killing someone close to you."

Abbie looked dazed. "First the attempted break-in, then the attack on the coast. Now Robert is dead. I don't believe this is happening."

"You're going to be all right, Abbie. We'll protect you and we'll find the person who killed Robert. But you have to be careful. You have to take this very seriously."

Abbie nodded slowly. "You're right. I can't believe I went off by myself tonight."

"What were you doing out so late?"

"I got a call about a case. This man wanted me to meet him, but he didn't show up."

"What time was this?"

"Around nine."

Abbie paused, suddenly realizing why Stamm was asking about the call.

"You don't think the call and the bombing are connected, do you?" Abbie asked, but Stamm was not listening. He turned to one of the officers.

"Move your car away from the house, fast. Then get on the radio to Paul Torino. He's still at Justice Griffen's house. Tell him I need the bomb squad over here, right away."

Stamm pulled Abbie to her feet and started dragging her toward his car."

"What are you doing?" Abbie asked, still too dazed to realize what was frightening the district attorney.

"I'm getting you away from the house until the bomb squad's checked it thoroughly. If you've been out since nine, the person who set the bomb in your husband's car would have had plenty of time to rig something here."

Chapter ELEVEN

The small windowless room in the basement garage of the Portland Police Bureau looked more like a storeroom than the office of the bomb squad.

Its walls were unpainted concrete and the floor was littered with cardboard cartons filled with scraps of metal, copper wire and pieces of pipe. A gray gunmetal desk next to the door was the only hint that the room was used for something other than storing junk, but the desk was covered with an unorganized collection of miscellaneous clutter and could have been mistaken for abandoned furniture.

Paul Torino opened the door and let Nick Paladino into his workroom.

Paladino had taken the elevator from the Homicide Bureau to the basement after Torino called. "What's up, Paul?"

"I want to show you something."

Torino sat at the desk and gestured Paladino into a chair beside him.

Then Torino cleared the top of the desk by shoving everything into a big pile on one of the edges. There was a torn cardboard carton next to one of the desk legs. Torino pulled several items out of it and placed them on the desk in a line. Then he drew a side view of a piece of pipe on a yellow writing tablet.

"This is a rough drawing of the pipe bomb that killed Justice Griffen.

The bomber has to attach the bomb to the underside of the car and there is a simple way to do that."

Torino bent over the yellow sheet again and drew a rectangle.

Then he drew a horseshoe on the left end of the rectangle and another on the right end and placed a black dot in the center of the curve of each horseshoe.

"This is a strip of metal," Torino said, pointing to the rectangle.

"These are magnets," he continued, pointing to the horseshoes. "You drill holes in the strip and affix the magnets to the plate with nuts and bolts, then you tape the magnetic strip to the pipe bomb. When you're ready to use the bomb, you just have to stick it to the underside of the car."

"Okay."

Torino picked up a charred and twisted strip of flat metal approximately six inches in length, one and a half inches wide and one quarterof an inch thick.

"What do you think this is?" Torino asked Nick Paladino.

Paladino studied the object and the drawing. "The metal strip that the magnets are attached to?" he guessed.

"Right. I took this from the evidence room this morning. It was part of the pipe bomb that killed Larry and Jessica Hollins.

Do you notice anything unusual about it?"

Paladino took the metal strip from Torino and examined it closely. It was heavy. One end of the rectangle was flat and looked like it had been shaped by a machine. The other end was uneven and there was a notch in the metal that formed a jagged vee.

"The ends are different," Paladino said.

"Right. This steel strip came from a longer strip. Someone put it in a vise and used a hacksaw to cut it so it would fit the top of the pipe."

Torino pointed to the uneven end. "Notice how this notch overlaps.

That's because the person who cut it cut from two directions."

Torino picked up a clear-plastic bag with another twisted and charred metal strip.

"When the bomb exploded yesterday, Justice Griffen was seated directly over it. This strip was blown through the bottom of the car into the judge. It's what killed him. The medical examiner found it during the autopsy. Take a look at the right edge."

The similarities between the notch on the metal strip that had killed Robert Griffen and the notch on the end of the strip from the Hollins bomb were obvious.

"So you think the same person cut both strips?" Paladino asked.

"There's no way I could say that for sure, but I can say that I've only seen a bomb constructed like this once before. This is the bomber's signature. It's unique like a fingerprint."

"So Deems is probably our man?"

Torino did not answer. Instead, he picked up the last item on the desk.

It was also in a clear-plastic bag along with some metal shavings.

Paladino examined it. It was a clean steel rectangle with one machine-cut end and one end that had been cut by hand.

"What's this?" Paladino asked, certain he knew the answer.

Detective Bricker," Tracy Cavanaugh said when the receptionist connected her to the Salem Police Department's Homicide Bureau, "I don't know if you remember me . . ."

"Sure I do. You're Justice Sherzer's clerk."

"Well, I used to be. I'm working in Portland now. I've got a new job."

"I hope you didn't leave because of what happened to your friend."

"No, no. The clerkship was only for a year."

"How are you doing? Emotionally, I mean."

"I think about Laura a lot, but I'm okay. The new job helps.

I'm pretty busy."

"That's good. What's up?"

"I wanted to know how you're doing with the investigation.

Are there any suspects?"

"No. We believe Ms. Rizzatti was the intended victim rather than someone a burglar chanced upon, because someone ransacked Ms. Rizzatti's cottage. It may have been the person who rang the doorbell while she was leaving the message on your answering machine. But we have no idea who killed her, yet."

"Oh."

There was dead air for a moment. Then Detective Bricker asked, "Did you have another reason for calling?"

"Yes, actually. It's . . . Did you hear about Justice Griffen?"

"Yes," Bricker answered. Tracy thought she heard a little caution in the detective's tone.

"When I heard he was murdered, I couldn't help thinking . . . Have you considered the possibility that the two murders might be connected?

Doesn't it seem like too big a coincidence?

First Justice Griffen's clerk, and now the judge."

"I contacted Portland PB as soon as I heard Justice Griffen was killed.

Both agencies are looking into the possibility that there's a connection between the two murders, but right now we don't have any evidence to support that theory. Do you know anything that suggests the cases are related?"

"No. I just . . . I didn't know if you'd thought about it. I wanted to help."

"I appreciate your interest."

"Okay. That's all, I guess. Thanks for talking to me."

"Anytime."

When Nick Paladino finished explaining what he had learned from Paul Torino, Jack Stamm stood up and walked over to his window. Summer in Oregon was a dream. Snowcapped mountains loomed over miles of bright green forest. Pleasure boats cruised the Willamette, their sails a riot of color. Crime and despair should not exist in such a place, but the real world kept intruding on paradise.

"What about Deems? Do you know where he is?"

"He's vanished."

"That's the same thing he did before he killed Hollins. And what about the similarity between the two bombs?"

"Torino described how to make that bomb at Deems's trial."

Stamm turned away from the view. Paladino waited patiently for the district attorney.

"Is Paul certain about the metal strips?"

"I know you don't want to hear this, Jack. You don't need Torino's opinion. You can see the fit."

"That's not what I asked, damn it."

The detective looked down, embarrassed. "Paul will swear they fit."

Stamm picked up a paper clip from his desk and began to unbend it absentmindedly as he paced around the room. Paladino watched him. He knew exactly what Stamm was thinking, since he had been going through the same mental anguish since his meeting with Torino.

"Jesus," Stamm said finally.

"I know how you feel, Jack. It's ridiculous. I don't believe it for a minute. But we have to deal with the possibility. Abbie has a motive, she has no alibi for the time the bomb was attached to Griffen's car, she knows how to make the bomb. Paul says he walked her through it step by step when they prepared his direct examination at Deems's trial."

"This is total bullshit," Stamm said angrily. He threw the mangled paper clip into his wastepaper basket. "Nick, you know Abbie. Can you see her killing anyone?"

"No. And that's the biggest reason why I'm not gonna continue on this investigation. I know Abbie too well to be objective.

You have to get out, too."

Stamm walked back to his desk and slumped in his chair.

"You're right. I might even be a witness. I'll have to get a special prosecutor from the Attorney General's office. Shit. This is impossible."

"I think you should call the AG right now and set up a meeting.

Stamm was furious. He knew Abbie did not murder her husband. If anyone did, it wasCharlie Deems. But even the possibility that one of his deputies was guilty made it imperative that his office turn over the investigation and prosecution to another agency.

The intercom buzzed. "Mr. Stamm," Jack's secretary said, "I know you don't want to be disturbed, but Charlie Deems is here.

He says he wants to see you."

"Charlie Deems?"

"At the front counter. He said it was important."

"Okay. Tell him I'll be right out."

Stamm looked across the desk at Nick Paladino. The detective seemed as surprised as the district attorney.

"What the fuck is going on, Nick?"

"I don't have a clue, Jack."

"You don't think he's turning himself in?"

"Charlie Deems? Not a chance."

Stamm put on his jacket and straightened his tie. His office was only a few steps from the reception area. When he stepped into the narrow hall that led to it, he saw Deems sitting in one of the molded plastic chairs reading Sports Illustrated. "Mr. Deems, I'm Jack Stamm."

Deems looked up from the magazine, grinned and walked over to the low gate that separated the reception area from the rest of the office.

"I hear you've been looking for me," Deems said.

"Yes, sir. We have."

"Here I am."

"Would you like to step into my office?"

"Okay," Deems answered agreeably.

Stamm led Deems past his secretary and into his office.

"You know Nick Paladino."

"Sure. He arrested me, but I don't have any hard feelings.

Especially since we'll be working together."

"Oh?" Stamm said.

"Yeah. I'm turning over a new leaf. I want to work for the forces of justice."

"What brought about this miraculous conversion, Charlie?"

Paladino asked sarcastically.

"While you're sitting on death row you have plenty of time to think about life. You know, life, what does it all mean. I don't want to waste mine anymore. I'm a new man."

"That's very nice, Charlie. Is that why you came here? To tell us about your change of heart?" Paladino asked.

"Hey, I know how busy you guys are. If all I wanted to do was to tell you I turned over a new leaf, I'd have dropped you a letter.

No, I'm here to help you catch criminals."

"Anyone in particular?" Stamm asked.

"Oh, yeah. Some people I'm gonna enjoy sending to prison for a long, long time."

"And who might they be?"

"How about Raoul Otero? I know everything about his operation: how he brings the stuff into the country, where they cut it and who's working for him. Interested?"

"I might be."

"'Might be,'" he repeated. Then Deems chuckled. "Mr. Stamm, right now you're creaming in your pants, but it's okay to play it cool. I respect you for that. Hell, if you acted real excited it would just encourage me to boost the price I'm gonna ask for the information."

"And what is your price?" Paladino asked.

Deems turned slowly toward the detective. "I'm glad you asked. First, I'm gonna need protection. Raoul isn't the forgive-and-forget type."

"Get to the good part, Charlie," Paladino said.

"Naturally, I'd appreciate some remuneration."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Hey, if I'm working for you I can't be working for me. Let's not quibble over money. I'm risking my life here."

"I'll check to see about the money. But you're going to have to prove you can deliver."

"That's fair. Oh, and there's something else to sweeten the pot."

"What's that?" Jack Stamm asked.

"Not what, who."

"Who, then?"

Deems grinned broadly. He paused to savor the moment.

Then he asked Stamm and Paladino, "How would you like to know who iced Supreme Court Justice Robert Griffen?"

"All work and no play makes Tracy a dull girl," Barry Frame said from the doorway of the office law library.

"Don't I know it," Tracy said, looking up from the case she was reading.

Barry sat down next to Tracy at the long polished oak conference table that took up the center of the room. Around them were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with Oregon and federal statutes and cases.

"It's after eight, you know."

Tracy looked at her watch.

"And I bet you haven't eaten dinner."

"You win."

"How about some That food?"

"I don't know . . ." Tracy stared at the stack of law books in front of her.

Frame smiled and shook his head. "He's really got you going, doesn't he?"

"No it's just "

"I bet he gave you his 'If you work for me, you won't sleep right, you won't eat right' speech."

Tracy's mouth opened in astonishment, then she grinned sheepishly.

"He gives that speech to all the new associates and everybody falls for it. He even had me going for a while, but I wised up. Just because Matt practices what he preaches, that doesn't mean you have to become a machine. Whatever you're working on can wait until tomorrow. You won't be able to write your memo if you die of malnutrition."

"I guess I am a little hungry."

"So?"

"So take me to this That place. But we go Dutch."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

Outside, the night air was warm, but not oppressive. Tracy stretched and looked up at the sky. There was a quarter moon and a sprinkling of stars. In the hills that towered over downtown Portland, the house lights looked like giant fireflies.

"Is the restaurant close enough to walk? I need the exercise."

"It's about seven blocks. No sweat for someone who placed in the NCAA cross-country championships."

"How did you know that?"

"Matt has me read the resums he receives."

"Oh. Did you read the one I sent about six months ago?"

"Yup."

"Why didn't I get an interview?"

"You're a broad," Frame joked. "For what it's worth, I told him he was a jerk for ignoring you, but the Sorcerer's got no use for women. I couldn't believe it when he hired you. Justice Forbes must have made some pitch."

"Why did you call Mr. Reynolds the Sorcerer?"

"Three years ago, Matt won that acquittal at Marcus Herrera's retrial.

Time did a cover story and called him the Sorcerer because everyone was saying that only a magician could save Herrera. He hated it."

"I think it's romantic."

"It's also accurate. There are a lot of people who owe their lives to Matt's ' " magic.

"Why do you think he's so successful?"

"It's simple. Matthew Reynolds is smarter than anyone he's ever faced."

Tracy thought about that for a moment. Matthew Reynolds was smart, but there were a lot of smart lawyers. If someone had asked her the question she had just posed to Barry, Tracy would have emphasized the hours Reynolds devoted to his cases. She had never met anyone who worked harder at any job.

"What drives him, Barry? What makes him push himself the way he does?"

"Do you know about his father?" Barry asked.

"Mr. Reynolds mentioned him during my interview. It sounds like he loves him very much."

"Loved. Oscar Reynolds was executed at the state penitentiary in Columbia, South Carolina, when Matt was eight years old. He was sentenced to death after being convicted of rape and murder."

"My God!"

"Two years later, another man confessed to the crime.

"Matt doesn't talk about it, for obvious reasons. His mother had a nervous breakdown when Matt's dad was sentenced to prison. She committed suicide a week after the execution. Matt stayed in a series of foster homes until a distant relative took him in. He never talks about what happened there, but I think it was pretty bad."

Tracy felt she should say something, but she could not think of anything even remotely appropriate. What Barry had just told her was too enormous. And it certainly explained all of the questions she had about Reynolds's fanatic devotion to his cause.

Tracy tried to imagine what life must have been like for eightyear-old Matthew Reynolds, growing up with a mother who committed suicide, a father who was executed for a sex crime and murder and a disfiguring birthmark that would be an easy target for the cruelty of children.

"He must have been so alone," Tracy said.

"He's still alone. I'm probably the closest thing he has to a friend."

Barry paused. They walked together in silence, because Barry was obviously struggling with what he wanted to say and Tracy sensed it was important enough to wait to hear.

"There's another reason Matt's so successful," Barry said finally.

"Other lawyers have a life outside the law. Matt's life is the law. And I'm not exaggerating. He literally has no interests outside of his job, except maybe his correspondence chess. I think the real world has been so unbearably cruel to him that he uses the law as a place to hide, a place where he can feel safe.

"Think about it. It's like his chess. There are rules of law, and he knows every damn one of them. In the courtroom, the rules protect him from harm. He can bury himself in his cases and pretend that nothing but his cases exist.

"And as a lawyer, he's needed. Hell, he's the only friend some of his clients have ever had."

Barry looked down and they walked in silence again. Tracy waited for him to talk about his boss some more, so she could better understand him. Instead, Barry suddenly asked, "Do you still run?"

"What?"

"I asked if you still run."

"I've been getting in a workout on the weekends," Tracy answered distractedly, finding it hard to switch to this innocuous topic after what she had just learned. "I'm lucky if I get out at all during the week."

"How far do you go?"

"Seven, eight miles. Just enough to keep the old heart and lungs going."

"What's your pace?"

"I'm doing six-and-a-half-minute miles."

"Mind if I join you sometime?"

Tracy hesitated. She wasn't sure if Frame wanted a workout partner or a date. Then she decided it didn't matter. It was more fun running with someone than running alone. Frame was a good-looking guy and she wasn't seeing anyone. She would go with the flow.

"I used to run after work on weekdays back in the good old days. But now I run before work, which means before dawn, when I can, and on the weekends."

"Tell you what," Frame said. "Why don't we run about nine on Sunday, then eat brunch at Papa Hayden's."

"You're on," Tracy said, smiling, as she started to detect the direction the river was running.

Chapter TWELVE

Assistant Attorney General Chuck Geddes reluctantly agreed to wait until the day after the funeral to interview Abigail Griffen, but only after Jack Stamm suggested that confronting a widow on the day her husband was buried might be seen as insensitive and in bad taste. It was the "bad taste" part that swayed Geddes, who prided himself on his impeccable judgment in all things.

Geddes had the rugged good looks of the men who modeled in cigarette commercials, and he walked like a man with a steel rod for a spine. He had developed this marching style while in the Judge Advocate's office during his military service. His views were as unbending as his posture. When he lost a trial, it was always due to the judge's intellectual deficits, the underhanded tactics of an unscrupulous opponent or the stupidity of the jurors. To give him his due, Geddes did win his share of tough cases. He had been appointed attorney-in-charge of the District/Attorney Assistance Program at the Department of Justice because he was the most successful trial attorney in the section. Geddes was relentless, possessed of animal cunning and quite able to charm a jury.

The policeman guarding Abbie's house relaxed when he recognized Jack Stamm. As soon as Stamm parked, Geddes got out of the front passenger seat and straightened the jacket of his tan lightweight Brioni suit.

Neil Christenson, his investigator, got out of the back seat while Geddes was adjusting his French cuffs.

Christenson was third-generation law enforcement and a former state trooper who had been with the Department of Justice for nine years. He had the type of heavy build you would expect from an ex-Oregon State lineman who was too busy to keep in top shape but still managed to jog a little and pump iron on occasion.

Christenson wore his hair in a crew cut, but his friendly blue eyes and easy smile made him less intimidating than normal for a man his size.

While Geddes dressed to kill, Christenson wore a worn tweed sports jacket that was too heavy for summer, lightweight tan slacks, a blue oxford dress shirt with a frayed collar and no tie.

Abbie looked exhausted when she opened the door. She wasn't wearing makeup, her hair had only received a perfunctory brushing and there were dark circles under her eyes. She had made only the briefest attempt to clean up after the mourners who had followed her home from the cemetery.

Overflowing ashtrays, dirty plates and partially filled cups of coffee littered the living room.

"How are you feeling?" Stamm asked.

"I'm doing okay."

Abbie looked past Stamm to the two men who were standing behind him.

"This is Chuck Geddes. He's with the District Attorney Assistance Program at the Department Of Justice, and this is his investigator, Neil Christenson."

"My condolences. Justice Griffen's death was a terrible tragedy,"

Geddes said, stepping around Stamm and offering his hand.

Abbie looked confused and a little wary. "What's going on, Jack?" i "Can we come in?" Stamm asked. Ab e stepped aside. She looked at the mess in the living room and led everyone into the kitchen, where there had been some damage control.

"I've got coffee if anyone's interested."

"Is it decaf?." Geddes asked.

"Not this morning," Abbie answered.

Stamm and Christenson asked for theirs black, but Geddes demurred.

The kitchen window looked out at a small deck and beyond to a fenced backyard. A flower garden separated the fence from the lawn. Scarlet fuchsias, yellow gladioli and pink tea roses created a bouquet of bright colors that contrasted with the gloom in the kitchen.

"What brings you here?" Abbie asked when everyone was seated around the kitchen table. Stamm looked at Abbie briefly, then looked down at his cup.

"I'm in a very unpleasant position. One that ' will make it impossible for me to continue the investigation of Justice Griffen's murder.

The Portland police are also stepping aside. Chuck has been appointed as a special deputy district attorney for Multnomah County. It's his case now."

Abbie looked perplexed. "Why do you have to bow out? What happened?"

"There's no easy way to put this, Abbie. You've become a suspect in Robert's murder."

Abbie stared at Stamm. "Are you serious?" she asked with a confused smile.

"I'm very serious," Stamm answered quietly Abbie looked back and forth between the three men. Then her features clouded. "This is utter nonsense."

Geddes had been sitting back, legs crossed, observing Abbie's reaction.

"We have a witness who claims you solicited him to kill Justice Griffen and evidence to support his story."

"That's ridiculous. What witness? What evidence?" Abbie challenged.

"I'm not at liberty to say at the moment, but you can assist us in clearing up this matter by answering a few questions. Of course, I do have to warn you that you have a right to remain silent and that anything you say can be used to convict you in a court of law. You also have a right to consult with an attorney and, if you cannot afford an attorney, the court will appoint one to assist you, free of charge. Do you understand these rights?"

Abbie stared at Chuck Geddes in disbelief. "Are you being intentionally insulting?"

"I'm being a professional," Geddes answered with unruffled calm.

Abbie turned to Stamm. "Is this for real, Jack? Am I a suspect?"

"I'm afraid so. And you should think seriously about talking to Chuck without counsel."

Geddes glared angrily at Stamm for a second, then regained his composure.

"I don't need a lawyer, Jack. I didn't kill Robert. Ask me anything you want to."

"Abbie . . ." Stamm started.

"She says she's willing to talk to us, Jack," Geddes interjected forcefully."Maybe she can clear up the confusion. If we're on a wild-goose chase, let's straighten this out, so I can go back to Salem."

Stamm did not regret warning Abbie, but he backed off. This was Geddes's case now.

"Mrs. Griffen, why don't you tell us where you were from nine to midnight on the evening Justice Griffen was killed?"

"I already explained that to Jack."

"I know, but Neil and I would like to hear what you have to say firsthand."

"I'm prosecuting a murder case involving a defendant named Jeffrey Coulter, who is represented by Matthew Reynolds." At the mention of Reynolds's name Geddes leaned forward slightly.

"Reynolds's forensic experts conducted experiments in the Franklin home recently. The results were favorable to Coulter. The night my husband was killed, a man called around nine o'clock and told me that Reynolds's experts manufactured evidence at the Franklin home. He wanted to meet me immediately at the rose garden at Lewis and Clark College."

"The rose garden is in an isolated area of the campus, isn't it?"

Geddes asked.

"That's right. It's on the edge of the campus behind the outdoor pool."

"Jack told me about your close call at the coast. Weren't you afraid of meeting someone in such a deserted spot so soon after being attacked?"

"I couldn't pass up the chance to nail Coulter. And I went armed. I was almost hoping it was the bastard who broke into my cabin."

"Did you think about bringing backup with you?"

"The caller told me to come alone or he wouldn't talk to me. I didn't want to scare him off. It didn't matter anyway, because no one showed."

"Can someone substantiate your story?"

"No. The parking lot was deserted by the time I got there and I didn't meet anyone."

"Mrs. Griffen, was your divorce acrimonious?"

"I don't want to discuss my private life."

"That's going to be a difficult subject to avoid."

"I'm sorry. Robert is dead. What went on between us is over."

"I can appreciate your reluctance, but this is a murder investigation.

How many times have you asked that question of a suspect or a witness?"

"Many times, but I won't talk about my personal relations with Robert."

"Okay. I can accept that, for now. What about your financial relationship?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is it fair to say that a divorce would have hurt you financially."

"Yes, but I knew that when I filed."

"Can you tell us about your relative financial positions?"

Abbie looked from Geddes to Christenson. Their faces showed no emotion.

Then she turned to Jack Stamm. Stamm was hunched forward slightly and he looked like he wanted to be anywhere but where he was.

"I don't like the tone of this conversation, Mr. Geddes, or where it's going, so I'm going to end it. Jack is right. I should consult an attorney."

"As you wish."

"What is my status, Jack?" Abbie asked. "Status?"

"Can I work? Am I suspended, fired?"

Stamm could not look Abbie in the eye.

"I think it's best if you take some time off with pay. You would have anyway, because of the funeral. I'll assign your cases to the other assistants."

"And if I don't want to take time off?."

Stamm looked up. He was in obvious distress. "You can't be at the office. You're under investigation."

"I see," Abbie said slowly.

"This isn't what I want personally, Abbie. For what it's worth, I'm sure you're innocent. That's part of the reason I stepped aside and turned over the investigation to the Attorney General. It's what I have to do as an officer of the law."

Abbie stood up. "I'm sorry if I was rude, Mr. Geddes. I'm very tired.

I'll contact you after I've spoken to my attorney."

"I understand," Geddes said with a condescending smile.

"This is very unpleasant for me as well, Mrs. Griffen, but there is one more thing." les Geddes held out his hand. Christenson was carrying an attach case.

He opened it and handed a legal document to Geddes. Geddes gave it to Abbie.

"This is a warrant to search your home."

"What!"

"I obtained it from Judge Morosco this morning."

Abbie turned on Jack Stamm. "You bastard. I thought you were my friend. I can't believe you'd do this."

Stamm's face flushed in anger. "I didn't know anything about the warrant, Abbie."

"That's true, Mrs. Griffen. I didn't inform Jack. Neil, please signal the troopers."

Christenson walked out the front door and waved a hand toward the far end of the block. Several car engines came to life and, moments later, three Oregon State Police cars pulled up in front of the house.

"I'd like you to confine yourself to one place in the house, Mrs.

Griffen," Geddes said. "Or if you prefer, you can visit someone. We're going to search your car, so I can offer you a ride."

Everything was happening so fast that Abbie had to fight to keep from being overwhelmed, but her anger gave her strength.

She looked directly at Geddes.

"I'm staying right here," she said, "and I'm going to watch every move you make."

Chapter THIRTEEN

"Mrs. Griffen," Matthew Reynolds said as he walked across his reception area, "there was no need to meet with me so soon after your husband's funeral. Mr. Coulter's case could have waited a few more days."

"I'm not here about the Coulter case. Can we go to your office?"

A look of curiosity and concern crossed Reynolds's face as he guided Abbie down the hall. As soon as they were seated, Abbie asked, "What can you tell me about Chuck Geddes?"

Reynolds didn't ask why Abbie wanted this information. Instead, he studied her while he gathered his thoughts. She was beautiful in black with a single strand of pearls, but she looked exhausted and sat stiffly, her hands folded, her face tight, as if she was afraid that she might break apart if she moved.

"Chuck Geddes is intelligent and single-minded, but he is rigid. As long as a trial goes as he's foreseen, he does a good, workmanlike job, but let the slightest thing go wrong and he can't bend with it.

"About four years ago, the La Grande district attorney called in the Attorney General's office to help in the prosecution of a complex murder case I was defending. Mr. Geddes was condescending to me at first.

Then, as his case began to get away from him, he became strident, demanding and rude. I had the feeling he thought my legal motions were part of some conspiracy aimed at him.

"Two years later, we tried a case in John Day. He was offensive from the start. Paranoid about every detail. I prevailed on a motion to suppress the state's key evidence, so the case never came to trial.

Later, I learned that he violated the discovery rules by failing to notify me about a witness whose testimony would have been damning. I have the impression that when he's under pressure he'll do anything to win."

"Is Geddes ambitious?"

"Very. And now, if I may," Reynolds asked, sighting Abbie over his tented fingers, "why this sudden interest in Mr. Geddes?"

An array of emotions crossed Abbie's face. She looked down and gathered herself. When she raised her head, her features showed the strain of maintaining her composure.

"I need a lawyer to represent me."

"In what type of case?"

"Yesterday, Geddes came to my home to question me about Robert's death.

I'm a suspect." Reynolds sat up. "He had a warrant to search my house.

They have a witness who says I'm involved and evidence that supposedly supports the accusation."

"Who is the witness?"

"They won't tell me. Geddes treated me like a criminal." Abbie's heart was beating furiously and she had to breathe deeply before she could say the next sentence. "I have the feeling that it's only a matter of time before I'm . . . arrested."

"This is preposterous. Have you talked with Jack Stamm?"

"Jack is off the case. Geddes has been appointed a special deputy district attorney. He'll run the investigation and he'll prosecute."

"I can give you the names of several excellent defense attorneys."

"No. I want you to represent me."

Reynolds looked at Abbie and she sensed that he was torn by conflicting emotions.

"I'm flattered, Mrs. Griffen, but I don't see how I can do that when you're prosecuting Jeffrey Coulter."

"I'm not. I'm suspended. Dennis Haggard has the Coulter case."

"Jack Stature suspended you?"

"I was angry at first. I'm still angry. I'm furious. But Jack had no choice. I'm a suspect in a murder case his office is investigating. In any event, there is no conflict."

"Why me?" Matthew asked.

Abbie's expression was grim. "You're the best, Matthew. If I'm charged I'll need the best. They wouldn't have gone this far if they didn't think they had a case. Searching the home of a deputy district attorney... . . ." Abbie shook her head. "There's no way Geddes would have done that unless there was strong evidence of guilt."

"Are you guilty?"

Abbie looked directly at Matthew. "I did not kill my husband," she said firmly.

Matthew studied her, then said, "You have yourself a lawyer."

The uncertainty that clouded Abbie's features vanished like mist evaporating in sunlight. Her shoulders relaxed and she slumped down, visibly relieved. "I was afraid you wouldn't help me."

"Why?"

"Because . . . I don't know. Coulter. The fact that I'm a prosecutor."

"You're a human being in trouble and I'm going to do everything I can to protect you."

"Thank you, Matthew. You don't know what that means to me.

"It means our relationship has changed. First, we're no longer adversaries. We work together from now on. Second, I'm still an attorney, but in this relationship you're not. You're my client.

That's going to feel strange to you. Especially since you're used to being in charge. From now on, I'm in charge. Can you accept that?"

"Of course. But I can help. I want to participate in my defense."

"Of course you'll participate, but not as an attorney. It wouldn't work. You've seen what happens when a defendant represents himself.

You're too emotionally involved to be objective."

"I know, but . . ."

"If we're going to work together you've got to trust my judgment. Can you do that?"

"I . . . I don't know. I'm not used to being helpless."

"I'm not asking you to be helpless. I'm asking you to trust me.

As of this moment, your case is the single most important matter in this office. Do you believe that?"

Matthew's bright blue eyes blazed with a passionate intensity that transformed his plain features. Abbie had seen Reynolds like this before, in the Supreme Court, when he challenged the justices to be fair to Jeffrey Coulter. A calm feeling flooded over her.

"Yes, I believe you."

"Good. Then we can begin. And the first thing I want to do is explain the attorney-client relationship to you."

"I'm aware of . . ." Abbie started, but Matthew held up his hand.

"Do you believe that I respect your intelligence and your abilities as an attorney?"

"I . . . Yes."

"I am not trying to insult you. I am trying to help you. This is not a position you've been in before. You're a client and a suspect in a murder. I'm going to give you every piece of advice I give to every other client. I'm going to assume nothing, because I don't want to make the mistake of skipping a step because of the respect I have for your abilities."

"Okay."

"Abbie, everything you tell me is confidential. I will guard your disclosures completely. I am the only person on earth in whom you can confide with the certainty that what you say will not be repeated to the people investigating you.

"I don't want you to be upset by what I say next. I am a criminal defense attorney. Many of the people I represent are criminals and many of these people lie to me at some point during my representation. I am never upset when they lie. I know that people under pressure do things that they would never do under normal circumstances. So if you intend to lie to me, I won't be upset, but you could cause me to go off and do something that would put you in a worse position than you would be in if you told me the truth."

Abbie sat up straight in her seat and looked into Matthew's eyes. "I will never lie to you, Matthew," she said with great intensity. "I promise you that."

"Good. Then tell me why Chuck Geddes thinks you murdered your husband.

Let's start with motive."

"We were separated, if that's what you mean," Abbie said, coloring slightly.

"Was the separation amicable?"

"No."

"Whose idea was it to separate?"

"Mine," Abbie said firmly.

"Justice Griffen wanted to stay married?"

"Robert liked to live well," Abbie answered, unable to hide her bitterness, "but he couldn't do a lot of that on a judge's salary."

"Surely he had his own money? I thought Justice Griffen had a successful law practice before he went on the bench."

"Robert was intelligent, and he was certainly charming, but he was not a good attorney. He was lazy and he didn't care about his clients. He used to talk about what idiots they were. How much he was overcharging them. After a while, the clients caught on and complained to the other partners. Robert was losing clients. He was making good money at one time, but he spent what he earned and more. As I said, Robert really enjoyed the good life.

He put his name in for the bench because his partners were carrying him and he knew his time at the firm was limited."

"Why did the governor appoint Justice Griffen if his reputation was so bad?"

"It wasn't. Most people saw Robert's corner office with a view of the Willamette, read his name on the door of one of Portland's most prestigious firms and met him in social settings, where he shined.

"Then there were the markers. The firm contributed a great deal of money to the governor's campaign and they wanted Robert out. In all honesty, he wasn't a bad judge. He was always smart. And for a while he tried hard to do a good job. Robert wasn't evil so much as he was self-absorbed."

Matthew made some notes, then asked, "Who stood to gain if the divorce became final?"

"Robert. My attorney said he wanted a two-million-dollar settlement."

Reynolds was Surprised by the amount. He had never thought of Abbie as a wealthy woman, always assuming that Robert Griffen was the one with the money because he had been a partner in a prestigious law firm while Abbie worked in the district attorney's office.

"Could you afford that?" Reynolds asked.

"Yes. It would have been worth it to get him out of my life."

"Two million dollars is a very good motive for murder."

"He would have settled for less and I could have survived nicely, even if it cost me that much to get rid of him."

"Most jurors would find it hard to believe that you could give away two million dollars and not care."

"It's the truth."

"I didn't say it wasn't. We're talking about human nature, Abbie. What the average person will think about a sum that large."

Abbie thought about that for a moment.

"Where did your money come from?" Reynolds asked.

"My parents were both killed in an auto accident when I was very young.

There was a big insurance policy. My Aunt Sarah took me in. She made certain the money was invested wisely."

"Tell me about your aunt."

"Aunt Sarah never married and I was her only family. A few years before I came to live with her, she started Chapman Accessories in her house to supplement her income. It kept growing.

She sold out to a national chain when she was fifty for several million dollars. I was seventeen and I'd just graduated from high school. We went around the world together for a year. It was the best year of my life. Aunt Sarah died five years ago. Between the money she invested for me and the money she left me, I'm quite wealthy."

"I take it that you were very close to your aunt."

"I loved her very much. As much as if she was my real mother.

She made me strong and self-sufficient. She convinced me that I didn't have to be afraid of being alone."

Abbie paused, momentarily overcome by emotion. Then she said, "I wish she was here for me now."

Reynolds looked down at his desk, embarrassed by Abbie's sudden display of emotion. When Reynolds looked up, he looked grim.

"You must never think you're alone, Mrs. Griffen. I am here for you, and so are the people who work for me. We are very good at what we do.

You must believe that. And we will do everything in our power to see that you are cleared of this terrible accusation."

Jack Stamm had assigned Chuck Geddes a room in the Multnomah County district attorney's office that overlooked the Fifth Avenue transit mall. With the window open, Geddes could hear the low hum of the city. The white noise was lulling him into a state of somnolence when he was suddenly struck by an idea.

Geddes sat up and grabbed his legal pad. If Neil Christenson could find evidence to support his new theory, that evidence would not just put a nail in Abigail Griffen's coffin, it would seal it hermetically.

When Geddes was through with his notes he made a call to the Supreme Court in Salem. Then he buzzed Neil Christenson and told him to come to his office immediately. While he waited, Geddes marveled at his ability to make this type of intuitive leap.

There were lots of good prosecutors, Geddes thought with a smile of smug satisfaction, but the truly great lawyers were few and far between.

Geddes was so lost in thoughts of self-congratulation that the ringing phone startled him.

"Geddes," he barked into the receiver, angered by the inopportune interruption.

"Mr. Geddes, this is Matthew Reynolds."

Geddes stiffened. He genuinely hated Reynolds because of the way the defense attorney had humiliated him in court both times they had faced each other, but he would never give Matthew the satisfaction of knowing how he felt.

"What can I do for you, Matt," Geddes asked in a tone of false camaraderie.

"Nothing right now. I'm calling because I understand you are in charge of the investigation into Justice Griffen's murder."

"That's right."

"I have just been retained to represent Abigail Griffen and I would appreciate it if neither you nor any other government agent contacts her in connection with this case. If you need to speak to her, please call me and I'll try to assist you, if I can. I already mailed you a letter that sets out this request. Please put it in your file."

Listening to Reynolds give him orders as if he was some secretary set Geddes's teeth on edge, but you could never tell that from the way he calmly responded to Abbie's attorney.

"I'll do that, Matt, and I appreciate the call, but I don't know why Mrs. Griffen is so bent out of shape. You both know that the wife is always a natural suspect. I was sorry to have to upset her so soon after her husband's funeral, but we're not looking at her any more than anyone else."

"Then you have other suspects?"

"Now, you know better than that. I can't discuss an ongoing investigation."

"I understand," Reynolds said abruptly, to let Geddes know that he was in no mood to play games. "I won't keep you any longer."

"Nice talking to you," Geddes said, just as Neil Christenson walked in.

"Well, well," Geddes mused, breaking into a grin. "If we needed any more proof that Abigail Griffen is guilty, we just got it."

"What proof is that?"

"She's hired Matthew Reynolds as her attorney."

Christenson wasn't smiling.

"What's bothering you?" Geddes asked, annoyed that Christenson did not react to his joke.

"I think we should move slowly with this investigation. Something just doesn't feel right to me."

Geddes frowned. "For instance?"

"There's Deems for one thing. He's the worst possible person we could have for a key witness, especially now with Reynolds defending. Can you imagine what a lawyer like Reynolds will do to Deems on cross? He has a terrific motive to lie. Griffen put him on death row, for God's sake.

And don't forget, Deems was the prime suspect before he waltzed into Stamm's office with his story."

"Good points, Neil. But think about this. You'll admit Deems is intelligent?"

"Oh, that's for sure. Most psychopaths are."

"Then why would he kill Justice Griffen with a bomb that is identical to the bomb he used to kill Hollins? Does that make sense? Or does it make more sense that someone who knew how Deems made the Hollins bomb, and who knew that the bomb squad would immediately connect the Griffen bomb to Deems, would use the bomb to frame Deems?"

"The point's well taken, Chuck, but I don't trust him. Why is he here?

Why would someone like Deems want to help the police?

"That's simple. He hates Griffen for putting him on death row. Revenge is one of man's oldest motives.

"And don't forget the metal strip and her alibi, or lack of one.

You don't buy that fairy story about the meeting in the rose garden, do you? Talk about leading someone down the garden path."

Geddes laughed at his own joke, but Christenson looked grim. "There's still the attack on the coast. Griffen said the man could have been Deems."

"If there was an attack. Remember what Sheriff Dillard told you when you talked to him yesterday. But let's assume the attack did take place. Does it make sense that Griffen would go off in the middle of the night alone, and meetsomeone in an isolated place, a week after someone tried to rape or murder her? No, Neil, this little lady is weaving a web of bullshit and a jury won't buy it any more than I do."

Christenson frowned. "What you say makes sense, but I still . . ."

Geddes looked annoyedo "Neil, I have no doubts about Griffen. She's guilty and I'm going to get her. I need an investigator on this case who's going to nail Griffen to the wall. If you feel uncomfortable working on this, say so. I can get someone else."

"It's not that . . ."

"Good, because I respect your work."

Geddes turned his chair sideways. He looked out the window.

"You know, Neil, I'm not staying in this job forever." Geddes paused.

"Gary Graham is not going to run for Attorney General after his term is up."

"I didn't know that."

"It's not public knowledge, so let's keep it between us, okay?"

Geddes swiveled back toward Christenson. He put his forearms on the desk and leaned forward. "If I put a top prosecutor away for the murder of a Supreme Court justice, with Matthew Reynolds defending, I can write my own ticket, Neil."

Geddes let that hang in the air for a moment, then he said, "When I make my move, I'm going to need good men with me.

Men I can count on. Do you catch my drift?"

"Yeah, Chuck. I hear you."

"It's not enough to hear me, Neil. I need your undivided loyalty. Do I have it? Are you going to give me one hundred percent on this?"

"I always give one hundred percent, Chuck."

Geddes smiled. "That's good, because I've just figured out how to bust this case wide open. Have a chair and hear me out."

Christenson sat down. Geddes leaned back and folded his hands behind his neck.

"I've always believed that you solve a crime by figuring out the motive behind it," Geddes pontificated. "Now, what was Abbie Griffen's motive?

We know the divorce would have cost her money, but she has a lot of money. So I asked myself, what other motive could she have had.") Then I thought about the way Justice Griffen was killed." Geddes shook his head. "That type of carnage tells me that this was a crime of passion.

The person who killed Justice Griffen hated him so much that she wanted to destroy him totally.

"Now, what breeds that kind of hate? Sex, Neil. Lust, jealousy. So I thought about the Griffens' divorce. Why were they splitting up.") It had to be sex. Either she was cheating on him or he was cheating on her. That's when I got my idea."

Geddes paused dramatically. Christenson was used to his boss's theatrics and he endured them stoically.

"Laura Rizzatti, Neil. Laura Rizzatti. It was under our noses all the time."

Now Geddes had his investigator's attention.

"Did you ever see her, Neil? I have. The Supreme Court clerks use the cafeteria in the basement of the Justice building all the time. I once had lunch with her and Justice Griffen. That's what gave me the idea.

Seeing them together.

"She was attractive. Very attractive. One of those full-bodied Italian girls with pale skin and beautiful eyes. I think the judge noticed just how good-looking she was." Geddes paused. "I think the good judge was fucking her."

"Now, wait a minute . . ." Neil started.

Geddes held up a hand. "Hear me out. It's just a theory, but it makes sense. Abbie Griffen's a good-looking woman, but she might be as cold in bed as she is in the courtroom. Suppose the judge got frustrated and started hitting on his clerk. The next thing you know, they're in the sack together."

"We don't know that."

"Don't we?" Geddes answered smugly. "I've already done a little investigating on my own. Before I buzzed you, I talked to Ruth McKenzie at the Supreme Court. She was Justice Griffen's secretary. I asked her if she was aware of any unusual occurrences involving Rizzatti and the judge around the time Laura was killed. Do you know what she told me? On the very day she was murdered, Laura came to the judge's office in a highly emotional state. Mrs. McKenzie couldn't hear what they talked about, but Laura looked like she had been crying and the judge was very upset.

Christenson thought about Geddes's theory and had to admit that there might be something to it.

"First Griffen's clerk is murdered, then Griffen," Geddes said.

"It's too big a coincidence, Neil. I think Abbie Griffen found out that her husband and Laura Rizzatti were having an affair and killed them both."

As soon as Matthew Reynolds hung up on Chuck Geddes he told his secretary to hold his calls, then he went upstairs to his living quarters. Dreams come true, he thought as he climbed the stairs to the third floor. Sometimes we do have our greatest wish fulfilled.

Matthew entered his study without even glancing at his chessboard and locked the door. The bright midday light illuminated the room. Motes of dust floated on the sunbeams. He took the manila envelope from the bottom drawer and spread the photographs of Abigail Griffen across his desk. The photos did not capture her essence. How much more beautiful she was in person. How perfect. And she was his now.

Chapter FOURTEEN

"You're awfully quiet, Barry Frame said as Tracy Cavanaugh turned off Macadam Boulevard onto the side street that led to the house where Robert Griffen died. It was a beautiful day and the top was down on Tracy's convertible, but Tracy was off in a world of her own.

"I knew him, Barry, and I liked him. He went out of his way to be nice to me after Laura was killed."

"And it bothers you to work for a woman who might have murdered him.

Tracy didn't answer.

"What if Mrs. Griffen is innocent? Matthew believes in her. If she's innocent and she goes to prison that's worse than dying.

When you're dead, you don't feel anything. If you're alive and living in a cage for a crime you didn't commit, you suffer every second of every interminable day."

"What are we supposed to be doing?" Tracy asked, intentionally changing the subject. Barry was tempted to push her, but decided against it.

"Now that the police have released the crime scene, Matt wants us to go through the house to see if we can find anything that might help Mrs.

Griffen."

"Didn't the police search the house after the explosion?"

"Sure, but they might have missed something."

"It sounds like a waste of time."

Barry turned toward Tracy.

"Matt doesn't consider any time spent on a case a waste of time. If we don't turn up anything, we can move on to something else. But Matt always asks, 'What if we didn't search and there was something?" I've seen some good results in situations where I didn't think a job was worth the effort and Matt made me do it anyway."

Tracy turned into the driveway. Matthew's car was parked in front of the house. He was sitting on the ground, his back against an old shade tree, his knees bent and almost touching his chin, looking impossibly out of place on the wide green lawn in his black suit, thin tie and white shirt.

Abigail Griffen drove up as Tracy was parking. Tracy studied their new client as Griffen got out of her car. She was dressed in a blue sleeveless blouse and a tan skirt, looking regal and selfassured in spite of the strain Tracy knew she had to be under. A woman who could take care of herself in any situation, a woman who was always in control. Tracy wondered how far this woman would go if she was threatened. Would Abigail Griffen kill if that was the only way to end the threat?

Griffen ignored Tracy and Barry Frame and walked over to Reynolds.

"Have you been waiting long, Matt?"

"I've been enjoying the solitude," Reynolds said as he stood up awkwardly while brushing dirt and blades of grass from his pants. "I'd like you to meet Tracy Cavanaugh, my associate. She'll be working with us. And this is Barry Frame, my investigator."

Abbie acknowledged them with a nod, but didn't offer to shake hands.

"Let's go in," she said.

The Griffen house had the musty smell of a summer home on the first day of the season. The doors and windows had been closed since the murder, trapping the stifling summer heat. Tracy felt queasy, as if there was insufficient air.

All the curtains were drawn and only a hint of sunlight filtered through them, giving the living room a pale yellow cast.

Abbie went from window to window pulling back the curtains to let in the light. Tracy stood to one side near the entrance and watched Abbie move around her domain. The living room was spacious with a high ceiling. A white couch and several highbacked armchairs faced a stone fireplace. To one side of the grate, a set of wrought-iron fire-placetools hung on a long, twisted black metal hook. As Abbie opened the last curtain, a ray of sunlight illuminated the rich greens and browns of a forest scene portrayed in an oil painting that hung above an oak sideboard. Then Abbie threw open a set of French windows. A fresh breeze rushed into the room. Just outside the doors were a patio and a circular metal table shaded by an umbrella. Beyond the patio was a rambling lawn with several large trees and a pool. The property ended where woods began.

"That's better," Abbie said. She turned slowly, taking in the room.

"Where would Justice Griffen have kept his personal papers?"

Matthew asked. "In here."

Abbie entered the den through a door at the far end of the living room and the others followed her. The room was windowless with dark wood paneling and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with a combination of classics, popular fiction, history books, law books and legal periodicals. There was a Persian rug on the hardwood floor and a desk against one wall. A computer took up one side of the desk.

Abbie opened the desk drawers, but they were empty.

"It looks like the police were already here," Abbie said.

"I assumed they had been," Matthew answered as he looked around. "Do you have a safe? Something the police wouldn't have been able to get into, where Justice Griffen might have put something he didn't want anyone to see?"

Abbie walked over to a small portrait that hung in a space between two bookshelves and lifted it off, revealing a wall safe.

Abbie spun the dial and it opened. Matthew and Barry Frame crowded around Abbie as she reached in to bring out the contents. Tracy walked around the edge of the desk to try to see what Abbie had pulled out.

"Stock certificates, tax records," Abbie said. "I don't see anything unusual, Matt."

The front door opened. Abbie turned her head. Barry left the den and stepped into the living room.

"District attorney's office," someone said. "Please identify yourself."

"I'm Barry Frame, an investigator for Matthew Reynolds. We represent Abigail Griffen. This is her house and she let us in.

We're in the den."

A moment later, Barry reentered the room followed by Chuck Geddes, Neil Christenson and two uniformed officers.

"Hello, Matt," Geddes said.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Geddes."

"Mind telling me what you're doing here?"

"I'm Mrs. Griffen's attorney. This is Mrs. Griffen's home.

We're here at Mrs. Griffen's invitation."

"How did you get in and what are you doing in my house?"

Abbie demanded. Matthew put a restraining hand on his client's arm and stepped between Abbie and Geddes.

"I was about to ask the same questions," Reynolds said.

Geddes flashed a condescending smile at Reynolds. "I'll be glad to answer them. I opened your front door with a key that the medical examiner found in your husband's pocket, Mrs. Griffen, and I'm here to place you under arrest for Justice Griffen's murder."

Reynolds turned to Abbie. "Not another word," he said sternly. Then he turned back to Geddes. "May I see your warrant?"

"Sure," Geddes answered with a smirk. Christenson handed the warrant to Matthew, who read it carefully. Tracy was impressed with Reynolds's calm demeanor.

"I assume you'll agree to release Mrs. Griffen pending arraignment, after she's been booked and printed," Matthew said when he was done.

"No, sir," Geddes answered. "Your client is charged with the murder of a Supreme Court justice. She's wealthy enough to be a serious flight risk. We're holding Mrs. Griffen in jail pending arraignment. You can ask for a bail hearing."

"You're not serious. Mrs. Griffen is a deputy district attorney with an excellent reputation."

"Save the passionate oratory for the judge. You got lucky the last time we were in front of one. Maybe you'll get lucky again."

"This isn't about us, Mr. Geddes. Mrs. Griffen is a human being.

There's no need to strip her of her dignity by making her spend several days in jail."

"Mrs. Griffen is accused of premeditated murder," Geddes shot back.

"She's the worst kind of criminala prosecutor who's broken the law.

She's going to be convicted for the murder of her husband and I'm going to see that she gets a death sentence."

Abbie paled. Tracy felt a shock go through her and she was suddenly very frightened for their client.

Reynolds stared at Geddes with contempt. "You are a little man," he said quietly. "A tiny little man. I'm going to enjoy destroying you in front of everyone."

Geddes flushed with anger. He turned to one of the policemen. "Cuff her and take her downtown."

Abbie turned to Reynolds. She looked scared.

"Go with them," Matthew said. "You know you have to. And don't say anything to anyone about the case. Not the police, not a cellmate, not a soul."

"Matt, I can't go to jail."

Reynolds placed his hands on Abbie's shoulders.

"You have to be strong. Don't let them demean you. And trust me. I'll have you out as soon as possible."

The policeman with the handcuffs looked embarrassed. He waited until Reynolds stepped aside, then politely asked Abbie to put her hands behind her back. When he'd secured the cuffs, he asked if they were hurting her. Abbie shook her head.

"Let's go," Geddes said, executing a military turn and striding out of the den. Tracy followed Matthew outside and watched the officer help Abbie into the back seat of a police car.

"Do you think it was smart to insult Geddes that way?" Barry asked Matthew as soon as the police were gone.

"Mr. Geddes is no concern of mine," Matthew said.

"Geddes has a thin skin. He's going to make everything extra hard now."

Reynolds turned to Frame. Tracy saw an almost frightening determination on his face and in the way he held himself. She imagined his body as pure energy, and for the first time realized what a formidable adversary he would be.

"Leave Chuck Geddes to me, Barry. I have other work for you. If Geddes has an indictment, he'll have to make discovery available to us immediately. We'll soon know the identity of this mystery witness and their evidence. You're going to be very busy."

Chapter FIFTEEN

The fourth floor of the Justice Center jail was reserved for security risks, prisoners with psychiatric problems and prisoners who had to be isolated. The jail commander had known Abbie for years and liked her.

When she appeared at the jail on the preceding day, he booked her in personally, then made sure she was held in her own cell on the fourth floor, because he knew what would happen if he put a deputy district attorney in with the other inmates.

The jail elevator opened onto a narrow hall of concrete blocks painted in yellow and brown pastels. The fourth-floor contact visiting room was across from the elevator. It was small with a circular wooden table and two plastic chairs. Matthew stood when the guard brought Abbie into the room through a heavy metal door that opened into the jail.

Abbie's hair was combed, but she wore no makeup. There were dark circles under her eyes. The guard took off Abbie's handcuffs. She sat down and rubbed her wrists. Her face stayed expressionless while the guard was in the room. As soon as he left, she spread her arms to show Reynolds the blue cotton pants and short-sleeved blue pullover shirt that all the women prisoners wore. Then she flashed him a tired smile.

"Not exactly high fashion, huh?"

"I'm glad to see you haven't lost your sense of humor."

"I know exactly what Geddes is trying to do. Do you think I'd let that asshole spook me?" Abbie paused. Her smile disappeared and she was suddenly subdued. "It ain't been easy, though. I barely slept. It's so noisy. The woman next to me cried all night.

"There was one time, last night, when I was so tired I let my defenses down and started thinking about what it would be like to spend the rest of my life in a place like this. That's when I understood why the woman in the next cell was crying."

Abbie caught herself. "Sorry. I'm getting maudlin and I promised myself I wouldn't do that."

"It's okay. That's what I'm here for. To listen. To help relieve some of the pressure."

Abbie smiled again. "I appreciate that. When's the arraignment?"

"Late this afternoon. They couldn't hold the hearing sooner because they had to bring in a judge from another county. All the Multnomah County judges have a conflict, because they know you."

"Who's the judge?"

"Jack Baldwin. He's from Hood River. Don't worry. I've appeared in front of him and he's all right."

"Can you get me out of here?" Abbie asked, trying not to sound desperate.

"I don't know. Geddes won't give an inch. He'll want you held without bail and, as you well know, there's no automatic bail in murder cases."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to try an end run. Meanwhile, I've sent Tracy to your house to pick out an outfit for court."

"Thank God. I don't know if I'm more afraid of the death penalty or having to appear in public in these awful rags."

Matthew couldn't help smiling. "You'll have to run a media gauntlet and I don't want you looking like Squeaky Fromme."

Abbie smiled. Then her eyes lost focus and she looked tired and dispirited.

"What's wrong?" Matthew asked.

Abbie took a deep breath. "I'm afraid I'll lose everything, Matt. My reputation, my career."

"You haven't lost a thing and you're not going to. Geddes can't rob you of your pride unless you let him. You know you're innocent. It doesn't matter what the papers say or what the public thinks, if you can look at yourself in the mirror and know you're right."

Abbie laughed. "They don't let me have a mirror. Broken glass. It's a suicide precaution."

Matthew smiled back. It was a perfect moment. The shared fears, the shared intimacy, the trust she showed in him. He didn't want the visit to end.

"I have to go," Matthew said reluctantly. "I have an appointment with Jack Stamm in a few minutes."

"Your end run?"

"If we're lucky."

"It's been a while, Matt," Jack Stamm said after they shook hands and Reynolds was seated across from him in the district attorney's office.

"Thank you for seeing me."

"I'm not sure I should be," Stamm said, unconsciously picking up a paper clip that lay on top of a stack of legal documents.

"You know what Geddes has done, don't you?"

Stamm nodded noncommittally.

"Do you think it's right?"

Stamm looked uncomfortable. He unbent one end of the paper clip.

"Abbie is a friend of mine," he said evenly. "I have a conflict.

That's why I called in the Attorney General. I can't get involved in this case."

"You're the district attorney of this county. As long as Geddes is a special deputy district attorney, he's your employee."

"That's true in theory, but you know very well that I can't interfere with Geddes."

"Geddes is using this case to settle a score with me and for self-aggrandizement. You saw his press conference after the arrest."

"We shouldn't even be having this conversation. I have to let him try his case."

"I'm not asking you to interfere with the way he tries this case. I'm asking you to talk to him about his position on bail. You can't believe it's right for Abbie to stay in jail for months while we get ready for trial. I just came from visiting her. She looks terrible. She's trying to hold herself together, but you can see the toll the effort is taking."

"Abbie is wealthy. She can afford to go to a country that doesn't have an extradition treaty with the United States. Geddes is afraid she'll rabbit."

"Only if she's guilty. You know her far better than I, Jack. Do you think Abbie killed Robert Griffen?"

Stamm straightened the paper clip, then bent it in two. After a moment, he said, "No. I don't think she's guilty."

"Then how can you let Geddes keep her in a cage?"

"Look, Matt, you've tried cases against Geddes. You know how he gets.

I've spoken to him, and he knows I think he's wrong.

But he won't budge. What more can I do?"

"You can call the Attorney General. Tell Gary Graham what Geddes is doing. Tell him it's not right."

"I don't know . . ."

"When you talk to Graham, tell him I assured you that Abbie will surrender her passport and she'll submit to ESP, the electronic surveillance program. I've already checked with the people who run the program and they'll supervise Abbie. She won't be able to leave her house without Geddes knowing immediately and she won't have to endure the jail."

Stamm worried the paper clip while he thought over Reynolds's proposal.

Then he said, "I don't know if Geddes will agree, but I think I can convince Gary to order him to go along."

"Then please call Graham."

Stamm hesitated. "If I call Gary, there's something you'll have to do."

"Name it."

"Geddes is going to be furious because I went behind his back. And he'll be right. If I do this for Abbie, you've got to let Geddes save face. I want you to let him make the house arrest suggestion in open court and praise him for his thoughtfulness."

Reynolds's lips quivered for a moment as he held back a smile. Then, without any emotion, he said, "I have nothing personal against Mr.

Geddes. I only want what's best for my client."

"I'm glad to hear that. Now I want you to listen carefully."

Stamm put down the paper clip and leaned toward Reynolds. "I'm going way out on a limb with this. I'm probably violating the Canon of Ethics to help a friend. Once it's done, I won't do anything more. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

Stamm stood. He held out his hand. "Do everything you can for Abbie.

Good luck."

The sun was fading by the time the technician from the electronic surveillance program finished hooking up an oblong, footlong box to Abbie's phone. Abbie was now wearing a bracelet with a tapered piece of metal attached to it. A computer at a monitoring center was programmed to call her at her home phone at random intervals. When the calls came, she had to answer the phone and state her name and the time, then insert the metal piece into a slot in the box. People at the monitoring center would be trained to identify Abbie's voice and the insertion of the metal strip confirmed her presence in the house.

A unit in the bracelet also broadcast a radio frequency. If Abbie went more than one hundred and fifty feet from the box, a signal would go off in the monitoring center and trigger a pager that would aler/the staff.

Matthew accompanied the technician to the door, then returned to the living room. The French windows were open and Abbie was standing on the patio, her arms wrapped around herself, looking at the sunset. Matthew paused to watch her. Abbie closed her eyes and tilted her head back, savoring the warm and comforting breeze.

The scene was something Matthew had dreamed about. He and Abbie alone at dusk at the end of a perfect summer day.

Already there were long shadows creeping across the wide expanse of lawn, changing green into black where the silhouettes of the oaks and evergreens fell. On the horizon, the scarlet sun shimmered above the trees, its dying rays reflecting in the cobalt blue of the pool.

Abbie sensed Matthew's presence. She opened her eyes and turned slightly. He started, afraid she could read his mind, and frightened of what she would think of him if she knew his deepest thoughts. But Abbie just smiled and Matthew walked toward her.

"The police are gone," he said.

"It's so nice just being alone."

"I can go, if you'd like."

"No, stay. I didn't mean you."

Matthew stopped beside Abbie. It was part of the fantasy.

Abbie at his side.

"I bought this house because I fell in love with it," Abbie said wistfully, "but I just couldn't stay with Robert after I found out he'd betrayed me. When I was living in Meadowbrook, I missed not being here.

Still, I don't think I ever really appreciated how beautiful it is until tonight. Maybe everyone should spend a few days in jail."

Matthew didn't answer right away, wanting the moment to last as long as possible. Finally he said, "It is beautiful."

They stood quietly for a moment more. Then Abbie looked up at Matthew.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

"A little."

"The jail chow lived up to its reputation and I'm famished for real food. Will you join me?"

"I had Barry stock the refrigerator."

"I know. You've thought of everything."

Matthew blushed. Abbie laughed.

"When are you going to stop doing that? We're going to be spending a lot of time together and I can't always walk on eggshells so as not to embarrass you."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. So will you stay for dinner?"

"If you'd like."

"Good, but you'll have to wait until I shower. I've got to get this jail smell off of me. Then I'll fix us bacon and eggs. Lots of eggs.

Soft scrambled. And stacks of toast. Will that be okay? For some reason, bacon and eggs sounds so good' to me."

"That's fine."

"There's coffee in the cupboard over the refrigerator. Why don't you make a pot while I'm upstairs."

Matthew wandered into the kitchen, taking his time, savoring each moment. He lingered in the hall and ran his hand over the molding and along the wall. Somewhere on the second floor the shower started.

Matthew strained to hear, imagining Abbie with the water cascading down her body. He was suddenly terrified by the possibility, no matter how fanciful, no matter how remote, of intimacy with a woman like Abigail Griffen.

After starting the coffee, Matthew sat at the kitchen table waiting for Abbie to come downstairs. She had asked him to stay with her. Would she have asked anyone to stay with her, just to have someone with her after her ordeal in the county jail? Was he special to Abbie in any way or was he simply an object she was using to ward off loneliness, like a television kept on through the night for the comfort of the sound?

The shower stopped. The silence was like an alarm. Matthew was as nervous as a schoolboy. He stood up and rummaged through the kitchen drawers and cupboards for silverware, cups and plates. When he was almost done setting the table, he heard Abbie in the doorway of the kitchen. Matthew turned. Her hair was still damp, falling straight to her shoulders. Her face was fresh-scrubbed. She wore no makeup, but she looked like a different person from the woman he had visited in the jail. There was no sign of despair or exhaustion. She glowed with hope.

The phone rang. They froze. Abbie looked at the bracelet on her wrist and the glow vanished. The phone rang a second time and she crossed to it slowly, her arm hanging down as if the bracelet was a great weight.

Abbie raised the receiver on the third ring. She listened for a moment, then in a lifeless voice said, "This is Abigail Griffen. The time is eight forty-five."

She put down the receiver and inserted the tapered metal strip that was attached to the bracelet into the slot in the box.

The effort to answer the phone and complete this simple task exhausted her. When she turned around, the face Matthew saw was the face he had seen in the visiting room. He felt helpless in the presence of such grief.

Chapter SIXTEEN

"You are not going to believe who the mystery witness is," Barry Frame said as he dropped the police reports in Abbie's case on Matthew Reynolds's desk.

"Tell me," Matthew said, looking at Frame expectantly.

"I should make you guess, but you'd never get it." Frame flopped into a chair. "So I'll give you three choices: Darth Vader, Son of Sam or Charlie Deems."

Matthew's mouth gaped open. Frame couldn't hold back a grin.

"Is this good news or what?" he asked Reynolds. "Geddes is basing his case on the word of a drug-dealing psychopath who murders nine-year-old girls."

Matthew did not look happy.

"What's the matter, boss?"

"Have you read all the discovery?" Reynolds asked, pointing toward the thick stack of police reports.

"I barely had time to pick it up from the DA's office and make your copy. But I did read the report of Jack Stamm's interview with Deems.

That was also a piece of luck. If Geddes had been the first one at him, he'd never have written a report."

"Something is wrong, Barry. Geddes would never base a case on the testimony of Charlie Deems unless he could corroborate it. I want you and Tracy to go over the reports. I'll do the same."

"Tonight?" Barry asked, knowing that his plans for the evening had just set with the sun. Reynolds ignored him.

"I want a list of our problem areas and areas where the prosecution is soft. I want your ideas on what we should do. It scares me to death that Geddes is confident enough to base his case on the testimony of Charlie Deems."

Abbie was wearing tan shorts and a navy-blue tee shirt when she answered the door. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Her legs and arms were tanned and she looked rested. When she saw Matthew her face lit up and he could not help smiling back.

Matthew was wearing his undertaker's uniform and Tracy looked businesslike in a gray linen dress, but Barry Frame was casually dressed in a denim work shirt and a pair of chinos.

Abbie ignored Barry and Tracy and took Matthew's arm.

"Let's sit outside," she said, leading Reynolds onto the patio.

A tall pitcher of iced tea and a bowl of fruit were standing on a low glass table next to Abbie's copies of the police reports. Matthew waited until Tracy and Abbie were seated, then he took a chair and placed his copies of the discovery on his lap. Barry took out a pad and pen. Tracy leaned back and listened.

"You've read everything?" Matthew asked.

Abbie nodded.

"What do you think?"

"The whole case is preposterous. The things Deems says, they're simply not true."

"Okay, let's start with Deems's story. What's not true?"

"All of it. He says I asked him to come to the beach house the day of the attack and offered to pay him to kill Robert. That never happened.

I haven't seen Deems since his trial and I've never spoken to him, except in court."

"What about the dynamite?"

Abbie looked concerned. "Robert did buy dynamite to clear some stumps on the property."

"How would Deems know about the dynamite if you didn't tell him?" Barry asked.

"Robert kept the dynamite in a toolshed. Maybe Deems cased the cabin when he was planning the attack and saw the dynamite in the shed."

"Was there dynamite in the shed on the day of the attack?"

Matthew asked. "Is it possible that Justice Griffen used all of it when he blew up the stumps?"

"I don't know. Robert told me he cleared the stumps, but he didn't say if he used all the dynamite."

"Do you remember looking in the shed, the day of the attack?" Matthew asked.

"No. The shed's in back of the cabin. I wasn't in the back that much.

Mostly I was on the beach or the front porch or in the house."

"Have you gone to the coast since the attack?" Barry asked.

"No. I don't think Robert was there either. The court heard arguments in Salem that week."

"Barry, make a note to go out to the cabin. We can check the shed,"

Matthew said. Then he asked Abbie, "Can you think of a way we can show Deems is lying?"

"No. It's just his word against mine, but his word shouldn't carry much weight. My God, he's the worst scum. I can't imagine why even someone like Geddes would give credit to anything he said."

"But he did," Matthew said. "And Jack Stature thought there was enough to it to call in the AG's office. Why, Abbie? What evidence do they have that corroborates Deems's story?"

Abbie shook her head. "I've been over and over the reports. I don't get it."

Tracy felt nervous about interrupting, but an idea occurred to her.

"Excuse me, Mr. Reynolds," She said, "but I know where we might be able to get evidence to show that Charlie Deems is a liar. Deems received a death sentence when Mrs. Griffen prosecuted him. To get a death sentence from the jury, she had to prove he would be dangerous in the future . . ."

"Of course," Abbie said to Reynolds. "How stupid of me."

Matthew beamed. "Good thinking, Tracy."

Abbie studied Tracy, as if noticing her for the first time.

"Who handled Deems's appeal?" Reynolds asked Abbie.

"Bob Packard."

"Tracy," Reynolds said, "call Packard. He may have the transcripts of Deems's trial. It could be a gold mine of information about Deems's background."

It was warm on the patio. While Tracy made a note to contact Packard, Matthew took a sip of iced tea. When Tracy looked up, she noticed the interplay between her boss and his client. From the moment he entered the house, Matthew rarely took his eyes off Griffen, and Abbie's attention was totally focused on him.

Even when Tracy or Barry was asking a question, Abbie directed her answers to Matthew.

"How did you meet Justice Griffen?" Reynolds asked.

"I was prosecuting a sex-abuse case involving a minor victim.

The defendant was from a wealthy family and they talked the victim's family into settling the case out of court for a lot of money. Robert represented the victim in the Civil matter. We consulted about the case. He asked me out. The relationship became serious about the time the governor appointed Robert to the Supreme Court."

"That's about five years ago?"

"Yes."

"Was it a bad marriage from the start?"

"No," she answered quietly, shifting uneasily in her chair and casting a brief look at Tracy. Tracy could see that the question made Abbie uncomfortable and she wondered if their client would have felt less self-conscious if there were no other women present.

"At first the marriage was good," Abbie continued. "At least I thought it was. With hindsight, I can't really be sure."

"What went wrong?"

"I guess you could say that our relationship was like the relationship Robert had with his clients," Abbie said bitterly. "He romanced me.

Robert knew the right things to say, he could choose wines and discuss Monet and Mozart. He was also a wonderful lover." Matthew colored. "By the time I realized it was all bullshit, it was too late. I'm certain he talked about me to his other women, the way he talked about his clients to me."

"Justice Griffen was cheating on you?" Barry asked.

Abbie laughed harshly. "You could say that. I don't know their names, but I'm pretty sure there were more than one."

"How do you know he was cheating?"

"He slipped up. One time I overheard the end of a conversation on an extension and confronted him. He denied everything, of course, but I knew he was lying. Another time, a friend said she'd seen Robert with a woman at a hotel in Portland on a day he was supposed to be in Salem.

That time, he admitted he'd been with someone, but he wouldn't tell me who. He promised he would stop. I told him I would leave him if it ever happened again."

"And it did?"

"Yes. On May third. A woman called me at work and told me Robert was meeting someone at the Overlook Motel. It's a dive about twenty-three miles south on I-5, roughly halfway between Salem and Portland. The caller didn't identify herself and I never learned who she was. I drove down immediately hoping to catch Robert in the act, but the woman was gone by the time I got there. Robert was getting dressed. It wasn't a pleasant scene. I moved out the next day."

"Check out the Overlook," Matthew told Barry. "Get their register and see if you can find out the identity of the woman."

Frame made a note on his pad.

"Abbie," Matthew asked, "who do you think killed Justice Griffen?"

"Charlie Deems. It has to be. This is his revenge on me for sending him to prison. I'm more certain than ever that he's the man who tried to kill me at the cabin. And he may have tried to break into my house in Portland."

"Tell us about that," Barry said.

Abbie told them about the man she had frightened away on the evening Tony Rose accosted her.

"Did you report the burglary attempt?" Frame asked.

"No. I thought it would be a waste of time. He didn't take anything and I couldn't identify the man."

"Barry," Reynolds said, "we have to find Deems."

"There's no address for him in the discovery, Matt."

Reynolds's brow furrowed. "The discovery statutes require the state to give us the address of all witnesses they're going to call."

"I know, but it's not there."

Reynolds thought for a moment. Then he said, "Don't ask Geddes for it.

Get it from Neil Christenson. He's working out of the Multnomah County DA's office."

"Gotcha," Barry said, writing himself another note.

Matthew turned his attention back to Abbie.

"If Deems didn't kill Justice Griffen, who did? Do you have any other ideas?"

"No. Unless it was a woman. Someone he seduced then threw over. But I'm just guessing. If it's not Deems, I don't know who it could be."

Matthew reviewed his notes, then said, "There doesn't seem much more to discuss about the discovery material. Do you have any more questions, Barry? Tracy?" They shook their heads.

"Why don't you take Tracy back to the office," Matthew told Barry. "Set up an appointment to view the physical evidence and get Deems's address.

I have a few more things I want to discuss with Mrs. Griffen." okay, Barry said. "We'll find our way out.

"Thanks for the iced tea," Tracy said. Abbie flashed her a perfunctory smile.

"What did you want to ask me?" Abbie said when Barry and Tracy were out of earshot.

"Nothing about the case. Are the security guards working out?"

"I guess so. One reporter made it through the woods, but they got him before he could get to me."

"Good. How are you holding up?"

"I'm doing okay, but I get depressed if I drop my guard. When I get blue, I remind myself how much nicer this place is than my cell at the Justice Center." Abbie held up her wrist, so Matthew could see the bracelet. "I'm even getting used to this."

"Do you have friends who can visit?"

"I'm not the kind of woman who makes friends, Matt. I've always been a loner. I guess the closest I've come to a friendship is with some of the other prosecutors, like Jack or Dennis Haggard, but they can't visit me now that I'm under indictment."

"But you must have friends outside of work?"

"I met a lot of people when I was married, but they were Robert's friends."

Abbie made a halfhearted attempt to smile and shrugged.

"My work was my life until I met Robert. Now I'm pretty much on my own."

"Abbie, I understand how it is to be alone. All of my clients know they can call me at any time. I'm here for them and I'm here for you."

"I know, Matt," Abbie said softly, "and I appreciate that."

"Please, don't give up hope. Promise me you'll call anytime you feel all this getting the best of you. Anytime you need someone to talk to."

"I will. I promise."

Barry turned his Jeep Cherokee onto Macadam Boulevard and headed toward downtown Portland. The road ran along the river and they had occasional glimpses of pleasure boats cruising the Willamette. Barry envied the weekday sailors and watched them longingly, but Tracy seemed oblivious to the scenery.

"What's bothering you?" Barry asked.

"What?"

"What's bothering you? You haven't said a word since we left the house."

Tracy shook her head.

"Come on, we're a team. What's on your mind?"

"It's our client," Tracy said.

"What about her?"

"I don't trust her."

"Matt sure does."

"You've noticed, have you?"

"I didn't have to be much of a detective to pick up on that," Barry said.

"I mean, it's like a mutual admiration society," Tracy went on.

"I don't think she gave either of us more than a glance the whole time we were at the house."

"So?"

"Barry, Matthew Beynolds is a brilliant attorney and a nice man, but he is not the type of guy a woman like Abigail Griffen makes goo-goo eyes at."

"Hey, don't put down the boss."

"I'm not. I really like him. I just don't want to see Abigail Griffen take advantage of him."

"How would she do that?"

"By using her obvious attractions to convince a vulnerable man she's innocent when she's not."

"You think she did it?"

"I think it's possible."

"Based on the statement of a scumbag like Deems?"

"Based on what I know about Justice Griffen. This business about his affairs... I don't buy it. If he was seeing other women, I'll bet she drove him to it."

"Why does Mrs. Griffen have to be the bad guy?"

"Laura respected the judge."

"Laura is . . . ?"

"I'm sorry. Laura Bizzatti. She was his clerk. She was murdered just before I left the court."

"That's right. You found the body. Sorry, I didn't recognize the name."

"That's okay. I don't talk about it."

"Do the police know who killed her?"

"No. I call the detective in charge of the case occasionally, but she says they don't have any leads."

"Let's get back to our client. Talk it out. If you've got something, we need to know. You were saying that Laura respected Justice Griffen."

"She did. I don't think she'd feel that way if she knew he was a womanizer."

"Maybe she didn't know. She only saw him at work. He might have been very different around his law clerk."

Tracy stared out the window without speaking for a while.

They rounded a curve and the Portland skyline appeared, tall buildings of glass and steel dwarfed by the green hills that loomed behind them.

"You're right, I guess I really didn't know Justice Griffen. I only saw him at work, too. It's just . . . Barry, he was a really nice guy.

He was so concerned about Laura. I just don't see how he could be the way Mrs. Griffen portrays him."

"What I'm getting from this is that you don't know the truth about Justice Griffen, but you don't like Abigail Griffen, so you don't want to believe what our client is saying. That ain't the way it works, Tracy. Nothing you've told me disproves anything Mrs. Griffen told us.

We represent Abigail Griffen and our job is to save her butt. So until we learn otherwise, we've got to assume the worst about the deceased and the best about our client. If evidence turns up that convinces us otherwise, we'll deal with it.

But for now let's operate on the theory that Justice Griffen was a cheat and a slime-ball and see where that leads us."

Chapter SEVENTEEN

've got good news and bad news, Barry Frame told his boss as soon as Reynolds walked through the front door. "Which do you want first?"

"The good news," Reynolds said as he headed for his office with Barry in tow.

"Christenson set up a time for us to view the physical evidence. He's bringing it to a conference room at the DA's office on Friday at ten."

"Good. What's the bad news?"

"Geddes talked Judge Baldwin into issuing a protective order for Deems.

They don't have to give us his address." Reynolds looked furious.

"That's preposterous."

"Yeah, but Geddes convinced the judge to do it. The affidavit in support of the order is sealed, so I've got no idea what story Geddes cooked up to convince Baldwin to issue the order. The bottom line is I'm going to have to find another way to get the address."

"Do it, then. Whatever it takes. We have to talk to Deems.

He's the key to their case. I'm certain Deems is framing Abbie."

"Why would he do that?"

"For revenge, of course. She put him in prison."

"I know that's Mrs. Griffen's theory, but it doesn't make sense. Now that he's off death row, why risk going back to prison for perjury or worse, if he killed Justice Griffen?"

Matthew thought about that. "Could someone have paid Deems to kill Griffen and frame Abbie?" he asked Barry. "Sure, but why?"

Matthew shook his head. "I don't know. We have to look deeper into Justice Griffen's background."

Reynolds paused. Barry waited patiently.

"Barry, see if Deems has a bank account. If someone paid him to kill Griffen, it would have been a substantial amount. He may have put the money in an account."

Barry laughed. "You're kidding. A guy like Deems doesn't deal with banks, unless he's robbing them."

Reynolds flashed Barry a patient smile. "Humor me."

"Sure thing. Oh, before I forget. Neil Christenson and I engaged in a little small talk. He let it slip that Geddes is really pissed at you."

"Oh?"

"You did insult him when he arrested Mrs. Griffen. Then there's the business with Mrs. Griffen's release. Geddes blames you for getting the Attorney General involved. We won't be getting any breaks from him.

He's determined to get a death sentence in the case and he's going to fight us every step of the way."

"Is that so?" The tiniest of smiles creased Reynolds's lips, as if he was enjoying a private joke. "Well, back to work."

Reynolds turned abruptly and walked away. Frame was about to go to his office when a thought occurred to him. When Deems was arrested for the Hollins murders, he tried to hire Reynolds to represent him. Barry was certain Matthew had talked to Deems two or three times before declining the defense, and he wondered if there was a file on the case with phone numbers and addresses for Deems and his acquaintances. Barry walked toward the back of the house where a rickety flight of stairs led down to the damp concrete basement where the old files were stored.

Tracy's office was near the basement door. She was at her desk, working at her word processor.

IT T, ral, Barry said.

Tracy didn't move. Her thoughts were focused on the words that were scrolled across her monitor.

"Earth to Tracy."

This time she turned.

"The Griffen case?" Barry asked, pointing at the computer screen.

"No. It's the Texas case. One of the issues in the brief. The Supreme Court just handed down an opinion that had some useful language and Matt wanted me to expand our assignment of error to include a new argument."

"Are you going to be working all weekend?"

"I'll be here Saturday, but I don't have any plans for the Sabbath."

"I'm going to take some pictures at Griffen's cabin on Sunday.

Want to come out to the coast with me?"