by Mark Schorr
“All of our tenants do.”
“I’d like to stop by and talk with her. You wouldn’t happen to know her apartment offhand? I left my address book at home.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t divulge that even if I knew. We honor our tenants’ privacy.”
“She’ll be disappointed. She had pretty much sold me on getting a place here.”
The saleswoman hesitated, then dug a list out of her pocketbook. “Tammy?”
“LaFleur. Though it might be under her maiden name, Grundig.”
“I don’t see those names on my list.”
“Can I take a look?”
The saleswoman shook her head and tucked the list back in her pocketbook. “I only checked because you have such honest eyes. Do you want to see a luxury condo?”
He toured, feigning attentiveness and wondering what it would be like to live there. He had told the woman he was recently divorced and she boasted of the exciting social scene. After a polite half hour, he accepted her card, ambled to a park bench by the river, and pondered his next step.
Jeanie Hanson pulled on her reading glasses and studied the papers. “You’ve got quite a negative variance here,” she said.
“But if you look at the AR—,” the nonprofit’s comptroller began. “Your accounts receivable doesn’t impress me,” Jeanie said. “I see from your last few years how much you had to write off.”
“Our projected revenue from Medicare billings means—,” the nonprofit’s chief financial officer started.
“Look, let’s not waste each other’s time,” Hanson said, setting the papers down on her large black wrought-iron and glass-topped desk. She kept the surface free of knickknacks, no family photos, reinforcing the cold and clear look she liked to present.
There were two plaques on the off-white walls, awards from banking associations she had received with suitable pomp and circumstance at annual dinners. Brian had been dragged along, suffering and muttering like a petulant kid. She thought about him and what his reaction would be at this meeting. He would find a way to bail out the nonprofit, extend its line of credit, allow them to inflate the value of their assets that they could borrow against. That would be fine for the nonprofit, which served developmentally disabled clients. Short-term kindhearted but ultimately blocking the city’s progress. She had tried to explain to her husband many times that increasing the city’s tax base meant more funding for social services, which would help the disabled more. As well as all the other citizens.
“There are a few donors who have come through in the past,” the CFO said.
Jeanie Hanson glanced at the sheet, though she knew the numbers by heart. “They’ve been tapped out for this year. And your largest donor has shifted priorities.” What she didn’t say was that one of the bank’s influential board members had spoken to the largest donor, suggesting that money be given to another worthwhile cause. Jeanie didn’t feel bad, because it wasn’t like they were shutting the charity down, just helping it to make the best decision.
“What do you propose?” the CFO asked.
“In reviewing your inventory of assets, I noted that four-bedroom home on Northwest Twenty-fourth near Lovejoy. Has that been appraised recently?”
“That was our founder’s first RCF. It’s been run by the foundation for nearly fifty years.”
“You can be sentimental about a run-down residential care facility, or you can be practical. Because of the location, you can sell that, probably for close to a million. Put one-third into reserves, one-third into buying a facility out of the downtown core, and then one-third to fix it up.”
“I don’t know,” the comptroller said. “The family that runs this is pretty attached to that property.”
Jeanie looked at her watch. “That’s fine. You bring them the proposal, have them think about it, and give me a call.”
“What about our line of credit?”
Jeanie shrugged. “We’re not the only bank in town. You know what we’re suggesting. If you can find anyone else who would give you a better deal, go for it.”
There were polite, terse good-byes. As Jeanie shut the door, she allowed herself a broad grin. She guessed they would accede within forty-eight hours. It was basically a good deal, and these nonprofit types didn’t have the spirit for hardball.
She had a half hour to get to Antoinette’s. She spent fifteen minutes in the executive bathroom, playing with her hair, plucking at her eyebrows, adjusting her makeup. She realized she hadn’t primped like this since she was a teenager. Brian never seemed to care how she looked. Both a blessing and a curse.
Sitting on the park bench, Brian Hanson twitched with unchanneled energy. He thought back to Vietnam-era braggadocio, locked and loaded, ready to rock and roll. The trite little phrases that had become part of his vocabulary. Spray and pray, for indiscriminate firing into the brush; shoot and scoot, lock and cock; tag and bag, for the goodbyes to comrades. Most of all there was the mantra he had repeated to himself incessantly, when he saw a water buffalo shredded by an M60 on a soldier’s whim, or a buddy gut shot and leaking intestines, or a grenade tossed into a hut and blowing apart a grandmother and child. “Don’t mean nothing.” How many times had he cried himself to sleep, repeating the phrase over and over and over.
He forced himself back to the present. The flashbacks, the dissociation, the numbness, got worse when he was under stress. He could make the symptoms go away but it took effort. Exhausting effort. He had to keep busy, distracted. He had to go back to the condos. But if he went door to door without a plausible excuse, someone would call the police. In poorer neighborhoods, his county ID would be enough. Residents were used to complying with authorities, albeit in a passive-aggressive way. Sometimes outright hostile. But calling the police would just bring more unwanted governmental attention to them.
He went downtown to the Multnomah County Courthouse. He had been there several dozen times over the years, usually testifying whether someone should be committed for an extended psychiatric hospitalization. When it was built in 1914, the block-square six-story building was the largest courthouse in the West. It was dominated by limestone Ionic columns on the outside and high-ceilinged hallways with impressive woodwork on the inside, but what struck him was the different smells. Of sweat and too much perfume in the corridors and courtrooms, and that musty, dusty paper odor in the bowels of the court where the records were kept. Which was where he headed.
The building housed reams and reams of documents from civil and criminal proceedings, as well as county tax records. The files had outgrown the space and were being converted to CD-ROMs. Hanson used the microfiche to look up Tammy’s case numbers. He jotted them down on a call slip and passed it across the worn counter.
The clerk, an almost albino pale young man, made his boredom evident as he said, “I need ID before you can have files.”
Hanson showed his county ID. “You with the DA’s office?” the clerk assumed, not really looking at the laminated card and pleased at a chance to talk. Hanson realized how all the IDs issued by the county looked the same, and felt a happy surge, as if he had gained the superpower of assuming different identities.
“I’m with mental health,” he said, feeling no reason to lie.
“I wish I had some mental health,” the clerk said with a dry laugh, followed by a smoker’s cough. “You can use the photocopier for free, just write down your department.”
The clerk hadn’t read his name, and since he was not on official business, Hanson scrawled an unintelligible squiggle. The clerk shuffled into the back, eventually returning with four inches of files. Hanson said his thanks and took them to a view carousel in the back of the room. After about an hour reading, he photocopied several dozen pages from civil and criminal records that looked promising, knowing it would take more focused study to determine what was worthwhile. But none of the papers gave an address in the Eagleton condos.
Jeanie Hanson believed it was one of nicest lunches she had ever had. Instea
d of the sharpie come-on she had expected, they chatted amiably. Tony Dorsey talked about his wife and kids, the frustrations of being a father and a husband. She found herself naturally talking about Jeff, whom she was so proud of, and Brian, and the mixed feelings that went with that. Despite being a powerful political figure, Tony Dorsey was a good listener who smoothly refilled her glass and made her feel special.
She told him about Brian’s Vietnam combat experience and where he worked.
“Being a counselor must be an interesting job,” Dorsey said.
“Ugh. The people he works with, they’re so extreme. He used to talk about it with me, but only in vague terms to protect their identities. Like I would really care. Still, I don’t know how he does it. Or why he’d want to.” She sipped the seventy-five-dollar-a-bottle Bouger Vineyards merlot. “Now what you do, that’s interesting. I hear the mayor won’t make decisions without consulting you.”
He gave an endearing aw-shucks shrug.
“I must admit, I did an Internet search on you. Not much from before you came here. Very mysterious.” She cocked her head and gazed at him curiously.
“Let’s talk business, shall we?” he said, though it wasn’t a question.
For several minutes they spoke about zoning variances, traffic flows, and which anchor stores would be most advantageous to the development. She could tell he was impressed with the easy way she brought up facts and figures in response to his questions, and when she didn’t know, she admitted it and promised to get back to him. She could imagine the scene in a movie, the camera circling, capturing him, her, their posture, their closeness, their heat.
He sipped more merlot, stroked his chin with his free hand. “I’m going to tell you a secret. The answer to your question before, something most people don’t know.” He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “You asked about my background. I was CIA.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “Nothing glamorous. Analysis work. A few overseas postings. I gave the government fifteen years of service, but it leaves a hole in your resume. I’ve got a lame cover story about working for the Defense Department, but I never liked it.”
They locked eyes. “I’ve never met a spy before.”
“Former spy. There are things I saw that I don’t like to think about. I bet your husband says the same thing.”
She nodded, not really wanting to talk about Brian, wanting to learn more about the fascinating Tony Dorsey.
“Does he have times when his emotions flare, when he’s different, scary to be around?”
“He’s going through one now,” she said.
“Hmm. Do you know what triggered it?”
“A client of his died. He feels responsible, and won’t believe it was suicide.”
“An accidental death?”
“No. l hat she was murdered. He’s read too many mysteries, thinks lie’s Sherlock Holmes.”
They both chuckled.
“The thrill of the hunt,” Dorsey said.
He patted her hand, lingering for a moment. “I’ve really enjoyed this lunch. I feel like I’ve known you forever.”
“Me too,” she said.
“I’m hoping we must have lots of meetings about the Springfield mall. And the inner southeast project.”
“I’m sure there are numerous details to discuss.”
“Definitely. I’m curious about your husband’s investigation. You know if he does uncover anything, I can make sure it gets to the right people.” Tony was so sweet, even humoring her husband. “That would be great.”
“But if I know husbands, I suspect he wouldn’t want to know that you’re coming to me for help. We’ll keep it between us.”
She was excited at having a secret connection with Dorsey. “I feel like I’m being recruited as a spy.”
“My little Mata Hari,” Dorsey said, and she felt a warmth at his use of the possessive.
Driving back to work, she found herself humming Carly Simon’s “The Spy Who Loved Me.” She caught herself, was momentarily embarrassed, and then began loudly singing, “Nobody does it better.”
When Jeanie Hanson returned late that evening, Brian had files spread across the dining room table. He greeted her with an inattentive grunt, standing hunched over the table and barely looking up.
“What’ve you got there?” she asked.
“Court papers and other records on the client who died,” Brian said, continuing to scan the papers.
“Anything interesting?” she asked casually.
He looked up and she saw the fatigue and anguish in his eyes.
She suddenly realized how painful the death was for him. “Honey, put it aside. I’ll give you a back rub.”
He shook his head. “Thanks, but I know the answer is buried here.”
She strode into the house and settled in.
As Hanson pieced together the life and death of Tammy LaFleur/Grundig, there was no shortage of suspects. Mainly abusive boyfriends, a few jealous girlfriends of men she dated, and a couple of drug dealers whom she had ripped off. Plus indications she had been an informant on a meth lab case. Tammy had been immersed in a world of violence and criminality. Yet she had been making progress. Her last criminal charge—possession of a few grams of marijuana—had been six months earlier. No prostitution arrests in more than a year, no charges of possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute in eighteen months.
How had she been able to afford the Eagleton condo? A sugar daddy? Brian was frustrated over the mystery and with Jeanie, who had been so quick to breeze by him. Wasn’t she willing to do more than feign a millisecond of concern?
He felt the cravings and the desire for someone to talk to. Someone who could comprehend the beast within him. It wouldn’t be Betty Pearlman or anyone from the mental health clinic. If he mentioned his concerns to anyone there, it would be categorized as an unhealthy, and unprofessional, obsession. They couldn’t understand the strange energy it tapped into. He’d go from clinician to client quickly in their minds.
It was close to midnight but he called Bill McFarlane.
“Too late to get popcorn,” McFarlane answered, recognizing the number from his caller ID. “How’re you doing?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Accepting life on life’s terms?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“You have the right to fuck up your life. If you choose to exercise that right, anything you do can make things worse. If you can’t screw it up yourself, we can provide someone who will make it immeasurably worse.”
“The dark side of Miranda,” Hanson said.
McFarlane snorted. “The real Miranda had his own dark side. A dirtbag rapist who supported his low-life habits by autographing warning cards. Got killed in a bar fight a couple years after the Supreme Court decision.”
“I’ve got suspicions on the Tammy LaFleur murder.”
“You’re the only one calling it a murder. You’re not with the ME, the DA, the police, or the sheriff. How stupid are you willing to look?”
“I’m willing to have the courage of my convictions. Then I can turn it over to you pros.”
“I’m thinking you need a checkup from the neck up.”
It annoyed Hanson when McFarlane lapsed into 12-step cliché speak. “And get off the pity pot,” Hanson said, with an exaggeratedly tired voice. “I forgot to ask about the gun. Where did it come from?”
“That was one of the first things they looked at. It was reported stolen from a house about three months ago. John Q. Citizen type. The trail there is cold.”
“How would she wind up with it?”
“Brian, she had lots of enemies and knew the streets. Even when she was doing her ‘Guns are bad’ rap with you, how long would it take her to get a stolen piece if she wanted?”
“Well, if she felt she needed protection, maybe she knew something. She is dead.”
“And it looks like it was by her own hand. What will it take for you to get over thi
s denial trip? What will it take for you to accept what you are powerless over?”
“I’d like to know for sure.”
“That’s stinkin’ thinkin’,” McFarlane said. “Absolutism. Wanting the world to be the way you want it. Black and white.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t be talking to you, maybe you’re too entrenched.”
“You don’t feel I’m telling you the truth?”
Hanson recognized a therapeutic confrontation. He was frequently surprised when McFarlane said what a good counselor would have said in a similar situation.
“You admit the police may be involved,” Hanson said. “Maybe I should try talking to Internal Affairs.”
“That would be interesting. I can give you the number if you’d like.”
“You think they’d listen?”
“Oh, they’d listen. Not sure how they’d take it.” McFarlane paused, like a comic waiting to deliver a punch line. “I could refer you right to the top. Captain Grundig.”
“Maybe I should.”
“He was her uncle. You think he doesn’t know she was killed? You think he’s waiting for some guilt-ridden addict counselor to bring it to his attention?”
“Okay, you made your point,” Hanson said.
“Brian, I know you’re doing this from a place of concern,” McFarlane said, softening his voice. “Take a step back, look at things objectively. Pretend you were counseling someone in a similar place.”
Hanson sighed. “Okay, thanks.”
“Listen, don’t hesitate to call. I know you’re going through a tough time. You’ve built a good life, but don’t forget, once an addict, always an addict.”
Jeanie Hanson lay in bed, listening attentively to her husband’s side of the telephone conversation. Telling Tony Dorsey would be harmless.
The erotic attraction was suppressed; she was thinking how good he could be for her business connections.
She thought about the VP who currently served as liaison with the city on some of the biggest projects. He was nearing retirement. It was a high-profile position, in line for the real inner circle. But it was more than that. There was her own money, which, if invested wisely, could be quadrupled. Get her back to the lifestyle she had grown up with. There was no such thing as insider trading to worry about. As long as her investments didn’t inflate what the bank had to pay, there would be no punishable conflict of interest.
