Borderline

by Mark Schorr

  SIX

  “You’ve been looking into Tammy’s death?” Louis Parker asked with a smug I-already-know-the-answer expression.

  “What makes you say that?” Hanson said, trying to hide his surprise.

  “In a lotta ways every place is like high school.”

  Hanson cocked his head slightly to the side and gave him a tell-me-more look.

  “Every place is made up of cliques and smaller communities. Say I was dropped down in New York and needed to do a skip trace. I low would I do it?”

  “I don’t know,” Hanson said. “I don’t even know what a skip trace is.”

  “Tracking a deadbeat or bail jumper. Anyone who doesn’t want to be found. The paper trail is a good place to start. Like you did at the courthouse.”

  “How did …”

  “I’ve got my sources. Particularly when someone is stumbling around like an elephant in a china shop. No, wait, that’s a bull. It’s the elephant in the living room. Anyway, paper is always good. Hard to argue with what’s written down. You can gather info without the suspect even knowing.” Parker grinned at Hanson’s befuddlement.

  “Please go on,” Hanson said.

  “You’re trying to sound therapeutic, Doc, but I know it’s more than that. Remind you of your time in Vietnam?”

  Hanson leaned back in his chair, keeping a poker face. “What do you know about Vietnam?”

  “When I was first coming, I wondered how much of the real world you had seen. I didn’t want a pansy-ass with a degree and no idea about anything outside a textbook. Sure, I checked you out.”

  “I passed?”

  “Obviously. So let’s go back to checking out my hypothetical guy in New York. I find out what he likes, whether it’s a hobby, or a food, or a type of crime. Then I start narrowing it down. People know people who know people. Six degrees of Kevin Bacon.” He sat back, enjoying himself. “So what’s your theory?”

  “About what?”

  “Tammy. When you do an investigation, you usually start with a hypothesis. The butler did it. Actually, usually it’s someone husband, wife, business partner. Then, who was around, anyone seen in the area. Then look at the cause of death. Motive. Opportunity. Method. Think of MOM.”

  “I’ve heard of that. But we’re getting far afield of a counseling session.”

  “C’mon, Doc, we usually do. You like listening to my war stories. I can help you out on this deal. Good for my juices too.”

  “Louis, I appreciate the offer, but it would be a gross ethical violation of the therapist-counselor relationship. You could investigate much better than I can, but I’m not even sure if I should.”

  Parker leaned forward and patted Hanson’s knee. “You feel it in your gut, don’t you?”

  Hanson nodded.

  “I know you pretty well, probably better than you think. I know how you respond to what I say, what gets your interest, what you’re listening to politely. You think a therapist is the only one who likes to read people? C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

  Hanson shook his head.

  Parker sat back and folded his arms. After a longer silence, he said, “Okay, you got a code, I’ve got to respect that. If I give you a name, would you follow up?”

  “I’d have to think about it.”

  “What’s to think? If you’ve got something, it’ll be sweet for you and her.”

  “Her?”

  “My niece. You tell her what you got. She’s looking to make ASAC by the time she’s forty.”

  “ASAC?”

  “Assistant special agent in charge. Run a field office. It’ll be easy to talk with her. She was a profiler, worked for behavioral sciences.”

  “Serial killers?”

  “Yeah. She’s had a lot of hot assignments. Organized crime in Miami. Counterterrorism in Chicago. That kid’s on the fast track.”

  Access to someone who actually knew about serial killers. Contacting Parker’s niece seemed like an ethical breach, but was it really so bad? In smaller communities, there were constant overlaps, dual relationships, blurred boundaries, he rationalized.

  “I’ll think about it,” Hanson said.

  “I’ll tell her to expect your call,” Parker responded.

  “He’s an idiot,” Mayor Robinson said.

  “Yes, but he’s an elected idiot,” Tony Dorsey responded. “A strong presence on the city council. He’s popular with the west side crowd and has a respectable war chest. He could even make a run against you next time. We need to figure out a way to both intimidate and appease him.”

  The mayor ran his hand through his thick, prematurely gray hair. The hair, coupled with a youthful face, made guessing his age a challenge. Somewhere between thirty and sixty. Actually right in the middle. Forty-five years old, trim, with blue eyes that could shift from twinkly warmth to Great Plains chill in milliseconds. And then back again.

  Robinson, Dorsey, the press secretary, and the comptroller were in the mayor’s office, a floor above Dorsey’s and twice as large. One long wall was dominated by floor-to-ceiling teak bookcases. Looking at the wall, a perceptive observer could have written Robinson’s life story. His schooling (framed diplomas from a local high school, the state university, and Stanford Law School), career (law, with a focus on interstate commerce), family (pictures of his wife, his two daughters), hobbies (old baseball mitt, framed old postcards of the city, books on cross country skiing, the U.S. Constitution).

  “He’s already making noises about having a hearing on the sewage plant fumes,” the press secretary said. “The paper’s going to be having a story on it this weekend. They called for a comment.”

  “What did I say, C.J.?” the mayor asked, grinning. Her name was not C.J., but one of the mayor’s behind-closed-doors affectations was to call his closest staff by the name of characters in The West Wing. Dorsey was “Leo.” The comptroller was “Josh,” based more on his looks than his role.

  The press secretary was a former TV newswoman who had made it as far as weekend anchoring for the NBC affiliate in Seattle before an exec with an ink-still-wet MBA decided she “was too old and had a low Q-rating.” She’d come back to Portland, initially bitter, but had found she loved her new job. Being an insider was more fun than having to read from a teleprompter while shots of burning buildings flashed on the screen. “You were surprised at the councilman’s reaction, since he was instrumental in getting the plant built in his district,” she said smoothly. “You noted that he was at the initial hearings, and in fact cut the ribbon at the opening, talking about the jobs it would provide, the environmental benefit, the state-of-the-art technology. You suggested the reporter check their old clippings versus what he was saying now.”

  “It’s sounds like I was wonderfully articulate and persuasive. Thank you, C.J.”

  Dorsey shook his head in disagreement.

  “I know what Leo thinks,” the mayor said. “What about you, Josh?”

  “You’re going to need his vote on the bond issue for the new transit mall next month. He’s thin-skinned and will hold a grudge.”

  “Exactly,” Dorsey said. “Getting off the snappy response is fun in the short run.”

  “We let him get away with his cheap shots?’ the press secretary asked, scowling.

  “We need to teach him a lesson, but privately, so he can save face. And he’ll know that if he screws around, the next time we will ream him publicly.”

  “The councilman is Mr. Environmental Goody Two-Shoes, right?” Dorsey asked.

  “Granola Boy in Birkenstocks,” the comptroller said, and they chuckled.

  Dorsey took out an eight-by-ten black-and-white photo of the councilman and showed it to the group.

  “Let’s say this was to get to Willy Week?” Dorsey proposed.

  Robinson laughed out loud. “That’s what I love about you, Leo. You’re more Machiavellian than Machiavelli.”

  “What do we do about the Portland Tribune?” Robinson asked.

  Dorsey turned to the pre
ss secretary. “How tame is the reporter?”

  “She’s ambitious, but she’ll yank the story under pressure,” the press secretary said.

  “Especially if the councilman calls and says that he didn’t have all the facts, is going to be working closely with the mayor, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “Maybe give her an exclusive on the bond issue, how we’re going to be filing the proposal next week,” the comptroller suggested.

  “Only you would get aroused over a story like that,” Dorsey quipped, and the mayor and the press secretary laughed. The comptroller forced a weak smile. “We’ve had a few requests for a day-in-the-life-type story on the mayor. I bet she’d go for that.”

  “Front page for her, if we promise to throw in some newsy sweetening,” the press secretary said. “What about the councilman?”

  “I’ll take care of him,” Dorsey said.

  “I really don’t think we—,” the comptroller began.

  Dorsey cut him off. “I don’t tell you how to count beans, you don’t tell me how to handle political situations.”

  The press secretary and the comptroller both looked to the mayor, expecting him to rein Dorsey in. The mayor was about to say something when Dorsey glowered at him. Robinson asked, “Is there anything else we need to discuss?”

  Lunchtime, and the line had formed outside the mission for those who would listen to a Bible talk in exchange for a meal. When Hanson walked by the line, a young guy with a ponytail and matted beard shoved his hand in front of Hanson and demanded, “Got spare change?” A couple of others in line shouted out greetings to Brian, telling the aggressive panhandler, “That’s our shrink. Leave him alone.”

  Hanson felt the warmth of recognition, acceptance. He nodded to those he knew and kept moving. Briskly. He was heading in-country.

  Ostensibly, he was going out for a burger. But he knew why he had chosen the Dew Drop Inn. He found the entrance under a faded, painted sign, with a blinking neon image of a frighteningly buxom woman in the blacked-over window. The standard bar smells of spilled beer and cigarette smoke hit as he let the heavy wooden door shut behind him. Dark, with an empty, brightly lit stage and a gleaming stainless-steel pole. Ludacris’s “What’s Your Fantasy” blasted from cheap speakers. The brass foot rail and long, scarred mahogany bar were signs of the dive’s prouder past.

  He had the impression of people at the tables, their outlines confirmed as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The place was half empty, or half full. Brian chose a table far from the stage, against a back wall, and away from the spotlights.

  Two waitresses, one with fifties towering, teased blond hair and the other dose-cropped androgynous, worked the tables, while a big guy with shaved head and beetle brows tended bar. Hanson knew that his name was Vic, he owned the place, and LaFleur had dated him briefly. She had described him as “not as bad as most of the assholes I’ve fucked” and told Hanson that Vic often pined for his two daughters, who were with his ex-girlfriend in Las Vegas. He knew that Vic had gotten a dishonorable discharge from the Navy, liked going to monster-truck rallies, and rode a Harley. Sex with him was a condition of employment at the bar, and most of the staff also turned tricks to supplement their income. He knew from Tammy that Vic was skimming, cheating his partner, using the money to support a considerable coke habit. That could be a conversation starter.

  The information gave Hanson a feeling of a slight edge, counterbalanced by being in unfamiliar and probably unfriendly surroundings. He scanned for exits, for other possible bar staff, and for anyone who might know him. Several strippers were agency clients, and he thought he saw a male client at a far table. But the man’s attention was focused on the vacant stage, and Hanson leaned back farther into the darkness.

  Reassured, he ordered a medium-well burger with everything on it from the androgynous waitress. She jotted it down while maintaining her bored indifference.

  A woman in a robe strode to the stage like a prizefighter entering the ring. She was a petite brunette with almost elfin features. Her siliconed breasts were unveiled as the music switched to Pink’s “Get the Party Started” and she dropped her robe. The tawdry sexuality, with the underlying danger, reminded him of Saigon. The boom boom bar girls and their VC boyfriends waiting to cut your throat. There was danger in the mundane—the shoeshine boy who’d cut your tendons with a straight razor, the innocuous box wired to a clump of purloined C-4.

  He mentally rebuked himself. This was not the time to get trapped in memories. That was like being on patrol and ruminating on family, friends, or girlfriends left behind. An excellent way to wind up dead.

  Aside from being recognized, there were temptations everywhere: the smell of spilled beer, the clink of glasses, the neon brand names above the bar, the posters on the wall, the slightly glazed look of so many other patrons. Relapse was a wave to the waitress away.

  Hanson was questioning the wisdom of being there when the hamburger was placed in front of him. He tore into it ferociously. Under fire, some guys would lose their appetites, even throw up. For him, the more adrenaline, the hungrier. Even government C rations could taste good.

  The brunette, glistening with sweat, was slowing as she began her third dance. He couldn’t remember what the previous number had been. Hanson’s head ached from the smoke, the noise, and the sharp contrast between the brightly lit stage and the dark surroundings.

  Vic was talking to the androgynous waitress, increasing Hanson’s paranoia. They were looking in his direction. The waitress took over bartending duties and Vic headed toward the back with the fervor of a lottery winner about to grab his prize. A coke run.

  Hanson followed, dodging between the tables, which were so close together a fire marshal could’ve written a book of citations. A new dancer took the stage, a statuesque African American woman with big bangle earrings. She dropped her clothing and stood defiantly, in a bikini that would have been tight on a woman half her size.

  The Eagles’ “Life in the Fast Lane” kicked over as the counselor followed Vic down a short, narrow hallway lined with posters touting Coors, Budweiser, and Hamm’s.

  Hanson paused at the door, on the edge of a precipice. He could go back, pay for his burger, and walk out. Or he could open the door and plunge off the cliff. He hesitated with his hand on the doorknob.

  Dorsey had asked Edith to secretly find out where the councilman would be during his lunch hour. Using her city hall network, she had the answer within five minutes.

  Whole Foods was nicknamed “Whole Paycheck,” with an incredible assortment of the best foods, and prices to match. Cheerful workers lurked everywhere, smiling, offering free samples, eager to please. As the councilman picked out a couple of organic vegan food bars, Dorsey walked a few paces behind him. Just as Dorsey was about to approach, a gray-maned woman wearing a T-shirt stating “Meat Is Murder” over a picture of a sad-eyed cow stopped the councilman.

  Dorsey sidled away as she harangued the Councilman about the villainy of fast-food restaurants. She gestured savagely, with the councilman moving back several times as the woman pressed forward. The councilman offered well-rehearsed sincere and attentive expressions and escaped as quickly as possible.

  Dorsey followed the councilman, who paid for his bars, and ate them as he walked briskly down the street. He entered Powell’s City of Books, which billed itself as “the Legendary Independent Bookstore,” with the largest new and used inventory in the country. The main store, which required a map to navigate, had 4,700 different sections in a block-square site.

  Dorsey tracked him easily as he went into the business section on the first floor and took a book on public relations from the wooden shelf.

  The deputy mayor waited until he seemed absorbed. “Need help with your PR?” Dorsey asked, and the councilman looked up suddenly. He snapped the book shut and put it on the shelf.

  “Not really.”

  “You never know,” Dorsey said, leaning against the shelf and speaking in a confidential tone. />
  “What do you mean?”

  “That big Lord Explorer.”

  “I, you know I’ve got the Toyota Prius, the electric-gas hybrid.”

  “That’s what I thought, until I saw the picture.”

  “What picture?”

  Dorsey took a Management for Dummies book off the shelf and glanced at it, keeping the councilman waiting. “Nicely done. Maybe we ought to get copies for some of our officials.” Then he took the photo out of his pocket, showing the councilman getting out of a mammoth red SUV.

  “This, this was when my car was getting a tune-up. I ran a quick errand, I…”

  “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. When that photographer talked about sending it to Willamette Week for their Rogue of the Week column, I said, ‘This guy’s a friend. Don’t embarrass him.’ ”

  “Thanks, but you didn’t need to. It’s no big deal. Just using my wife’s car. She wants it because she likes to have lots of metal around her when she’s driving the kids.”

  Dorsey shook his head. “So I can tell him to send it over? You wouldn’t mind? I mean, I don’t know how your friends at the Sierra Club would feel.”

  “I can explain it.”

  “You sure?” Dorsey’s raised eyebrows made his skepticism obvious. “It probably wouldn’t cost you too many votes. I mean, those environmentalists can be such single-issue fanatics. Not a reliable constituency.”

  “It probably would be best if he didn’t send the photo.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What does that mean?”