by Nancy Bush
Hank Sainer stood in front of the wide windows of his rented condo on Portland’s south waterfront and watched a storm move in from the west and pour buckets of precipitation onto the Willamette River, which slowly rolled by thirty floors below. The day had disintegrated into a dark, sodden mess that matched his mood as his mind was on his political career and all the choices he’d made that had brought him to this place, this precipice, this end.
He’d struggled for years to hide his past and had been surprisingly successful. He’d even loved and lost a beautiful, politically connected woman whose father had rained money down on him and his endeavors even though the man was a staunch Republican and Hank was a Democrat. A middle-of-the-road Democrat, though, so a man Geri’s dad could accept. He’d expected Hank to marry Geri and start a family, but that wasn’t in Hank’s plan. Hank had loved Geri and had wanted to marry her, but things had gone sideways.
Geri, though Hank had believed she was past the baby-having time, as his daughter Dana called it, wanted to have a child of her own. Hank reminded her that he was a grandfather—Dana had two daughters of her own, Sage and Sara—and that he had no interest in starting another family at this late date. His refusal had not been received well and Geri ended their relationship soon afterward. Sometime later her daddy’s money and goodwill dried up as well.
He’d been more heartbroken than he’d expected to be. And in those hours, weeks, and months of self-reflection that followed, he’d come to some hard truths. His political career, the one baby he’d truly cared for and tended to, to the exclusion of almost everything else—and that included his own daughter—was stagnating. Partly because he’d lost some enthusiasm himself; partly because a deep secret, a career-ending mistake, was boring its way out from the locked place he’d kept it safe in for so long.
It was just one of those things that was bound to finally happen. And though Hank had feared it for years—the public exposure, the scandal—he had come to terms with things and honestly didn’t give a damn any longer.
So he’d decided to take action. Face the dragon head-on and slay it, if he could.
But then . . . Annette was murdered.
Now Hank closed his eyes, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. He rubbed a hand over his chin, willing away the sense of guilt. He hadn’t known she would kill her. He hadn’t known she was that desperate.
He turned from the window and walked jerkily across the expanse of gray carpet, unable to stand his own company. The place was decorated in the midcentury modern style, Geri’s taste, all whites and grays and chrome with a wet bar behind a pair of sliding doors that would have made the Rat Pack proud. Hank didn’t notice. If he was committing political suicide, he was going to do it now, before things got worse.
Plucking his cell phone from his pocket, he punched in a number that was not on his call list, surprised when the call was picked up.
“I know you killed her,” he said. Then tacked on the lie, “I was there. Watching. You just didn’t know it.”
The voice squawked in fury on the other end.
“I don’t care,” he said. “I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of hiding. It’s over.” For a half moment he thought about delivering a further ultimatum, but the message was already understood.
When the voice blasted on, he simply snapped the cell phone shut.
He would wait until Monday. One more long weekend. He would talk to Coby Rendell and tell her what he knew.
And then, as the story broke, he would make himself watch that bitch of a reporter, Pauline Kirby, as she both shredded his political life and opened the way to a whole new one for him. He’d gone on one miserable date with Pauline, a nadir in his dating career, though she’d had some interest in him. His demise would surely warm the cockles of her cold, shrunken heart, but it also would let him rise from the ashes like a phoenix.
Just before six Danner phoned Coby and his call went directly to voice mail. Figured. He found cell phones slightly amusing, as the person he was calling so seldom seemed to pick up. Screening? Maybe. Or just plain who the hell cares to answer.
He thought of a ton of things he could say: why he’d been so hard to reach; how frustrated he was that he couldn’t work on Annette’s homicide; how much he looked forward to seeing her. But when her voice mail beeped, he asked simply, “Do you know Dooley’s?” then gave her the address of the downtown bar frequented by the men in blue. “Can you meet me there tomorrow, after work? I’ve been buried, but I want to see you. About six? Let me know. Thanks.”
It wasn’t much of a message, really, considering there was this thrumming thing going on between them, an engine starting to rev. He was purposely holding back after being at her place the other night. He’d wanted so much and been a bit alarmed at his own desire. There had been a lot of really going nowhere nights these last few years, and he didn’t want any of that with Coby. Not that it ever had been, but he wasn’t taking any chances that his own jaded ways might jump up and bite him in the ass.
Still . . . the thought of seeing her brought a quickening to his pulse.
With an effort, he corralled his galloping thoughts. There was much to do. Starting with Len, the bartender at Rick’s.
Dooley’s . . . tomorrow after work. . . .
Coby saved the message, then clicked off voice mail. “Tomorrow,” she repeated, wishing it were today.
She stopped by a deli on the drive home and picked up two different types of salad, salsa fiesta and spinach, and a baguette loaf. At home she settled in with a full plate, a glass of white wine, and the television remote. Turning on the news, she ate her dinner and watched the flickering images on the screen, but her mind wouldn’t engage.
Checking the time, she put down her half-finished plate and picked up her cell phone, scrolling through the numbers until she found one for McKenna. She reached McKenna’s voice mail, which gave her the times and place of McKenna’s next appearances on Friday and Saturday nights at the Joker in southeast Portland. When the beep came, Coby was trying to write down the address and momentarily lost focus. “Uh . . . McKenna, it’s Coby. I was just wanting to talk about everything. I’ll try to come to one of your shows this weekend. Maybe we can talk after?” She was about to say more but that damn voice jumped in asking if her message was all right or if she wanted to redo it. Why? she asked herself in a fury. Why? That damn voice invariably happened whenever she didn’t want it to. Cyber voice from hell, but she figured this time at least, she’d gotten the message across.
Glancing down at the notes she’d made for McKenna’s comedy engagement, she decided to make an appearance at the club after she met with Danner.
Maybe he would even go with her.
Danner stepped into Rick’s about six thirty and looked for Len, who turned out to be a tall, sandy-haired twentysomething with wire-rimmed glasses and a restless way of watching the crowd in the bar that spoke of experience with rabble-rousers.
Danner showed Len his ID and then asked if they could talk. The bar was in transition between the happy-hour crowd and the diners. Len said, “Ten minutes,” and jerked his head to a side door that led to inner rooms. Danner ordered a beer, placed it on the end of the glossy wood bar, put his foot on the brass rail, and gave the room a once-over as well. The crowd was mostly fortysomething, at least for the women. The men were older, as a rule. The inebriation level was climbing and Danner could see why Len was vigilant; any one of the drinkers could tip over the edge from mildly drunk to wasted without some kind of watchdog.
After ten minutes and an exodus of businessmen, Danner watched a couple of nice-looking women go through the very door Len had pointed out to him. When Len gave him the high sign, he followed him through to a short hallway with several offices in the back. The two women were standing outside the door of the farthest office, smiling and talking to someone unseen. A man. Whose deep baritone sounded impatient, though the women didn’t seem to care.
Len went into the first office and shut t
he door behind Danner. “You’re here about the guy whose wife and daughter got killed last month. I got a call from Jimmy. You stopped by earlier.”
“Has he been here before?” Danner asked, pulling out a picture of Jarvis Lloyd.
Len gave it a long, long look. “Yeah, maybe. You could ask one of Rick’s girls.”
“Rick’s girls?”
He handed the picture back to Danner and gave him a sideways glance. “You saw a couple of ’em down the hall.”
“Rick . . . like the owner Rick?”
He nodded. “Rick with a silent ‘p’ in front.”
“Ahh.”
“Yeah, he’s my boss, but he kinda sees himself as a local Hugh Hefner. Has an apartment where they all stay. They hang around the bar a lot, but they’re looking for something else.”
“They might know Mr. Lloyd?” Danner lifted the photo.
“There was one chick . . .” Len frowned. “Didn’t really fit in, but she got Rick’s crank going for a while. Tough bitch, though. You could ask him.”
“Would the other girls remember her?” Danner asked, sensing by the way Len talked that an interview with the owner might not get him the information he sought.
“Talk to Katrina. She knows everything about everything.”
With that he opened the door and yelled down the hall, “Cat! Got a minute?”
One of the women straightened from her slouch outside Rick’s door and came Len’s way. As she approached, Danner raised his estimate of her age about five years. She looked good, but in that overly worn way that women on the prowl for a long time sometimes acquired. “Yeah?” she asked, sizing Danner up with interest.
“I’m Detective Lockwood with the Portland PD. We’re looking for information on this man, Jarvis Lloyd.” He handed her the picture, which she reluctantly accepted.
“What about him?”
“Jesus, Cat,” Len said, annoyed. “He’s the home invasion guy. The one whose wife and kid got killed!”
“Why should I know him? Fuck you, Len.”
“What about that friend of Rick’s, the one who talked like she wanted to screw on the top of the bar? The cold super-bitch?”
“Sheila? She left, thank God. I hated her. I think she stole from Rick, though he doesn’t want to believe it.”
“Where can I find her?” Danner asked, his interest quickening.
“Hell if I know. Check America’s Most Wanted. That woman was looking for a big score. Thought she had it with Rick, but he’s got more sense than that.” She sniffed and pushed back a tress of super-held brunette hair, which scarcely moved at her touch. “She mighta hooked up with this guy,” she said, glancing toward the photo. “He looks like a patsy.”
“Is Sheila her real name?” Danner asked.
“Honey, nobody goes by their real name.” She gave him a pitying glance. “So, what do you make a year, Detective? Fifty? Sheila was looking for the five hundred thousand and up crowd. Such a shame.”
She sauntered off, and Danner wasn’t sure whether she meant him or something else.
“Can I hook you up with our police artist?” Danner asked Len as they walked back into the bar. “I’d like a drawing of this Sheila.”
“Tomorrow?” Len asked.
“Call me.” He handed him a card and left Rick’s and headed to the hospital where Jarvis Lloyd had recovered consciousness but had not yet been released, being held on a seventy-two-hour watch after his suicide attempt.
But Danner got nothing more out of Lloyd. The man had gone from crying to staring sightlessly at the ceiling, and he was deaf to Danner’s request for more information about Sheila.
By the time he was on his way home it was after ten. He wanted to stop by Coby’s but knew he needed some sleep or he would just pass out on her couch. Wishing the Lloyd case would magically resolve itself and go away so he could spend some time on the Deneuve homicide, he drove to his apartment, dropped into bed, and fell into a coma-like sleep until morning.
Chapter 18
Friday night at Dooley’s was crowded with young people surging into the city for the start of the weekend. They took the seats from the usual cops who frequented the place and when Coby walked through the door, she had to squeeze between two hard male bodies who barely noticed her as they were checking out their look in the mirror above the bar while exiting.
Inside, the place was semidark with lines of glowing green shamrock-shaped lights surrounding the mirrored bar. She saw Danner seated at a bar stool at the far end, holding on to another seat while several young women tried to edge their way in. One had a small section of butt cheek on the saved stool’s leather top, but the woman obligingly moved on with a sniff and hair flounce when she recognized Coby as the seat’s rightful owner.
“Hi,” Coby said, sliding onto the stool. “Crowded.”
“Wanna go someplace quieter?”
She shook her head, then told him about her plan to take in McKenna’s comedy act later on. “You’re welcome to join me, if you’d like. I thought we could catch some food here.”
“Bar food,” he said.
“I love bar food. Fried goodness.”
He smiled. His dark hair was wet from a quick spate of rain that had pounded Coby’s umbrella, and she had to force herself not to brush a couple of sparkling drops from his suede jacket before they melted into the fabric. She was leery of intimacy of any kind. She wanted him to take the lead.
As if the Fates were against them, Danner’s cell phone started buzzing, a low sound meant to keep from drawing too much attention. “Lockwood,” he answered, then listened for several moments, his face giving nothing away.
“What?” Coby asked when he hung up.
For an answer he shook his head. “Damn,” he said softly. “Gonna have to take a rain check.”
“Work?”
“We’ve been putting the pressure on this guy whose wife and daughter were killed.” He quickly filled her in on Jarvis Lloyd’s suicide attempt. “Looks like he’s finally cracking, and I need to be there.”
“A rain check,” Coby said.
“If Metzger was around I could rely on her, but it’s Celek.” He was talking to himself and not liking what he was saying. His blue eyes suddenly captured hers. “Tomorrow night? Tentatively, depending how this goes? My brother’s band’s playing at a nightclub in Laurelton.”
“The Cellar. Right.”
The bartender reached them at that moment. “What can I get for you?” he asked over the noise.
Danner placed two twenties on the bar. “Some bar food. Whatever she wants.” Then he turned to Coby and gave her a quick but warm kiss right on the lips in front of the whole room. No one paid the least bit of attention, but Coby was slightly breathless as she plopped back down on the stool. “Fries,” she told the waiting bartender, who didn’t bat an eyelash. “And do you have some of those sliders? And a glass of red wine?”
Forty-five minutes later Coby stepped out of Dooley’s into a rain-washed street, streetlights glimmering in zigzagged streaks in the standing water. But the precipitation itself had stopped and she stepped cautiously through a shimmer of liquid on the way to her car. Traffic was heavy and she had to wait at a light, headlights white circles that half blinded her as she crossed hurriedly in front of a pile of cars to where her own vehicle waited.
She eased into traffic and felt that clunk again under the right front tire. Gotta get that looked at, she told herself again. She hadn’t noticed it since the trip to the beach. One of those problems that didn’t completely immobilize her, which made it easy to put off fixing it.
She had time to kill, so she drove slowly toward the comedy club, which was on the east side of the Willamette River while she was on the west. Crossing the Steel Bridge, she meandered through areas of Portland she normally never saw. The downtown area stood on the west bank of the river, the Pearl District/Nob Hill/Alphabet District stretching west; her condo was located on Eighteenth, eighteen blocks west of the Willamette.
The Joker was located in a converted warehouse about five blocks off Burnside Street. It had a parking lot that wrapped around the building on all three sides, which kept the street, dotted with parking meters, void of cars other than those passing on the roadway. There were a couple of scraggly-looking pines in a narrow bed near the front door; the club’s answer to landscaping. A marquis read: WANNA LAUGH? GET YOUR A** IN HERE! Coby wondered if the neighbors had forced the PG version. Judging by the renovated older homes and maple-lined streets stretching eastward, she would give that a yes.
She paid a cover fee and walked inside. Like many of the cabaret-type clubs she’d been to, it smelled faintly of beer, popcorn, and cooking oil. The patterned carpet was beaten down by a deluge of tromping feet and when she got to her assigned seat, a theater chair that was meant for singles or those who didn’t want the café tables and wooden chairs on the main floor, she noticed the stitching was ripping and soon the cushioned seat would be detached from the sides. She sat down carefully, wondering when she’d become so . . . old. The place felt like a college hangout, even though the patrons were all ages, and she couldn’t help feeling like an uninvited guest.
The first act was a guy who could juggle anything . . . badly. His schtick was making his ineptitude funny, which it almost was, but not quite. But McKenna came on next, wearing a backward baseball cap and a smirk. She told stories from her own life that were downright funny; Coby found herself grinning and laughing. If McKenna had been unclear about her sexual orientation in high school, she’d gotten over that now. A lot of her humor came from being gay and dealing with straights. Someone had once told Coby that comedy was derived from truth and pain: a true story that was painful was the source of some of the best material. McKenna made Coby a believer with her uncomfortable tales that were filled with humor.
