The Undertaker's Widow

Part One

Chapter 1.

Leroy Dennis began making dire predictions about the driving conditions as soon as the police dispatcher said that the scene of the shooting was a mansion on Crestview Drive. A week of torrential rains had devastated Oregon. Rivers were flooding, towns were being evacuated, power failures were the norm and mud slides were closing roads and highways around the state. The worst slides in Portland were in the hills that loomed above city center. Crestview Drive was at the top of Portland's highest hill.

Lou Anthony took the most direct route to the crime scene. A mountain of oozing earth almost stopped the homicide detectives halfway up Southwest Chandler Road. A series of flares had been spread along the pavement to warn off motorists. The unearthly rain, the devouring darkness on the edges of the headlights and the curling smoke from the flares made Anthony wonder if he had detoured into a corner of Hades.

"'What have we got, Leroy?" Anthony asked as he maneuvered around the slide.

"'A James Allen called in the 911," the slender black detective answered. "He works for the owner, Lamar Hoyt. Allen says that there are two dead. A man broke in and shot Hoyt. Then the wife shot the perp."

"Hoyt! That's Ellen Crease s husband."

"Isn't Crease the state senator who used to be a cop?"

Anthony nodded. "She was good, too, and a crack shot."

Dennis shook his head. "This guy sure picked the wrong house to burgle."

There were few streetlights on Crestview Drive and the road was pitch-black in spots, but Anthony and Dennis had no trouble finding the crime scene. This part of the West Hills had been carved into large estates and there were only a few homes on the narrow country lane. A high brick wall marked the boundary of the Hoyt estate. Just above the wall, the branches of a massive oak tree flailed helplessly against the elements like the tiring arms of a fading boxer. Anthony stopped in front of a wrought-iron gate. A yellow and black metal sign affixed to the seven-foot, spear-tipped bars warned that the estate was protected by an electronic security system. A black metal box with a slit for a plastic card stood even with the driver's window. Beside it was a speakerphone. Anthony was about to try it when Dennis noticed that the gate was slightly ajar. He dashed into the storm and pushed it open.

When Dennis was back in the car, Anthony drove slowly up a winding drive toward the three-story Tudor mansion that loomed over the landscape. Most of the house was dark, but there were lights on in a downstairs room. The driveway ended at a turnaround. As soon as Anthony brought the car to a stop the ornately carved front door swung open and a frightened man in a robe and pajamas dashed into the rain. He was just under six feet tall and slender. The rain matted his uncombed, graying hair and spotted the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses.

"They're upstairs in the master bedroom," he said, pointing toward the second floor. "She won't leave him. I've called for an ambulance."

The man led the detectives into a cavernous entry hall, where an immense Persian carpet covered a good portion of the hardwood floor. Before them was a wide staircase with a polished oak banister.

Anthony brushed the rain from his thinning red hair. He was a large man with a square jaw, a broken nose and pale blue eyes. The detective's shoulders were too wide and his clothes never fit properly. Under his raincoat he wore a brown tweed sports jacket that was frayed at the elbows and wrinkled tan slacks. Anthony had started buttoning the jacket to conceal an emerging beer gut. The blue knit tie his son had bought him for his fortieth birthday was ajt half-mast.

"Just who are you, sir?" Anthony asked.

"James Allen, Mr. Hoyt's houseman."

"Okay. What happened here, Mr. Allen?"

"I live over the garage. It's across from the master bedroom. There was a shot. At first, I thought it was thunder. Then there were more shots. I ran next door and saw a man on the floor near the bed. There was a lot of blood. And Ms. Crease . . . she was sitting on the bed holding Mr. Hoyt. I ... I think he's dead, but I can't say for sure. She wouldn't let me near him. She's got a gun."

"Take us upstairs, will you, Mr. Allen?" Anthony said.

The detectives followed the houseman up the winding stairs with barely a glance at the oil paintings and tapestries that hung over the staircase. Dennis had his gun out but felt a little foolish. It sounded as if the danger was over. Allen led them to a room at the end of a dimly lit, carpeted hall. The door to the room was open.

"Please tell Senator Crease that we're with the police," Anthony instructed Allen. The detective knew Crease well enough to call her Ellen, but he had no idea what frame of mind she was in. He wasn't taking any chances if she had a gun.

"Ms. Crease, this is James. James Allen. I have two police officers with me. They want to come into the bedroom."

Allen started in, but Anthony put a restraining hand on his arm.

"I think it will be better if you wait downstairs for the ambulance and the other officers."

Allen hesitated, then said, "Very well," and backed down the corridor.

"I'm Lou Anthony, Senator. You know me. I'm a detective with the Portland Police. My partner and I are coming into the room."

Anthony took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway. The bedroom lights were off, but the light from the hall bathed the large room in a pale yellow glow. A man sprawled on the floor roughly halfway between the door and the west wall. The dead man's legs were bent at the knee as if he had crumpled to the floor. His feet were almost touching a French Provincial armoire that stood against the south wall across from a king-size bed. The doors of the armoire were partly open and Anthony could see a television. The man's head was near the foot of the bed, surrounded by a halo of blood. Near one of his hands lay a .45-caliber handgun.

Anthony pulled his attention away from the dead man and stared at the tableau directly in front of him. Seated on the side of the bed farthest from the door, as if posing for one of Caravaggio's dark oils, was Ellen Crease. She was facing away from Anthony and the back of her plain white nightgown was spattered with blood. Lamar Hoyt's naked body lay sideways across the bed. Crease's back shielded part of his upper body from Anthony, but he could make out two entry wounds and rivulets of blood running through the thick gray hair that covered Hoyt's bearlike torso. Hoyt's large head rested in his wife's lap and Crease was rocking slightly, making little mewing sounds. Anthony noticed that her right hand was resting on her husband's massive chest and that her left hand held a .38 Special.

"Senator,'' Anthony said gently, "I'm going to walk around the bed."

Crease continued to rock and sob. The detective edged past the armoire, then stepped over the dead man's faded jeans and took in his navy-blue windbreaker. The dead man's hair was wet from the rain and saturated with blood. His clothing was waterlogged.

Anthony looked away and focused on Crease. She was holding the gun, but lightly, and she was staring at her husband. What was left of Hoyt's face was covered with blood that was soaking through the white nightgown. As Anthony arrived at her side, Crease looked up. Her face was tearstained and torn by grief.

Forty-five minutes later, police cars, an ambulance and the van from the Medical Examiner's Office choked the driveway in front of the Hoyt mansion. While forensic experts worked the crime scene, Lou Anthony waited patiently for Ellen Crease in one of the deep, red leather armchairs in the library. The room was unusually clean and he sensed that neither Hoyt nor Crease entered it much. Anthony had examined some of the hand-tooled, leather-bound volumes stacked tightly in the floor-to-ceiling, cherrywood bookshelves. His brief inspection had uncovered no book with a spine that had been cracked. The detective was holding a volume of Hemingway short stories when Ellen Crease entered the library wearing jeans, an Oxford-blue shirt, and a baggy, dark green, Irish wool sweater.

State Senator Ellen Crease was thirty-five, but she had the compact, athletic body of a woman ten years younger. Crease's personality was as rugged as her physique. Her complexion was dark and her sleek black hair framed a face with features that were always on guard. There was nothing coy about Ellen Crease. She was an iron fist that never fit inside a velvet glove.

"Hello, Lou," Crease said, holding out her hand the way she might at a political rally. Anthony hastily replaced the book and shook it.

"I'm sorry about Lamar. How are you holding up?"

Crease shrugged. Anthony marveled at her composure. He had seen Crease's grief, but there was no trace of tears now. The detective assumed Crease was repressing any feelings she had about the death of her husband. She would also be repressing her feelings about killing the intruder, but Anthony knew the guilt would soon surface to haunt Crease as it had haunted him when he had killed a man in the line of duty. A board of inquiry had cleared Anthony. He had even been decorated. Still, it had taken several years before he could put the shooting behind him. For most people, taking a human life, even in self-defense, was very difficult to live with.

"Do you feel up to answering questions?" Anthony asked.

"I want to get this over, Lou, so let's do it."

Crease took a chair opposite Anthony and selected a slender Mouton Davidoff Cadet from a humidor on an oak end table. Anthony watched Crease light up the cigar. Her hand was remarkably steady.

"I have to give you your Miranda warnings, because there's been a shooting," Anthony said apologetically.

"Consider them given."

Anthony hesitated, uncertain whether to still read the rights. Then he thought better of it. He wanted to spare Crease as much discomfort as possible and speeding up his interview was one way to accomplish his purpose.

"Why don't you just tell me what happened?"

Crease drew in smoke from her cigar. It seemed to calm her. She closed her eyes for a moment. Anthony thought that she looked totally spent. When she spoke, Crease sounded listless.

"Lamar wanted to go to bed early, but I had to work. You know that I'm right in the middle of a primary campaign against Ben Gage for the Republican nomination to the U. S. Senate?"

Anthony nodded.

"There's a speech I'm supposed to give tomorrow night and a bill on the light rail I needed to study. Lamar wanted to make love before he went to sleep, so we did. Then I got up to change into a nightgown so I could go down to my study. I was going to go to the bathroom when there was a particularly bright flash of lightning. I walked over to the window. As I watched the storm there was another lightning flash. It illuminated the area around the pool. I thought I saw someone standing under one of the trees near the wall, but the light faded before I could focus on the spot. I wrote it off as a figment of my imagination."

"We found a set of footprints under one of the trees. The intruder must have been watching from there."

"Do you know who he is yet?"

"No. He wasn't carrying any ID, but it's only a matter of time before we identify him. Why don't you go on?"

For a second, Crease's self-control deserted her. She closed her eyes. Anthony waited patiently for the senator to continue.

"When I got out of the bathroom, Lamar wanted to cuddle, so I turned off the bathroom light, put on my nightgown and got in bed with him. We talked for a little while. Not long. Then I told Lamar I had to start working. I sat up on my side of the bed . . ."

"That's the side nearest the window and away from the bedroom door and the bathroom?" Anthony asked.

"Right."

"Okay, what happened?"

"The door crashed open and this man came in. I could see he had a gun, because there was a light on in the hall."

Crease's facade cracked again, but she caught herself and was back in control quickly.

"I keep a Smith & Wesson .38 snubnose under my side of the bed. It's always loaded with hollow points. I ducked over the side to get it. I heard three shots and I came up firing. I saw the man go down. When I was certain he was dead, I turned toward Lamar."

Crease's voice grew husky and her eyes grew moist. She shook her head and took an angry pull on her smoke.

"The bastard had killed Lamar, just like that. I didn't even get to say anything to him."

Crease stopped, unable to go on.

"Are you okay?"

"Shit, no, Lou."

Anthony felt awful. He gave her a moment to collect herself.

"Look, I'm gonna cut this short. If there's anything else I need to ask, I can get it later. Just two more things, okay?"

Crease nodded.

"When I got here I found the front gate open. With all the security your husband had, why wasn't it locked?"

"It was locked, earlier. There was a power outage. We never relocked it when the power came back."

"Is that why the house alarm was off?"

"No. I set the alarm when I'm ready for bed. I was going to work for an hour or so, like I said."

"This has been hard for me, Ellen. I want you to know that. You're a real star with everyone at the Police Bureau. No one blames you for this. You did the right thing."

"I know, Lou," Crease said, cold as ice now, "I'm just sorry I didn't kill the fucker sooner, so Lamar would be

A crash and shouts brought Anthony to his feet. When he opened the library door, he saw two men from the Medical Examiner's Office frozen in place halfway down the stairs to the second floor. Supported between them on a stretcher was a body bag containing the corpse of Lamar Hoyt, which they were maneuvering toward a gurney that sat at the foot of the stairs. Sprawled across the gurney was a tall, muscular man dressed in jeans, a plaid, flannel shirt and a raincoat. Three police officers were trying to pin him to the gurney, which slid back and forth across the hardwood floor during the struggle. One of the officers wrenched the man's arm behind him and a second tried to apply a chokehold. The man writhed and twisted until he was facing Anthony. There was no way of missing the resemblance to Lamar Hoyt.

The officer who had the chokehold applied pressure and the man stopped struggling. One of the officers cuffed his hands behind his back. Then the three officers dragged him off the gurney and wrenched him to his feet. Before Anthony could say anything, Ellen Crease brushed past him and strode across the entryway. As soon as the intruder saw Crease his face contorted with rage and he lunged at her, screaming, "You did this, you bitch."

Crease paused in front of the man, stared at him with contempt, then slapped him across the face so hard that his head snapped sideways. Anthony grabbed Crease's arm before she could strike again.

"Who is this?" the detective asked Crease.

"This sniveling piece of shit is Lamar Hoyt, Jr."

Anthony stepped between Crease and her stepson, facing the furious man.

"Calm down," Anthony said firmly.

"That bitch killed him. She killed my father," Junior screamed.

The officers immobilized Junior, and Anthony grabbed the flannel shirt at the collar and jerked him upright. Anthony could smell liquor on his breath.

"Do you want to spend an evening in the drunk tank?"

"It wouldn't be the first time," Crease snapped. Junior lunged for her again but could not break Anthony's iron grip.

"Please wait for me in the library, Senator," Anthony commanded angrily. Crease hesitated, then strode away from the melee.

Anthony pointed toward the staircase. "That's your father's body, for Christ's sake. Let these men take care of him."

Junior stared at the body bag as if seeing it for the first time.

"Take him in there," Anthony told the officers, indicating a small sitting room just off the foyer. When the officers did as they were told, Anthony motioned them away. Junior dropped to a small sofa. Anthony sat beside him. Hoyt's son was a little over six feet tall and husky. His large head was topped by curly black hair, his eyes were brown and his nose was thick and stubby, like his father's.

"Do I have to keep these cuffs on?"

"I'm okay," Junior mumbled.

"I have these taken off and you act up, it's a night in jail."

Anthony motioned and the officer with the key unlocked the cuffs. Junior rubbed his wrists. He looked properly chagrined.

"What was that all about? That screaming?"

Junior s features hardened. "Why isn't she in custody?"

"Senator Crease?"

"I know she killed him."

"Mr. Hoyt, your father was murdered by a burglar. He broke into the bedroom and shot your father. Senator Crease shot him. Ellen Crease didn't kill your father, she tried to save him."

"I'll never believe that. I know that bitch is behind this. She wanted him dead and she got her wish."

Chapter 2.

The honorable Richard Quinn, judge of the Multnomah County Circuit Court, was almost six foot three, but he walked slightly stooped as if he were shy about his height. Despite his size and position, the thirty-nine-year-old judge was not intimidating. He smiled easily and seemed a bit distracted at times. His blue eyes were friendly and his thick black hair tended to fall across his forehead, giving him a boyish look.

Quinn's workday usually ended between five and six, but he had stayed in his chambers until seven working on the Gideon case. Then his normal twenty-minute commute stretched to fifty minutes because of an accident on the Sunset Highway that had been caused by the rain. When Quinn arrived at Hereford Farms, he was famished and exhausted.

Homes in the Farms started at half a million. Quinn and Laura could easily afford the place when they moved in five years ago. Quinn was making a six-figure salary at Price, Winward, Lexington, Rice and Quinn, and Laura, an associate at the firm on the fast track to a partnership, was pulling down high five figures with the promise of more to come. Still, Quinn loved the old colonial in Portland Heights where he was living when he proposed to Laura, and he had fought the move to the suburbs.

Quinn could trace the strains in the marriage to the arguments over the house in Portland Heights. Laura felt it was too small for the parties she wanted to throw and too far from the country club she wanted to join. In the blush of new love it had been easy for Quinn to give in, but he had never felt comfortable in this house that seemed more like a display model than a real home. There was a vaulted ceiling in the dining room and living room and no walls to separate the areas. A chandelier hung high above the stone floor in the entryway. Walls of glass let light flood in everywhere during the day. A circular stairway led up to the second floor. Quinn had to admit the house was impressive, but Hereford Farms and all the houses inside its walled perimeter were sterile and Quinn doubted that he would ever feel at home in this suburban encampment.

Quinn opened his front door. He started to call out to Laura, then he remembered that she was competing in the club tennis tournament tonight. He hung up his saturated raincoat in the hall closet and fixed himself dinner in the kitchen. There were assorted salads from yesterday's meal and soup he could reheat. Meals for both of them were catch-as-catch-can and they usually ate out or grabbed prepared dinners from a local supermarket because of the hours Laura kept. None of the lawyers at Price; Winward worked a normal, eight-hour day. Many of them worked so hard that they developed health problems, burned out or drank excessively. Laura was one of the firm's hardest workers, but she was in excellent health and rarely touched liquor. The work exhilarated her.

Quinn was reading in bed when he heard the front door open. He checked the clock. It was a little before ten. Quinn listened to Laura as she rustled around in the kitchen. He heard the refrigerator door swing shut. There were small impacts as a glass or plate touched down on the counter where Laura liked to snack. Later, there were muffled footfalls as Quinn's wife climbed the spiral staircase to the second floor.

Laura entered the bedroom in her warm-ups. She was thirty-three, six years younger than the judge. Her skin was pale, her hair was caramel and her eyes deep blue. Even without makeup and with her hair in disarray, Laura was attractive. She was also one of the smartest women Quinn had ever met. Her rapid rise to partner was a testament to her intelligence and to the single-minded determination she brought to everything she did. But single-minded determination could also cause problems when there were conflicts in a marriage. Laura rarely gave in on something she wanted. She had prevailed on the house and she refused to consider children while her career was on the rise. The only issue of importance on which Quinn had not yielded to Laura's wishes was his judgeship.

"How did you do?" Quinn asked as Laura pulled off her sweats and unzipped her tennis whites.

"I beat Patsy Tang two sets to love," Laura answered matter-of-factly. "That puts me in the quarterfinals."

"Great. Did you have any problem driving?"

"No. They cleared that mud slide on Quail Terrace."

Laura stepped out of her clothes and took off her bra and panties. Quinn had seen his wife naked almost every day for seven years and she still aroused him.

"When did you get home?" Laura asked.

"About eight."

"What kept you so late?"

"Gideon. He had two supreme court justices, four circuit court judges, a mayor and several clergymen testifying on his behalf. We ran over."

Frederick Gideon was a Lane County Circuit Court judge who sat in Eugene, Oregon, a small city one hundred miles south of Portland that was best known for being the home of the University of Oregon. Gideon was a popular, conscientious jurist who had made several bad investments. The losses had left him unable to pay for his daughters' schooling. Gideon was severely depressed when the owner of a construction company, the defendant in a multimillion-dollar lawsuit, approached him with the offer of a bribe. In a moment of weakness, Gideon accepted the money and granted the defense a directed verdict in its favor.

The attorneys for the plaintiffs had been stunned by the ruling, which had no logical basis. A private investigator working for the plaintiffs unearthed evidence of the bribe. Judge Gideon, the owner of the construction firm and two other men were arrested. Gideon struck a bargain with the prosecution. He resigned from the bench, testified against the other defendants and was allowed to plead to a single felony that carried a maximum of five years in prison. Quinn was hearing the case because all of the Lane County judges had disqualified themselves. He had spent the day listening to witness after witness extol Gideon's virtues and plead for leniency. Tomorrow morning the attorneys would sum up and he would be expected to impose a sentence.

"What are you going to do?" Laura asked.

"I'm still undecided."

Laura bundled up her dirty clothes and sat beside Quinn on the bed.

"Did the D. A. bring up some new evidence against him?"

"No. Jane even let it drop that she wouldn't be upset if I gave him probation. Still ..."

Quinn stopped, frustrated by the conflicting emotions that had been battling inside him ever since he had been assigned the Gideon case.

"I don't understand why this case is so hard for you," Laura said.

"He's a judge. Different rules apply when a judge breaks the law."

"A judge is also a human being."

"That's true, but he has to set his standards higher. When you put on the robe you separate yourself from the rest of humanity."

"Nonsense. You don't become some kind of god as soon as you're sworn in. Gideon was under a lot of pressure. You might have done the same thing if you were in his place."

"No, never," Quinn answered firmly.

"How can you say that if you haven't been faced with Gideon's predicament?"

"Being a judge is more than just performing a job. Americans are brought up to respect the rule of law and they expect judges to administer the law fairly. When a judge takes a bribe, he undermines that faith."

"I think you're getting a little dramatic. We're talking about one judge in Lane County, Oregon. I don't think the country is going to self-destruct because Fred Gideon took some money so he could pay his kids' college tuition."

"So you'd go easy on Gideon?"

"I'd give him probation."

"Why?"

"For Christ's sake, Dick," Laura snapped, "he's a father. Send him to jail and you're destroying a family. And for what? Some theory you learned in high school civics?"

Quinn looked amazed. "How can you say that? You're a lawyer. Don't you respect the system you work in?"

"I work in the real world, not some ivory tower. Fred Gideon is a poor overworked and underpaid bastard who became desperate when he thought that his kids might have to drop out of college."

"Gideon s kids could have gone to the U. of O.," Quinn answered angrily. "They don't have to go to Ivy League schools. You worked your way through. Lots of kids do."

Laura's features tightened and Quinn was sorry the moment the words were out of his mouth. Until Laura was ten, she had lived in an upper-class suburb on the North Shore of Long Island, New York. Then her father had lost his job as an engineer. After a year of unemployment he became depressed. The family dropped the country club and beach club memberships, Laura's private tennis and piano lessons stopped and her mother started saving coupons and shopping for clothes at discount stores. Laura's father was forced to take a temporary job as a salesclerk, but he refused to let his wife work. His depression deepened and Laura's parents started fighting. By the time Laura was thirteen, her father had taken up with another woman, her parents were divorced and she was living with her mother in a tiny apartment in Queens.

Laura coped with her new situation by spending all of her time doing schoolwork and playing tennis. Although she had a partial athletic scholarship, she still had to work her way through college. She viewed her father's failure to contribute to her college education as more evidence of his betrayal.

"I'm sure you'll make the right decision," Laura told Quinn coldly. She went into the bathroom without another word. Quinn knew that he had hurt Laura and he felt bad, but his wife's lack of respect for his work depressed and upset him.

Quinn tried to read, but his book no longer held his interest. A little while later, the bathroom door opened. Laura walked over to her dresser and slipped into her nightgown. She still looked upset. Quinn did not want Laura to go to bed mad. When she was under the covers Quinn remembered that he had some good news.

"I'm going to be speaking at that judicial conference at the Bay Reef Resort on St. Jerome. The organizers confirmed late this afternoon."

Quinn's reading light was still on and he could see little interest on Laura's face.

"I thought maybe you'd come with me. We can go a few days early and make it a vacation. The only day I'm speaking is Thursday. We'd have the rest of the week free."

"I'm busy, Dick," she answered coldly. "There's the Media Corp. litigation and the Hunter Air contract."

"The conference is the last week in February. You have plenty of time to rearrange your work. Come on, Laura. It will be good for us. We haven't had a real vacation in two years."

Quinn waited.

"I'd really like you to come with me," Quinn said when he could stand the silence no more. "I can use the break, too. We'd have a great time on St. Jerome. I checked around and the island is supposed to be beautiful. Sand, sun. We'd lie out by the pool and sip banana daiquiris until we were blotto. What do you say?"

Laura began to thaw. "I can't promise right now," she told Quinn.

"It won't be anything but work if you're not with me."

"I'll talk to Mort Camden."

Quinn brightened and that made Laura smile. Quinn moved against her.

"I'll be miserable if you're not there."

Laura touched Quinn's cheek. "You're like such a little boy sometimes."

Quinn slid his hand under Laura's nightgown. She tensed for a moment, then relaxed and kissed him. Quinn made the kiss last. Laura stroked his neck. They had not made love for a week and a half. Her touch was like a live wire on his nerve endings and he was instantly erect. Quinn stroked down Laura's spine until he was cupping her backside. He enjoyed the tension in her muscles. Quinn felt Laura unsnapping his pajama bottoms. His mouth was dry with excitement. He longed to play with Laura so he could draw out their pleasure. His fingers found her nipples and he began stroking them to make them hard. Before he could finish, Laura was drawing him inside her and he was trapped in the rapid pull and push of her rhythm until, moments later, he exploded and collapsed, spent but not satisfied because of the rapidity of their intercourse.

Quinn felt the bed move as Laura left it for the bathroom. He replayed the quick sexual encounter in his mind and it occurred to him that sex with Laura had been less and less satisfying in the past year. Quinn stared at the ceiling and tried to remember when making love to Laura had stopped being fun. He knew he enjoyed sex with her tremendously before they were married and he was certain that the sex was still good when they lived in the old house in Portland Heights, but somewhere along the way he started suspecting that Laura was only going through the paces and he began to feel alone and lonely when they coupled.

Quinn was still excited by Laura and she never denied him sex. On the other hand, Laura rarely initiated the act the way she had when they were dating and she seemed to work hard at finishing quickly, as if sex was another chore, like dish washing, that she wanted to complete so she could move on to more important things.

Quinn wondered what would happen if he stopped having sex with Laura for a while, but he was afraid that her lack of interest was only in his imagination and that withdrawing from her would hurt her. Quinn could never do that to Laura. He was even more afraid that she would say nothing and that theirs would become a marriage of convenience.

The toilet flushed and Quinn heard the water running in the sink. He got out of bed and walked by Laura. It would have been so nice if she had touched him as they passed just to show that she was thinking of him. Quinn closed the bathroom door. All of a sudden he felt sad and defeated. He longed desperately to recapture the early days of their relationship when her passion matched his, sex left them both exhausted and fulfilled and he would drift off to sleep with a mind unclouded by doubt.

Chapter 3.

Lou Anthony went straight from the Hoyt estate to the Justice Center to dictate his initial report. The last section recounted the incident with Lamar Hoyt, Jr., whose behavior was partially explained by the alcohol he had been drinking and partially by his intense hatred of Ellen Crease.

Lamar Hoyt, Sr., had been sixty-two when he was murdered. He was a hard-nosed businessman who had turned his father's funeral parlors into a business empire. Junior was the sole issue of Hoyt's first marriage. He had barely made it through college, where he had paid far more attention to football than academics, and had floundered around, failing at various jobs, until his father put him in charge of his mortuaries. Junior had not exactly thrived in the family business, but he had managed to keep it turning a profit. He had also earned himself a reputation as a drunk, a womanizer and a brawler, and he resented his father's refusal to let him play a bigger part in Hoyt Industries, his father's conglomerate. Anthony had learned all this from Ellen Crease, after Junior was escorted off the estate grounds and driven home by a Portland Police officer. Crease despised Junior for being a drunk and a weakling.

Anthony lived alone, so there was no one to disturb when he stumbled into the bedroom of his split-level at two-thirty in the morning. Lou's wife of twenty-two years had died of cancer three years before but he had kept the house for visits from their kids. The hostile invader had been discovered during a routine physical; the battle to save Susan's life had been furious but short. She was gone eight months later. Lou's son was a freshman in college at the time and their daughter had just been accepted at Oregon State. He was thankful that Susan had died knowing that they had turned out well. There wasn't much else that he was thankful for except the job, which kept him occupied and distracted him from his grief.

After a few hours of sleep, Anthony was back at his desk reviewing the draft of his report and waiting for the reports from the crime lab and the results of a house-to-house canvas for witnesses that he had instituted shortly after his arrival at the Hoyt estate. Anthony did not expect much from the canvas. A stolen car had been found near the wall that surrounded the estate. He assumed that it was the burglar's getaway car. The fact that it was still parked at the scene meant that the burglar had probably been working solo, but you never knew. There might have been an accomplice who left on foot, though he could not imagine that happening in the previous night's storm when a nice, dry car was available. The estates on Crestview Drive were all set so far back from the street that he doubted the neighbors would have seen an accomplice slogging from the scene, anyway. Still, stranger things had happened and some crazy neighbor might have been out jogging or walking a dog. Anthony was not holding his breath.

"Lou."

Anthony looked up and saw an excited Leroy Dennis bearing down on him with several sheets of paper in his hand.

"How do you feel about buying me lunch?" Dennis asked.

"Why would I buy you lunch, Leroy? The last time I sprung for you, you ate so much I almost had to file for bankruptcy."

One of life's great mysteries was how Dennis could eat and eat and still not put on a pound.

"I'm a growing boy, Lou. My body just needs more than the average man. It has something to do with my sexual prowess."

"Give me a break," snorted Anthony, "or give me a reason why I should assist you in committing suicide by cholesterol overdose."

Dennis not only ate like a machine, but he had an aversion to any kind of food that was even remotely healthy.

"This is the reason," Dennis said, shaking the documents he held at Anthony.

"What is that?"

"Uh-uh. No food, no facts. Hell, I'm so hungry I might just eat this exceptionally fine, and difficult-to-find, evidence."

Anthony laughed. "You have to be the biggest asshole in the bureau, Leroy, but I was going to eat soon, anyway."

Anthony stood up and walked over to the closet to get his raincoat. Dennis followed him.

"Now, what have you come up with?" he asked.

"The name of our perp," Dennis answered, his tone suddenly serious. "I ran the burglar's prints through AFIS," Dennis explained, mentioning the Automated Fingerprint Identification System that used computers to compare unknown prints to the prints stored in the computer's data banks. "We got a hit an hour ago."

"Who do we have?"

"Martin Jablonski. He's got the rap sheet for the job. Armed robbery, assault, burglary. He was paroled from OSP eight months ago where he was serving time for a pretty brutal home invasion that happened six years ago. Pistol-whipped an elderly couple. I talked to his parole officer. Jablonski's supposed to be living with his wife, Conchita Jablonski, and their two kids in an apartment off Martin Luther King near Burnside. He's been unemployed or working as temporary labor since he got out of prison."

"Let's get a D. A. to write up an application for a search warrant, then visit the little woman," Anthony said.

Dennis grinned. "Where do you think I've been this last hour? I'm two steps ahead of you. Sondra Barrett is working on the affidavit as we speak. She'll have it ready to take to a judge after lunch. Now, where shall we go?"

Anthony parked his car in front of an old brick apartment house a few blocks from the Burnside Bridge. The Jablonskis lived on the third floor. It was a walk-up. As they climbed the stairs, Dennis complained about the lack of an elevator and the god-awful smell in the stairwell.

The third floor was poorly lit. The outside light had to fight its way through a grime-covered window on one end of the corridor and was so weak from the effort that it ended up dull yellow. The lightbulbs that hung from the ceiling were either broken or of such low wattage that Anthony wondered why the super bothered to turn them on.

The Jablonskis' apartment did not have a bell, so Anthony bashed a meaty hand against the door and bellowed "Mrs. Jablonski" while he strained to hear if there was any movement inside. After his third try, Anthony heard a nervous "Who is it?" from the other side of the door.

"I'm Detective Anthony with the Portland Police, Mrs. Jablonski."

"I don't wanna talk with you," Conchita Jablonski answered. Her speech was thickened by a heavy Spanish accent. "Go away."

"What?"

"I said, I don't wanna talk to no cops. Leave me alone."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Jablonski, but you have no choice. I have a search warrant. If you don't open the door, I'll have the super bring the key. It's about your husband."

There was no sound inside the apartment. When the silence stretched to thirty seconds, Anthony turned to Dennis.

"Wait here while I round up the key."

Dennis nodded. Anthony was about to walk to the stairs when he heard locks snap. The door opened a crack and Conchita Jablonski stared at Anthony through a gap in the door. The safety chain was still on. Anthony held up his badge so Mrs. Jablonski could see it through the narrow opening.

"This is Detective Dennis," Anthony told her as he pointed over his shoulder. Dennis flashed her a friendly smile, but Mrs. Jablonski continued to regard the men with suspicion. "We need to talk to you about Martin."

"For why?"

"Can we come in, please? I really don't want to discuss your business out here in the hall where all of your neighbors can hear."

Mrs. Jablonski hesitated. Then she closed the door for a moment and took off the safety chain. A second later, the door swung into the apartment and Dennis followed Anthony inside.

The apartment was small, with two narrow bedrooms, a small living room and a tiny kitchen area that was separated from the living room by a low counter.

Both detectives were impressed by how clean Conchita Jablonski kept the apartment. Her two children huddled in the doorway of one of the bedrooms watching the detectives. They looked well cared for. A boy and a girl, both about six or seven, big-eyed and brown-skinned with soft black hair.

Conchita Jablonski was a heavyset, dark-complexioned woman with a pockmarked face. She led the detectives into the living room and seated herself in a frayed and shabby armchair. Dennis and Anthony sat across from her on a sagging couch.

"I have some bad news for you," Anthony said. Conchita Jablonski's facial features stayed frozen, but her shoulders hunched as if she were preparing for a blow. She clasped her hands in her lap. "Martin broke into a home last night." Conchita's features wavered. Her hands tightened on each other. "While he was in the house, he shot and killed someone."

Conchita began to shake. The children saw the change in their mother and they looked frightened.

"Martin was also shot. He's dead."

Conchita bent at the waist as if she had been punched in the stomach. She started to sob. Her shoulders shook. The children's eyes widened. They huddled together. Dennis stood up and walked over to the shaking woman. He knelt beside her chair.

"Mrs. Jablonski," he began in a soft and sympathetic voice. Before he could say another word, Conchita Jablonski spun in her chair and slapped him across the face. Dennis was off balance. He fell onto the floor awkwardly, almost in slow motion, into a sitting position, more stunned than hurt.

"You bastards!" Conchita shrieked. "You killed my Marty!"

Anthony raced to her chair and restrained Mrs. Jablonski.

"He was robbing a house, Mrs. Jablonski. He murdered a woman's husband. He would have killed her, too, if she hadn't shot him."

Conchita heard only parts of what Anthony said as she strained against him. Dennis struggled to his feet and helped subdue the distraught woman. She collapsed, sobbing, her head in her hands.

"Please, Mrs. Jablonski," Dennis implored. "Your kids are scared. They need you."

She fought for control, gulping air. The two children raced over to her and buried themselves in her skirt. She talked quietly to them, submerging her own grief. The detectives waited while she calmed them. Dennis brought her a glass of water, but she would not take it.

"Are you gonna be okay?" Dennis asked.

"What do you care?" the woman shot back angrily. "You cops never cared about me or Marty before. All you wanna do is lock him up."

Anthony saw no reason to argue with Mrs. Jablonski. He held out the search warrant. "This is a court order that gives us the right to search your apartment. Detective Dennis will sit with you while I conduct the search."

Mrs. Jablonski suddenly looked frightened. Anthony wondered why, but he did not ask. If there was something hidden in the tiny apartment, it would be easy to find. He decided to start in the bedroom that the adults used. He could hear Detective Dennis talking soothingly to Mrs. Jablonski as he tossed the covers off the small bed where the Jablonskis slept. He knelt down and looked under it but saw nothing.

There was men's and women's clothing in the cheap wooden chest of drawers but nothing else. When he was through with it, Anthony opened the door of the closet. Dirty men's clothes lay crumpled on the floor, but there was nothing under them. Anthony peered up at a shelf that was just above his head. He pulled over a wooden chair that swayed slightly when he climbed up on it. Toward the back of the shelf was a shoe box. Inside were stacks of currency bound by rubber bands. Many stacks. The top bills were hundreds, fifties and twenties. Anthony stepped down from the chair and carried the shoe box into the living room.

"I've read Marty's file/' Anthony told her. "It says that you're on welfare and Marty was having trouble getting steady work. There's a lot of money in here. Where did it come from? Drugs? Was Marty selling drugs?"

"I ain't saying anything to you. You cops are all the same. I knew I shouldina let you in my house."

"Listen, Conchita, I'm not gonna mess around with you," Anthony said harshly. "Your husband killed a very important man. Now, all of a sudden, you're rolling in dough. You tell me where Marty got that money or I'll arrest you as an accessory to murder. What do you think happens to your kids if you're in jail?"

Conchita Jablonski wrapped her arms around her children and looked at Anthony with a combination of fear and loathing. He felt like a first-class heel, but Anthony did not let her know it.

"It's up to you, Conchita. You want your kids in foster care, keep playing games."

The fight went out of Mrs. Jablonski. "I don't know where Marty got the money," she answered in a small voice. "He just got it."

"He never said from who?"

"Just that it was from some guy."

"Did he tell you what this guy looked like?"

"No."

"Marty didn't say what this guy wanted him to do for this money?" Dennis asked.

"When he was doin' something bad he wouldn't tell me what it was because he didn't want me or the kids involved, but I knew it was no good." She shook her head and started to cry. "I tol' him to give back the money, but he said it was for me and the kids. He felt real bad how we lived and how he couldn't get no job because of his record. He wanted to do something for us. And now he's dead."

"I'm going to have to take this with me," Anthony said. "I'll give you a receipt."

"You can't take that money," she sobbed. "I got the kids. How I gonna feed them?"

"That's blood money, Mrs. Jablonski," Dennis told her. "Your husband may have been paid to kill someone for that money. You seem like a good woman. You take real good care of your kids and your home. You don't want that money. You know that money will only bring you grief."

Anthony and Dennis spent twenty more minutes with Conchita Jablonski, but it soon became clear that she did not know anything more about the money, the man who had given it to her dead husband or the reason he had been given it. While Dennis finished searching the apartment, Anthony counted the cash in the shoe box and gave Mrs. Jablonski a receipt for $9,800. The detective figured that the actual amount Jablonski had been given was $10,000. The bills were secured by rubber bands in five-hundred-dollar bundles. Anthony had discovered a solitary rubber band under three hundred dollars in loose bills.

"I don't like this," Dennis said when they were driving back to the Justice Center.

"I don't either. I didn't see anything in Jablonski's file about drugs. From what his wife says, he didn't score the money in a burglary. Some guy gave it to him because he wanted Jablonski to do something. Why would Jablonski run out in the middle of one of the worst storms in Oregon history to burglarize an estate with the security system Hoyt had if that wasn't the job he was paid to do?"

"Yeah, Lou, that's what I was thinking. Only, robbery might not have been the motive. What if Jablonski was paid to hit Lamar Hoyt?"

"That's one possibility, but there's another."

Leroy Dennis carried the shoe box full of money to the evidence room while Anthony made the call. James Allen answered the phone and Anthony asked to speak to Senator Crease.

"I'm afraid she's resting, Detective. She does not wish to be disturbed."

"I can appreciate that, Mr. Allen, but this is an urgent police matter and I have to talk to her."

Two minutes later, Ellen Crease picked up the phone.

"I'm glad I got you," Anthony said. "I wasn't sure you'd be staying at your house."

"I'm using the guest room tonight," Crease said. She sounded exhausted. "Tomorrow is the funeral. Then I'm going out to eastern Oregon to campaign."

"Oh," Anthony said, surprised that she was going back on the campaign trail so soon after her husband's murder.

Crease could hear the note of censure in Anthony's tone.

"Look, Lou, everything I see in this house reminds me of Lamar. If I don't get out of here and keep busy, I'll go crazy."

"I understand."

"Did you call just to see how I'm doing?"

"That and one other thing. A few hours ago, we identified Martin Jablonski as the man who broke into your house. Does that name mean anything to you?"

"No. Should it?"

"Probably not. He was a real bad guy. Multiple arrests and convictions. Home burglaries accompanied by assaults. We thought we had ourselves a simple solution to what happened at your house. Then we discovered almost ten thousand dollars in cash in a shoe box in Jablonski's closet. His wife says someone gave it to him, but he wouldn't tell her why. We think Jablonski may have been paid to break into your estate."

"But why . . . ?" Crease started, stopping when the obvious answer occurred to her. "Lamar? You think this Jablonski was paid to kill Lamar?"

"We have no concrete evidence that is what happened. I just found the money an hour ago. It could be completely unconnected to the break-in."

"But you don't think so."

"The timing bothers me. The fact that he broke in when the weather was so bad."

"Thank you for letting me know about this, Lou. I appreciate it."

"This wasn't just a courtesy call. If Jablonski was paid to make a hit, Lamar may not have been the intended victim."

There was dead air for a moment. "You're suggesting that I might have . . . that Jablonski was sent to kill me?"

"I don't know. But I'm not taking chances. There's going to be a patrol car parked outside the estate while you're in Portland. You're going to have an around-the-clock guard until we sort this out. I suggest that you arrange your own security when you're out of the city."

"I don't believe this."

"I could be wrong. I just don't want to take any chances."

"Thanks, Lou. I'm not going to forget this."

"Yeah, well, let's hope I'm way off base. In the meantime, I'd appreciate it if you could work up a list of people who might want you or Lamar out of the way bad enough to pay someone to kill you. It could be a business thing, something personal. If there's even a possibility, write it down and let me look into it. I'll be discreet."

"I'll work on it right away." Crease sounded nervous, distant. "And thanks again."

Anthony hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. He hoped he was wrong about the money. He hoped it was for drugs or a payoff for something Jablonski had already done, but he didn't think so.

Chapter 4.

[1]

It was still raining when Richard Quinn left for work on the morning after Lamar Hoyt's murder. Not the monster rain of the night before, but a steady, wearying drizzle that was profoundly depressing. The main roads had been opened during the night, but there were places where two lanes narrowed to one because of half-cleared mud slides or still active road crews. Quinn parked in the county garage shortly after seven-thirty and walked through the drizzle to the Multnomah County Courthouse, an eight-story, gray concrete building that takes up an entire block between Fourth and Fifth and Main and Salmon in the heart of downtown Portland. Quinn waved to the guard at the front desk and took the elevator to the fifth floor.

The door to Quinn's chambers was halfway down the marble corridor on the south side of the courthouse. Copies of the Oregonian and the New York Times were lying in front of it. The judge usually started his day by doing the crossword puzzle in both papers while drinking a cup of coffee, but he was too distracted by the Gideon case to try them this morning.

Quinn picked up the papers and opened the door to his chambers. After flipping on the lights in the reception area, Quinn started coffee in the pot that sat on the low, gray metal filing cabinet behind his secretary's desk. Then he switched on the lights in his chambers.

A large rain-streaked window looked out at the ornamental ribbons decorating the north side of Michael Graves's postmodern Portland Building. Behind Quinn's massive oak desk was a bookshelf filled with a complete set of the Oregon Supreme Court and Court of Appeals case reporters and the Oregon Revised Statutes. In front of the desk were two high-backed armchairs. A couch stood against the wall behind the chairs. Above it hung a modern oil painting that made no sense whatsoever. Given the choice, Quinn would have set the oil on fire, but Laura had bought it for him as a swearing-in present. Quinn was not about to destroy the only indication of support for his decision to ascend the bench that his wife had made since the governor's call, three years ago.

Quinn dropped the newspapers on the bookshelf and surveyed his desk. It was as he had left it the preceding evening. Every square inch was covered with paperwork pertaining to Gideon's sentencing. Quinn eyed the reports, letters and lawbooks as he hung up his jacket on the coatrack that held his judicial robes. He sat behind the desk and stared some more. He had read every piece of paper several times. He knew some of the documents by heart. What he did not know was the proper sentence to impose on Frederick Gideon.

On Quinn's wall was a framed quotation from Abraham Lincoln, which read: "I'll do the very best I know how--the very best I can; and I mean to keep doing so until the end. If the end brings me out all right, what is said against me won't amount to anything. If the end brings me out wrong, ten angels swearing I was right would make no difference."

The judge's father, Oregon Supreme Court Justice Patrick Quinn, had framed the quotation and it had hung in the elder Quinn's chambers in the Supreme Court Building during his years on the bench. Justice Quinn had died when Richard was fifteen. If his father had faults, Richard never learned of them. His wife, who died in the same car accident that killed her husband, adored him. No one Richard had ever met had an unkind word for Patrick Quinn. Certainly not Frank Price, senior partner in Richard's old firm, former partner and best friend of Patrick, and the man who raised Quinn after his parents died. True or not, Patrick Quinn's perfection lived in his son's memory as a model and a challenge, and the framed quote that Quinn had inherited was the creed the judge tried to live by. But doing the right thing was not always easy.

Quinn reread the quotation. He thought about Lincoln's words. At this level, all decisions were hard and the certainty of mathematics was usually unattainable. He could only do his very best, then hope that, in the end, he had chosen correctly. That knowledge did not make the knot in his gut less painful, only a bit easier to bear.

"Your Honor," Stephen Browder said as he launched into the conclusion of his argument in favor of probation, "Frederick Gideon is a local boy who pulled himself out of poverty and worked his way through college and law school. Much of his early legal career was devoted to helping the poor. As his fortunes improved, he expanded his involvement in civic affairs. I am not going to repeat the testimony of the friends, business associates and community leaders who have testified in Judge Gideon's behalf at this sentencing hearing, but the gist of the testimony of these highly respected citizens is that Fred Gideon is a good man, a man worthy of your compassion. He is a man who made one tragic mistake in an otherwise blameless life."

Browder paused and Quinn studied the defendant. He knew that everything Browder said was true. Gideon was basically a good person and he was repentant. Quinn's mental image, formed during his brief contacts with Gideon at judicial conferences, was of a rotund and jovial man who was always quick with a smile and a joke. The months following his arrest had taken the heart out of the jurist. His skin was pasty and there were circles under his eyes. He had lost a lot of weight. He had also lost his pride. The eyes that Quinn remembered for their twinkle were lifeless and had not raised high enough to meet the eyes of Quinn or any witness during the sessions in court.

"No one, including Judge Gideon, is asking you to excuse what he did," Browder continued. "Frederick Gideon sold his judicial opinion for money and he will regret his decision to do so every day that remains to him in this life. But, Your Honor, Judge Gideon has been severely punished for his transgression in ways far more severe than any jail sentence this Court can impose on him. He is a judge no more, having voluntarily relinquished his position soon after his arrest in order to protect the bench from further controversy."

In the front row of the courtroom, Martha Gideon hid her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook with each sob. Gideon's daughters tried to comfort their mother while fighting back their own tears.

"In addition, my client will be disbarred and lose not only his means of earning a living but his right to practice a profession in which he has spent most of his adult life. A profession he loves.

"There is more, and it is the worst punishment. Before he brought this shame on himself, the name Frederick Gideon stood for integrity, honesty. My client was someone who was widely admired. Judge Gideon has disgraced his good name and he may never be able to reclaim his dignity."

Browder was an imposing attorney with wavy gray hair and a dignified bearing. He paused and placed his hand on his client's shoulder. Gideon flinched, as if the touch had burned him.

"The ability to show compassion is essential in a judge," Browder said. "I ask you to show compassion to this man. Please look beyond this single transgression to Fred Gideon's countless good deeds. He is a decent person who made one tragic mistake. Probation is the appropriate sentence for this man."

Browder sat down. Quinn could put off his decision no longer. He looked across his courtroom at the defendant.

"Mr. . . . ," Quinn began. Then he corrected himself. 4'Judge Gideon. Even though you are no longer on the bench, I will address you as a judge because you have served as a judge for a long time. By all accounts, with the exception of the incident that brings you to this sorry pass, you have been a good judge."

Quinn's voice caught in his throat and he was afraid that he might not be able to go on. There was a pitcher of water and an empty glass at his elbow. Quinn filled the glass slowly to give himself time to recover. He sipped the water until he felt his composure return.

"I'm relatively new to the bench. I suspect that's why I was assigned your case. You sat in another county, our contacts have been few. Most of what I know about you I have learned during this sentencing hearing. As I said, I'm new to the bench, but I suspect that I may never have to make a more difficult decision than the one I will make today."

In front of Quinn were notes he had made in his chambers the night before. He consulted them for a moment.

"Judge Gideon, some of the finest people in this state have spoken on your behalf and your lawyer has been eloquent in his plea for leniency, but there is a presence that speaks more eloquently than any of your lawyers or your witnesses. It is this courtroom with its high ceilings, marble floors and walls of dark wood. This courtroom reminds me of the dignity and majesty of the law and it speaks to the duties of a judge."

Gideon's head hung down and he stared at the top of the counsel table.

"We have a code of judicial conduct in Oregon. It forbids judges to commit criminal acts or engage in fraudulent conduct. You would expect that. But it also says that judges have to act honorably not just because fraudulent and criminal acts are forbidden by law but because acting at all times in an honorable way promotes public confidence in our judges and our courts."

Quinn paused. This was as hard as he thought it would be.

"Judge, I know how much you have suffered and will suffer every day of your life. You are a decent man who knows that you have committed a great wrong. When you sold your judicial decision for money, you did far more than simply rob a litigant of a fair hearing. You committed an act that called into question the integrity of the American system of justice. You committed an act that undermined the confidence of our citizens in the judiciary. In effect, you betrayed the people of this state. I know that you understand what you did and I can see how much you are suffering. I want to give you probation, but I would be committing a great wrong myself if I did not sentence you to prison."

Martha Gideon moaned. The defendant was sobbing quietly. His attorney looked as if it were he who would soon be behind bars.

"If you are the person I believe you are, you will know that I am doing the right thing today by sentencing you to the Oregon State Penitentiary for two years. If you are not able to appreciate your sentence, then I have probably been far too lenient."

[2]

Presiding Circuit Court Judge Stanley Sax found Quinn in his chambers shortly after noon. Quinn's secretary was at lunch and his clerk was also gone. An uneaten ham and cheese sandwich and a sealed bag of potato chips lay on Quinn's desk next to an unopened can of Coke in a small space that had been created by pushing aside some of the paperwork in Judge Gideon's case. Quinn was seated in shirtsleeves in front of his untasted food.

Sax sat in a chair across from Quinn without being asked. He was a small, solemn-looking man with a paunch. Except for a fringe of curly black hair that was going gray and a few odd strands on the top of his head, Sax was bald.

"You going to eat those?" Sax asked, pointing at the bag of potato chips. Quinn shook his head and Sax leaned across the desk and grabbed the bag.

"You look down in the dumps," Sax said as he wrestled the bag open.

"It wasn't easy sentencing a fellow judge to prison."

"That's why they pay us the big bucks."

Sax popped a few chips in his mouth. He chewed for a moment. Then he said, "There's something I want you to think about."

Quinn waited while Sax popped some more potato chips into his mouth.

"You gonna drink all of your Coke?" he asked.

Quinn opened the tab. As he handed the can to Sax, he asked, "Do you want my sandwich, too?"

"Thanks, but I ate already." Sax took a swig from the can. "Katherine Rowe is moving over to domestic relations from the homicide rotation. Craig Kittles was supposed to take her place, but it looks like he'll be getting the U. S. magistrate appointment. That leaves me a judge short."

It took Quinn a moment to catch on. In order to develop expertise, the judges in Multnomah County were assigned to rotations where they heard particular types of cases for set periods of time. Judge Rowe was transferring to the panel that dealt only with divorces, adoptions and other family matters. Some judges heard civil or criminal cases exclusively for a year or two. There were three judges who handled only homicide cases. The rotation was for one or two years, based on the judge's preference. Homicide was the most prestigious and demanding rotation and was usually reserved for judges with years of experience.

"You want me to go into the homicide rotation?" Quinn asked incredulously.

"You catch on fast. That's what I like about you. You're also not afraid to do what's right. You need brass balls to handle a death case. Not everyone can drop the hammer. You showed me a lot today."

"I'm flattered, but I've only been sitting as a judge for three years."

"Don't go modest on me, Dick. I've heard Frank Price say that you were giving out legal opinions on your daddy's lap when you were three, and you don't make partner at Price, Winward without getting a little bit of experience along the way. You're smarter than any other judge in this county with the exception of yours truly. Plus, and this is a big plus for someone who's going to deal in matters of life and death, you wanted to be a judge for all the right reasons. You didn't take this job because your practice wasn't going well or for the prestige or the power. I've been watching you. You're Pat Quinn's son, all right."

Sax paused. He ate another chip. While he chewed he looked Quinn in the eye.

"You want it, it's yours."

"How soon do you need to know?"

"Take a day or two to think about it." Sax stood up. "Don't let me down. And stop feeling guilty. If it's any comfort to you, I would have given Gideon the whole five years. So would your dad."

[3]

Francis Xavier Price, the Price in Price, Winward, Lexington, Rice and Quinn, had been a major force in Oregon legal and political circles for almost fifty years. He and Alan Winward had founded the firm in 1945, as soon as they were discharged from the army after serving with distinction in World War II. Both men jumped into the political arena at the same time they were forging their legal careers. Alan Winward became a state representative, a state senator and governor, while Frank Price maneuvered behind the scenes. By the mid-fifties, Roger Lexington, Bill Rice and Patrick Quinn were name partners. By the sixties, the firm had over one hundred attorneys and its political connections and its list of lucrative clients made Price, Winward the most powerful law firm in Oregon.

The relationship between Frank Price and Patrick Quinn had always been special. When politics began taking more and more of Alan Winward's time, the firm hired the slender, nervous young man as its first associate. Within three years, Price and Winward made Quinn a partner, partly to recognize his magnificent record of success and partly out of fear that he would leave and set up his own practice. Neither partner wanted to face his protege in court.

When Quinn tired of the grind of a high-level law practice, Frank Price used his political connections to secure an appointment to the Oregon Supreme Court for the man who had become like a son to the Prices, who had no children of their own. When Richard's parents were killed three years into the justice's first term on the court, Frank and Anna Price had not hesitated to take in Richard and raise him.

Frank Price was a gaunt and wiry bantamweight who still went to work every day at the age of eighty. For most of his adult life, Price had lived in a large house in Dunthorpe, but he had moved to a condominium in downtown Portland soon after his wife died. Quinn visited his surrogate father after work whenever he could. He knew how much in love Frank had been with his wife and how lonely he was since Anna's death. Quinn hoped that his visits helped Frank get through his dark period.

By the time Quinn left the courthouse shortly after six, the rain had let up. When Price opened the door for Quinn, the judge could see the lights of cars streaming over the bridges that spanned the Willamette River through the wide and high windows that made up the outer wall of the apartment.

"Come on in," Price said with a smile. "Can I get you something to eat? Some coffee?"

"Just coffee. I'm meeting Laura for Thai food in half an hour."

Price walked into the kitchen. He was a little stiff. Arthritis. His complexion was pale, too, but he still swam fifteen hundred meters every weekday. Price had never surrendered in court and he was not giving in to old age.

"I heard about Gideon," Price called in from the kitchen.

"It was a tough call," Quinn said.

"A good result, though. I've never been able to stomach lawyers and judges who break the law. They always have an excuse."

Quinn shrugged. He still felt lousy about what he had done, even though he felt that his sentence could not be avoided.

Price returned to the living room, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. Quinn was sitting on the couch in front of a low table. Price set one mug in front of him and took a seat in an antique wooden rocker.

"I bet you feel like shit."

Quinn smiled wearily. Frank had always been able to read his mind.

"It'll pass. Come this time next week, you'll be feeling a whole lot better. Know why? By next week, you'll have figured out that you did the right thing."

"I don't know--" Quinn started, but Price cut him off impatiently.

"Of course, you know. Gideon is a crook and a disgrace to the bench. He knew what he was doing when he took that money and he deserves every day of the sentence you imposed on him.

"Besides, if it's any comfort, you can count on the Parole Board cutting him loose inside of six months."

Quinn looked up.

"You don't think a man with that many friends is going to do hard time, do you?"

Quinn didn't answer.

"You're thinking of Gideon's wife and kids, right? Gideon didn't think about what would happen to them if he got caught. Why should you? He's an adult, Dick. He was a judge. The son of a bitch knew right from wrong and he chose to do wrong. Don't forget that. This was the sentence he knew he could get, but he probably convinced himself that he would skate if he was caught because he was a judge with friends in high places.

Maybe the next judge who is tempted to cross the line will think twice because you hammered Gideon. Have you considered that?" "No."

"Well, stop feeling sorry for yourself and think about it."

"I will."

Quinn took a sip of coffee. Then he said, "Stan Sax came to my chambers today. He wants me to go on the homicide rotation. What do you think?"

"It sounds interesting."

"I'm not that experienced in criminal law."

"You're a quick study, Dick. Stan wouldn't have asked if he didn't think you could handle the job."

"Yeah." Quinn smiled. "I've already made up my mind to do it."

"Good. Say hello to Stan for me, the next time you see him."

"I will. Say, did I tell you that I've been asked to speak at the National Association of Litigators' annual convention on St. Jerome next month?"

"No."

"Laura's coming with me. We'll go a few days early. It will be good for her to get away and just relax."

"St. Jerome should be beautiful this time of year. I'm jealous."

Quinn grinned. "I'll be thinking of you as I lie on the beach. The paper said it was eighty-four and sunny today."

Price laughed. "Go ahead, rub it in, you ingrate. I hope you get hit by a hurricane."

Chapter 5.

Shortly after noon, one week after the Hoyt homicide, Lou Anthony returned to the Homicide Bureau and found two messages from Gary Yoshida, the lead forensic expert on the case. Anthony found the criminalist bent over a microscope in the crime lab.

"Lou," Yoshida said with a smile. He swiveled the stool on which he was perched. Anthony leaned against the counter. Around them, other forensic experts were testing drugs, examining objects under microscopes and recording observations on reports that were often the difference between a guilty and not guilty verdict.

"You called twice," Anthony said, and Yoshida's smile faded.

"Thanks for getting back to me so quickly."

Anthony shrugged. "What's up?"

"Has the Hoyt crime scene been turned back to Senator Crease?"

"Yeah. We released it two days ago."

"Damn."

"What's the matter?"

"I'd really like to look it over again."

"Why?"

Yoshida walked over to his desk and picked up a stack of photographs that had been taken in Lamar Hoyt's bedroom. When he found the two that he wanted, Yoshida brought them over to Anthony.

"I was going through the evidence again when I was writing my report and I spotted this," Yoshida said, pointing to a section of each photo that showed the armoire that held the television.

"'Is that blood spatter?"

"'Yeah. And it's got me concerned. I don't like to screw up, but I may have, big-time.''

"1 don't get it."

Yoshida explained the problem to Anthony. When he was finished, the detective looked upset.

"'How certain about this are you?"

"I've got to see the scene in three dimensions to be sure. That's why I want to look at the bedroom again."

"Shit." Anthony took a deep breath. 44Okay. Look, two days isn't that long, and I don't imagine Crease is staying in the bedroom. Maybe the scene hasn't been altered yet. We could take a drive out to the estate. Can you go now?"

"You bet."

"Then let's head out."

"Great."

"Not if you find what you're looking for," Anthony answered grimly.

Days of biting cold followed the heavy rains that had disrupted the commerce of the city. Low gray clouds drifted in an iron sky and threatened more rain. The winding country roads that led to the Hoyt estate were clear of debris, but the landscape looked bedraggled and grimy.

Anthony rolled down his window so he could use the speakerphone at the front gate. A gust of cold wind rushed into the police car. After a brief wait, James Allen buzzed Anthony and Yoshida through the gate. The estate grounds had been hard hit by the weather. The colors had been leeched out of the hedges and the lawn by the pale light, and the foliage bowed down, cowed by the cold and the threat of rain. The house looked deserted and dispirited as if it were in mourning.

Anthony circled the turnaround and parked near the front door. The houseman was waiting for them. He had the door open as soon as Anthony and Yoshida were out of their car. The men hunched their shoulders and walked with speed into the entry hall.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Allen," Anthony said. "Is Senator Crease in?"

"No, sir. She's campaigning in eastern Oregon. I don't expect her back until Monday. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Yeah. It's actually better if we don't have to bother the senator. This is Gary Yoshida from our crime lab. We want to take another look at the bedroom."

"I'm not sure I can let you do that. Ms. Crease left me strict orders that no one but the cleaning people were to be allowed in the bedroom."

"Has the bedroom been cleaned up already?" Anthony asked, trying hard to hide his concern.

"No, sir. A crew is coming tomorrow morning."

"Senator Crease probably wanted to keep reporters out of the house. She wouldn't want to interfere with our investigation."

"I'm sure you're right, but I can't let you in the room without talking to her."

"Why don't you phone?"

"I can try. I have the number of her hotel in Pendleton. Do you want to wait in the living room?"

"Sure."

"Can I get you something to drink? Some coffee or tea?"

Anthony glanced at Yoshida. The forensic expert shook his head.

"No, thanks," Anthony told the houseman.

Anthony knew where the living room was from his official visit to the estate on the evening of the murder, but he let Allen direct him to it. The vast room was dominated by a massive stone fireplace. A Persian carpet, similar to the carpet in the entry hall, lay over the hardwood floor. Yoshida tried to be nonchalant, but as soon as Allen was gone, he said, "This room is almost as big as my house. We're in the wrong business, Lou."

"I don't know, Gary. The owner's dead and we're still ticking."

Anthony and Yoshida settled themselves on one of the large sofas that flanked the fireplace, and waited for the houseman to return. A fire had not been laid in the grate and the room was chilly. Anthony was beginning to regret turning down the offer of coffee when Allen reentered the room. The policemen stood up and met him halfway.

"I'm sorry. Ms. Crease has already left the hotel and I have no idea when I'll be able to talk to her."

"Thanks for trying, but we really do have to see the room."

"I thought the investigation was complete."

"For the most part, but we have a few loose ends to tie up."

"I don't want to impede your investigation, but without Ms. Crease's permission . . . ," Allen said hesitantly.

Anthony tired of diplomacy. He was all for civility, but he was used to getting his way, like most policemen.

"Look," Anthony said sharply, "this is an official police investigation into the death of your employer and Senator Crease's husband. You're telling me the bedroom is going to be cleaned tomorrow. By the time you talk to Senator Crease any evidence in that room will be destroyed. We need to get into the bedroom and we need to do it now."

"All right," Allen said reluctantly. "You can go up. The room is locked. I'll get the key for you."

"Thanks. We won't be long."

Anthony knew the way to the bedroom and he did not want the houseman tagging along, so Anthony told Allen that there was no need for him to accompany them. He sensed that Allen was relieved that he would not have to reenter the bedroom.

As soon as Yoshida opened the door, Anthony started to envy Allen. The room had been sealed and the windows were closed. The stench of death still hung in the stale air.

Anthony took a step into the bedroom, but Yoshida held out his arm to block him. Anthony stepped back into the corridor as Yoshida switched on the lights. The forensic expert stood in the doorway and slowly surveyed the room. He was carrying the Hoyt file in an attache case. When he had seen what he wanted to see from the doorway, Yoshida walked over to the bed and set down the attache on Lamar Hoyt's end table. Then he took out the crime scene photographs and the lab -reports and shuffled through them. Every so often, he compared a photograph to the section of the room it portrayed. When he was through with the photographs, Yoshida began studying sections of the room. He stood at the door to the bathroom for a while, then inspected the armoire that stood opposite the foot of the bed against the south wall. After he was shot, Martin Jablonski had crumpled to the floor with his feet almost touching the side of the armoire that faced the west wall. A fine spray of blood that discolored the west-facing side of the armoire about six feet above the carpet attracted Yoshida's attention.

Occasionally, Yoshida made notes on a yellow pad.

Other times he asked Anthony to hold one end of a roll of string over a particular patch of blood while he unrolled the string and straightened it at some point before squatting down and sighting back along it toward Anthony. Sometimes Yoshida employed a tape measure. Except to clarify Yoshida's instructions, Anthony kept quiet, even though he was anxious to learn Yoshida's conclusions.

Yoshida put everything back in the attache and snapped the locks closed. Anthony looked at him expectantly. Yoshida looked very grim. He explained his conclusions to Anthony with scientific detachment while walking the detective through every step in his reasoning and showing him the physical evidence that supported his opinion. Anthony's mood grew more morose with each new detail.

When Yoshida was through, Anthony told him to wait in the living room while he went in search of James Allen. The detective found the houseman in the kitchen. A huge, tiled center island with several stove lights dominated the room. Anthony spotted two dishwashers and two ovens. Copperware hung from the ceiling. Allen was seated at a large wooden table polishing silverware. He stood up when Anthony entered.

"Are you through, sir?"

"Just about. I wanted to ask a few questions, though."

"Please."

"How long did you work for Mr. Hoyt?"

"A long time. Mr. Hoyt first employed me in the West Side Home of Heavenly Rest. When he purchased this estate, he asked me if I would work for him here."

"Was Mr. Hoyt a good employer?"

"He was the best, sir," Allen answered. He paused and it was clear to Anthony that the houseman was struggling.

"I want to be completely honest, Detective. I don't want you thinking that I have concealed information. When I was a young man . . . well, sir, I killed a man. There is no other way to put it."

Allen looked down, embarrassed by his confession.

"I was convicted of manslaughter and I served two years in prison. I was twenty when I was paroled. I was a high school dropout with no job skills who bore the stigma of a felony conviction. No one would hire me. I was sleeping in missions, barely able to keep myself together. I seriously considered suicide on more than one occasion. Then Mr. Hoyt hired me. He . . . well, sir, it would be quite accurate to say that he saved my life. Simply giving me a job would have been enough, but he did much more. When my mother grew ill, Mr. Hoyt paid for her care and he financed my education."

Allen looked directly into Anthony's eyes. "Mr. Hoyt was not merely my employer. He was my savior. His death has been very hard on me."

"I appreciate your candor."

"Thank you, sir."

"If you worked for Mr. Hoyt since you were twenty, I guess you were with him through all three marriages."

"Yes, sir."

"I gather that the first two were pretty stormy toward the end."

"They were."

"How about his marriage to the senator? Did Mr. Hoyt and Senator Crease get along?"

Allen looked uncomfortable. "I shouldn't be discussing Mr. Hoyt's private life."

Anthony nodded. "I appreciate that, but this is a murder investigation and it's suddenly become important that I learn a little more than I already know about the personal life of Mr. Hoyt and Ellen Crease."

"Really, Detective Anthony, I don't feel it s proper for me to comment."

Anthony placed his slablike forearms on the kitchen table and leaned forward slightly.

"Mr. Allen, there is no place for delicacy here. Martin Jablonski splattered your boss's brains all over his expensive bed linens. Life doesn't get more indelicate than that. What I want to know is why he did that. If you respect Mr. Hoyt as much as you seem to, you'd want to help me out here."

Allen looked confused. "I thought Mr. Hoyt was killed during a burglary. What possible relevance could the state of his marriage have to your investigation?"

"Let's just say that we're looking into other possibilities."

"And you suspect Ms. Crease?"

"I'm afraid that I can't go into that."

Allen considered the implications of Anthony's answer. Then he said, "For most of their marriage, Mr. Hoyt and Ms. Crease got along quite well."

"Most?"

"Yes, sir."

"When did they stop getting along?"

"Recently."

"What made you think there were problems?"

"They quarreled. Not all of the time, you understand. But there were arguments."

"About what?"

"I really can't say."

"Do you think Senator Crease was in love with her husband?"

Allen thought about the question for a moment before answering.

"Yes. When he died she took it very badly. I know that she has not made a public display of her grief, but in the privacy of this house ... in my opinion she is still grief-stricken."

"Was Mr. Hoyt in love with Senator Crease?"

"I believe so."

"Believe?"

"Well, there were the arguments."

"Was she cheating on him?"

"Not that I knew, but she wouldn't have brought men back here, would she?"

"What about Mr. Hoyt? Was he cheating on her?"

The houseman's eyes dropped briefly.

"Not that I knew," Allen replied.

"What does that mean?"

"If you're aware of Mr. Hoyt's marital history, you know that he has always had a problem with fidelity."

"Did you ever hear Senator Crease accuse her husband of cheating on her?"

"No."

"Did the senator ever threaten her husband?"

"I never heard any threats," Allen answered evasively.

"Let me put this another way. Did you ever get concerned for Mr. Hoyt because of anything Ellen Crease did?"

Allen considered the question.

"The arguments . . . some of them were very loud. I couldn't hear what was said, but the tone . . . I'm afraid that's all I can say."

Anthony stood up. "Thank you for talking to me. I know it wasn't easy."

"No, sir, it wasn't."

Anthony was grateful that Yoshida did not say much during the short ride back to the Justice Center. The detective liked Ellen Crease. He respected her. But there was no way of avoiding the implications of the blood spatter patterns in the master bedroom.

The discovery that Jablonski may have been paid to break into the Hoyt mansion had complicated the investigation by turning a simple burglary into a possible murder conspiracy. Now the discovery of the blood spatter evidence forced Anthony to add Crease to the list of people who might have paid Jablonski to murder Lamar Hoyt. If it turned out that Ellen Crease was behind her husband's murder, he would arrest her. He did not want to do that, either, but he would if his duty demanded it.

Chapter 6.

Cedric Riker looked around the interior of the Lumberjack Tavern with jerky head movements that betrayed his nervousness. The Multnomah County district attorney was not used to meeting people after midnight in workingmen's bars. He liked to conduct business over power breakfasts at upscale hotels or pricey dinners at trendy restaurants.

Riker was a slender man of medium height who wore wire-rimmed glasses and styled blond hair. He usually dressed elegantly, but he was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt and a navy-blue ski jacket for this clandestine meeting with Benjamin Gage's hatchet man, Ryan Clark. Riker's attempt to blend in with the customers in the Lumberjack was doomed to failure. None of the construction workers or bikers who drank there wore polished wing-tip shoes.

As soon as Riker's eyes adjusted to the dark interior, he spotted Clark waiting for him in a booth in the bar's darkest corner. Riker slid onto the bench across from Clark until he was pressed against the wall. There was an empty glass and a pitcher of beer between the two men, but Riker ignored them.

"Ben appreciates your meeting with me."

"He won't be so happy if some reporter sees us here," Riker snapped. "Let's get this over with."

Cedric Riker was an arrogant and insecure man who liked to throw his weight around. He could not afford to antagonize Benjamin Gage, a powerful political ally and a source of campaign funds, but Clark was only an employee. Riker detested Clark with his mysterious ways and intimidating scar, and he was never civil to him. Riker's bullying tactics had no effect on Clark. He despised Riker, but he kept his contempt well hidden because Riker was useful to his boss on occasion.

"We're very worried about the impact of Lamar Hoyt's murder on Ben's campaign," Clark said.

"You should be. Crease is playing this for all she can get. The press is making her sound like a cross between Joan of Arc and Annie Oakley."

"Ben understands that there are new developments in the case. He'd like to know what they are."

"What kind of developments?" Riker asked warily.

"Something to do with Jablonski and some money. Our source wasn't clear."

Riker was angry. Someone was leaking the details of the Hoyt investigation. Still, if Gage wanted to know, Riker was not going to keep the information from him.

"Jablonski s an ex-con with a history of violence. He just got out of the Oregon State Penitentiary eight months ago. He was serving time for a series of home burglaries in wealthy neighborhoods. In a few cases, he pistol-whipped the victims. He hurt one of them pretty badly. Killing Hoyt would be consistent with his modus operandi. But Lou Anthony's found a few things that don't look right."

"Such as?"

Riker took a quick and nervous look around the tavern. When he was satisfied that no one was listening, he said, "The search of Jablonski's apartment turned up ten thousand dollars in cash in a shoe box. It was hidden in the bedroom closet. Jablonski may have been paid to make a hit."

"On Hoyt?"

"Or Crease. Then again, the money and the Hoyt break-in might be unconnected. Except ..."

"Yes?" Clark prodded.

Riker leaned across the table and lowered his voice.

"Lou went back to the crime scene with a forensic expert. There's something wrong with the blood."

"The blood?"

Riker explained what Anthony had told him. When he finished, Clark looked thoughtful.

"What are you planning to do?" he asked.

"I know Ben's losing votes, but I've got to move very slowly. Ben should understand that. Everyone knows that he's one of my supporters. If I go after Crease without the goods, it will hurt both of us."

Clark nodded. Riker waited for him to say something else. Instead, Clark stood up.

"It would be better if we left separately. I'll let Ben know how helpful you've been."

Riker watched Clark walk out of the tavern. When the door closed, Riker shuddered involuntarily. He just did not feel right around Gage's A. A. The guy was spooky. A few minutes later, Riker left the Lumberjack. Outside, the rain had let up, but the wind was blowing. Riker hunched his shoulders and walked quickly to his car.

Chapter 7.

[1]

Hoyt Industries corporate headquarters was housed in a three-story, no-frills concrete box a few minutes from the Wilsonville exit on 1-5. A parking lot surrounded the building and a field surrounded the parking lot. There were minimal attempts at landscaping. Anthony parked in a spot reserved for visitors. A receptionist sat behind a wide desk in the lobby. Anthony named the person whom he wanted to see. A few minutes later, he was sitting across the desk from Stephen Appling, Hoyt's senior vice-president.

Appling was dressed in a gray, pinstriped Armani suit and a silk Hermes tie. His curly salt-and-pepper hair had been styled and he had a tan in spite of the weather. He seemed the antithesis of someone who would work for a good old boy like Lamar Hoyt. Then, again, anyone as country smart as Hoyt would see the value in hiring a shrewd businessman who would feel at home with blue-blood bankers and wealthy investors.

Anthony noticed several golf trophies on a low credenza behind Appling's desk and a framed Wharton M. B. A. next to several photographs of Appling playing golf with various celebrities.

"Is that Michael Jordan?" Anthony asked.

Appling smiled. "Hoyt Industries hosts a celebrity golf tournament every year to raise money for charity."

"Did you play with Jordan?"

"No. I played with Gerald Ford that time. I did get in a round with Michael at Pebble Beach, though. We were trying to recruit him for an endorsement contract. It didn't work out."

Anthony's brow furrowed. "What product was Jordan supposed to endorse? Not the mortuary business?"

Appling threw his head back and laughed.

"No, Detective, not the mortuaries. Actually, the funeral parlors were only a small part of Lamar's financial interests. Hoyt Industries owns a company that manufactures supplies for funeral homes nationally, a trucking company and Modern Screen Theaters."

"That's Hoyt Industries?"

Appling nodded. "We operate eighty percent of the movie theaters in Oregon, Washington and Idaho and we're expanding into northern California. We were talking to Michael about being a spokesman for the theaters."

"So this is a big operation."

Appling smiled sadly. "Lamar liked to come across as a hick, but he was anything but. His business expertise rivaled that of any of the M. B. A.'s he employed, yours truly included, even though he never graduated from high school. He is sorely missed around here."

"Who's running the company now that Mr. Hoyt is dead?"

"I'm the interim president, but the Board of Directors is going to have to select a permanent president."

"Is Senator Crease going to inherit her husband's stock?"

"You'll have to talk to Charles DePaul, Lamar's lawyer, about that."

"If she does inherit Mr. Hoyt's shares, will that give her a controlling interest in the company?"

"Yes," Appling responded. Anthony noticed that he was not smiling now.

"So she ll have a big say in how the company runs."

"If she wants to, no one can stop her."

"You don't seem happy about that."

"I'm sure that Senator Crease will do what is best for the company."

"But you're not certain?"

"Is this just between us, Detective?"

"Sure, if that's how you want it."

"Ellen Crease is a . . . how shall I say this? Headstrong is a good description. She has her own opinions about how to do things. Once those opinions are formed, it is difficult to change them. Unfortunately, the senator's views on how to run this company are not based on a background in business."

"You don't think she's competent to head up Hoyt Industries?"

"Don't get me wrong. I have the highest respect for the senator's intelligence, and I think she believes that she is capable of running Hoyt Industries. I'm not convinced, though."

"Who would profit if the senator had been murdered along with her husband?"

"You mean with regards to the company?"

Anthony nodded.

"I guess Junior, if he inherited."

"Could he run Hoyt Industries?"

"Off the record again?"

"Yes."

"Junior is a fool and a spendthrift. He would bankrupt this company."

"So you don't think Mr. Hoyt contemplated any part in running the company for his son?"

"I'm certain of it. They weren't even on good terms personally. In fact, shortly before his death, Lamar and Junior had a yelling match right here."

"About what?"

"I don't know. Lamar wouldn't talk about it. I just caught the tail end. I was walking over to Lamar's office when his door burst open and Junior came storming out. He almost knocked me down. Junior looked furious. When I went into Lamar's office, he was just as angry."

"Mr. Appling, can you think of anyone who would want Mr. Hoyt dead?"

"No, and I have thought about it. We have union problems with the trucking concern, of course, and there are employees that we've had to let go, but that's just grasping at straws. If you're looking for serious suspects, I can't give you any."

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Appling," Anthony said as he stood up. He placed a card on the vice-president's desk. "If you think of anything else, please give me a call."

[2]

Charles DePaul's office was not as grandiose as Anthony had expected the office of a senior partner in a major law firm to be. It was sparsely furnished and functional. DePaul's desk was almost bare. There was an antique reading lamp, some correspondence neatly stacked under a glass paperweight, a picture of DePaul's wife and three daughters and a single file sitting squarely in the center of the desk. DePaul was as unimposing as his office, a short, balding, slightly overweight man who looked nothing like the image suggested by his reputation in the Oregon Bar.

"You said on the phone that you wanted to discuss the terms of Lamar's will. Can you tell me why?"

"This is confidential information, Mr. DePaul. So let me ask you first, who is your client?"

"Lamar Hoyt, Sr."

"Not Ellen Crease?"

"No, sir."

"Mr. DePaul, I need your promise that what is said here will not be repeated."

"You can trust my discretion."

"There is a possibility that the break-in at the Hoyt estate was more than a burglary. The man who broke in may have been paid to kill Mr. Hoyt, his wife or both of them. If Mr. Hoyt was the intended victim then I need to know who gains by his death . . ."

"And the beneficiary of the will is an obvious suspect," DePaul said, completing the detective's thought.

"Exactly."

"Aside from bequests to a few charities, Mr. Allen and some of the employees at Hoyt Industries, the major beneficiaries were Ellen Crease and Lamar's only child, Lamar, Jr. Senator Crease inherited the bulk of the estate. That would be the house, the controlling shares in Hoyt Industries and a number of other bequests."

"And his son?"

"Lamar left Junior the mortuary business, a quarter of a million dollars in cash and a home in the mountains. Junior is an avid skier."

Anthony remembered the incident with Lamar, Jr., at the mansion and asked, "How did Mr. Hoyt react when the will was read?"

DePaul shook his head with disapproval. "Junior caused quite a scene. He threatened to contest everything, then he stormed out after flinging a few choice words at Senator Crease."

"Inheriting a quarter million dollars and a going business would make my day. What was bothering Junior?"

"The amount that he left to his son was a very small bequest when you consider that Lamar's estate is worth twenty million dollars."

"Why didn't he leave Junior more?"

DePaul considered the question for a moment before answering. "Junior is not an idiot, but he's lazy and irresponsible. He's been able to run the mortuaries, but Lamar had to keep a close eye on the business. I believe that Lamar wanted to give Junior an incentive to work hard. He didn't want to leave him penniless, but he was afraid that Junior would not work at all if he had too much money."

"He obviously didn't feel that way about his wife."

DePaul hesitated. "Detective Anthony, I don't know if I should be telling you this, but Lamar and I go way back. If there is something amiss . . . well, I just want to make sure that you're fully informed. Shortly before his death, Lamar discussed the possibility of changing his will."

"In what way?"

"He didn't say specifically, but I had the impression that he was going to change his bequests to his wife and son dramatically."

"How?"

"He never came right out and said what he planned to do, but I believe that their stake in his estate would have been drastically diminished."

"So Senator Crease and Junior benefited when Mr. Hoyt was killed before the will was changed?"

"Yes. Senator Crease in particular."

DePaul paused. He looked troubled, as if a new thought had just occurred to him.

"Of course, if Ellen was involved in Lamar's murder, Junior would inherit her share."

"Why is that?"

"The law forbids a person to profit from a will if they cause the death of the person who made it."

Chapter 8.

Karen Fargo heard the announcement of Lamar Hoyt's murder on the morning news while she was driving to work. She had pulled onto the shoulder of the highway because she could not see the traffic through her tears and she was shaking so badly that she was afraid she would lose control of her car. When she could drive, she took the first exit and returned home. She had called in sick that day and the next.

On her first day back to work, Mr. Wilhelm had called her into his office and fired her. Fargo was in a state of shock and her protests were feeble. Mr. Wilhelm had an explanation for his actions, but she barely heard them. She knew why she had been let go and who was behind the firing, though that person was so insulated by layers of middle management and executive power that she knew she would never be able to prove her suspicions.

After cleaning out her desk, Fargo drove straight home and called her parents in Michigan. She told them about being fired, though not about Lamar. Her parents were serious Baptists and would not have approved of her affair with a married man. They acted like cheerleaders, reminding her of how smart she was and what good work she did. Surely another company would hire her.

When Fargo ended her call to her parents, she was upbeat. She did not have very much money saved, but she had enough to get by until another job came along. There was always a market for a good secretary. Maybe, she thought, it was best that she not continue to work at Hoyt Industries, where every day would be a reminder of the life she had lost. Maybe being fired was a blessing in disguise.

The next day Fargo started her job search with high hopes. She had graduated at the top of her secretarial school class, she was attractive and friendly and she always received excellent efficiency ratings. Strangely, the jobs did not come. The interviewers were always enthusiastic and she left the interviews with high expectations, but her phone did not ring.

At first, she convinced herself that the companies had lost her number and she called them to see if a decision had been made. Most of the time, the person who had interviewed her would not take her call. A secretary would tell Fargo that the job had been given to someone else. On the few occasions that someone important did talk to her, they seemed embarrassed. It was only during the call that she had made two hours before to Durham Food Products that she found out why she was being turned down for job after job. Mr. Pebbles, the man with whom she'd had such a positive interview, sounded uncomfortable when they spoke. Toward the end of their short conversation, he told her sympathetically that he would have hired her if her reference from Hoyt Industries hadn't been so negative. When Fargo asked the man what he meant, Pebbles told her that he had said too much. He wished her luck and hung up.

Fargo was too numb to think straight. Then she remembered that all of the jobs for which she had applied required references. When she figured out that someone at Hoyt Industries was blackballing her, she became frightened, then she became angry. Fargo had driven to her old company to confront Mr. Wilhelm, but the security guard would not let her into the building. On the ride home, Fargo grew scared. What if she could not find a job? How would she live? She had broken down halfway home and she was still crying when she opened the front door of her small, rented Cape Cod.

Fargo had not bothered to raise her shades that morning and her front room was thick with shadows. She turned on a floor lamp. It took her a moment to realize that a man was sitting in the armchair near the window. Fargo took a step backward. The light from the lamp did not reach all the way to the armchair and she could just make out the man's profile.

"There's no need to be afraid, Miss Fargo,'' the man said quietly. "I'm a friend, and I think you need one."

Fargo reached behind her for the doorknob, but she made no move to open the front door.

"Who . . . who are you?" she asked anxiously.

"Someone who wants to help you. Are you upset because you've been turned down for another job?"

Fargo let go of the doorknob. "How did you know that?"

"That's not important. What is important is that you know the identity of the person who has been stopping you from getting a job. She's the same person who made certain that you were fired from Hoyt Industries.

"Miss Fargo, there are people who are concerned about you. People who don't think that it's fair that Ellen Crease used her power to have you fired and is using her power to keep you from finding work. These people want to secure a job for you. A good job that will pay you the salary you deserve."

"Why would these people do that for me?"

"They're the same people who believe that Ellen Crease is responsible for the murder of Lamar Hoyt. They want to see justice done."

The man stopped talking to let Fargo absorb what he had said.

"What . . . what do you want from me?" she asked.

"There is almost enough evidence for the district attorney to indict Ellen Crease. The one thing that is missing is a powerful motive. Crease was well taken care of by Lamar Hoyt, she had her own career and everyone says that she loved Hoyt and he loved her."

"That's not true," Fargo interjected.

"What isn't true?"

"Lamar didn't love her. He loved me."

"We know that, Miss Fargo, but the authorities don't. If you give that information to the police, they will know Ellen Crease's motive for murder."

"I couldn't go to the police," Fargo said.

"Of course you could. We would protect you and we would reward you. The day after you go to the police someone will call you with a job offer. A very good job offer. Someone else will deposit a substantial sum of money into your savings account. I believe it's down to three hundred and eighteen dollars, as of this morning."

"How . . . how did you know that?"

"We're concerned about you, Karen," the man said with compassion. "We were afraid that you were suffering financially, so we checked your account to see if you needed our help. It looks like we can help each other."

The man sounded so sure of himself, so comforting. Why, then, Fargo asked herself, did she feel so frightened?

"Why don't you tell me about your relationship with Lamar, so we can decide what you can say that will help the police?"

"I don't know if I should."

"Karen, Ellen Crease has already made Lamar Hoyt her victim. Do you want to be her victim, too? Crease did

not give Lamar a chance to fight back. We are giving you that chance."

Fargo considered what the man said while he waited patiently. Then she started talking. When she was through, the man asked her questions and she answered them truthfully. When he was satisfied with what he heard, he told her what to do.

"How do I get in touch with you?" she asked as he crossed the room.

"Don't worry about that."

He stepped into the pool of light near the front door. Then he was gone and Fargo realized that the only thing she knew about her visitor was that once upon a time something had happened to him that was violent enough to leave a jagged scar on his right cheek:

Chapter 9.

[1]

Hoyt & Son's West Side Home of Heavenly Rest was a white, three-story building that resembled a plantation home in the antebellum South. Lou Anthony knew that there were four other Homes of Heavenly Rest in Oregon, as well as two Heavenly Rests in Seattle, Washington, one in Butte, Montana, and one in Boise, Idaho. Junior's office was here on the West Side.

A crystal chandelier hung over the foyer, but the lighting was subdued. As Anthony entered through the wide front doors, a tall, solemn-looking man in a mourning coat approached him.

"Are you with the Webster party?"

"No, I'm not." Anthony flashed his badge. "I'm looking for Mr. Hoyt."

The man examined the badge for a moment while Anthony listened to the soft strains of organ music that floated toward him from somewhere in the building.

"Take the hall on your right. There's a set of stairs at the end. Mr. Hoyt's office is at the top of the stairs."

The interior of the funeral home was dark woods and dark red draperies, all under subdued lighting. There were two chapels on Anthony's left as he walked down the hall. One was empty, but a small group of mourners gathered in the other talked in hushed tones. A casket dominated the room. A heavyset woman wept in the front row. Two young men in ill-fitting black suits tried to comfort her.

Anthony found the office easily. An attractive blonde wearing too much makeup was talking on the phone when he entered. She glanced at Anthony, told the caller that she would get back to her and hung up.

"I'm here to see Mr. Hoyt," Anthony said when he had the woman's attention.

"What does this concern?"

Anthony showed the woman his shield. The secretary disappeared behind the only other door in the office. A moment later, she emerged and held it open.

The office had the same subdued decor as the rest of the funeral home. Junior was sitting behind his desk. He did not look pleased to see Anthony.

"What's this about?" Junior asked brusquely. "I'm pretty busy."

Anthony sat down across from the mortician without being asked.

"I have a few questions I want to ask you. I decided to wait until after the funeral. How did it go?"

Junior's aggression disappeared.

"We gave Dad the best we had. Our Royal Deluxe.'' Junior looked thoughtful. "It was so odd seeing him laid out. I see people every day like that, but when it's your own father ..."

Junior caught himself, embarrassed by his show of emotion. "You said you had some questions?"

"Just a few. I'll try to make this quick. I understand that you and your father had an argument at Hoyt Industries headquarters a few days before he was killed. What was that about?"

Junior's face registered fear and surprise.

"Who told you that?"

"I'm afraid I can't reveal my sources."

"I bet it was that turd Appling. Well, the argument was a big nothing. Just a disagreement about some changes I made at Heavenly Rest."

"There wasn't any more to it?"

"No," Junior answered nervously. "Why are you interested in an argument I had with my father, anyway? I thought the police believed that this was just a burglary by that guy Jaworski."

"Jablonski," Anthony corrected Junior. "Martin Jablonski. You didn't happen to know him, did you?"

"Why would I know him?"

Suddenly, Anthony's reason for asking the question dawned on Junior.

"What the fuck is going on here? You're not suggesting ..."

"I'm not suggesting anything."

"Well, I think you are. If you really want to find out who's behind my father's murder, investigate Ellen Crease."

"You made the same accusation against Senator Crease when you were at the mansion on the night your father was murdered. Why do you think your stepmother . . ."

"That cunt is not my mother ..."

"Senator Crease, then. Why do you think that she had something to do with your father's murder?"

Junior snorted with derision. "You're some detective. Don't tell me you don't know yet."

"Know about what?"

"Dad was going to dump her. She was on the way out. Then good-bye, sugar daddy."

"Why do you think that your father was planning to leave Senator Crease?"

"You don't know much about my father, if you're asking that question. His wives all had a shelf life of about seven years and he began cheating on them way before he dumped them. Ask my mom."

"So you're going on your father's history with women? You don't have any concrete evidence that your father was going to divorce Senator Crease?"

"No. I just know my father," he answered bitterly. "He was a user."

"You don't seem to have liked him much."

Junior seemed suddenly subdued. "My father walked out on my mother and he never hid how he felt about me. No matter what I did, it was never good enough. He told me to my face what a disappointing incompetent I was, more than once."

"He let you run this business."

"I'll give him that. But he made it pretty clear to me that I could never expect anything more from him."

"Like letting you run Hoyt Industries. That was something you must have wanted."

"Are you kidding? That company is worth millions," Junior answered with a combination of anger and wistfulness. "The bitch will get those shares now. My only regret is that my father won't get a chance to see her run his life's work into the ground."

[2]

Lou Anthony reached two conclusions as soon as he saw the young woman who was waiting in the reception area of the Portland Police Bureau Detective Division. The first was a no-brainer. The woman was gorgeous, with smoky emerald eyes and hair the shade of auburn that takes your breath away when the leaves change color in the fall.

Anthony's second conclusion was that the woman would rather be someplace else. Her slender hands fidgeted in her lap and she sat too straight, as if preparing for flight. Anthony walked over to her and she stood up quickly. The detective figured her for five four, but she seemed taller because she was wearing heels.

"My name is Lou Anthony. I'm the detective in charge of the Lamar Hoyt case. I understand you have something you wanted to tell me."

The young woman looked lost. She glanced around the reception area. Anthony guessed that she had something to say but was not sure that this was the place she should be saying it.

"Why don't you come back with me?" Anthony said, holding open the door that led to the wide-open spaces where the detectives worked on the thirteenth floor of the Justice Center. The woman walked through the door and Anthony directed her to an empty interrogation room, where they would have some privacy.

"Can I get you something? Coffee?" Anthony asked. The room was small and barely held a gray metal table and four chairs.

"Coffee, please. Black," the woman answered.

"I'll be right back," the detective told her with a reassuring smile. When he returned with two steaming cups of coffee, she was still wearing her raincoat. Her hands were in her lap and she was twisting in her seat so she could look around the tan-painted, concrete-block room.

"Are you cold?" Anthony asked. The woman looked puzzled. "I noticed you're still wearing your raincoat."

Fargo looked down, as if she had not realized that she still had on the coat. She took it off and Anthony draped it over a chair. Drops fell from the coat onto the metal legs and ran down them toward the floor. When she sat, she picked up her coffee, wrapping both hands around the Styrofoam cup for warmth.

"I'm sorry," Anthony apologized, "but I didn't get your full name."

The woman nervously ran her tongue across her lips before answering.

"I'm Karen. Karen Fargo." "Is that Miss or Mrs.?" "I'm not married."

"The receptionist said you wanted to speak to someone about Lamar Hoyt's murder. Like I said, it's my case, so you can tell me anything you have to say."

Fargo hesitated and Anthony waited. Then she said, "I read in the paper that a man broke in and shot Lamar. Is that what happened? I mean, are you certain that this man . . . that he killed Lamar?"

Anthony caught the use of Hoyt's first name but did not change his expression.

"We found the bullet that killed Mr. Hoyt and we gave it to the people at the police lab. They checked the gun we found next to the intruder. The bullet came from that gun, and the intruder's fingerprints were on the gun."

"Oh." Fargo looked down as if she were losing the courage that had brought her to police headquarters.

"Did you think that someone else may have shot Mr. Hoyt?" Anthony asked gently. "I . . . Well, I thought . . ." "Yes?"

When she answered, Anthony could see that Karen Fargo was very frightened. "It wasn't her? His wife? You're certain?"

"Why would you think that Ms. Crease shot her husband?"

Fargo looked down again. "I ... I shouldn't have come here," she said, and started to stand.

"Miss Fargo, what was your relationship to Mr.

Hoyt?"

Karen Fargo burst into tears and collapsed on her chair.

"I'm so sorry," she managed.

"Do you want some water?"

"No. I'll be okay."

Fargo took two deep breaths. "We loved each other. We ..." Fargo looked down. "We were going to be married."

"Mr. Hoyt was already married," Anthony said carefully.

Fargo dabbed at her tears again. "He was going to divorce her. He told me so. Lamar was going to wait until after the campaign. Then he was going to divorce her and marry me."

"How long did you have this relationship with Mr. Hoyt?"

"About a year. A little less. It started six months after I went to work for his company. I'm ... I was a secretary at Hoyt Industries."

"And you met Mr. Hoyt there?" Anthony prodded.

"At the company picnic. We just started talking. It didn't last for long. He asked me my name and how long I'd been there and if I was enjoying my job. I thought he was asking to be nice. I was sure he wouldn't even remember me. But he did. About a week later, he saw me in the cafeteria and he remembered my name. Then a week after that, he called me at my apartment and asked if he could come over. I didn't know what to say. I mean, he was the boss of the whole company. I couldn't very well say no, could I?"

She looked toward Anthony for approval and he gave it to her. She bit her lip and looked down at the tabletop.

"I was afraid. I ... I thought . . . Well, I knew he was married and I'm not naive. But Lamar was a perfect gentleman. He was always a perfect gentleman.

"After that first time, he just started visiting. Sometimes he'd take me out to eat. Usually when his wife was busy in Salem at the legislature. He didn't come on to me. It was just to talk. He said he liked being with me and how he felt he could just be at ease when he was with me. There's so much pressure for a businessman like Lamar, you know, and he felt that his wife was so busy with her own work that she didn't have time for him.''

"So you started sleeping with him?"

Fargo looked straight at Anthony.

"He was lonely. It was sad. He had all that money and his big house, but he was lonely."

"When did Mr. Hoyt start talking about marriage?"

"Right around when his wife said she was going to run for the U. S. Senate. That really upset Lamar, because it meant that she would be living in Washington, D. C., and he would never get to see her. He said that it would be like they weren't even married."

"Miss Fargo, Lamar Hoyt was murdered on January seventh. Why did you wait until now to come see me?"

Karen Fargo's eyes widened with fright. Then she looked away.

"I don't know," she answered. "It's just been eating at me. Lamar dying like that. It didn't seem right."

"Do you have anything concrete that would prove Ms. Crease was behind her husband's death?"

"No. Just that Lamar said he thought she might know about us."

"He did? When did he say that?"

"A few weeks before he was killed. He said she was acting funny around him and that we had to be careful. He wanted to know if anything unusual had happened. Strange phone calls or anyone watching or following me."

"And did any of that happen?"

"Not that I knew of."

Anthony tried to think of something else to ask Fargo, but he couldn't. He was not surprised to discover that Hoyt had a mistress. It fit his pattern. Ellen Crease was a little older than the first two wives when she'd become wife number three, but not much older. She was now around the age of the other exes when Hoyt cut his ties with them.

"Thank you for coming in to talk to me, Miss Fargo. I can see how hard it was for you."

Anthony thought Fargo looked relieved that he was not going to ask her any more questions. Anthony shook her hand and showed her out. Back at his desk, he swiveled his chair and looked out the wide windows. Rain again. Surprise, surprise. Some days he would give everything he owned for one sunny day.

Anthony felt sorry for Karen Fargo. He imagined that Hoyt's attentions must have seemed like something out of a fairy tale to a secretary who is suddenly transformed into the mistress of a millionaire. Was Hoyt really intending to dump Crease for Fargo or was he simply dangling the possibility of marriage in front of Fargo to keep her in his bed?

As Anthony went to get a fresh cup of coffee, he thought about a question Fargo had asked. Was he certain that Jablonski had killed Hoyt? Definitely, as far as the physical act went, but what about the blood spatter evidence and the money? And then there was the fact that all the security systems at the estate were off when Jablonski broke in. Crease had a reasonable explanation for that, but did he believe it? Crease had definitely benefited from Hoyt's death. She had skyrocketed in the polls, and there was the insurance and the will. These were all motives for murder. Now there was another motive for Crease to hire Jablonski.

Anthony let the thought hang in the air. He turned it around and examined it. He did not want to believe that Ellen Crease was a murderer. Anthony liked Crease.

He had no doubt that Hoyt's death had really hurt her. She had shown little emotion other than anger in her press conferences, but he had seen her right after the murder and he would swear that her grief was real. That actually weighed against her. If Ellen really loved Lamar, the knowledge that he had a lover and was ready to leave her would be a powerful motive to kill. Anthony decided that it was time to have another meeting with the district attorney.

Chapter 10.

[1]

Ryan Clark entered the pool house just as United States Senator Benjamin Gage began the final lap of his morning workout. Clark was six feet tall, darkly handsome and very fit. When he moved, he exuded a quiet confidence that warned off muggers and attracted the attention of beautiful women, who found the jagged scar on Clark's right cheek fascinating. They always asked about it and Clark had invented a story that seemed to satisfy their curiosity.

The only time Benjamin Gage had ever mentioned the scar was at the end of Clark's interview for a job at StarData, Gage's high-tech company. The conversation had taken place eight years earlier when Clark was twenty-nine and Gage was thirty-eight. Clark was wearing a beard at the time and the scar was barely visible. The formal part of the interview, which had been conducted in Gage's office at company headquarters, was over and the two men had adjourned to a smart restaurant in Northwest Portland for dinner. Their booth was in the back. Gage was a frequent customer. When he dined at the restaurant it was understood that the booth next to his would be kept vacant. Gage paid a premium for this that he could easily afford.

"Where did you get the scar?" Gage had asked. His own face was unmarked and ruggedly handsome.

Clark had hesitated before answering. That was when Gage knew that the scar had something to do with the five years on Clark's resume that read "Naval Intelligence--Administrative Responsibilities.'' When Gage had asked Clark to describe his administrative duties during the interview at the office, Clark had been creatively evasive and Gage had let it pass. He knew he would pursue the question at dinner.

Gage had leaned back against the wine-red leather. There was no one else around. Their corner of the restaurant was suitably dark. When he spoke, Gage looked directly into Clark's eyes. A few years later, during Gage's first successful run for Congress, this ability to look people in the eye had convinced voters of Gage's sincerity. Clark was not affected at all and he was able to keep eye contact long enough to make Gage blink first, something few people could accomplish.

"Look, Ryan, you're not interviewing to be a security guard. If I wanted a rent-a-cop, I'd call Pinkerton. I wouldn't conduct my job search through the chairman of the Senate Committee on Covert Operations. I need a man who can be counted on to do odds and ends that other people can't, or won't, do," Gage had said, proving that he could be as creatively evasive as Clark. "You want me to pay you six figures to do these odd jobs. I'm not going to pay that kind of money or trust someone with this type of work without knowing everything there is to know about the man I'm hiring. So tell me about the scar."

There had been no more hesitation. Gage liked that. It meant Clark could make important decisions quickly. He also liked the fact that Clark did not touch the scar or do anything else to indicate that he even thought about it.

"This is a knife wound I received in a Mideast country. The man who stabbed me was lying next to two other bodies. I thought he was dead. When I leaned down to secure his weapon, he stabbed me."

"Who were these men?"

"It was two men and a woman," Clark had answered without emotion. "They were terrorists who directed the suicide bombing of the American Embassy in Paris."

"I remember the bombing, but I don't remember reading that the people behind it were caught."

"You wouldn't have."

"What happened to the man who stabbed you?"

"Another member of my team shot him."

"I see. Tell me, Ryan, did this incident occur when you were a navy SEAL?"

"No."

"Was this one of your 'administrative responsibilities' in Naval Intelligence?"

"I'm afraid I can't answer that question, Mr. Gage."

"Not even if refusing to answer costs you the job?"

Clark had smiled. He knew he had the job. He knew Gage was trying to play with him. Gage had held his ground for a moment. Then he had returned the smile. Clark had been doing this and that for Gage ever since.

Moments after Clark was admitted to Gage's house, a servant placed a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice, a pot of steaming coffee and a plate with two croissants on a table that stood on the tiled deck of Gage's twenty-five-meter lap pool. The lap pool was four lanes wide and heated. Entering the humid air of the pool house caused beads of sweat to form on the brow and upper lip of Senator Gage's administrative assistant. Clark sat down at the table and watched Gage make his final turn. Then he lost interest and glanced out through the wall of glass on the east side of the pool house. On most days, Clark would have seen the apple orchards, lush farmlands and green foothills that stood between Gage s twelve-thousand-square-foot home of glass and cedar and the snow-covered slopes of Mount Hood. But today the landscape was gray with mist and there was little to see.

Gage boosted himself out of the pool. He was forty-six years old, but he was only slightly slower in the pool than he had been in his days as a competitive swimmer. Some of the hair that covered Gage's lanky body was starting to silver.

Gage toweled himself dry, then crossed the pool deck and sat opposite Clark.

"Have you seen the latest polls?" he asked Clark angrily.

"Crease has fifty-one percent, you've got forty-four and the rest are undecided," Clark answered calmly.

"That's right. Before the murder, we were dead even. Crease has gotten everyone's sympathy for losing a husband, and the press has made her out to be a female version of Rambo. I am sinking fast."

Gage took a bite of his croissant. Clark waited patiently.

"Did you listen to Crease's press conference in Bend?"

"I missed it."

"A reporter asked Crease how her husband's murder affected her. She stared him down for a second or so. Then she told him that she would be dead, too, if the gun control lobby had its way and that Hoyt would be alive if the tough crime measures she's advocating were law. After that, she looked into the camera for a few seconds more. Then she told all those voters that she couldn't bring her husband back, but she could dedicate the rest of her life to trying to prevent similar catastrophes from happening to them and to seeing that those who break the law regret it."

Gage smiled without humor and shook his head in wonder. "She is one heartless bitch and she has played Hoyt's murder like a violin virtuoso."

Clark allowed himself a rare smile.

"She may be playing a different tune by next week," he said.

"Oh?"

"Cedric Riker called me. He wanted to make certain that you knew before the press. He's going to the grand jury this morning. It looks like Fargo tipped the scales."

Gage grinned broadly.

"That's that, then," the senator said with satisfaction. "Once the indictment comes down, she's dead."

"That's how I see it."

"Good work, Ryan. Very good work."

[2]

Henry Orchard knocked loudly on Ellen Crease's hotel room door because he knew she would be sound asleep after an exhausting day of campaigning. Crease's campaign manager was a slovenly, overweight dynamo who was uninterested in anything but politics. Until minutes ago, Orchard had been a happy man. His candidate had exploded in the polls, breaking away from a dead heat to take a substantial lead over Benjamin Gage.

"Who is it?" Crease snapped. She sounded wideawake. Orchard was not surprised. Crease never seemed to tire and she needed little sleep. When she did sleep, she had a knack for waking up fully alert.

"It's Henry. Open up. Something's happened."

Orchard heard Crease cross the room. Her door opened and he walked in. Orchard was unshaven and there were dark shadows along his fleshy jowls. The shirt he had thrown on was dotted with stains and his socks did not match. Crease was wearing a quilted bathrobe over a floor-length flannel nightgown. Only the bedside light was on in the room, but Orchard did not turn on any other lights. He spotted an armchair near the window and dropped into it.

"I just talked to a source in the Multnomah County District Attorney s Office. Tomorrow Cedric Riker is going to ask a grand jury to indict you for murder."

"What?"

"He's looking for two counts. Lamar and the guy who shot him."

Crease looked stunned. "Is this the first you've heard about this?"

"Absolutely. I knew the investigation was still open, but I haven't heard a thing suggesting that you were under suspicion."

"What have they got? What's the evidence?"

"I don't know and neither does my informant. The first thing I asked him was what Riker's got, but only Riker and the investigating officer ..."

"Lou Anthony?"

"Right, Anthony. They're the only ones who know for now. What do you think they have?"

"There's nothing out there, Henry," Crease answered bitterly. "And this really hurts. I loved that old bastard."

Crease found a cigar in her purse and lit it. Then she paced across the room until she arrived at a writing desk. She pulled out the desk chair and sat on it, facing Orchard.

"This is unbelievable. An indictment will kill us." Crease thought for a moment.

"It's Gage," she said angrily. "It has to be. He contributed heavily to Riker's campaign and they go way back. Gage and Riker cooked up this whole thing to help Gage climb back in the polls/'

"I'd like to think that," Orchard replied cautiously, "but this isn't any old dirty trick. We're talking an indictment for murder. Riker would have to have some evidence to show the grand jury. And even if Riker's a prick, Lou Anthony isn't. He's an old friend of yours, isn't he?"

"I know Lou," Crease answered thoughtfully. She blew a plume of smoke toward Orchard. "You're right. Lou wouldn't phony up evidence."

Crease was quiet for a moment. Orchard watched her.

"What do you suggest I do, Henry?" she asked after a while.

"The same person who warned me about the grand jury is going to call me the minute he hears that Riker has an indictment. Riker probably has your campaign schedule. I know the way he thinks. He's going to get the local sheriff to arrest you, preferably at some campaign function for maximum embarrassment. He'll work out the timing so you have to spend a night in the local jail, then he'll have you flown back to Portland in handcuffs and parade you through the airport the way the Romans used to display conquered enemy chieftains."

Crease shook her head in disgust. "Riker is such a creep."

Orchard smiled. 4'Of course, we won't let him do any of this. As soon as I hear that Riker's got his indictment, you'll disappear. When the sheriff arrives with his warrant, you won't be here. I've arranged for a private plane to fly us back to Portland. It's on standby. And I have Mary Garrett on retainer. She tells me that she'll set up a time to surrender you when it's convenient for us and she'll schedule an immediate bail hearing."

"Garrett, huh."

"We can't fuck around with this, Ellen. I've seen Garrett in court. She's a great white shark. More important, the press loves her and you need the press as much as you need a good lawyer."

Chapter 11.

[1]

The decor of Mary Garrett's office was ultramodern and disorienting, as if the decorator had artistic dyslexia. Ellen Crease could not find a straight line anywhere. She did see many gleaming aluminum tubes, myriad sheets of odd-shaped glass and numerous objects whose function was not easily identifiable. The lawyer Henry Orchard had chosen for her fit into this setting quite nicely. Her wardrobe and jewelry were expensive, but the clothes and accessories did not look quite right on the birdlike, five-foot woman. It was as if Garrett were under a court-ordered punishment to wear them as a means of emphasizing her dense glasses and overbite. Had this been true, the joke would have been on the court, because Garrett knew she wasn't a beauty queen and didn't care. What she did care about was winning and that was something she did very well.

As soon as the introductions were made, Garrett asked Henry Orchard to leave the room so she and Ellen Crease would have privacy. Crease sat in a director's chair. Its arms and legs were polished metal tubing and the back and seat were black leather that sagged a little, so that the height of the chair's occupant decreased. Garrett sat behind a wide glass desk on a high-backed chair of black leather. The chair could be elevated by pushing a button so that the diminutive attorney was always taller than her clients.

"I think your politics suck," was the first thing Garrett said to Ellen Crease when the door closed on Henry Orchard. "In fact, I can t think of a single thing you stand for that I agree with. I thought I should put that on the table right off."

Garrett had caught Crease completely off guard. There was a smirk on Garrett's lips and arrogance in the way she held her body. She was clearly communicating her opinion that she did not need Ellen Crease as a client but that Crease could not do without her as her attorney. If anyone else had treated her this way, Crease would have been out the door, but Garrett's combativeness endeared her to Crease. Perhaps it was the fact that her arrogance was wrapped in such a small and unattractive package. Instead of flushing with anger, Crease felt herself breaking into a wide grin.

"Then let's not talk politics," Crease said.

Garrett grinned back at her. "Good. I've been told that you have a thick skin. I wanted to see for myself. You're going to need it before this thing plays out."

"What exactly do you take this thing' to be?"

"The Prince of Darkness's dumber brother has an indictment charging you with two counts of aggravated murder. Aggravated murder, as you know from your days as a cop, carries a possible death sentence.

"Before I go any further, I'm going to explain the attorney-client relationship to you. And I want you to listen very closely to what I say, because this is not just a civics lecture.

"Anything you tell me is confidential. That means that, by law, I'm forbidden to tell anyone what you confide to me. It also gives you the freedom to tell me the most outrageous lies, but you may pay a price if you aren't completely honest. The best liar I ever represented is sitting in prison because I turned down a plea offer that would have kept him out of jail as a result of a fairy tale that he concocted. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly. But I have no reason to lie to you."

"Then why did Riker go to the grand jury?"

"Isn't it obvious? Have you seen the latest polls? Cedric Riker is one of Ben Gage's tools. Gage was a major contributor to Riker's campaign and Riker owes him his job. Indicting me is a way of paying back Gage."

"I don't doubt that Riker is motivated by politics, but he can't go in front of a grand jury without evidence." Crease remembered that Orchard had said the same thing. "What does he have on you, Senator?"

"I don't know."

Garrett formed a steeple with her fingers and thought out loud.

"We know Jablonski fired the shot that killed your husband, so the only way you would be implicated in your husband's death would be if you hired him to do it."

"Ms. Garrett . . ."

"Call me Mary. We're going to be seeing a lot of each other."

"Mary, then. I didn't even know Martin Jablonski existed until my husband was murdered. Cedric Riker could not have any evidence implicating me in my husband's death, because I had nothing to do with it."

"Let's approach this problem from a different angle," Garrett said. "Was there something going on in your relationship with Lamar Hoyt that Riker could interpret as a motive for murder?"

Crease hesitated and Garrett concluded that her client was making a decision that would shape the direction of her representation. After a moment, Crease looked directly at her lawyer and said, "There's the money I'm going to inherit and the Hoyt Industries stock, which will make me the majority shareholder. But if I had hired Jablonski to kill Lamar, it would have been because Lamar was cheating on me with a woman named Karen Fargo."

' How long had you known?" Garrett asked softly.

"Since Lamar stopped having sex with me regularly."

"Did you confront your husband?"

"Yes. I wasn't surprised. In fact, I'd been expecting this for some time. I was Lamar's third wife and each marriage followed a pattern. Lamar would marry a woman in her twenties, then tire of her when she turned thirty or so. He began cheating on his first two wives when they were about my age and I expected him to cheat on me. The difference is that I'm not a docile airhead like the first two Mrs. Hoyts. I loved Lamar and I decided to break the cycle so I could keep our marriage intact."

"What did you do?"

"I made it crystal-clear to Lamar that I wasn't going to stand for his bullshit. He bought off his first two wives. I told Lamar that he'd be living on the street if he tried to pull this crap with me. Then I asked him point-blank if Miss Fargo could ring his bell the way I did. That got him thinking."

"And?"

"He stopped inventing excuses to avoid getting in the sack with me."

"So you think he broke it off with Fargo?"

"I'm not sure, but Lamar seemed like a loving husband again."

"Do you think Riker is aware of the affair?"

"I have no way of knowing."

Garrett made some notes on a pad. Crease waited patiently. When Garrett stopped writing, the lawyer said, "Why don't you tell me how you met Lamar?"

"I was a policewoman in Portland and there was a burglary at one of Lamar's mortuaries. I interviewed Lamar while I was conducting my investigation. He was charming in an old-boy sort of way. Very gallant. After the official part of the meeting, we drifted into small talk. Then I left.

"The next day, Lamar left me a message at work asking me to call him. I thought it had something to do with the case, but he wanted to take me out for dinner. I turned him down. I knew he was married. He was also a witness in a police investigation.

"About six months later, we arrested the perp who'd broken into the mortuary. He was an addict looking for something to sell for a rock of crack cocaine. I dropped by Lamar's office to let him know that the case was wrapped up and ended up at dinner with him."

Crease drifted off for a moment as if she were reliving the moment.

"Lamar was a charming bastard," Crease said with a small smile. "By the end of that dinner, I was hooked. See, I'd never had much. My father just took off about a year after I was born and my mom cleaned houses to put food on the table. I got through college on scholarships and waiting tables. The most money I'd ever seen was what I was pulling down as a cop. And here I was dining in elegance with a man whose pinky ring cost more than my mother made in a good year."

"Didn't the age difference bother you?"

"It's a funny thing. I never thought about the fact that he was almost thirty years older than me. He was a big bear, and so full of life. Lamar knew all the right things to say, too, and how to make you feel important. We spent most of that dinner talking about me. He had me believing that our backgrounds were pretty similar. You know, poor boy makes good, which was pretty much bullshit, since Lamar's daddy owned two funeral parlors when he died and Lamar's mother never worked a day in her life. Still, Lamar could make you think he was a sharecropper s son who rose from poverty.

"He also gave me a taste of how things could be for me if I continued to see him. There was the limousine, the waiters in tuxedos, his jewelry and the estate."

Crease spaced out again and Garrett could see her thinking about that good time with a man she loved and would never see again. It made Garrett feel sad. Then Crease laughed.

"What's so funny?" Garrett asked.

"I was just remembering Lamar. You know he looked like a redneck hick with his cowboy boots and string ties, but he was smooth. When he asked to see me again, I didn't hesitate."

"Did the subject of his marriage ever come up?"

"He was the one who raised it. I don't remember how he did it, but I left that first dinner with the impression that Lamar thought that the second Mrs. H. was as dull as a dishrag, while finding me intellectually stimulating." Crease stared direcdy into Garrett's eyes. "That part was one hundred percent accurate. Mary Lou is a dim bulb. I know why Lamar was attracted to her. I've seen pictures of her during the Miss Oregon swimsuit competition. But I'll be damned if I know what they talked about outside of bed. Lamar was very smart. Country smart. I challenged him in a way no other woman ever did."

"What happened after the first dinner?"

"There were more dinners. They were wonderful. We talked and talked. Around the third time we met, Lamar took me back to his estate. Mary Lou was in New York on a buying spree. I suspect he sent her there to get rid of her for the weekend. I was bowled over. I'd never been inside a house like that before. That was the evening I made up my min<4 to marry Lamar. And it wasn't just the house or his money. I want you to understand that. I wanted those things, but I wanted Lamar more. I was fascinated by his intelligence, his energy ..."

Crease trailed off, as if she had suddenly remembered that Lamar was dead and gone and all that energy and intelligence was now part of the void.

"Was that first evening at his estate the first time you slept together?"

"Yes."

"I get the impression that you two were good in bed."

"I thought so. That's why my antennae went up when Lamar started making excuses. At his age, he couldn't have sex as often as he used to, but he was pretty game whenever we made love."

"How did Lamar feel about your career?"

Crease's smile faded. "At first, my being a cop fascinated Lamar. I think it was a turn-on. But soon after we were married, he began complaining. Deep down, he wanted a traditional wife. Someone who looked good, had dinner waiting on the table when he got home and spread her legs whenever he was horny. He found out fast that I wasn't like that and never would be."

"What happened when he made this discovery?"

"There were a lot of hard words at first. Then I hit him straight on. I asked him if he wanted a partner or a doormat. I told him that we could be something together, but I made it clear that I wasn't going to lose my identity in order to make him happy. For a while, it was touch-and-go."

"But he came around?"

"He came around. And when I told him I wanted to quit the force to run for the legislature, he was my biggest supporter." A tear formed in Crease's eye and trailed down her cheek. Crease squared her shoulders. "He changed for me and he was always there for me. Damn, I miss him."

Garrett studied her new client. Crease's display of emotion seemed genuine. That did not mean that Crease was not a murderer, but it made Garrett, who was a cynic at heart, reserve judgment. She looked at her watch.

"We're due in court soon, so this is enough for now. Henry told you about my fee?"

Crease nodded. "I'll have it to you by tomorrow."

"Good. My secretary will give you my retainer agreement.

"Now, I know you've been a cop, so you have a good idea of what is going to happen as a result of these charges, but I want to spell it out for you. Your life is about to become a living hell. There's no other way to put it and I don't believe in sugarcoating the facts for my clients."

Garrett paused to judge how Crease was taking what she was dishing out. The senator was tense but alert.

"Bail will be the big problem. There is no mandatory bail in a murder case, but Riker is going to have to convince the judge that his case is very strong if he wants you held with no bail. If he succeeds, you'll be locked up with the type of people you used to arrest. I don't have to tell you what that will be like. The good news is that I think we've got a real shot at keeping you out of the pokey. And I mean completely out.

"That doesn't mean your life will be normal. The vultures of the press will be circling you twenty-four hours a day, and they won't have the slightest interest in your political views. You'll also find out who your real friends are."

Garrett leaned forward. She reminded Crease of the gargoyles she'd seen perched on the Notre Dame Cathedral the first time Lamar had flown her to Paris.

"I have some advice. Most clients aren't tough enough to follow it, but I think you are. Whatever has happened has happened. No matter how much you would like to you cannot change the past, so do not dwell on the murder of your husband. That's my job. That's why you hire an attorney. So you can go on with your life and let someone else do the worrying. I'll be doing enough for the two of us."

Garrett looked at her watch again and stood up.

"Stanley Sax, the presiding judge, is a friend of mine and he's got integrity. I talked to him this morning. He's set a special arraignment for ten-thirty. Your case will be the only one on the docket and we'll be taking up bail at the same time you're arraigned. That's unusual in a murder case, but this case is unusual because of the impact your incarceration would have on the primary. You'll plead not guilty. The press is going to be there in full force, so sing it out loud and clear. Then go back to campaigning and let me do my job."

[2]

Richard Quinn was studying a brochure from the Bay Reef Resort on St. Jerome when his secretary told him that Stanley Sax was on the way over from presiding court. The brochure showed a white sand beach, azure waters and clear blue skies. The hotel was new and he and Laura had a room with an ocean view. There was a casino, a huge pool, a four-star restaurant, water sports, tennis and more. Lately, Laura seemed excited about their week in paradise.

Quinn set down the brochure when Sax rapped his knuckles on the doorjamb.

"Come in, Stan," Quinn said cheerfully. "What's up?"

Sax did not return Quinn's smile. He dropped into a chair on the other side of Quinn's desk.

"I'm here to make your day."

"Oh?" Quinn answered cautiously.

"I know you're not scheduled to move into the homicide rotation until next month, but something has come up and I need you. Ced Riker has indicted Ellen Crease for the murder of her husband."

"What!"

"That was my reaction, too. He went to the grand jury yesterday. Crease is represented by Mary Garrett. Garrett called me to request an expedited bail hearing and I agreed because of the impact on the campaign if Crease has to sit in jail for a week while we schedule a hearing in the normal way. I'd like you to handle the case."

Quinn saw the brochure from St. Jerome in his peripheral vision. He owed Stanley Sax, but Quinn was counting on the week alone with Laura as his best chance to jump-start their ailing marriage.

"I can't do it, Stan. I've agreed to speak at a seminar in two weeks on St. Jerome. Remember? Laura's coming with me."

"That won't be a problem. I've scheduled the arraignment and the bail hearing for ten-thirty today. You take care of the hearing and I'll handle any emergencies while you're away."

"I don't know, Stan. This is a pretty big case for me to take on for my first homicide."

"Let me tell you something, Dick, every death penalty case is too big for any of us to handle. Only God should be deciding who should live and who should die, but we're stuck with the job.

"Now, it's true that you'll be under a spotlight in Crease's case that would not be shining on you if the defendant were some junkie lowlife. If you make a mistake, everyone in the country will know about it. But that won't make a difference to you. Want to know why?"

Quinn just stared at him.

"I know you, Dick. I know how conscientious you are and I know that you punish yourself for your mistakes much harder than anyone else can. That's why I want you on this one. You won't let yourself screw up. You'll make certain that both sides get a fair trial."

Quinn's bailiff pressed a button under his desk in the courtroom and a light on the desk in Quinn's chambers flashed bright red to let him know that both sides in State v. Crease were in the courtroom. Quinn slipped into his judicial robes and opened the door that led directly to the bench. As he stepped through it, the bailiff rapped the gavel, commanded everyone in the packed courtroom to rise and announced that the Honorable Richard Quinn would be presiding over the docket. Quinn noticed several members of the press in attendance and saw the lights of the TV cameras that were shooting through the glass in the courtroom doors.

"You can be seated," Quinn said as soon as he had taken the bench. Cedric Riker remained standing, but the deputy district attorneys who accompanied him took seats on either side of the prosecutor. One deputy was a black woman and the other was an Asian male. They looked young and nervous.

Riker looked anything but nervous. He was dressed to kill and hungry for every second of publicity that this case would bring him. Quinn was willing to bet that Riker had held a news conference in the corridor. Speaking with the marble and polished wood of the courtroom as a backdrop lent authority to Riker's words and made him look good to all the voters who listened to his sound bites on the eleven o'clock news.

Seated at the other counsel table were Mary Garrett and her client. Garrett was wearing black with a pearl necklace. None of Garrett's associates were at the counsel table, though Quinn suspected that there were one or two in the audience in case of an emergency. There were no lawbooks in front of Garrett, either. Quinn had heard that Garrett had an encyclopedic knowledge of the law and was known to give accurate volume and page cites to cases in the law reports from memory. She had already delivered a concise and expertly written brief on the bail issue to Quinn's chambers. Quinn was impressed by Garrett's ability to pump out a brief of such high quality on such short notice.

Ellen Crease sat quietly beside Garrett. She was dressed in a gray business suit and a cream-colored silk blouse. Aside from a pair of small diamond earrings, she wore no jewelry. Quinn's eyes rested on the defendant for a moment. It was hard to avoid looking at her. Crease was not classically beautiful, but even dressed in a conservative business suit, she exuded an animal sexuality that attracted and held a man's attention.

"Mr. Riker and Ms. Garrett, Judge Sax has assigned State v. Crease to me. However, I want to make counsel aware that I will be speaking at a legal seminar in St. Jerome in two weeks. That means that I will not be in Portland for approximately one week. During that time, if there are any emergencies, Judge Sax will take care of them. Is that a problem for counsel?"

Both lawyers answered in the negative.

"Good. Now, Mr. Riker, as I understand it, we're to hold an arraignment and bail hearing this morning."

"Well, Your Honor, we do intend to arraign the defendant on two charges of aggravated murder, but the People object to holding a bail hearing on such short notice in a case this serious."

Garrett was on her feet before Riker had finished his sentence.

"Your Honor, Senator Crease is in the middle of a hotly contested campaign for the Republican nomination for the United States Senate. Her opponent is a political ally of Mr. Riker, who has done enough damage to her on behalf of his political cohort by bringing this spurious indictment during the campaign. Keeping the senator in jail for a week or more would cause her untold damage. She has had to cancel an entire day of campaigning already because of these absurd charges."

"I resent the implication that this indictment was politically motivated," Riker told Quinn self-righteously. "I did not charge the defendant with murder. This murder indictment was handed down by the people of this state through the agency of a duly impaneled grand jury."

"Nonsense, Judge," Garrett countered with a snort. "A grand jury is a tool of the prosecutor's office. Everyone knows that. Mr. Riker would fire any of his deputies who couldn't get an indictment charging the Pope with JFK's assassination."

The hearing was getting out of hand, so Quinn said sharply, "Ms. Garrett and Mr. Riker, I want this sniping to stop right now. This may be a long and contentious case, but it is going to be conducted with civility by all parties. Am I understood?"

"Of course, Your Honor," Riker assured the judge in a fawning manner intended to ingratiate him with Quinn. Garrett merely nodded.

"Good. Now, I assume you've been given a copy of Ms. Garrett's brief on the bail question, Mr. Riker."

"Well, I was, but so soon before court that I haven't had a chance to read it."

"Tell me why you believe holding Senator Crease in jail for a week or so during the height of this campaign would be in the interests of justice," Quinn commanded the prosecutor.

Garrett held back a smile. Having Quinn address her client as "Senator Crease" instead of "the defendant" was a small but important victory.

"The defendant is charged with two counts of aggravated murder," Riker blustered, and it was immediately obvious to Quinn that the prosecutor had not done any legal research on the issue of the proper timing for a bail hearing in a murder case. "These charges are serious. The defendant is a flight risk and a potential danger to others."

"The question of whether the senator is a flight risk or a danger to others is relevant to the amount of bail to be imposed, if I decide to grant bail. It is not relevant to the question of my authority to hold a bail hearing at the same time that I arraign Senator Crease. Do you have any other arguments you wish to make?"

"No, Your Honor."

"Then I must tell you that I find the arguments in Ms. Garrett's brief persuasive and I hold that the interests of justice require me to hold Senator Crease's bail hearing this morning.

"The question of whether bail will be granted is another matter. I have no opinion on it at this moment and I will hear counsel on the question as soon as Senator Crease is arraigned."

Quinn held the arraignment quickly. He read the charges to Crease and advised her of her rights. Then he asked her how she wanted to plead to the accusation that she had hired Martin Jablonski to murder her husband, then murdered Jablonski because he was a witness to her involvement.

Crease had been standing during the arraignment. When Quinn asked her how she wished to plead, she squared her shoulders and looked Quinn in the eye. Despite the tense atmosphere in the courtroom, Crease appeared to be confident and free of fear. When she spoke, her voice was firm and filled with resolve.

"I loved my husband very much, Your Honor. I would never hurt him. I don't know what is behind these allegations, but they are false and I am not guilty."

For a moment, the fire in Crease's eyes trapped Quinn. Then he pulled himself away and pretended to scan some papers that lay in front of him.

"Very well,'' Quinn said. "We'll record your plea of not guilty to both charges. Now to the issue of bail. Mr. Riker, I believe that you have the burden of convincing me that there is clear and convincing evidence of Senator Crease's guilt before I can hold her without any bail. How do you wish to do that?"

"This hearing has caught me by surprise, Your Honor. I'm not prepared to proceed with witnesses at this time."

"When could you have your witnesses here, Mr. Riker?"

Garrett was certain that Riker was not going to give her a chance to rip into his witnesses prior to trial, and she smiled when he said, "Well, I don't know. Perhaps I could give the Court the police reports in lieu of presenting live testimony?"

"That would deprive me of the opportunity to cross-examine, Your Honor," Garrett objected.

"I agree," Quinn said. "Mr. Riker, unless you want to call witnesses and subject them to examination by Ms. Garrett, I'm going to have to hold that bail is appropriate in this case and move on to the question of the proper amount of bail."

Riker looked very uncomfortable. He shifted from one foot to another. One of the deputies tried to whisper something to him, but Riker waved him off.

"You've put me in an impossible position, Your Honor," Riker complained.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Mr. Riker, but you're going to have to tell me if you want to put on witnesses or argue the amount of bail."

"Let's proceed with arguments on the amount of bail," Riker said reluctantly. "The defendant is a wealthy woman who can fly to any country, including those without extradition treaties with the United States. She even owns her own airplane. This makes her a flight risk. Plus, she is a former policewoman. She knows how to use a weapon. She could be a danger to our witnesses."

Garrett stood up and addressed Quinn.

"Your Honor, until Mr. Hoyt's will is probated Ms. Crease has limited access to his wealth. She earns a salary as a state senator, but that hardly makes her rich. Furthermore, Senator Crease is in the middle of a political campaign. That, in addition to her complete innocence, is why we are fighting so hard for bail."

"Would the senator surrender her passport as a condition of my setting bail?"

"Of course."

Quinn reviewed the personal history that was part of Garrett's brief. He came to a decision.

"Instead of setting bail, I am going to release Senator Crease on her own recognizance ..."

"But, Your Honor . . . ," Riker sputtered.

"Please do not interrupt me, Mr. Riker. I will give you an opportunity to make a record when I am finished."

Quinn dictated a series of conditions for Crease's release, then gave Riker an opportunity to vent his spleen. When the district attorney was finished ranting and raving, Quinn set a date for the state and defense to file motions and set a tentative date for hearing the pretrial motions and for the trial. When there was no further business to conduct, the bailiff rapped the gavel, everyone in the courtroom stood and Quinn returned to his chambers.

As soon as Quinn left the bench, Mary Garrett broke into a huge grin. "So far so good, Ellen."

"The judge seemed to be very fair."

"That he did."

"Will he be our trial judge?"

Garrett nodded. "This is my first time in front of Quinn. He's a surprise choice for the homicide rotation. Before he came on the bench he was a contract law specialist in the Price, Winward firm. But I like what I've seen so far. He seems bright and he's decisive."

"Do you think he'll work with us? He seemed to dislike Riker."

Garrett stopped smiling. "Don't get any ideas about Quinn being some sort of pro-defense, knee-jerk liberal because of what happened today. My book on him is that he is one hundred percent ethical and that he decides cases on the law. That means that he'll rule for Riker whether he likes him or not, if he thinks he is right. And he can be really tough. He just sent Judge Gideon to prison when everyone in the courthouse was putting money on probation.

"On the other hand, we won't have to worry about having a judge who is part of the prosecution. The bottom line is that we have the best kind of judge. He's smart, he's ethical and he'll give us a fair trial. Now it's up to me to make certain that the trial ends favorably for you."

[3]

Quinn found Laura hunched over the computer in their home office on the second floor. She was dressed in a flannel nightgown with the granny glasses she used for reading perched on her nose.

"Still working?'1 Quinn said.

"It's that condo deal in Maui," Laura answered without looking away from the monitor. "There are all sorts of problems and, of course, our client had to wait until the last possible minute to let us know."

"Ellen Crease was indicted for Lamar Hoyt's murder. Stan Sax assigned me the case."

Laura looked up and swiveled away from the screen.

"That'll keep you busy," Laura said.

"Didn't you handle some litigation involving Hoyt?"

"BestCo. We sued his ass. I deposed him."

"What was he like? I met him a few times but I never had a real conversation with him."

Laura thought about the question. She swiveled her chair and pushed her glasses back on her nose.

"Hoyt was a real cowboy. All ready to shoot it out at high noon with us, as if the lawsuit were some kind of nineteenth-century gunfight. He impressed me as the type of guy who thinks he can conquer every situation with the force of his personality." Laura thought for a moment, then added, "I guess he had a sort of primal charm, but he was also a real chauvinist. He couldn't keep his eyes off my breasts."

"Didn't he make his money in mortuaries?"

"Yeah, but that was only at the beginning. He diversified early on. Hoyt had his fingers in a lot of pies and," Laura added with a smirk, "up a few dresses."

"He was cheating on Senator Crease?"

"That's the rumor."

"I wonder if she knew."

"If / knew, she probably had a clue."

"I'm surprised she stood for it. From what I hear, that's not her style."

"Some women will put up with a lot for twenty million dollars. She was number three. Maybe she didn't want to become the ex-number three."

Laura paused. "Is this going to affect our trip to St. Jerome?"

"No way. Stan is going to cover for me when we're gone. I told him I wouldn't handle the case if I had to give up the trip. I'm really looking forward to spending some uninterrupted time with you."

"Me, too," Laura told Quinn. He bent down and kissed her and she returned the kiss.

"That's enough smooching," Laura said. "If I don't get back to work, I'll be up all night."

Quinn smiled and gave Laura a peck on the cheek. She seemed excited about the trip to St. Jerome. Maybe she realized how hard she had been working and how nice it would be to take some time off. Quinn hoped that spending time with him had something to do with Laura's good mood. When he walked downstairs to fix himself a snack, he was grinning.