After Dark

by Phillip Margolin

"Barry, see if Deems has a bank account. If someone paid him to kill Griffen, it would have been a substantial amount. He may have put the money in an account."

  Barry laughed. "You're kidding. A guy like Deems doesn't deal with banks, unless he's robbing them."

  Reynolds flashed Barry a patient smile. "Humor me."

  "Sure thing. Oh, before I forget. Neil Christenson and I engaged in a little small talk. He let it slip that Geddes is really pissed at you."

  "Oh?"

  "You did insult him when he arrested Mrs. Griffen. Then there's the business with Mrs. Griffen's release. Geddes blames you for getting the Attorney General involved. We won't be getting any breaks from him.

  He's determined to get a death sentence in the case and he's going to fight us every step of the way."

  "Is that so?" The tiniest of smiles creased Reynolds's lips, as if he was enjoying a private joke. "Well, back to work."

  Reynolds turned abruptly and walked away. Frame was about to go to his office when a thought occurred to him. When Deems was arrested for the Hollins murders, he tried to hire Reynolds to represent him. Barry was certain Matthew had talked to Deems two or three times before declining the defense, and he wondered if there was a file on the case with phone numbers and addresses for Deems and his acquaintances. Barry walked toward the back of the house where a rickety flight of stairs led down to the damp concrete basement where the old files were stored.

  Tracy's office was near the basement door. She was at her desk, working at her word processor.

  IT T, ral, Barry said.

  Tracy didn't move. Her thoughts were focused on the words that were scrolled across her monitor.

  "Earth to Tracy."

  This time she turned.

  "The Griffen case?" Barry asked, pointing at the computer screen.

  "No. It's the Texas case. One of the issues in the brief. The Supreme Court just handed down an opinion that had some useful language and Matt wanted me to expand our assignment of error to include a new argument."

  "Are you going to be working all weekend?"

  "I'll be here Saturday, but I don't have any plans for the Sabbath."

  "I'm going to take some pictures at Griffen's cabin on Sunday.

  Want to come out to the coast with me?"

  "I don't know. I should stay in town in case Matt needs me."

  "Matt will survive without you for one day. Come on. There's a beautiful spot I want to show you a few miles from the cabin."

  Barry held his hands out in front of him like a film director framing a shot.

  "Picture this. We hike a mile or so through verdant woods and a field covered with wildflowers that create a riot of colors worthy of an artist's palette. Finally, weary, but at peace, we arrive at a rugged cliff overlooking a boiling ocean." Tracy laughed. "And then what?"

  "We have a picnic lunch. I've got a terrific Merlot I've been saving for a special occasion. Whaddaya say?"

  Tracy looked at the pile of work on her desk. Then she made some quick mental calculations.

  "Okay, but I want to clear it with the boss."

  "Tell him you're helping me investigate," Barry said. Then he was gone.

  Tracy watched Barry walk away and smiled. He sure had a cute butt.

  They'd run together a few times and it had been fun. So far Barry had been a perfect gentleman, which was fine, but Tracy had decided she liked him enough to take matters a little further herself, if he didn't make a move. A romantic picnic in a beautiful setting seemed an ideal time to get started.

  Tracy knew she was going to enjoy the coast, no matter what happened between her and Barry. She tried to remember what fresh air and sunshine were like. She had not seen much of either since she started as Reynolds's associate. Not that she was complaining. Working for Matthew Reynolds was everything she thought it would be. Still, the coast would be a great change of scenery after being cooped up with law books all week.

  There were two addresses listed in the file Reynolds had opened for Charlie Deems. The first was for the apartment where Deems lived when he was arrested for the Hollins murders. Deems never returned to it. He had been in the county jail or on death row until his conviction was reversed. The apartment was rented to someone else now and the landlord had no idea how to reach Deems.

  The second address was in a run-down section of north Portland. Barry Frame peered out the passenger window into the fading daylight and tried to read the numbers on a bungalow that stood back from the street. A chain-link fence surrounded the bungalow. Its gray paint was peeling.

  The yard had not been mown in weeks. One of the metal numbers on the front door was missing, but the other three numbers were right.

  Barry opened the gate and walked up a slate path. Loud music blasted through the front door. Barry recognized grating guitars, rowdy drums and a sound that was closer to screaming than singing and quickly identified the group as another Pearl Jam knockoff. He rang the doorbell twice, then tried heavy pounding.

  Someone turned down the volume and Barry knocked again.

  "Stop that racket. I'm coming," a woman shouted.

  The living-room curtains moved. Barry stepped away from the door and tried his best to look nonthreatening. A moment later, the front door was opened by a slender, barefoot blonde who was dressed in cutoffs and a bikini top. The shadows cast by the setting sun smoothed the lines hardship had etched into her features and for a moment Barry was fooled into thinking she was a teenager.

  "Who are you?" the woman asked belligerently.

  Barry held out his identification. "My name's Barry Frame.

  I'm an investigator working with Matthew Reynolds. He's an attorney."

  "So?"

  "Are you Angela Quinn?"

  "What's this about?" she asked, cocking her hip and leaning against the doorjamb. The pose was intended to distract him and it worked. Barry could not help noticing her long, smooth legs and the impression her nipples made on the fabric of the bikini top.

  "We're trying to get in touch with Charlie Deems. Mr. Deems consulted with Mr. Reynolds a few years ago and he gave him this address and phone number for messages. Are you Angela?"

  Barry saw fear flicker in Angela Quinn's blue eyes.

  "I don't know where Charlie is," Angela said as she started to close the door.

  "Wait. You were his girlfriend, right?"

  "Look, mister, I'll make this simple. I dance at Jiggle's. Charlie used to hang out there and we were friends for a while. Then he killed that kid."

  Angela shook her head, as if she still couldn't believe it.

  "Charlie wrote me from death row. I'm a sucker. I wrote him back, once or twice, because the guy doesn't have anyone else and I never figured I'd see him again. My mistake. The first place he goes after they let him out is my house. I let him stay. But he's gone now, and I don't know where he is."

  "If you dislike Deems so much, how come you let him stay?"

  Angela laughed, but there was no humor in it.

  "Mister, you must not know Charlie very well. You just don't say no to him." Angela shuddered. "The bastard stayed more than a month and that was a month too long. I hope I never see him again.

  "Can you remember when Charlie left?"

  "It was about two weeks ago."

  "Do you remember hearing about a Supreme Court justice who was killed by a car bomb?"

  Barry saw the fear again. "Why do you want to know?" Angela asked, suddenly suspicious.

  "Mr. Reynolds, my boss, is representing the woman who's charged with killing the judge. Charlie is going to be a witness in the case and we want to talk to him about his testimony."

  "I told you I don't know where he is."

  "Did Charlie ever say anything about the judge's murder to you."

  Angela looked like she was debating whether to talk to Barry.

  "This is just between us," he said, giving her his most reassuring smile.

  "Why should I believe that?"

  Barry stopped
smiling. "Look, Angela, I know how dangerous Deems is and I'm not going to put you in danger. I just want this as background. Did Charlie discuss Justice Griffen's murder with you?"

  "No, he didn't say nothin' to me, but he was watching a story about it on the news when I was getting ready for work one night, and he seemed real interested. He even asked me if I had the paper, because he wanted to read about the killing. Now that I think about it, Charlie left right after that."

  "And there hasn't been any contact since he left? He's never called?

  You didn't have to send him any clothes? Stuff he left behind?"

  "Nope. I have no idea where he is."

  "Well, thanks. You've been a real help. Here's my card. If he does contact you, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know where I can find him."

  "Yeah, sure," Angela said. The door closed and Barry wondered how long it would take for his business card to find its way into the trash.

  Charlie Deems sat on the back porch of a farmhouse in Clackamas County smoking a cigarette and watching the grass sway back and forth. It was the most exciting thing that happened at the farm, but that was okay with Charlie. Two years of living in a cell the size of a broom closet, locked down twenty-three out of every twenty-four hours, had taught him how to deal with idle time.

  Out past the high grass was a stand of cottonwoods. Past the cottonwoods were low rolling hills behind which the sun was starting to set. Charlie felt content. His plans were moving forward slowly, but steadily. He was living rent-free and, except for a steady diet of pizza and Big Macs, he didn't have much to complain about.

  As soon as Charlie was released from the Oregon State Penitentiary, but before he contacted Raoul, he reestablished contact with people who worked for Otero. Raoul had changed some of his ways of doing business, but for the most part the cocaine flowed along the same river it was traveling when Deems was working the waterways. For instance, there was a certain rest stop on the interstate where trucks from Mexico stopped on their way to Seattle. While the drivers relieved themselves, shadowy figures relieved the drivers of a part of their cargo that never showed on the manifest, then faded into the night. This evening, one of his babysitters had told him that several arrests had been made at that rest stop and a large amount of cocaine had been confiscated. Charlie's steak dinner reflected the DA's appreciation.

  Charlie took another drag on his cigarette. He smiled as he pictured the confusion Raoul would experience as each piece of his organization crumbled. Soon the cops would catch the fish who was more afraid of prison than Raoul. Someone would wear a wire and Raoul's own words would weave themselves into the rope that would hang him. Then the grand jury would start to meet. It would take a while, but Charlie could wait.

  What he could not wait for was the day he would testify against Abigail Griffen. He wanted to look her in the eye as his testimony brought her down. For two years, the bitch had been at the center of every one of his sexual fantasies. If he had a dollar for every time he had raped or tortured her in his dreams, he would be living in a villa on the French Riviera. And while he would certainly enjoy a chance to visit with Ms.

  Griffen personally, he felt greater satisfaction at the thought of Abbie pacing back and forth in the same concrete cell where he had spent interminable hours that crept by so slowly that sometimes he felt he could actually see the progress of each second.

  Maybe Charlie would write to Abbie. He would send her postcards from faraway places to let her know that he was thinking of her always. He imagined Abbie's beauty fading, her dark skin turning pale from lack of sunlight, her body withering. But even more satisfying would be the destruction of the bitch's spirit. She, who was so proud, would weep interminably or stare with dead eyes at the never-changing scene outside her cell. The thought brought a smile to Charlie's lips.

  He glanced at his watch and stood up. It was almost 7 P. M., time forJeopardy t, his favorite game show. He ground out his butt on the porch railing and flicked it into the grass. Free pizza, peace and quiet and all the games shows he could watch. Life was good.

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  Tracy parked her car in front of the Griffen cabin shortly after ten on Sunday morning. She got out while Barry reached into the back seat to retrieve his camera. It was cool for early September and Tracy was glad she'd brought a sweatshirt.

  "I'm going to have a look around," Barry said. "I've gone over the crime-scene photos the Seneca County deputies shot and I've read the police reports. I thought I'd retrace Mrs. Griffen's steps.

  I doubt I'll find anything this long after the incident, but you never know."

  "Go ahead. I'm going down to the beach."

  Tracy saw the shed as soon as she rounded the corner of the cabin. It was tall and square and constructed from graying timber. The door was partly open. From where Tracy was standing, she could see a rake and a volleyball resting on a volleyball net, but no dynamite. She walked over and opened the door the whole way. There was an empty space that would have been big enough for a box of dynamite, but there was no box.

  She saw some rusted gardening tools and a barbecue grill. Tracy repositioned the door as it had been. She put her hands in her pockets, hunched her shoulders against the bracing sea air and walked down the path.

  A flight of wooden steps led from the top of the bluff to the beach.

  Tracy sat down on the top step and let the wind play havoc with her long blond hair. High waves curled onto the beach, crashing against the sand with a sound that shut out the world.

  Tracy scanned the beach slowly, focusing on the low dunes and the gulls cruising the blue-green water, and thought about Barry Frame.

  It had been a while since she'd had anything that could be classified as a relationship, but it wasn't anything she regretted.

  Tracy had decided long ago that being alone was preferable to being with someone she did not really care about. She missed sex sometimes, but having sex just to have sex never appealed to her.

  Tracy wanted love, or at least affection, from a partner. What she really missed was intimacy. Of course, sex with the right guy could be pretty good, too.

  Tracy liked Barry's openness, his casual independence and his easy humor. And she thought he enjoyed her company as much as she enjoyed his. She also thought he was damn good-looking.

  Tracy had imagined what he would look like naked on more than one occasion. She also wondered what he would be like in bed and had a feeling she would enjoy finding out. "Look what I've got."

  Tracy turned around. Barry was smiling and flipping the volleyball Tracy had seen in the shed from hand to hand.

  "Are you finished?" she asked.

  "All done."

  "Find anything?"

  "Except for a vial of exotic poison, a Chinese dagger and a series of hieroglyphics written in blood, I struck out. Let's go down to the beach."

  Tracy stood up and they walked down the steps. When they reached the bottom, she ran ahead and Barry heaved the ball as if it was a football.

  Tracy caught it easily and returned it with a fancy overhand spin serve.

  "Whoa!" Barrysaid. "Very impressive. All you need are those weird shades and you're ready for ESPN."

  "You can't grow up in California and not play beach volleyball."

  "I love it here," Barry said, tossing the ball back to Tracy underhand.

  "When I retire, I'm gonna get a house at the beach."

  "If I had a beach house," Tracy said as she served the ball back to Barry, "I'd want it to be just like this place, so I could see the ocean. I'd have a huge picture window."

  Barry tried an overhand serve but the ball sailed over Tracy's head and bounced toward the water. They both raced toward it.

  "You know the best thing?" Barry asked as they met over the ball at the water's edge. Tracy shook her head.

  "Storms." Barry bent down and picked up the volleyball.

  "Have you ever watched a storm when the waves are monstrous and the rain comes down in sheets? It's
incredible. When it's dark, you build yourself a fire and drink some wine and watch the whitecaps through the rain."

  "I had no idea you were such a romantic," Tracy kidded.

  Barry stopped smiling. "I can be under the right circumstances," he said softly.

  Tracy looked at him, shielding her eyes because the sun was perched on his shoulder. Barry dropped the ball. Tracy was surprised, but pleased, when Barry took her in his arms and kissed her. His lips tasted salty and it felt good being held. She rested her head on his shoulder and he stroked her hair.

  "Not a bad kiss for a lawyer," he murmured. "Of course, it could be beginner's luck."

  "What makes you think I'm a beginner?" Tracy asked with a smile. Then she grabbed a handful of his hair, pulled Barry's head back, planted a wet kiss on his forehead and dumped him in the sand.

  "That was just like a lawyer." Barry laughed as he pulled himself to his feet.

  "Don't forget the volleyball."

  Barry held it in one hand and draped his arm around Tracy's shoulder.

  "You ready to visit one of the most beautiful spots on the planet?" he asked.

  "Yup."

  "Then let's go have our picnic. We'll hit the Overlook on the way back to Portland."

  They climbed the stairs. Tracy liked the feel of his hip bumping against hers and the pressure of his arm across her shoulder.

  Barry tossed the volleyball into the shed. Tracy saw it roll to a stop in the empty space as they headed for the car.

  Barry's special place was everything he had promised and they had lazed around enjoying Barry's Merlot and each other's company until the setting sun reminded them that they still had work to do. Tracy drove fast along the winding mountain roads that traversed the Coast Range and they hit I-5 a little before six o'clock and started looking for the Overlook Motel.

  "There it is," Barry said finally, pointing past the freeway exit.

  Tracy took the off-ramp and drove down an access road for two hundred feet, then turned into the parking lot of the Overlook Motel. Sunset would save the Overlook's dignity by cloaking its shabby exterior in shadow, but by daylight it was a tired, fading, horseshoe-shaped failure with an empty pool and a courtyard of chipped concrete and peeling paint.