by Mark Schorr
He drove out to the last address she had in the records. A neighborhood of small two-bedroom houses, apartments, and a few shabby larger homes that had been subdivided into individual rental units. Its nickname, Felony Flats, came from the jail that had been built in the late 1950s. Wives of prisoners had settled there, to be near their loved ones. The area was divided by Broadway—on one side whites and Asians, on the other side African Americans and Latinos. Everyone was at or below the poverty line. No one lived in Felony Flats if he could find better housing.
Her last address was a garden apartment complex. Surly dogs barked a deep-throated warning as he approached the building. Pink stucco walls, a broken metal gate at the entrance, rusted wrought-iron railings, a leaky fountain in the center of the courtyard. Early on as a caseworker, he’d visited dozens of places like this. He’d had to be careful as a male stranger, wary of overstepping boundaries, dealing with jealous boyfriends, agitated drug dealers, mothers fearful he was there to take away their children, minorities convinced he was symptomatic of systemic prejudice.
The old cautions emerged as he entered the complex and found Tammy’s apartment number. Would the crime scene be sealed? Did he dare sneak in? What would the licensing board think if they knew he was visiting?
There was no crime scene seal on the door. He knocked. Expecting no answer, he tried the doorknob. Locked. He was startled when a young woman opened the door.
“Who are you?” She was not much past twenty, but with hard eyes and a cold smile. Her dyed black hair was pulled back in a tight bun. She was dressed in a black leather bustier, red panties, long black leather gloves, and knee-high black boots with three-inch heels.
Hanson was surprised by anyone answering, and then stunned by her appearance. “Uh, my name’s Brian.”
“Can I help you?” she asked, clearly used to flummoxed men.
“I, I knew Tammy.” He thought of the verb “to know” in the biblical sense as the young woman sized him up. “Not as a prostitute or anything.”
“Yeah, right, you knew her from a book club?”
“No.”
She waited for him to clarify, but he didn’t. And legally couldn’t.
“Wanna come in?” she asked, and he nodded.
She stepped aside, slightly, so that he had to brush against her to get in. The apartment was dimly lit by red bulbs, decorated with heavy red velour curtains, and a dark red couch and love seat set. Helmut Newton posters on the wall depicted couples in sadomasochistic poses. She saw him glancing at them and smirked. “You’re new to the scene?”
“Uh, very new. Like not really part of it.”
“Let me guess. You’re here doing research for a term paper or a friend told you about it and you’re just not sure?”
“No. I knew Tammy and can’t believe she killed herself.” The words were blunt but necessary to ground him. He felt overwhelmed by the young woman and the apartment, and the bullwhip lying on the coffee table next to a stack of pornographic magazines. There was a funky, goaty smell, with an overlay of perfume. And something else, faint, which brought back memories. Cordite and blood. Battlefield smells. His stomach rolled.
She sensed his weakness and moved closer. “You want a drink?” she suggested with slightly slurred speech, and he realized that she was drugged. A central nervous system depressant, maybe alcohol, a benzo, or even heroin. “I was expecting a customer. I mean, a friend. I’m Trixie. Are you looking for a date?”
“No. I was trying to understand what happened with Tammy. Were you the one who found her?”
She glanced at her watch. “I guess he’s not gonna show. The wuss is probably afraid the cops will be back. Or maybe the place is haunted.” She strode to a shelf and poured herself a scotch, added ice, then made it a double. “You want a shot? No charge.” She went to the CD player and put in Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Greatest Hits.
Hanson moved to the love seat and turned to face the couch. She rejected the hint and sat next to him on the love seat.
He asked, “You and Tammy were roommates?”
“Yeah. Plus we did an occasional scene together. T and T. Get it?” She squeezed his thigh for emphasis, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Man, what happened to her really sucks.”
“It sounds like you think someone did something,” he prompted.
“I don’t know. Maybe she flipped out. I think the cops are covering up.
Creedence filled the air with the praises of Proud Mary while Trixie sipped. He sensed she was deciding whether she wanted to open up or stay in her professional character.
“I know who you are. Her counselor.”
He said nothing.
“She described you, thought you were cute for an older guy.”
“You found her?” he asked, avoiding distraction as she adjusted one of her breasts that nearly escaped the enhancing embrace of her Wonderbra.
She nodded, shivered. “Maybe it would help to talk to you. Like going to a priest.”
Was it a conflict of interest, a blur of his role, investigating? He was trying to decide how to answer when she began talking. “I came home, didn’t expect her here. The place smelled funny, you know, like fireworks on the Fourth of July. I yelled for her. No answer.” Trixie closed her eyes and swayed, reliving the moment. “I’m thinking she had burned weird incense or maybe some weed. Then I saw her lying in the bedroom. Looked like she had one of those Indian things in the middle of her forehead, you know, a red dot. But the dot was huge. Then I thought maybe it was like a burn. Then I saw her eyes.” She shivered. “Wide open. Scared. Not seeing anything no more. I didn’t scream, just called 911. I did that even though I’ve had trouble with the cops in the past.” She looked to him for praise.
“It was the right thing to do,” Hanson said reassuringly. “Did you see a note?”
She shook her head. “Her two eyes open, and that red one, like a three-eyed monster. I had a nightmare about it, like the same thing happening over again. Only this time she sat up in bed and said, ‘Watch out, Ellie.’ That’s my real name, Eleanor. She never called me Trixie. You want to call me Ellie?”
“Whichever you’d prefer.”
“Ellie. I mean, who’d believe a name like Trixie anyway?”
“You didn’t go into the room?” he asked to get her back on track.
“I watch CSI. Law and Order too,” she said proudly. “I know about fingerprints and like that. Though the cops were sure right from the start she committed suicide. Which was weird, wasn’t it?”
He nodded. “You think it was something else?”
She had finished her drink and held up the empty glass, “You want?”
He shook his head.
“Would you be a nice boy and get me one?”
He stood and took the glass. Pouring, he noticed a slight shake in his hand. He gave her a single, with lots of ice. He hesitated, eyeing the bottle. Would it really hurt to have a shot? He set the bottle down. One minute at a time.
“Tell me more about what you think about it,” he said, sitting on the couch.
She moved from the love seat and sidled in next to him without hesitation. She crooked a finger for him to lean close. “I think there’s a serial killer,” she whispered. He could smell her whiskey breath. It repulsed and attracted him, fragments of memories of alcoholic carousing.
“What makes you say that?” he asked gently.
She lowered her voice, even softer, and he barely heard her slurred words.
“I’ve known others girls who’ve disappeared,” she said. “Cops don’t know or care.”
“But Tammy didn’t disappear,” he said.
“There have been other deaths,” she said, wide-eyed, like a kid telling a horror story around a campfire. “And disappearances. Unexplained. Maybe you can keep me safe.” Her hand had flopped onto his thigh and crawled around on his lap.
She had long, artificial glitter green fingernails. He moved her pale, slender hand, then held it down near his
knee.
“Is there anything else that makes you suspicious?”
“She wasn’t even living here,” Trixie said, beginning to sniffle. “She was kind of moved out. I only seen her a coupla times in the past month.” There were long pauses between her words as she struggled to compose her thoughts. Then she began to cry. “Life sucks. Tammy was nice to me.”
“Where did she move to?” he asked awkwardly. He was used to asking feelings questions, and Trixie was awash in them. His usual work didn’t involve sitting on a couch in a prostitute’s apartment while she draped across him in full leather regalia.
“Eagleton.”
“Are you sure?”
Eagleton was a posh riverside condo development, a bastion of successful yuppies, a place where most who worked in community mental health couldn’t afford to live. There were more than a hundred luxury condo apartments in the development, all with a waterfront view and lots of amenities.
“She told me about it,” Trixie said, speaking slower and slower, with more effort. “Had this great view of the river.”
“Which apartment?”
Trixie swayed and leaned on him.
“Do you know her apartment number?”
She belched, opened her mouth to speak, and dozed off with a smile.
“Trixie? Trixie?”
She snored as he lifted her off him and set her down on the couch. He found a blanket in the bedroom, covered her, then returned to the bedroom. During his early crisis-outreach work, he had been a visitor to crime scenes. He knew the chaos that followed after a police invasion. Here there was no fingerprint powder clinging to surfaces, no furniture moved aside. Had someone done a great job cleaning up or was the initial investigation skimpy?
Reassuring himself that Trixie remained asleep, he rummaged through the big wooden dresser drawers, unsure what he was looking for. He found enough gaudy underwear to outfit a Victoria’s Secret franchise. There was a crack pipe that looked like it hadn’t been used in a while and a bag with a half gram of marijuana. He felt the urge to roll the buds between his fingers, sniff the sweet oily residue. He knew if he did, he’d quickly be filling a pipe full. He dropped the bag in the drawer and slammed it. Not without considerable regret. Sitting on top of the dresser was a worn, fuzzy brown teddy bear with sad black button eyes. How much of it was Tammy’s, how much was Trixie’s, and how much was a prop for tricks?
LaFleur had been dead for a day and Trixie was ready to do business in the bed she had been found in. Trixie snored contentedly on the couch as Hanson slipped out.
It was close to 7 p.m. and dark out. The high-intensity streetlight was broken, and he crunched broken glass underfoot as he walked to his car.
Jeanie Hanson tapping the black ergonomic keyboard on the Dell computer in her home office; Google search on Tony Dorsey produced more than one hundred thousand hits. She refined the search by adding Portland, then deputy mayor, narrowing it down to twenty-three entries. Her best information came from a three-year-old newspaper article.
Dorsey was forty, married with three children, had a law degree from an unnamed university but had never actually practiced law, and considered himself a moderate Republican. He enjoyed cross-country skiing, had a summer home at the coast that he described as a cabin though it had a couple thousand square feet, and lived in the trendiest suburb. She smiled when she read the reporter’s description of him as “cruelly handsome, like a young Sean Connery.”
She could flirt and dicker with Dorsey. Jeanie was thinking about putting together an outfit that was both professional and sexy when she heard Brian come in. “Where’ve you been?” she asked, quickly exiting the article she had been reading.
“Cleaning up paperwork,” he said tersely.
They had been married for two decades, so Jeanie Hanson knew something was wrong. She guessed he was brooding over the client who had killed herself, and she didn’t have the patience to discuss that.
Didn’t he get that he was immersed in his dirty little low-life section of the town, while she was working to build a world-class city? Negotiating with a Japanese bank for a new twenty-five-story downtown high-rise. Renovating and developing the industrial inner east side. Expanding the urban growth boundaries with the mall development. Why couldn’t Brian grow up?
She didn’t want to talk about her interest in the deputy mayor and plans for lunch. Although she could justify it to anyone who might ask, deep down she felt squirmy. But more excited than she had been in several years.
While Brian Hanson spent decades trying to flee Vietnam memories, for the man known as Wolf, Vietnam was glorious. Raw talents he had evidenced as a youth were honed and polished with the SEALs. The Army Green Berets got the publicity, a hokey song, a bad John Wayne movie. They were force multipliers, the leaders in securing the hearts and minds of the local people. The SEALs, coming out of the Navy’s underwater demolition teams and known to the Vietnamese as the Greenfaces because of their scary camo makeup, were more of a killing force. Infiltrate by land, sea, or air, execute or blow up, then exfiltrate. Though he worked with the Green Beanies as part of the Military Assistance Command Vietnam—Studies and Observation Group, Wolf saw anyone but a SEAL as an action wannabe. When the war ended, he found that his skills were in even more demand. He briefly engaged in counterterrorism and floated as a quasi-mercenary.
Standing at the pay phone outside the 7-Eleven, in a mini mall about fifteen minutes from downtown, he was the essence of nondescript. He wore clear glass spectacles and had a well-worn baseball cap for the Seahawks pulled tight on his head, with loose-fitting dark clothing hiding his large frame. He dialed a number and it was picked up after two rings.
Wolf said, “Speak.”
“The target’s name is Jorge Gonzalez. He lives at 2100 Oak Street in Gresham, a one-story light blue clapboard house.” His tone made it clear he was used to having commands respected.
“I don’t like to do a job without a picture,” Wolf said. “This is pretty quick on my last piece of work.”
“I know,” the man with the commanding voice said. “It will be easiest tonight. He’s alone. Beat up his girlfriend. She’ll probably go back to him in a couple days.”
“Got a description? It would be annoying to kill his visiting cousin.” “He’s about five eight, brown hair and eyes.”
“That narrows it down. Let me guess, dark complexion?”
Neither man was used to back talk, and despite their working relationship of several years, there was as much tension as collaboration.
“He’s got tattoos of three tears next to his right eye and prison-made tattoos on his arms. A snake with JG. Think you can identify him?”
“Why the rush, other than his girlfriend being away?”
“He’s done an armed robbery a week for the past couple months. Pistol-whipped clerks a couple of times. Seems to be escalating.”
Wolf grunted. He liked to get the information, then check it independently. Make sure the target was truly deserving of his attention. The reports had always been accurate, but his visits were irreversible.
“Just so you know how dangerous he is. Suspect in two homicides. Word is he plans on killing a witness to one of his robberies in the next few days.”
“How do you want him?” Wolf asked.
The man at the other end of the line knew what he meant—should the target disappear, seem to die from natural causes, or die a violent death?
“I understand that Jorge likes to go fishing.”
“Sometimes you get the fish, sometimes the fish gets you,” Wolf said as he hung up the phone.
FIVE
“You look particularly nice today,” Hanson said the next morning, trying to connect with his wife. Jeanie nodded, gave him a polite peck on the cheek, and hurried out. Sitting with his coffee, in the silence of their home, Hanson thought about his therapy sessions with Louis Parker, and what the old private investigator had told him about digging up information.
“Mayb
e one-quarter of my time I did surveillances, meeting with witnesses, the kind of stuff you read about in those PI books,” Parker had said. “Truth is, the bulk of the time I spent at the county courthouse, city hall, hall of administration. Real adventures, like when the microfiche machine breaks or they find a file out of alphabetical order. Of course sometimes you had to get out to the scene, do a canvass, look for the pieces the cops had missed. Or tried to hide.”
Hanson had the advantage of already having Tammy’s basics—real name, alias, Social Security number, birth date, address. Parker had claimed that with name and birth date, any investigator should be able to put together a twenty-page report without beating, bribing, or sleeping with a single source.
Hanson strolled along the waterfront, wondering how Parker would find where Tammy lived, knowing only the development, Eagleton. On this sunny fall day, during the break between the bouts of clouds and rain, the walkway was crowded with Rollerbladers, bicyclists, kids on scooters, skateboarders, and pedestrians. Many of the wooden benches were occupied by people reading, gazing at the boats on the slow-moving river, or lost in conversation. An elderly couple held hands sweetly. Hanson came to the Eagleton complex and stared at the hundred redbrick three-story units, daunted by the size and his lack of information.
He visited the rental office and pretended to be interested in a condo. A perky middle-aged woman told him there were fewer than a half dozen units available, that a studio started at $250,000. The most expensive was a $1.2 million three-bedroom.
“Breathtaking harbor views, convenient docking, fully equipped gym with …” His mind wandered as she continued her sales pitch. “And how did you hear about us?” the saleswoman was asking.
It was the entree he’d been waiting for. “A friend of mine, Tammy LaFleur, lives here. She raves about it.”
