Gone, But Not Forgotten

by Phillip Margolin

  “W-A-T-E-R-S?”

  “Right. He was shot resisting. I think there were six dead women. One of them was named Patricia Cross. Then there was Melody Lake, a young girl, and Sandra Lake, her mother. I don’t remember the names of the others.”

  “If this happened ten years ago, the file is in storage. I’ll get on it and let you know when I find it. What’s your address and phone number?”

  Page was telling them to Lenzer when Randy Highsmith, the chief criminal deputy, opened the door for William Tobias, the chief of police, and Ross Barrow, the detective in charge of the black rose case. Page motioned them into seats, then hung up.

  “We may have a break in the case of the missing women,” Page said. He started relating Gordon’s version of the Hunter’s Point case.

  “Before the body was found at Waters’s house, the chief suspect was Peter Lake, a husband of one of the victims,” Page concluded. “There was enough circumstantial evidence to raise the possibility that Lake framed Waters. Shortly after the case was officially closed, Lake disappeared.

  “Two days ago, Gordon received an anonymous note with the words ‘Women in Portland, Oregon are “Gone, But Not Forgotten.” ’ The first letter in each word was capitalized, just the way our boy does it. Enclosed was a photograph of Martin Darius leaving a motel room. Martin Darius may be Peter Lake. Gordon thinks he’s our killer.”

  “I know Martin Darius,” Tobias said incredulously.

  “Everyone knows Darius,” Page said, “but how much do we know about him?”

  Page pushed the photograph of Darius and the newspaper with Lake’s picture across the desk. Barrow, Tobias and Highsmith huddled over them.

  “Boy,” Highsmith said, shaking his head.

  “I don’t know, Al,” Tobias said. “The news photo isn’t that clear.”

  “Gordon left me Lake’s prints for comparison. Can you run them, Ross?”

  Barrow nodded and took the print card from Page.

  “I’m having a hard time buying this,” Tobias said. “I’d like to talk to your detective.”

  “Let me call her in. I’d like you to hear her tell the story,” Page said, not revealing his doubts, because he wanted them to have an open mind when they heard Gordon.

  Page dialed the number for the Lakeview Motel. He asked to be connected with Gordon’s room, then leaned back while the desk clerk rang it.

  “She’s not? Well, this is very important. Do you know when she left? I see. Okay, tell her to call Alan Page as soon as she gets back.”

  Page left his number and hung up. “She checked in last night around one, but she’s not in now. It’s possible she’s having breakfast.”

  “What do you want to do, Al?” Highsmith asked.

  “I’d like a twenty-four-hour surveillance on Darius, in case Gordon is right.”

  “I can do that,” Barrow said.

  “Make sure you use good people, Ross. I don’t want Darius to suspect we’re watching him.

  “Randy, run a background check on Darius. I want his life story as quickly as you can get it.”

  Highsmith nodded.

  “As soon as Gordon calls, I’ll get back to you.”

  Highsmith led Tobias and Barrow out of the office and closed the door. Page thought of dialing the Lakeview again, but it was too soon after the first call. He swiveled toward the window. It was pouring.

  Why hadn’t he spotted the flaws in Gordon’s story last night? Was it Gordon? She seemed barely in control, on edge, as if electrical charges were coursing through her. He could not take his eyes off her when she talked. It was not a physical attraction. Something else drew him to her. Her passion, her desperation. Now that she was out of sight, he could think more clearly. When she was near him, she created a disturbance in the field, like the lightning flashing over the river.

  Two

  Betsy scanned the restaurant for single women as she followed the hostess between a row of tables. She noticed a tall, athletic woman wearing a bright yellow blouse and a navy blue suit seated in a booth against the wall. As Betsy drew near, the woman stood up.

  “You must be Nora Sloane,” Betsy said as they shook hands. Sloane’s complexion was pale. So were her blue eyes. She wore her chestnut-colored hair short. Betsy noticed a few gray streaks, but she guessed they were about the same age.

  “Thank you for meeting me, Mrs. Tannenbaum.”

  “It’s Betsy and you’re a good saleswoman. When you called this morning and mentioned a free lunch, you hooked me.”

  Sloane laughed. “I’m glad you’re this easy, because a free lunch is about all you’re going to get out of me. I’m writing this article on spec. I got the idea when I covered your suit against the anti-abortion protestors for the Arizona Republic.”

  “You’re from Phoenix?”

  “New York, originally. My husband got a job in Phoenix. We separated a year after we moved. I was never crazy about Arizona, especially with my ex living there, and I fell in love with Portland while I was covering your case. So, a month ago I quit my job and moved. I’m living on savings and looking for a job and I decided now was as good a time as any to write this article. I ran the idea by Gloria Douglas, an editor at Pacific West magazine, and she’s definitely interested. But she wants to see a draft of the article before she commits.”

  “What exactly will the article cover?”

  “Women litigators. And I want to use you and your cases as the centerpiece.”

  “I hope you’re not going to make too much of me.”

  “Hey, don’t get bashful on me,” Sloane said with a laugh. “Until recently, women attorneys were relegated to the probate department or handled divorces. Stuff that was acceptable as ‘woman’s work.’ My whole point is that you’re at the vanguard of a new generation of women who are trying murder cases and getting million-dollar verdicts in civil cases. Areas that have traditionally been male-dominated.”

  “It sounds interesting.”

  “I’m glad you think so, because people want to read about you. You’re really the hook for the article.”

  “What will I have to do?”

  “Not much. Mostly, it will be talking to me about Hammermill and your other cases. On occasion, I may want to tag along when you go to court.”

  “That sounds okay. Actually, I think talking through my cases might help me put them in perspective. I was so close to what was happening when they were going on.”

  The waiter arrived. Sloane ordered a Caesar salad and a glass of white wine. Betsy ordered yellowfin tuna on pasta, but passed on the wine.

  “What did you want to do today?” Betsy asked, as soon as the waiter left.

  “I thought we’d go over some background material. I read the piece in Time, but I felt it was superficial. It didn’t tell me what made you the way you are today. For instance, were you a leader in high school?”

  Betsy laughed. “God, no. I was so shy. A real gawk.”

  Sloane smiled. “I can understand that. You were tall, right? I had the same problem.”

  “I towered over everyone. In elementary school, I walked around with my eyes down and my shoulders hunched, wishing I could disappear. In junior high, it got worse, because I had these Coke-bottle glasses and braces. I looked like Frankenstein.”

  “When did you start to feel self-confident?”

  “I don’t know if I ever feel that way. I mean, I know I do a good job, but I always worry I’m not doing enough. But I guess it was my senior year in high school that I started believing in myself. I was near the top of my class, the braces were gone, my folks got me contacts and boys started noticing me. By the time I graduated Berkeley I was much more outgoing.”

  “You met your husband in law school, didn’t you?”

  Betsy nodded. “We’re separated, now.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  Betsy shrugged. “I really don’t want to talk about my personal life. Will that be necessary?”

  “Not if you don’t want
to. I’m not writing this for the Enquirer.”

  “Okay, because I don’t want to discuss Rick.”

  “I understand you one hundred percent. I went through the same thing in Phoenix. I know how difficult it can be. So, let’s move on to something else.”

  The waiter arrived with their food and Sloane asked Betsy some more questions about her childhood while they ate.

  “You didn’t go into private practice right out of law school, did you?” Sloane asked after the waiter cleared their plates.

  “No.”

  “Why not? You’ve done so well at it.”

  “That’s been all luck,” Betsy answered, blushing slightly. “I never thought of going out on my own, back then. My law school grades were all right, but not good enough for a big firm. I worked for the attorney general doing environmental law for four years. I liked the job, but I quit when I became pregnant with Kathy.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Six.”

  “How did you get back into law?”

  “I was bored sitting home when Kathy started preschool. Rick and I talked it over and we decided I would practice out of our home, so I would be there for Kathy. Margaret McKinnon, a friend of mine from law school, let me use her conference room to meet clients. I didn’t have much of a caseload. A few court-appointed misdemeanors, some simple divorces. Just enough to keep me busy.

  “Then Margaret offered me a windowless office about the size of a broom closet, rent free, in exchange for twenty hours of free legal work each month. I agonized over that, but Rick said it was okay. He thought it would be good for me to get out of the house, as long as I kept my caseload low enough to pick up Kathy at day care and stay home with her if she got sick. You know, still be a mom. Anyway, it worked out fine and I started picking up some felonies and a few contested divorces that paid better.”

  “The Peterson case was your big break, right?”

  “Yeah. One day I was sitting around without much to do and the clerk who assigns court-appointed cases asked me if I’d represent Grace Peterson. I didn’t know much about the battered woman’s syndrome, but I remembered seeing Dr. Lenore Walker on a TV talk show. She’s the expert in this area. The court authorized the money and Lenore came out from Denver and evaluated Grace. It was pretty horrible, what her husband did. I’d led a sheltered life, I guess. No one where I grew up did things like that.”

  “No one you knew about.”

  Betsy nodded sadly. “No one I knew about. Anyway, the case attracted a lot of publicity. We had the support of some women’s groups and the press was behind us. After the acquittal, my business really picked up. Then Andrea hired me because of the verdict in Grace’s case.”

  The waiter arrived with their coffee. Sloane looked at her watch. “You said you had a one-thirty appointment, didn’t you?”

  Betsy glanced at her own watch. “Is it one-ten already? I really got wrapped up in this.”

  “Good. I was hoping you’d be as excited about the project as I am.”

  “I am. Why don’t you call me and we can talk again soon?”

  “Great. I’ll do that. And thanks for taking the time. I really appreciate it.”

  Three

  Randy Highsmith shook the rain off his umbrella and laid it on the floor under the dashboard as Alan Page drove out of the parking garage. The umbrella hadn’t helped much in the gusting rain and Highsmith was cold and wet.

  Highsmith was slightly overweight, studious-looking, a staunch conservative and the best prosecutor in the office, Page included. While earning a law degree from Georgetown he’d fallen in love with Patty Archer, a congressional aide. He then fell in love with Portland when he traveled there to meet Patty’s family. When her congressman decided not to run for reelection, the newlyweds moved west, where Patty opened a political consulting firm and Randy was snapped up by the office of the Multnomah County district attorney.

  “Tell me about Darius,” Page said as they got on the freeway.

  “He moved to Portland eight years ago. He had money to start with and borrowed on his assets. Darius made his name, and increased his fortune, by gambling on the revitalization of downtown Portland. His first big success was the Couch Street Boutique. He bought a block of dilapidated buildings for a song, converted them to an indoor mall, then changed the area surrounding the boutique into the trendiest section in Portland by leasing renovated buildings to upscale shops and restaurants at low rents. As business increased, so did the rents. The upper floors of a lot of the buildings were converted to condos. That’s been his pattern. Buy up all the buildings in a slum area, set up a core attraction, then build around it. Recently he’s branched out into suburban malls, apartment complexes, and so on.

  “Two years ago, Darius married Lisa Ryder, the daughter of Oregon Supreme Court justice Victor Ryder. Ryder’s old firm, Parish, Marquette and Reeves, handles his legal work. I talked to a few friends over there in confidence. Darius is brilliant and unscrupulous. Half the firm’s energy is spent keeping him honest. The other half is spent defending lawsuits when they fail.”

  “What’s ‘unscrupulous’ mean? Law violations, ethics, what?”

  “Nothing illegal. But he has his own set of rules and a total disregard for the feelings of others. For instance, earlier this year he bought up a street of historically significant houses over in the Northwest, so he could tear them down and build town houses. There were several citizen groups up in arms. They got a temporary injunction and were trying to get the houses landmark status. A smart young lawyer at Parish, Marquette convinced the judge to drop the injunction. Darius moved bulldozers in at night and leveled the block before anyone knew what was going on.”

  “A guy like that must have done something illegal.”

  “The closest I’ve got is a rumor that he’s friendly with Manuel Ochoa, a Mexican businessman who the D.E.A. thinks is laundering money for a South American drug cartel. Ochoa may be lending Darius money for a big project downstate that was risky enough to scare off some of the banks.”

  “What about his past?” Page asked as they drove into the parking lot of the Lakeview Motel.

  “Doesn’t have one, which makes sense if he’s Lake.”

  “Did you check newspaper stories, profiles?”

  “I did better than that. I spoke to the Oregonian’s top business reporter. Darius does not give interviews about his private life. For all anyone knows, he was born eight years ago.”

  Page pulled into a parking spot in front of the motel office. The dashboard clock read five twenty-six.

  “Stay here. I’ll see if Gordon’s back.”

  “Okay. But there’s one other thing you should know.” Page waited with the car door half-open. “We’ve got a link between our missing women and Darius.”

  Page closed the door. Highsmith smiled.

  “I saved the best for last. Tom Reiser, the husband of Wendy Reiser, works for Parish, Marquette. He’s the lawyer who convinced the judge to drop the injunction. Last Christmas, the Reisers attended a party at the Darius estate. This summer, they were invited to a bash to celebrate the opening of a mall, two weeks before the disappearances started. Reiser has had numerous business dealings with Darius.

  “Larry Farrar’s accounting firm has Darius Construction for a client. He and Laura Farrar were at the party for the mall opening too. He’s done a lot of work for Darius.

  “Finally, there’s Victoria Miller. Her husband, Russell, works for Brand, Gates and Valcroft. That’s the advertising firm that represents Darius Construction. Russell was just put in charge of the account. They’ve been on Darius’s yacht and to his house. They were also at the mall opening party.”

  “That’s unbelievable. Look, I want a list of the women at that party. We’ve got to alert Bill Tobias and Barrow.”

  “I already have. They’re putting a second team on Darius.”

  “Good work. Gordon could be the key to wrapping this up.”

  Highsmith watched Page
duck into the manager’s office. A chubby man in a plaid shirt was standing behind the counter. Page showed the manager his i.d. and asked him a question. Highsmith saw the manager shake his head. Page said something else. The manager disappeared into a back room and reappeared in a raincoat. He grabbed a key from a hook on the wall. Page followed the manager outside and gestured to Highsmith.

  Highsmith slammed the car door and raced under the protection afforded by the second-floor landing. Gordon’s room was around the side of the motel on the ground floor. He arrived just as the manager knocked on the door and called out Gordon’s name. There was no answer. A window faced into the parking lot. The green drapes were closed. There was a “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging from the doorknob.

  “Miss Gordon,” the manager called again. They waited a minute and he shrugged. “She hasn’t been in all day, as far as I know.”

  “Okay,” Page said, “let us in.”

  The manager opened the door with his key and stood aside. The room was dark, but someone had left the bathroom light on and it cast a pale glow over the empty motel room. Page flipped the light switch and looked around the room. The bed was undisturbed. Gordon’s tan valise lay open on a baggage stand next to the dresser. Page walked into the bathroom. A toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste and makeup were set out on the bathroom counter. Page pulled back the shower curtain. A bottle of shampoo rested on a ledge. Page stepped out of the bathroom.

  “She unpacked in here. There’s a shampoo bottle in the bathtub. It’s not a motel sample. Looks like she was planning to take a shower.”

  “Someone interrupted her,” Highsmith said, pointing at a half-opened dresser drawer. Some of Gordon’s clothes lay in it, while others remained in the valise.

  “She had a briefcase with her when we talked at my place. Do you see it?”

  The two men searched the room, but they did not find the briefcase.

  “Look at this,” Highsmith said. He was standing next to the night table. Page looked at a notepad with the motel logo that was next to the phone.

  “Looks like directions. An address.”