Its walls were unpainted concrete and the floor was littered with cardboard cartons filled with scraps of metal, copper wire and pieces of pipe. A gray gunmetal desk next to the door was the only hint that the room was used for something other than storing junk, but the desk was covered with an unorganized collection of miscellaneous clutter and could have been mistaken for abandoned furniture.
Paul Torino opened the door and let Nick Paladino into his workroom.
Paladino had taken the elevator from the Homicide Bureau to the basement after Torino called. "What's up, Paul?"
"I want to show you something."
Torino sat at the desk and gestured Paladino into a chair beside him.
Then Torino cleared the top of the desk by shoving everything into a big pile on one of the edges. There was a torn cardboard carton next to one of the desk legs. Torino pulled several items out of it and placed them on the desk in a line. Then he drew a side view of a piece of pipe on a yellow writing tablet.
"This is a rough drawing of the pipe bomb that killed Justice Griffen.
The bomber has to attach the bomb to the underside of the car and there is a simple way to do that."
Torino bent over the yellow sheet again and drew a rectangle.
Then he drew a horseshoe on the left end of the rectangle and another on the right end and placed a black dot in the center of the curve of each horseshoe.
"This is a strip of metal," Torino said, pointing to the rectangle.
"These are magnets," he continued, pointing to the horseshoes. "You drill holes in the strip and affix the magnets to the plate with nuts and bolts, then you tape the magnetic strip to the pipe bomb. When you're ready to use the bomb, you just have to stick it to the underside of the car."
"Okay."
Torino picked up a charred and twisted strip of flat metal approximately six inches in length, one and a half inches wide and one quarterof an inch thick.
"What do you think this is?" Torino asked Nick Paladino.
Paladino studied the object and the drawing. "The metal strip that the magnets are attached to?" he guessed.
"Right. I took this from the evidence room this morning. It was part of the pipe bomb that killed Larry and Jessica Hollins.
Do you notice anything unusual about it?"
Paladino took the metal strip from Torino and examined it closely. It was heavy. One end of the rectangle was flat and looked like it had been shaped by a machine. The other end was uneven and there was a notch in the metal that formed a jagged vee.
"The ends are different," Paladino said.
"Right. This steel strip came from a longer strip. Someone put it in a vise and used a hacksaw to cut it so it would fit the top of the pipe."
Torino pointed to the uneven end. "Notice how this notch overlaps.
That's because the person who cut it cut from two directions."
Torino picked up a clear-plastic bag with another twisted and charred metal strip.
"When the bomb exploded yesterday, Justice Griffen was seated directly over it. This strip was blown through the bottom of the car into the judge. It's what killed him. The medical examiner found it during the autopsy. Take a look at the right edge."
The similarities between the notch on the metal strip that had killed Robert Griffen and the notch on the end of the strip from the Hollins bomb were obvious.
"So you think the same person cut both strips?" Paladino asked.
"There's no way I could say that for sure, but I can say that I've only seen a bomb constructed like this once before. This is the bomber's signature. It's unique like a fingerprint."
"So Deems is probably our man?"
Torino did not answer. Instead, he picked up the last item on the desk.
It was also in a clear-plastic bag along with some metal shavings.
Paladino examined it. It was a clean steel rectangle with one machine-cut end and one end that had been cut by hand.
"What's this?" Paladino asked, certain he knew the answer.
Detective Bricker," Tracy Cavanaugh said when the receptionist connected her to the Salem Police Department's Homicide Bureau, "I don't know if you remember me . . ."
"Sure I do. You're Justice Sherzer's clerk."
"Well, I used to be. I'm working in Portland now. I've got a new job."
"I hope you didn't leave because of what happened to your friend."
"No, no. The clerkship was only for a year."
"How are you doing? Emotionally, I mean."
"I think about Laura a lot, but I'm okay. The new job helps.
I'm pretty busy."
"That's good. What's up?"
"I wanted to know how you're doing with the investigation.
Are there any suspects?"
"No. We believe Ms. Rizzatti was the intended victim rather than someone a burglar chanced upon, because someone ransacked Ms. Rizzatti's cottage. It may have been the person who rang the doorbell while she was leaving the message on your answering machine. But we have no idea who killed her, yet."
"Oh."
There was dead air for a moment. Then Detective Bricker asked, "Did you have another reason for calling?"
"Yes, actually. It's . . . Did you hear about Justice Griffen?"
"Yes," Bricker answered. Tracy thought she heard a little caution in the detective's tone.
"When I heard he was murdered, I couldn't help thinking . . . Have you considered the possibility that the two murders might be connected?
Doesn't it seem like too big a coincidence?
First Justice Griffen's clerk, and now the judge."
"I contacted Portland PB as soon as I heard Justice Griffen was killed.
Both agencies are looking into the possibility that there's a connection between the two murders, but right now we don't have any evidence to support that theory. Do you know anything that suggests the cases are related?"
"No. I just . . . I didn't know if you'd thought about it. I wanted to help."
"I appreciate your interest."
"Okay. That's all, I guess. Thanks for talking to me."
"Anytime."
When Nick Paladino finished explaining what he had learned from Paul Torino, Jack Stamm stood up and walked over to his window. Summer in Oregon was a dream. Snowcapped mountains loomed over miles of bright green forest. Pleasure boats cruised the Willamette, their sails a riot of color. Crime and despair should not exist in such a place, but the real world kept intruding on paradise.
"What about Deems? Do you know where he is?"
"He's vanished."
"That's the same thing he did before he killed Hollins. And what about the similarity between the two bombs?"
"Torino described how to make that bomb at Deems's trial."
Stamm turned away from the view. Paladino waited patiently for the district attorney.
"Is Paul certain about the metal strips?"
"I know you don't want to hear this, Jack. You don't need Torino's opinion. You can see the fit."
"That's not what I asked, damn it."
The detective looked down, embarrassed. "Paul will swear they fit."
Stamm picked up a paper clip from his desk and began to unbend it absentmindedly as he paced around the room. Paladino watched him. He knew exactly what Stamm was thinking, since he had been going through the same mental anguish since his meeting with Torino.
"Jesus," Stamm said finally.
"I know how you feel, Jack. It's ridiculous. I don't believe it for a minute. But we have to deal with the possibility. Abbie has a motive, she has no alibi for the time the bomb was attached to Griffen's car, she knows how to make the bomb. Paul says he walked her through it step by step when they prepared his direct examination at Deems's trial."
"This is total bullshit," Stamm said angrily. He threw the mangled paper clip into his wastepaper basket. "Nick, you know Abbie. Can you see her killing anyone?"
"No. And that's the biggest reason why I'm not gonna continue on this inves
tigation. I know Abbie too well to be objective.
You have to get out, too."
Stamm walked back to his desk and slumped in his chair.
"You're right. I might even be a witness. I'll have to get a special prosecutor from the Attorney General's office. Shit. This is impossible."
"I think you should call the AG right now and set up a meeting.
Stamm was furious. He knew Abbie did not murder her husband. If anyone did, it wasCharlie Deems. But even the possibility that one of his deputies was guilty made it imperative that his office turn over the investigation and prosecution to another agency.
The intercom buzzed. "Mr. Stamm," Jack's secretary said, "I know you don't want to be disturbed, but Charlie Deems is here.
He says he wants to see you."
"Charlie Deems?"
"At the front counter. He said it was important."
"Okay. Tell him I'll be right out."
Stamm looked across the desk at Nick Paladino. The detective seemed as surprised as the district attorney.
"What the fuck is going on, Nick?"
"I don't have a clue, Jack."
"You don't think he's turning himself in?"
"Charlie Deems? Not a chance."
Stamm put on his jacket and straightened his tie. His office was only a few steps from the reception area. When he stepped into the narrow hall that led to it, he saw Deems sitting in one of the molded plastic chairs reading Sports Illustrated. "Mr. Deems, I'm Jack Stamm."
Deems looked up from the magazine, grinned and walked over to the low gate that separated the reception area from the rest of the office.
"I hear you've been looking for me," Deems said.
"Yes, sir. We have."
"Here I am."
"Would you like to step into my office?"
"Okay," Deems answered agreeably.
Stamm led Deems past his secretary and into his office.
"You know Nick Paladino."
"Sure. He arrested me, but I don't have any hard feelings.
Especially since we'll be working together."
"Oh?" Stamm said.
"Yeah. I'm turning over a new leaf. I want to work for the forces of justice."
"What brought about this miraculous conversion, Charlie?"
Paladino asked sarcastically.
"While you're sitting on death row you have plenty of time to think about life. You know, life, what does it all mean. I don't want to waste mine anymore. I'm a new man."
"That's very nice, Charlie. Is that why you came here? To tell us about your change of heart?" Paladino asked.
"Hey, I know how busy you guys are. If all I wanted to do was to tell you I turned over a new leaf, I'd have dropped you a letter.
No, I'm here to help you catch criminals."
"Anyone in particular?" Stamm asked.
"Oh, yeah. Some people I'm gonna enjoy sending to prison for a long, long time."
"And who might they be?"
"How about Raoul Otero? I know everything about his operation: how he brings the stuff into the country, where they cut it and who's working for him. Interested?"
"I might be."
"'Might be,'" he repeated. Then Deems chuckled. "Mr. Stamm, right now you're creaming in your pants, but it's okay to play it cool. I respect you for that. Hell, if you acted real excited it would just encourage me to boost the price I'm gonna ask for the information."
"And what is your price?" Paladino asked.
Deems turned slowly toward the detective. "I'm glad you asked. First, I'm gonna need protection. Raoul isn't the forgive-and-forget type."
"Get to the good part, Charlie," Paladino said.
"Naturally, I'd appreciate some remuneration."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?"
"Hey, if I'm working for you I can't be working for me. Let's not quibble over money. I'm risking my life here."
"I'll check to see about the money. But you're going to have to prove you can deliver."
"That's fair. Oh, and there's something else to sweeten the pot."
"What's that?" Jack Stamm asked.
"Not what, who."
"Who, then?"
Deems grinned broadly. He paused to savor the moment.
Then he asked Stamm and Paladino, "How would you like to know who iced Supreme Court Justice Robert Griffen?"
"All work and no play makes Tracy a dull girl," Barry Frame said from the doorway of the office law library.
"Don't I know it," Tracy said, looking up from the case she was reading.
Barry sat down next to Tracy at the long polished oak conference table that took up the center of the room. Around them were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with Oregon and federal statutes and cases.
"It's after eight, you know."
Tracy looked at her watch.
"And I bet you haven't eaten dinner."
"You win."
"How about some That food?"
"I don't know . . ." Tracy stared at the stack of law books in front of her.
Frame smiled and shook his head. "He's really got you going, doesn't he?"
"No it's just "
"I bet he gave you his 'If you work for me, you won't sleep right, you won't eat right' speech."
Tracy's mouth opened in astonishment, then she grinned sheepishly.
"He gives that speech to all the new associates and everybody falls for it. He even had me going for a while, but I wised up. Just because Matt practices what he preaches, that doesn't mean you have to become a machine. Whatever you're working on can wait until tomorrow. You won't be able to write your memo if you die of malnutrition."
"I guess I am a little hungry."
"So?"
"So take me to this That place. But we go Dutch."
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
Outside, the night air was warm, but not oppressive. Tracy stretched and looked up at the sky. There was a quarter moon and a sprinkling of stars. In the hills that towered over downtown Portland, the house lights looked like giant fireflies.
"Is the restaurant close enough to walk? I need the exercise."
"It's about seven blocks. No sweat for someone who placed in the NCAA cross-country championships."
"How did you know that?"
"Matt has me read the resums he receives."
"Oh. Did you read the one I sent about six months ago?"
"Yup."
"Why didn't I get an interview?"
"You're a broad," Frame joked. "For what it's worth, I told him he was a jerk for ignoring you, but the Sorcerer's got no use for women. I couldn't believe it when he hired you. Justice Forbes must have made some pitch."
"Why did you call Mr. Reynolds the Sorcerer?"
"Three years ago, Matt won that acquittal at Marcus Herrera's retrial.
Time did a cover story and called him the Sorcerer because everyone was saying that only a magician could save Herrera. He hated it."
"I think it's romantic."
"It's also accurate. There are a lot of people who owe their lives to Matt's ' " magic.
"Why do you think he's so successful?"
"It's simple. Matthew Reynolds is smarter than anyone he's ever faced."
Tracy thought about that for a moment. Matthew Reynolds was smart, but there were a lot of smart lawyers. If someone had asked her the question she had just posed to Barry, Tracy would have emphasized the hours Reynolds devoted to his cases. She had never met anyone who worked harder at any job.
"What drives him, Barry? What makes him push himself the way he does?"
"Do you know about his father?" Barry asked.
"Mr. Reynolds mentioned him during my interview. It sounds like he loves him very much."
"Loved. Oscar Reynolds was executed at the state penitentiary in Columbia, South Carolina, when Matt was eight years old. He was sentenced to death after being convicted of rape and murder."
"My God!"
"Two years later, another man confessed to th
e crime.
"Matt doesn't talk about it, for obvious reasons. His mother had a nervous breakdown when Matt's dad was sentenced to prison. She committed suicide a week after the execution. Matt stayed in a series of foster homes until a distant relative took him in. He never talks about what happened there, but I think it was pretty bad."
Tracy felt she should say something, but she could not think of anything even remotely appropriate. What Barry had just told her was too enormous. And it certainly explained all of the questions she had about Reynolds's fanatic devotion to his cause.
Tracy tried to imagine what life must have been like for eightyear-old Matthew Reynolds, growing up with a mother who committed suicide, a father who was executed for a sex crime and murder and a disfiguring birthmark that would be an easy target for the cruelty of children.
"He must have been so alone," Tracy said.
"He's still alone. I'm probably the closest thing he has to a friend."
Barry paused. They walked together in silence, because Barry was obviously struggling with what he wanted to say and Tracy sensed it was important enough to wait to hear.
"There's another reason Matt's so successful," Barry said finally.
"Other lawyers have a life outside the law. Matt's life is the law. And I'm not exaggerating. He literally has no interests outside of his job, except maybe his correspondence chess. I think the real world has been so unbearably cruel to him that he uses the law as a place to hide, a place where he can feel safe.
"Think about it. It's like his chess. There are rules of law, and he knows every damn one of them. In the courtroom, the rules protect him from harm. He can bury himself in his cases and pretend that nothing but his cases exist.
"And as a lawyer, he's needed. Hell, he's the only friend some of his clients have ever had."
Barry looked down and they walked in silence again. Tracy waited for him to talk about his boss some more, so she could better understand him. Instead, Barry suddenly asked, "Do you still run?"
"What?"
"I asked if you still run."
"I've been getting in a workout on the weekends," Tracy answered distractedly, finding it hard to switch to this innocuous topic after what she had just learned. "I'm lucky if I get out at all during the week."
"How far do you go?"
"Seven, eight miles. Just enough to keep the old heart and lungs going."
After Dark Page 11
