"So," Alex said finally, "it's probably safe to say that Miranda meeting Marcus in Crescent City was not an accident. The two had plans to escape together. Those idiots who tried to take you out were probably the ones who caught up with Marcus and killed him. And left Miranda alive for some reason."
"Maybe they didn't even know she was there."
"What do you mean?"
Gage put down his empty glass and folded his hands under his chin. "It's something I thought of before, and seems more likely now. If they didn't even know she was on that boat, then they would have no reason to look for her."
"Hiding while he was murdered," Alex said, "then having to survive that terrible storm—it would explain a lot about her current mental state."
"Yes. There's another possibility, though. Miranda killed Marcus, and Troy and his pal never caught up with Marcus's boat at all. She just got unlucky because she ended up in the middle of a storm. They just came back to kill Troy because they didn't want anything pointing to them at all."
"You really think she's capable of it?"
"I don't know anymore. I'm just wondering if this whole thing about running from someone was completely made up. It all came from her—the thing she said on the beach, seeing that man at the outlet mall."
"She would have to be an incredibly good actress. I mean, why not just run? She's had plenty of opportunities before Quinn arrested her."
"Has she?" Gage said. "Maybe she thought she had a little more time to get herself together. If Marcus's body never washed up on the beach, Quinn probably wouldn't have charged her. There's also the possibility that she really does have amnesia and she's the one who killed Marcus."
"Seems far-fetched," Alex said.
"My friend, this whole thing is far-fetched. I feel like a fly who's buzzed his way onto a circus train and is just waiting for the train to get to its next stop."
"Well, what are you going to do?"
Gage, feeling the drowsiness brought on by the long day, his aching body, and the bourbon really starting to take hold, rose to his feet. "I'm going home. If I don't do it now, I'm going to fall asleep in his chair."
"And tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, I guess I'll go see Miranda with her newfound lawyer and try to get her to fire him. Maybe see if I can rattle her a bit with what I know and shake something loose. Then Omar. He's still around, right?"
"Yes. I heard he tried to see Miranda yesterday too and was also rebuffed."
"Good," Gage said. "As long as she's in that jail, she's safe."
"Or we're safe from her?"
"Could be. Could be Omar really is just a distraught brother. Maybe she'll confess and this will all be over tomorrow."
"And maybe she'll strangle D.D. Conroy while she's at it."
"Don't get your hopes up," Gage said. "By the way, I don't really appreciate you playing Dr. Freud with the women who enter my life. I'd like to at least pretend I have a clean slate before all the skeletons get dragged out of my closet."
Alex smiled. "Tatyana."
"Tatyana, yes."
"I do admit to a tiny bit of meddling."
"You don't say?"
"Just a tiny bit. I had to in this case."
"Oh, you did? Why is that?"
Alex stood. The wan light accentuated every crease and crevice in his face. Most of the time, Gage forgot that the two of them were nearly a generation apart, but now Alex looked even older than his years, like some kind of wise oracle who possessed all the secrets of the human soul. He patted Gage on the shoulder.
"My friend," he said, "this one's a keeper. I'm just trying to prevent you from screwing it up until you figure that out for yourself."
Chapter 16
D.D. Conroy was waiting for Gage on the concrete bench outside the Barnacle Bluffs Police Department. It was just before nine o'clock on Tuesday morning, still early enough that the morning mist clinging to the tops of the Douglas firs hadn't yet cleared, but true to form, Conroy already had a metal flask in his hand. Seeing Gage approaching, he lifted it in a salute.
"Never too early for whiskey, is it?" Gage said.
Conroy chuckled, a good-old-boy chuckle that was slow and good-natured. He was everything Gage had anticipated and more, like a character out of a Tennessee Williams play. His white doubled-breasted suit barely contained his enormous girth. His thick white hair and full beard were nearly the same color as his suit, with just a hint of yellow. He had a big round head that seemed all the rounder because of the tiny gold-rimmed glasses perched at the edge of his nose. He wore a gold pocket watch on a chain, which he took out and examined.
"Well, would you look at that," he said, in that smooth Southern drawl that had made him an easy target for late-night comics to mock. "It's just as I thought. Today happens to be a day that ends in Y—just like the word whiskey. I've always seen that as our Lord Maker's way of sayin' it's always whiskey time."
He peered at Gage over the top of his glasses, his eyes gleaming. There was something about him that made him difficult to dislike. Even Gage, an Olympic champion of detesting people, had to resist the urge to smile. The man had so much charisma, it was impossible not to look at him. It exuded from him like a gravitational force.
"That's an interesting philosophy," Gage said. His bad knee was acting up that morning, and he leaned on his cane to take the weight off. "It would seem to guarantee that you spend every day that ends in Y in a state of drunken stupor."
"Not a bad state to be in, my boy," Conroy said. "Not a bad state at all, if I do say so myself. Really does make it easy to get through life without tying yourself in knots." He leaned forward, dropping his voice. "Can I let you in on a little secret, though? You just got to promise not to tell nobody."
"What's that?"
Conroy held up his flask. "Go ahead, take a whiff."
"That's all right, I'm well aware of the smell of whiskey."
"Just humor me some, boy. Take a whiff."
Gage leaned forward and put his nose over the flask. Bracing himself, he inhaled slowly. He didn't smell anything. When he gave Conroy a quizzical look, the man chuckled again.
"The reason you don't smell nothin' is cause there nothin' to smell."
"Water?" Gage said.
"Mississippi spring water, in fact. Never leave home without it."
"Why the flask then?"
"Why not? It's good for my image, ain't it? People think I'm just some drunk old coot, they're more likely to drop their guard around me."
"I have a hard time believing anybody drops their guard around you anymore, Mr. Conroy."
"Well, that's probably true. I do admit, Mr. Gage, that in my younger years this flask was often full of something other than water. But the point still stands, don't you think? You as a private investigator —of some distinguished merit, I might add—should well know that things are not always what they appear to be."
"And sometimes they are," Gage said. "For example, a famous lawyer who only shows up when the cameras are rolling is probably just looking to see his face on the evening news."
"Nobody watches the evening news anymore, Mr. Gage. We've got this thing called the Internet. It's all about getting your name on Twitter and your face on Instagram. Besides, you see any cameras around these parts right now?"
"Oh, they'll be here soon enough. And I'd be willing to bet there's probably some photographer taking a picture of us right now."
"Maybe so, maybe so. But let's just say, for the sake of argument, that your observation about my motives is basically sound. What does it matter, if the lawyer in question is still able to prevent a miscarriage of justice and help a young lady taste the sweet freedom she so deserves?"
"You're telling me nobody hired you?" Gage said, still suspecting that Omar or somebody else might be trying to get Miranda out of jail just to kill her. "You're telling me you're here completely of your own accord?"
Conroy got to his feet, an act of such flair and panache that it was a performance al
l by itself. "As God is my witness," he said.
"I'm not sure that witness is all that reliable."
"Ah! I do like a man with wit. Not a believer, are you?"
"I think of myself more like an undecided voter."
"Well, I'll try not to hold it against you, son. I may have parted ways with my friend, Mr. Whiskey, but I don't know if I could make it in life without the good book. But anyway, I'm sure we both got better things to do than to stand here on this wonderful mornin' discussing the finer points of religion. By the way, you may have noticed I have not extended my hand in the more formal manner of one gentleman greeting another. I always feel the need to tell people that this is no intentional slight, but only a byproduct of my fairly recent aversion to germs. These days, a cold seems to set me down for a month rather than week, and something worse might set me down altogether."
"I'll try not to take any offense."
"Good. Shall we go in and see the woman in question?"
"We shall," Gage said. "But first, you should know that I'm going to do everything I can to convince Miranda not to hire you."
"Oh! That's not a great way to start things off. But I understand. You see me as an unwanted interloper, someone out only for his own fame and glory, and I won't deny that my own interests do play at least a small part in me being here."
"A small part."
Conroy slipped the flask inside his jacket pocket. "Yes. But all I ask is that you allow me to have a fair hearing with the lady. After all, she did request that I be here."
"I might quibble with the word 'request,' but you'll get a chance to make your case."
"All I ask! And, son, looks like we should get to it. The cavalry has already arrived."
He motioned to the Portland news van rolling up the street, but Gage had seen it. He'd also seen the purple Pontiac Safari approaching from the other direction, Buzz Burgin already aiming a camera with a long lens right at them.
They turned to the door. Conroy was in front, but he stopped and looked at Gage.
"Would you mind getting it, son?" he said. "Germs, you know."
Gage, with some reluctance, opened the door for him. He couldn't help but feel that even getting Gage to open the door was a small power play itself, as if this was Conroy's way of making him feel like he was the man's servant.
* * *
It only took a few minutes inside the police station for it to become apparent that not everyone felt the same distaste for D.D. Conroy's celebrity presence. In fact, Gage was stunned to find, it was quite the opposite. With a few notable exceptions—Quinn seemed a bit wary— most of the officers and administrative staff buzzed around Conroy in a happy smiling dance of sycophancy, as if just by being near him some of his star power might rub off on them. Even Brisbane and Trenton, usually with fixed stares of grumpiness and anger, were seen laughing at the old man's ribald jokes. Trenton didn't even take offense when Conroy wouldn't shake his hand, accepting the old man's explanation about his frail health and susceptibility to local viruses without a frown.
They were led into the meeting room just off the jail section of the building, a small windowless box with a metal table bolted to the floor, four folding chairs around it. Gage and Conroy sat on one side, Conroy humming a ditty, Gage staring at the way the caged fluorescent lights formed warped patterns in the dented metal table. The air smelled dusty and stale.
A woman from the front poked her head in and asked if they needed anything. They said no. Someone else asked if they wanted coffee. They said no to this, too. Fortunately, it was only a minute later that Quinn emerged with Miranda, sparing Gage the need to endure any more pleasantries.
She wore prison orange, her red hair pulled back in a ponytail, her eyes bright and fearful even as her face seemed pale and gaunt. She started toward Gage, to hug him, and was stopped by handcuffs. Her eyes welled up.
"Come now," Conroy said to Quinn. "Surely this pretty lady is no risk to any of us. Those skinny arms of hers, I doubt she could even lift a pile of wet laundry."
"It's standard procedure," Quinn said. It may have been Gage's imagination, but those big bags under his eyes seemed even darker than usual, a good match for those dark eyebrows. "It's really nothing personal."
"Everything's personal, son, when you get down to it. Can't we just extend this minor bit of kindness to her for a few minutes?"
After some hesitation, Quinn shrugged and removed her handcuffs. She embraced Gage, and there was fierceness to it, like the clutch of a person trying to prevent themselves from falling. Conroy introduced himself and again had to kindly rebuff her offer of a hug, explaining his poor health in a way that strangely seemed to make people like him more rather than less. The three of them seated themselves at the table. Quinn remained standing.
Conroy raised his white eyebrows at the chief. "As I understand the law, there are certain attorney-client privileges that suggest that law enforcement should excuse themselves."
Quinn said, "Well, as I understand the situation, she hasn't agreed to hire you yet."
"A mere formality, sir."
"A formality that matters in my jurisdiction, I'm afraid."
"Ah. Well, I mean no offense. I suppose the good lady could settle this by making my presence here an official capacity. What do you say, Miranda?"
They looked at her, and even the weight of their gazes seemed to shrink her in her seat. She was the shy child in class who'd been called on unexpectedly. Regardless of his doubts, Gage felt sorry for her. Strange lawyers, grumpy police officers, rabid journalists—it must have felt like the whole world was crashing down on her slim shoulders. She looked at Gage for guidance and he shook his head.
"Maybe—maybe not yet," she said.
"Are you certain, darling?" Conroy said. "It would make things a lot easier. We could have a bit more privacy."
"I don't need privacy," she said. "I have nothing to hide. At least, I don't think I do."
"So no memories yet?" Gage asked.
She shook her head.
"It's not about having anything to hide," Conroy said. "It's about preparing the best possible defense."
"But I didn't do anything!" she protested.
"That you know of," Quinn said. He looked at Gage. "You going to tell her what happened to you down in Crescent City?"
There was something in her eyes, a flicker, at the mention of Crescent City. Gage saw it. Quinn saw it, too, and it was a good bet he'd said it precisely because he wanted to see if he could get her to react. Score one for the chief.
"You—you went to Crescent City?" she asked.
"You remember being there?" Gage said.
"No. I mean, I don't know. But the name ... it does sound familiar."
"Well, you were there a couple weeks ago."
"I was?"
"Yep. So was Marcus Koura, apparently."
He had everyone's attention now. Miranda watched him as if expecting the worst, but he still couldn't get a good read on whether she was lying or not. Gage had been forced to tell the police in California about why he was there, and to get them to let him go he'd had to rope Chief Quinn into the mess as well. They didn't know what he'd learned about her staying at the Mill Creek Motel, but he didn't see what advantage there was in withholding this information.
Perhaps overwhelming her with information, rather than withholding it, might change the status quo.
So Gage told her everything. He told her about the kid at the market who'd seen her, how she'd worked at the Mill Creek Motel for a month, and the observations of her fellow housekeeper—her coming from money and being on the run from a terrible man. He told her how the evidence seemed to suggest she'd fled with Marcus on his boat, how Troy at the marina had taken some men after her, and even how Marcus's former girlfriend in San Jose suspected he'd been seeing a woman from New York, one who'd demonstrated artistic ability by drawing his portrait on the back of a receipt.
As Gage talked, he watched her wilt under the barrage. So far the
tears hadn't come, but Gage knew they couldn't be far behind.
"I don't know what you want me to say," she said.
"Do you remember going by the name Mary?"
"No."
"Well, you did. Apparently it wasn't your real name either, and you were paid under the table."
"I've got some information, too," Quinn said. "The second guy who tried to take Gage out, the one who got away, his name was Aaron Flores. They found him dead about an hour ago, parked behind an out-of-business grocery store in Eureka. Bled to death. He had some loose connections to the Italian mafia in New York, but like Jake Sheffield, he was pretty much a mercenary. Seems interesting, him being from New York, huh? What do you think the connection is there, Miranda?"
Before Miranda could answer, Conroy said, "You don't have to answer any of these questions. Just invoke your Fifth Amendment rights and we can stop this right now. Your arraignment is tomorrow. We'll get you out on bail, then we'll work on clearing you of this preposterous murder charge."
"Murder," she said. "I have a ... have a hard time even saying that word."
Quinn said, "Somebody shot Marcus Koura. If not you, then who? And if it was these boys who went after Gage in Crescent City, then why did they leave you alone?"
"I don't know."
"Even now," Quinn said, "you're going to claim you don't remember anything?"
"I ... I ..."
"Come on now. Be straight with us."
"There is something," she said. "I don't know. Something. I can't—it's so hard. I want to remember. Maybe I will."
"Maybe?" Quinn said. "You're running out of time, sister."
"I need—I need to think."
The dam that had been holding back her tears finally crumbled. It was not a slow crumble, but a quick and violent collapse. Gage had been expecting an outburst of some sort, but nothing like this. She wailed like a small child, balling up her fists and covering her eyes, her whole body shaking. The display shocked all of them enough that none of them moved for a long time until Quinn finally muttered something about getting a box of tissues and disappeared from the room. He was back in a few seconds, and by then at least her convulsive sobbing had been slowed to something less hysterical, a lot of sniffling and swallowing as she tried to pull herself together.
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