Anders noticed another member of the team from the crime lab standing in the door. “Do you need to see anything else in here? If not, we should leave so these guys can do their job.”
“I want to see Armstrong’s office,” Kellerman said, eager to get away from the fetid odor and the gore.
Dillon led the way to the other end of the suite and the second corner office. A photographer was leaving when the detectives and the district attorney arrived. The contrast between the two offices was stark. Armstrong’s desk was a bit messy. He’d thrown his attaché on top, and mail and files were spread across the blotter, but the rest of the room was orderly.
Kellerman looked at the walls. The one behind the desk was floor-to-ceiling glass. A colorful abstract oil hung on the wall opposite the windows and over a couch. The wall to the left of the desk held diplomas from West Virginia University, the Warren E. Burger School of Law at Sheffield University in Arkansas, and certificates attesting to Armstrong’s membership in various state and federal bars. The fourth wall was covered with clippings from Armstrong’s successful cases and plaques from civic organizations and the bar. Under the plaques and clippings was a bookcase. Most of the books were law-related, but Kellerman spotted several old-time mysteries including a number by Erle Stanley Gardner, Ellery Queen, Dorothy Sayers, and Agatha Christie. Next to Murder on the Orient Express was a biography of Dame Agatha.
“Let’s interview the employees,” Kellerman said when he was satisfied that nothing of importance to their case had occurred in Armstrong’s office.
Dillon led the way to the conference room, where several people sat around a long table, talking quietly, sipping coffee, or staring at the tabletop. After he introduced the DA, he asked Ken Norquist to follow him to another room.
Norquist was a short, stocky man in his late twenties who was sitting at the far end of the table. The associate wore his blond hair short and sported a trim beard and mustache. He was dressed in a tan suit, white shirt, and tie. The top button of his shirt was undone, and the tie had been pulled down so that the skin at the base of his neck showed. He looked pale and shaky, and sweat beaded his brow.
Dillon led the way to an empty office and closed the door. “Have a seat,” he said.
Norquist sat down and began tapping the toes of his right foot rapidly.
“Are you okay?” Anders asked.
“No. I keep seeing Frank’s head.” He shivered. “I’ve never seen so much blood.”
“Do you want some water?”
Norquist shook his head.
“Mr. Kellerman would like to ask you some questions. Do you feel up to answering them?” Anders asked.
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“Can you tell me the last time you saw Mr. Nylander alive?” the prosecutor asked.
“It was four something. I left early to pick up my date for the party. I passed him coming in when I headed out.”
“How did he look?”
“Normal, I guess. Maybe a little distracted. I said hello, but he didn’t answer me.” Norquist shrugged. “I just saw him for a second, though. I thought he’d show up at the restaurant, but he and Doug never made it.”
“Did that surprise you?”
“Yes, it did. We’re not a big firm, and Frank and Doug always show for stuff like this.”
“I notice that you call the partners by their first names.”
Norquist smiled sadly. “Doug and Frank encouraged everyone to be informal. They wanted everyone to work hard but have fun.”
“Did you see Mr. Armstrong last night?”
“No.”
“Why did you come in so early this morning?”
“Doug called me before noon from Seattle and gave me a research project. He said it wasn’t a rush, but I knew he wanted it done as soon as possible. I finished most of it yesterday, but I still wasn’t through when I left. I wanted to get it done first thing.”
“Was Mr. Armstrong in at all this morning?” Kellerman asked.
“Not that I know. I went to his office shortly after I finished my work. He wasn’t there, so I went looking for him.” Norquist took a deep breath. “That’s when I found Frank.”
“You seem to think highly of Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Nylander,” Kellerman said. “Was there anyone in the firm who didn’t like them?”
“Honestly, everyone thought they were great.”
“Were there any former employees who might hold a grudge?”
“I’ve been here three years, and I never heard anyone say anything bad about them.”
“What about the people they sued or represented?” Kellerman asked.
Norquist paused. “You know, recently there was a client who fired Doug.”
“What case was that?” Kellerman asked.
“The rape. That athlete, Hastings. I did a little work on it, so Doug and I talked about Hastings. I think he said something to Doug that scared him.”
“Was Mr. Nylander involved in the case?” Kellerman asked.
“Not that I know.”
“Can you think of anyone else who might have a reason to do this?”
“No, I can’t. I mean, no one likes to be on the losing side of a case, but I can’t remember anyone talking about being afraid of a client or someone we sued.”
“How did Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Nylander get along?” Kellerman asked.
Norquist’s mouth gaped open, and he stared at the prosecutor. “If you’re thinking that Doug … That’s ridiculous. Frank and Doug were like brothers. They did everything together. It was a mutual admiration society.”
“They never argued?” Kellerman asked.
“Well, yeah, about cases. But it wasn’t angry arguing. It was strategy or whether to take on a client. Business stuff.”
“Was the firm doing well?”
“I’m just an associate. But from what I picked up, this was their best year.”
“Do you have any more questions, Rex?” Dillon asked.
“Not now.”
“Have you given a statement already?” Dillon asked Norquist.
“Yes, to one of the officers.”
“Then why don’t you go home. You look pretty upset.”
“Thanks. I really don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to.”
Kellerman, Anders, and Dillon talked to the other employees. They all said that the partners were the best of friends, and no one could think of anyone with a grudge against Nylander or Armstrong.
When they were through, Kellerman motioned the detectives into the hallway outside the law office. “Get names and addresses, then send everyone home,” the prosecutor said.
Dillon nodded.
“What do you think?” Kellerman asked. “Could Norquist have killed Nylander this morning when they were alone in the office?”
“I thought of that,” Dillon said, “but he’s a really good actor if that’s what happened.”
“So, who did kill Nylander?” Kellerman asked.
“My gut says it’s a robbery gone wrong,” Dillon said. “Nylander’s wallet, cell phone, watch, and keys are missing. I tried to have his secretary walk through the office to do an inventory, but she lasted two minutes before she ran to the ladies’ room. I’ll have her come back when the body is gone.
“What about Armstrong, Roger?” Kellerman asked. “He and Nylander were the only people in the office after the receptionist left.”
“I don’t know. Every person we talked to said they were best friends.”
Anders chimed in. “If I killed Nylander, I would have made the office look like it had been robbed. Then I would have gone to the party and pretended Nylander was fine when I left.”
“Carrie’s right,” Dillon said. “It doesn’t make sense for Armstrong to run away when he could have deflected suspicion by going to the party.”
“Maybe he panicked,” Kellerman said.
“That doesn’t fit the facts,” Anders said. “If Armstrong killed his partner, he was cool enough to wip
e his prints off the murder weapon and mess up the office.”
“There is Blaine Hastings,” Dillon said. “He’s violent, he threatened Armstrong, and he’s out on bail.”
“Okay. Look, I’ve got a court appearance. Why don’t you two go to Armstrong’s house. Then talk to Hastings and Nylander’s wife. Let me know what you find out,” Kellerman said as he rang for the elevator.
Kellerman smiled as soon as the elevator doors closed. Wouldn’t it be great if Doug Armstrong killed his partner and he was the one who sent the wimp away? Rex’s smile widened as he pictured the suffering that would inflict on Marsha Armstrong. Just before the car arrived at the lobby, Kellerman remembered a phrase he thought was from the Bible. Something like, “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Armstrongs lived in an early-twentieth-century Tudor home in Portland’s West Hills, one of the city’s premier residential areas. The house was close to the top of the hill and looked out across the city and the river to the mountains. The lawn was manicured, and there was a wide variety of flowers in the garden. Anders spotted rhododendrons, roses, tulips, and some other varieties she couldn’t name.
Anders figured the blond woman who answered the bell for her early thirties. Marsha Armstrong was wearing jeans and a man-tailored white shirt. She hadn’t bothered to put on makeup or jewelry, but she was still very attractive and she looked very worried.
“Mrs. Armstrong?” Anders asked.
“Yes. Are you the police?”
Anders nodded as she and Dillon showed Marsha their shields.
“Do you know where Doug is?” Marsha asked.
“We were hoping you could tell us,” Anders said.
“I can’t, and I’m very worried. This isn’t like him.”
“Do you mind if we come in?” Dillon asked.
“Yes, please. I’m sorry. I’m just upset.”
Armstrong’s wife led the detectives into a living room and gestured toward a sofa. The detectives sat. Marsha was stiff-backed, her hands clasped in her lap and her body rigid.
“Kate Monday called. She told me that Frank was murdered.”
“I’m afraid that’s true, and no one seems to know where your husband is,” Anders said. “When was the last time you saw him, or spoke to him?”
“I saw him on Sunday, when I drove him to the airport. He had a case in Seattle.”
“How did he seem?”
“Fine.”
“He wasn’t worried about anything?”
“No, the opposite. He was excited about how he thought the case would go.”
“When was the next time you spoke to him?”
“He called that evening from the hotel after he checked in.”
“Was there any change in his mood?”
“Not that I noticed. He was upbeat because he was certain that the case was going to settle to his client’s advantage. Then he called Monday night to tell me that everything was going the way he thought it would and he anticipated wrapping things up on Tuesday morning and flying back Tuesday afternoon, then taking a taxi to the office.”
“Did you talk to him after that conversation?”
“Doug flew back from Seattle on Tuesday afternoon and called me when he got into his office. He said the case had ended better than he thought it would. He also told me that Chad Spenser, one of the associates, was getting married and there was a party for him at a restaurant. He said he had to go and I shouldn’t wait for him to eat dinner.” Marsha teared up. “He never came home.”
“Mrs. Armstrong,” Anders said, “we have no evidence that your husband has come to harm.”
“Then, where is he?”
“We’re looking for him.”
“In hospitals and the morgue? You can be honest with me, Detective. Kate told me that Frank was beaten to death and his office was wrecked. If Doug was there when that happened…” Marsha choked up and pulled out a handkerchief.
“We don’t want to jump to conclusions,” Anders said. “Can you think of someplace he might be?”
“No. This is his home. He’d come here.”
“Do you know someone who might want to harm your husband or Frank Nylander?”
Rex Kellerman came to mind immediately, but she couldn’t imagine he would murder Doug or his partner to get back at her for breaking off their affair. And she didn’t want anyone to know she’d cheated on Doug.
“I can’t think of a soul who would want to harm either of them,” Marsha said. “Unless…”
“Yes?” Dillon asked.
“There was a client who scared Doug.”
“Who?”
“Blaine Hastings, the football player who raped that girl. Doug told me that he threatened him when the case started to go bad. I think he was relieved when Hastings was denied bail.”
Norquist had also mentioned Hastings. Anders definitely wanted to know if Hastings had an alibi for the evening of Nylander’s murder.
“How did Mr. Nylander and your husband get along?” Dillon asked.
“They were the best of friends. Doug believed he owed everything to Frank.”
“Why did he feel that way?” Dillon asked.
“Doug grew up in West Virginia. He was an only child, and his family was not well off. His father worked in a coal mine and died when Doug was in high school. His mother worked in a department store and passed away before I met Doug.
“Doug went to the state university. He always wanted to be a lawyer, but he didn’t do that well in college, so he ended up at the only place that accepted him, a third-tier law school in Arkansas.
“Doug took a trip to the West Coast in the summer before his senior year in college, and he fell in love with Oregon. After he graduated from law school, he drove to Portland. He passed the bar exam, but he didn’t know a soul—and no one would hire him, because he didn’t go to a great law school.
“Doug told me that he was terribly depressed and ready to go back home when he met Frank at a bar. Frank had just opened his own office after leaving a big firm where he’d worked for several years. Frank didn’t have a lot of business, and he couldn’t afford to hire an associate at the going rate. Doug said he’d work for a secretary’s salary and a share of what he brought in. Frank took a risk when no one else would and hired him.
“Doug and Frank took court appointments and anything that came in the door. At the end of his third year, Doug won a big personal injury case, and the business started to grow. Doug always told me how grateful he was to Frank for taking a chance on him and how proud he was of being able to pay him back by helping the firm grow.”
“Is there any reason you can think of that would lead your husband to attack Mr. Nylander?” Carrie asked.
“I can’t imagine a situation where Doug would do anything to harm Frank. He owed him everything. He’s told me that more than once.”
Anders and Dillon talked to Marsha for twenty minutes more. Then Anders stood and handed Marsha her card. “If Mr. Armstrong contacts you or you think of somewhere he might be, call me anytime, day or night. Don’t worry about waking me up.
“And if you remember anything—and I mean anything—you think may help us solve Mr. Nylander’s murder, tell us, even if you think it’s silly. Let us decide. Sometimes the smallest clue can break open a case.”
“Finding your husband and bringing in Mr. Nylander’s killer is a priority with both of us,” Dillon assured her.
Marsha showed the detectives to the door.
“Let’s drive to Hastings’s house and have a talk with him,” Dillon said as they walked to their car.
“Mrs. Armstrong wanted us to believe her husband had nothing to do with Nylander’s murder. Do you think she laid it on too thick?” Dillon asked.
“I think she was being straight with us. Everyone we’ve talked to says the same thing. Have you met Armstrong or Nylander?”
“No,” Dillon said.
“I’ve never met Nylander, but Armst
rong tried the Hastings case and I did some work on it. I also worked two other cases he handled. He seemed like a nice guy, very ethical. He also seemed—I don’t know—soft. I really can’t picture him bashing his best friend’s head in.”
Dillon smiled. “We don’t have time for me to go through a list of people I’ve arrested for the most heinous crimes who I had a hard time imagining committing them.”
Anders sighed. “I know, Roger. If criminals looked like criminals, we wouldn’t have to work so hard.”
“Amen to that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Hastingses lived in an estate across the Willamette River from the Westmont Country Club. The detectives called the house on an intercom attached to a stone pillar. Moments later, a wrought iron gate swung open and they drove up a paved driveway to a four-story Italianate McMansion.
Blaine Hastings Sr. was waiting at the front door. He greeted the detectives with a scowl. “What do you want?”
“We’d like to speak to your son,” Anders said.
“About what?”
“A case that has nothing to do with his conviction.”
“What case?”
“It’s a homicide, Mr. Hastings. Douglas Armstrong’s partner was murdered in his office last night, and we’ve heard that your son threatened Mr. Armstrong.”
“Now you people are trying to frame Blaine for a murder? You’ve got some balls coming here. Do you have a warrant?”
“No, sir,” Dillon said.
“Then get off my property.”
“Your son is a convicted rapist who has been released on bail,” Dillon said. “It would be to his advantage to cooperate with us.”
Hastings laughed. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to fall for that? You’re not talking to my boy, so get lost.”
* * *
Hastings watched the detectives drive away. When they were out of sight, he went inside and slammed the door.
“What did they want, Dad?” Blaine Junior asked.
“Armstrong’s partner was murdered, and they wanted to know where you were last night.”
The Perfect Alibi Page 10
