Gone, But Not Forgotten

by Phillip Margolin

  “I never wanted to do that, Rick. You’re the one who closed me out.”

  “When I left, I said some things about how I felt about you that I didn’t mean.”

  “When you’re certain how you feel, tell me, Rick. But I can’t promise how I’m going to feel. You hurt me very badly.”

  “I know,” he said quietly. “Look, this merger I’m working on, it’s got me tied up night and day, but I think everything will be under control in a month. I’ve got some time off in December and Kathy has Christmas vacation, so she wouldn’t miss school. I thought maybe the three of us could go somewhere where we could be by ourselves.”

  Betsy’s breath caught in her chest. She didn’t know what to say.

  Rick stood up. “I know I sprang this on you without any warning. You don’t have to answer me right away. We have time. Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

  “I will.”

  “Good. And thanks for letting me see Kathy.”

  “You’re her father,” Betsy said.

  Betsy opened the office door before Rick could say anything else. Nora Sloane was standing next to Ann’s desk.

  “Do you have a minute?” Sloane asked.

  “Rick was just leaving,” Betsy answered.

  Sloane stared at Rick for a second.

  “Are you Mr. Tannenbaum?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Nora Sloane,” Betsy said. “She’s working on an article about women litigators for Pacific West magazine.”

  “Your wife has been a wonderful help.”

  Rick smiled politely. “I’ll pick up Kathy around six and take her to dinner,” he told Betsy. “Don’t forget to pack her school things. Nice meeting you, Ms. Sloane.”

  “Wait,” Betsy said. “I don’t have the address and phone number at your new place.”

  Rick gave them to her and Betsy wrote them down. Then Rick left.

  “The reason I dropped in is to see if we can schedule some time to discuss the Hammermill case and your strategy in the Darius case,” Sloane said.

  “I hope this won’t upset your plans, Nora, but I’m getting off Martin’s case.”

  “Why?”

  “Personal reasons I can’t discuss with you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s a conflict. Ethical problems are involved. I can’t put it any other way without violating the attorney-client privilege.”

  Nora rubbed her forehead. She looked distracted.

  “I’m sorry if this affects the article,” Betsy said. “There isn’t anything I can do about what happened.”

  “That’s all right,” Nora replied, quickly regaining her composure. “The Darius case isn’t essential to the article.”

  Betsy opened her appointment book. “As soon as I’m officially off Martin’s case, I’ll have plenty of free time. Why don’t we tentatively schedule a meeting for lunch next Wednesday?”

  “That sounds fine. See you then.”

  The door closed and Betsy looked at the work on her desk. They were cases she’d had to put off because of Martin Darius. Betsy pulled the top case off a pile, but she did not open the file. She thought about Rick. He seemed different. Less self-assured. If he wanted to come back, would she let him?

  The buzzer rang. Reggie Stewart was calling from Hunter’s Point.

  “How’s tricks?” Stewart asked.

  “Not so good, Reg. I’m off the case.”

  “Did Darius fire you?”

  “No, it’s the other way around.”

  “Why?”

  “I found out Darius did kill the women in Hunter’s Point.”

  “How?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Jesus, Betsy, you can trust me.”

  “I know I can, but I’m not going to explain this, so don’t press me.”

  “Well, I’m a little concerned. There’s a possibility Darius is being framed. It turns out Samantha Reardon is a very weird lady. I talked to Simon Reardon, her ex. He’s a neurosurgeon and she was one of his surgical nurses. He became infatuated with her and the next thing he knows, they’re married and he’s on the verge of bankruptcy. She’s shoplifting like crazy, running up his credit cards, and his lawyers are rushing around covering up the lady’s indiscretions. Then Darius kidnaps and tortures her and she really goes over the edge. I met with Dr. Flint, her shrink at St. Jude’s. That’s where she was committed after she tried to kill Reardon.”

  “What?”

  “She knifed him and a friend he brought home. They subdued her and she spent the next few years in a padded cell insisting that the man who kidnapped her was still at large and she was the victim of a conspiracy.”

  “She was, Reg. The authorities covered up for Darius. I can’t fill you in on the details, but Samantha may not have been completely crazy.”

  “She may have been right about the cover-up and insane. Dr. Flint thought she was mad as a hatter. Reardon was an abused child. Her father ran away when she was two and her mother was a hopeless drunk. She learned morals from a street gang she ran with. She has a juvenile record for robbery and assault. That was a stabbing, too. She was smart enough to get through high school without doing any real work. Her I.Q.’s been tested at 146, which is a hell of a lot higher than mine, but her school performance was lousy.

  “There was an early marriage to Max Felix, a manager at a department store where she was working. I called him and he tells the same story Dr. Reardon does. She must be a great lay. Her first husband says he couldn’t see up from down while she was cleaning out his bank account and charging him into debt. The marriage only lasted a year.

  “Next stop was a community college, then nursing school, then the good doctor. Dr. Flint says Reardon had a personality disorder—borderline personality—to begin with, and the stress from the torture and captivity made her psychotic. She was obsessed with avenging herself on her captor.”

  Betsy felt a queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach.

  “Did you ask Dr. Flint if she would be capable of subjecting other women to the kind of torture she endured just to frame Darius.”

  “According to Dr. Flint, it wouldn’t bother her one bit to slice up those ladies, if that’s what it took to accomplish her plan.”

  “It’s so hard to believe, Reg. A woman doing those things to other women.”

  “It makes sense, though, Betsy. Think about it. Oberhurst interviews Reardon and shows her a photo of Darius; Reardon recognizes Darius and follows Oberhurst to Portland; she reads about the hassle Darius is having at the construction site and figures it’s the ideal place to bury Oberhurst after she kills him; later, she adds the other bodies.”

  “I don’t know, Reg. It still makes more sense for Darius to have killed them.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Try to get a picture of her. There weren’t any in the newspaper accounts.”

  “I’m way ahead of you. I’m going to look at her college yearbook. She went to the State University in Hunter’s Point, so that should be easy.”

  Stewart hung up, leaving Betsy very confused. Moments before, she was certain Darius had killed the Portland women. But if Reggie’s suspicions were right, Darius was being framed, and everyone was being manipulated by a very intelligent and dangerous woman.

  Three

  Randy Highsmith and Ross Barrow took I-84 down the Columbia River Gorge until they came to the turnoff for the scenic highway. Stark cliffs rose up on either side of the wide river. Waterfalls could occasionally be seen through breaks in the trees. The view was breathtaking, but Barrow was too busy trying to see through the slashing rain to enjoy it. The gusting winds that funneled down the gorge pushed the unmarked car sideways. Barrow fought the wheel and kept the car from skidding as he took the exit.

  They were in country. National forest, farmland. The trees provided some protection from the rain, but Barrow still had to lean forward and squint to catch the occasional street signs.
r />   “There,” Randy Highsmith shouted, pointing to a mailbox with the address stuck on in cheap, iridescent numerals. Barrow turned the car sharply and the back wheels slid sideways on the gravel. The house Samuel Oberhurst was renting was supposed to be a quarter mile up this unpaved road. The rental agent had described it as a bungalow, but it was only a step up from a shack. Except for the privacy the surrounding countryside provided, Highsmith could not see a thing to recommend it. The house was square with a peaked roof. It may once have been painted red, but the weather had turned it rust-colored. A beat-up Pontiac was parked out front. No one had cut the grass in weeks. Cinder blocks served as front steps. There were two empty beer cans next to the steps and an empty pack of cigarettes wedged into a crack between two of the blocks.

  Barrow pulled the car as close to the front door as he could and Highsmith jumped out, ducking his head, as if that would somehow protect him from the rain. He pounded on the door, waited, then pounded again.

  “I’m going around the side,” he yelled to Barrow. The detective cut the motor and followed him. The curtains on the front windows were closed. Highsmith and Barrow walked through the wet grass on the east side of the house and discovered that there were no windows on that side and the shades were down in the windows at the back. Barrow peered through a small window on the west side.

  “Looks like a fucking sty in there,” Barrow said.

  “No one’s home, that’s for sure.”

  “What about the car?”

  Highsmith shrugged. “Let’s try the front door.”

  Water dripped off Highsmith’s face and he could barely see through his glasses. The front door was not locked. Barrow let them in. Highsmith took off his glasses and dried the lenses with his handkerchief. Barrow turned on a light.

  “Jesus!”

  Highsmith put on his glasses. A television stood on a low stand under the front window. Across from it was a second-hand sofa. The upholstery was torn in spots, stuffing was coming out and it sagged. A full suit of men’s clothes had been thrown on the sofa. Highsmith saw a jacket, underwear, a pair of pants. Next to the TV, fitted into the corner, was an old gray, stand-up filing cabinet. All the drawers were out and papers had been thrown around the room. Highsmith was suddenly distracted from the chaos in the front room. He sniffed the air.

  “What’s that smell?”

  Barrow did not answer. He was concentrating on a heavy chair that lay on its side in the center of the room. As he edged around it, he could see bloodstains on the chair and the ground around it. Scraps of heavy tape that could have been used to secure a man’s legs stuck out from the sides of the chair legs. On a table a few feet from the chair was a kitchen knife encrusted with blood.

  “How’s your stomach?” Barrow asked. “We’ve got a crime scene here and I don’t want your breakfast all over it.”

  “I’ve been in crime scenes before, Ross. I was at the pit, remember?”

  “I guess you were. Well, take a gander at this.”

  There was a plastic soup bowl next to the knife. Highsmith looked in it and turned green. The soup bowl contained three severed fingers.

  “John Doe,” Barrow said softly.

  Highsmith walked around the chair so he could see the seat. It was covered with blood. He felt queasy. In addition to the three fingers, Doe’s genitals had been missing and Randy did not want to be the one who found them.

  “I’m not certain who has jurisdiction here,” Barrow said as he walked around the chair. “Call the state police.”

  Highsmith nodded. He looked for a phone. There was none in the front room. There were two rooms in the back of the house. One was a bathroom. Highsmith opened the other slowly, afraid of what he might find. There was barely enough room in the bedroom for a single bed, a dresser and an end table. The phone was on the end table.

  “Hey, Ross, look at this.”

  Barrow came into the room. Highsmith pointed to an answering machine that was connected to the phone. A red light was flashing, indicating there were messages on the machine. Highsmith skimmed through a few messages before stopping at one.

  “Mr. Oberhurst, this is Betsy Tannenbaum. This is the third time I’ve called and I’d appreciate it if you would call me at my office. The number is 555-1763. It’s urgent that you contact me. I have a release from Lisa Darius giving you permission to discuss her case. Please call anytime. I have an answering service that can reach me at home, if you call after hours or on a weekend.”

  The machine beeped. Highsmith and Barrow looked at each other.

  “Oberhurst is hired by Lisa Darius, then he’s tortured and his body ends up in the pit at Darius’s construction site,” Barrow said.

  “Why did Lisa Darius hire him?”

  Barrow looked through the door at the open filing cabinet. “I wonder if that was what Darius was looking for—his wife’s file.”

  “Hold it, Ross. We don’t know Darius did this.”

  “Randy, say Darius found out what was in his wife’s file and it was something that could hurt him. I mean, if he did this, tortured Oberhurst, cut off his fingers and dick, it was because that file had something in it that was dynamite. Maybe something that could prove Darius is the rose killer.”

  “What are you getting … Oh, shit. Lisa Darius. He couldn’t get at her before, because he’s been in jail since we discovered the bodies.”

  Barrow grabbed the phone and started dialing.

  Four

  The Oregon Supreme Court sits in Salem, the state capital, fifty miles south of Portland. The hour commute was the only thing Victor Ryder disliked about being a Supreme Court justice. After all the years of seven-day work weeks and sixteen-hour days he had spent in private practice, the more leisurely pace of work at the court was a relief.

  Justice Ryder was a widower who lived alone behind a high evergreen hedge in a three-story, brown and white Tudor house in the Portland Heights section of the West Hills. The view of Portland and Mount Hood from the brick patio in the rear of the house was spectacular.

  Ryder unlocked the front door and called out for Lisa. The heat was on in the house. So were the lights. He heard voices coming from the living room. He called out to Lisa again, but she did not answer. The voices he heard came from the television, but no one was watching it. Ryder switched off the set.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Ryder called out again. There was still no answer. If Lisa had gone out, why was the set on? He headed down the hall to the kitchen. Lisa knew her father always snacked as soon as he got in the door, so she left notes on the refrigerator. The refrigerator door was covered with recipes and cartoons, affixed to the smooth surface with magnets, but there was no note. There were two coffee cups on the kitchen table, and the remains of a piece of coffee cake on a cake dish.

  “Must have gone off with a friend,” Ryder said to himself, but he was still bothered by the TV. He cut a piece of coffee cake and took a bite, then he walked to Lisa’s room. There was nothing out of place, nothing that aroused his suspicion. Still, Justice Ryder felt very uneasy. He was about to go to his room to change when he heard the doorbell. Two men were huddled under an umbrella on the front steps.

  “Justice Ryder? I’m Randy Highsmith with the Multnomah County district attorney’s office. This is Detective Ross Barrow, Portland Police. Is your daughter in?”

  “Is this about Martin?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lisa’s been staying with me, but she’s not here now.”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “At breakfast. Why?”

  “We have some questions we wanted to ask her. Do you know where she can be reached?”

  “I’m afraid not. She didn’t leave a note and I just got in.”

  “Could she be with a friend?” Highsmith asked casually, so Ryder would not see his concern.

  “I really don’t know.”

  Ryder remembered the TV and frowned.

  “Is something wrong, sir?” Barrow aske
d, keeping his tone neutral.

  “No. Not really. It’s just that there were two coffee cups on the kitchen table, so I thought she was entertaining a friend. They’d been eating a piece of coffee cake, too. But the TV was on.”

  “I don’t understand,” Barrow said.

  “It was on when I came home. I couldn’t figure out why she’d leave it running if she was talking with a friend in the kitchen or leaving the house.”

  “Is it normal for her to go out without leaving a note?” Barrow asked.

  “She hasn’t lived at home for some time and she’s been staying in the house at night since Martin got out. But she knows I worry about her.”

  “Is there something you’re not telling us, sir?”

  Justice Ryder hesitated.

  “Lisa’s been very frightened since Martin was released. She talked about leaving the state until he’s back behind bars.”

  “Wouldn’t she have told you where she was going?”

  “I assume so.” Ryder paused, as if he just remembered something. “Martin called Lisa the night he was released. He said there was nowhere in Portland she would be safe. Maybe he called again and she panicked.”

  “Was he threatening her?” Barrow asked.

  “I thought so, but Lisa wasn’t certain. It was an odd conversation. I only heard Lisa’s end of it and what she told me he said.”

  Highsmith handed the judge his business card. “Please ask Mrs. Darius to give me a ring the minute you hear from her. It’s important.”

  “Certainly.”

  Barrow and Highsmith shook hands with the judge and left.

  “I don’t like this,” Barrow said as soon as the front door closed. “It’s too much like the other crime scenes. Especially the TV. She’d have turned that off if she was going out with a friend.”

  “There was no note or rose.”

  “Yeah, but Darius isn’t stupid. If he’s got his wife, he’s not going to broadcast the fact. He could have changed his m.o. to put us off the track. Any suggestions?”