by Mark Schorr
Tony Dorsey loved the excitement of a construction site. So much of what he did involved ideas, talk, memos. Construction sites were the concrete realization of that work, abstraction made real. The wet cement and shiny metal studs, the scream of the circular saws, pounding of hammers, hard-hatted workers hurrying about, piles of material transformed into a structure. It reminded him of his past, though sites in the Pacific Northwest were nowhere near as corrupt as the ones he had visited during his previous life. The concrete wasn’t watered down, nor were inspectors paid off. There were safety policies and procedures, and bosses actually seemed to follow them. Of course as the goto guy in the mayor’s office, it was often his job to provide a shortcut. To make sure a well-connected friend’s application at the bottom of the pile was switched to the top or a marginally acceptable inspection had a few points shifted, to be sure it passed.
There had been community resistance to this project, a high-rise full of pricey condos in a neighborhood where nothing currently was taller than three stories. The building was part of Mayor Robinson’s vision for greater urban density. At least that was the official public reason. The fact that both the major contractor and the bank financing the project had donated more than fifty thousand dollars to his past campaigns, and had committed to that much again if he ran for Senate, was not discussed.
Dorsey spotted the contractor hurrying into the white-sided trailer at the edge of the site. Walking carefully in his Ferragamos, Dorsey rapped on the trailer door and stepped inside without waiting for a response.
“Tony, good to see you,” the contractor lied. A stout sixty-year-old with an oversize coffee cup in his hand, he sat at a small desk looking over papers. The cramped trailer was packed with papers on clipboards, pinned-up blueprints, racks with recharging walkie-talkies, spare hard hats, some of the more expensive pneumatic tools, and spools of copper wire.
“I know. Though it would have been nice if you returned my phone calls.”
“I’m sorry, I’ve been busy. Got three projects going. The new Clackamas County administrative building. The mall development. And this. I been running around so much, haven’t even had a chance to return calls in days. You’re at the top of the list. I was about to call.”
“I’m sure.”
“So how’s the mayor?”
“Fine. Though he’d be disappointed if he heard who you chose as the artist for the city admin project.” Through the public art program, 1.33 percent of the capital budget on new construction projects had to go for art.
“C’mon, you know I don’t choose the artist.”
“The mayor was really hoping that Candice Crossley’s work would be chosen. He’s a big fan of hers.”
“But the commission—”
“I know what went on. I know it’s not a coincidence that your cousin was chosen. His work looks like shit.”
“It’s not my taste either, but—”
“I suggest you talk with the commission about the inherent problems in siting his artwork, how it doesn’t fit with the architect’s vision, whatever you need to say. I’m hoping to hear that, after careful reconsideration, Crossley’s work was chosen.”
“But she’s a painter.”
“Those long corridors demanded something to break up the monotony.”
“I can t—”
“Don’t tell me what you can’t do. Now I believe that at least ten percent of your subcontractors need to be non-Caucasian. It looks awfully white bread around here. I didn’t recognize any minority names in the contracts. We may need to shut things down so we can review that you are in compliance.”
“Tony, do you always have to go right for the balls?”
“I’m too busy to play nice. You know what I expect. Make it happen and we’ll have plenty of time to be pals.” Dorsey gave the contractor a small salute as he headed out.
He had to grab the errant puppy by the scruff of his neck and give him a shake or he’d pee on the carpet and grow into a disobedient mutt. Which reminded him of that counselor, Hanson, who was sniffing around. As Dorsey strode across the construction site, he hit the button for Hanson’s wife’s cell phone.
“Hi, how you doing?” he asked, not bothering to identify himself.
“Good. I’m in a meeting,” she responded.
“You free for lunch tomorrow?”
“For you, of course.”
“I’m touched. Antoinette’s. Say at eleven forty-five?”
“I’ll be there.”
A client was late, and Hanson used the time to call Louise Parker. He was surprised, and more pleased than he’d admit, when he didn’t go to voice mail and she took his call.
“Tammy LaFleur’s roommate and business partner has disappeared,” he said, trying to sound dispassionate. “I went to their apartment and it looked like she hadn’t been there in days.”
“Business partner? What business was that?”
“Um, prostitution.”
“I see. Want to give me specifics?”
“On the prostitution?”
She chuckled and he felt clumsy.
“I know what you meant,” she said seriously. “Come on, Brian, you work with this population. How often do they disappear in the middle of the night, no forwarding address, poof!”
“There’s a creepy neighbor who—”
“Is he your serial-killer suspect?”
“I don’t know if that’s it. But I spoke with Tammy’s father, who also thinks something is screwy. He told me he got warned off by local police.”
“So the city is in on a serial-killer conspiracy?”
“Thank you for your time,” Hanson said stiffly.
“Brian, I’m not as excited as you are about wild speculation. It’s not even circumstantial.”
“When I put together a case for you, maybe I’ll call,” he said before hanging up.
He sat at his desk, seething. Don’t fight the anger, he told himself, channel it. He thought back to a hand-to-hand-combat drill instructor, a friend of his father’s, who had first taught him basics when he was no more than ten.
“You got five S’s that’re gonna determine who walks away, and who doesn’t. Size, strength, skill, speed, and spirit. In that order, I’ve seen. A big guy with no heart goes down to a little one with spirit.” Then he had slapped the young Hanson around until the boy cried from frustration. “You ready to give up?” the instructor had asked.
“Fuck you,” Hanson had snapped, trying to head-butt him in the groin.
The instructor had laughed as he’d easily blocked him, then stood Hanson upright. “You got the spirit, just like your old man.” It was a visceral memory, a defining moment in his life.
“Brian, your client is here,” the receptionist buzzed in on the phone.
Hanson jolted to the present. He couldn’t allow the memories to come up so strong, so often.
“Tell them I’ll be right up,” he said. He focused on the texture of a baseball-sized stone he had placed strategically. Quartz, yellowish white, multiple planes and angles. Breathe in, breathe out. Time to get in character he mused as he rose slowly from his desk and walked to the reception area.
TEN
Jeanie Hanson traced a finger along her husband’s muscled abdomen as they lay next to each other in bed. Sheets and pillows had fallen to the floor with their thrashing. Their years of distance had enhanced the pleasure, made it more a passionate romp than the romance of two longtime partners.
“I like your new hard body,” she said.
He smiled, enjoying her touch. Was she responding to his invigorated primacy or the female attraction to the dark side? Eros or Thanatos?
She stretched and rolled away, on her back, hair splayed, looking like a posed picture of post coital bliss. Her hand rested on his thigh. He growled appreciatively as she kneaded and squeezed higher and higher.
“You’ve been a changed man the past few weeks,” she said. “I’d been getting worried about you being burned out.”
“Things changed at work?”
“Not really. It’s more about that client whose death I was investigating.”
“Are you still?”
He hesitated. Her hand gently stroked him and he could feel the blood throbbing to his loins.
“Yeah. I’ve been taking time off, talking to people. The FBI, her father—who used to be deputy police chief—neighbors, friends.”
“What’ve you learned?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes. If it’s important to you, it’s important to me. What’ve you been up to?” she asked huskily.
“I’ve told you most of it already.”
“I don’t mind hearing it again.”
“If your hand goes much higher, I’m going to forget what we’re talking about.”
“Naughty boy,” she said, and squeezed his thigh. She rolled onto an arm, facing him. “I bet what you’ve been doing is exciting.”
He nodded. Deep down, for reasons he couldn’t identify, he didn’t want to talk with her about it. The death and his digging felt too personal to talk about with the woman he had just made love to, whom he had fathered a child with, who had been his wife for so many years.
But he told her everything he could recall.
Jeanie Hanson felt the thrill of seducing her husband. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in his motions—he was hers. She was momentarily caught up in his intensity as he told of his quest for Tammy LaFleur’s killer. Then she realized how silly it was, a middle-aged man wanting to play Don Quixote with his idealized whore. Maybe Dorsey could help her husband and make sure Brian didn’t blunder into trouble. She thought of what a hunk Dorsey was and how he could further her career.
“You’ve got a funny smile,” Brian said, interrupting her thoughts.
She responded by kneading his thigh again. “Is this funny too?”
“Mnnnnn.”
She rolled over to him and bit his chest lightly. Then his stomach.
“Still think I’m funny?” she asked.
She suspected he could snap her neck with his hands. She had seen his strength and skill as he worked out. She also knew he wouldn’t hurt her. And that ultimately gave her greater power.
Early morning, and Hanson met with AA sponsor Bill McFarlane in Fuller’s Coffee Shop. All that remained of the bacon and eggs with sourdough toast was a few greasy smears and crumbs on their plates. Seated on the hard stools around the U-shaped counter, they sipped the coffee.
“Why are we here?” McFarlane asked.
“You mean that in an existential way?”
“Cut the bullshit, Jean-Paul Sartre.”
“I’m impressed. A cop who knows existentialist philosophers.”
“Is that as unusual as a counselor who doesn’t ask ‘How do you feel?’ in response to everything? Or you expecting me to drag my knuckles on the ground while looking for minorities to beat to death with a nightstick?”
“You sound cranky,” Hanson said.
“Up all night on a case. How’s your recovery?” McFarlane asked abruptly.
“Pretty solid. I haven’t gone to a meeting, but I did read the Big Book a bit. A lot of wisdom there.”
“Damn straight. I’m glad you’re doing okay, and I’m asking again, what are we doing here? Surely you can come up with a better breakfast buddy.”
“I wanted to ask your opinion of former deputy chief Grundig.”
“I’m here as an informant, not a sponsor?”
“You’re here as someone I trust and respect, who knows the guy.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“He also doesn’t go for the suicide explanation. Led me to believe there’s a cover-up. I need to know if I can believe him.”
McFarlane’s coffee cup was empty. He signaled for the waitress to refill. When she did, he slowly rotated the worn, warm white ceramic cup in his hands. “He had a reputation as a straight shooter. Everyone knew what was going on with his daughter and felt bad for him. For the whole family.”
“Any chance someone would want to get back at him by killing his daughter?”
McFarlane smiled. “You’re getting that kind of paranoid thinking that cops thrive on. Warms the cockles of me heart, even if it is bullshit. The old man’s been out of the loop for years. Besides, whacking Tammy would be more of a favor to him than a message.”
“He said Quimby came by and he was encouraged to keep his mouth shut. I’m wondering why.”
“Our fair city is getting famous for low numbers on serious crimes. Any deaths are bad publicity. They’re hoping to win some of the big employers back to Oregon.”
“Who’s they?”
“Who stands to gain? The mayor, the police chief, DA, businesses, homeowners. America’s Safest City. Even you benefit if property values go up.”
“That sounds like something my wife would say.”
“You keeping her satisfied?”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means you’ve told me about her and I’ve seen her. She’s a Pedigree. You’re a mutt.”
“I’m not here to talk about my marriage,” Hanson said tersely.
“You’re sounding snappy there, Fido. Want to tell me what’s going on?
After a sigh, Hanson told him about their renewed passion, how he had told her what was going on and how uncomfortable he felt with the disclosure.
“Maybe you’re not used to really talking with her. Got to accept life on life’s terms. Nothing wrong with being a mutt. You just need to know it. Accept that you’re less inbred and she’s going to get her ass sniffed at the dog show.”
Hanson squinted at him.
“What’s the message in all of this?”
“You think there’s a message? Did you just get on this bus?” The cop swigged down the last of his coffee. “Your turn to pay,” he said, standing abruptly and sauntering out.
As Hanson settled the check, he wondered about McFarlane’s canine observations.
Tony Dorsey waved his ID card from the mayor’s office and was buzzed through the thick glass doors to police headquarters. Most visitors had to go through a rigorous check-in, a symbolic border crossing, making it clear they were entering a sanctum sanctorum. Photo IDs logged in, even for those who visited almost daily. Reporters who fell out of favor could find themselves waiting a half hour in the sparsely furnished lobby. Not Dorsey, who got the express-lane welcome. As the mayor’s liaison with the bureau, he was there to resolve citizen complaints, review budgetary issues, and sit in on review board hearings. His unstated job, at Mayor Robinson’s behest, was to make it clear to Chief Forester who was really in charge.
Dorsey liked cops—the legal connivers, the adrenaline junkies, the burned-out heroes, the zealous rookies. He liked the macho atmosphere, hardly tempered by the female officers. Virtually anyone with handcuffs, a nightstick, a gun, and a badge became macho.
He kibitzed with a couple of sergeants as they rode up in the elevator, then flirted briefly with a young female clerk. Leaning on the top of her cubicle, looking down her low-cut top, he made an obvious double entendre about enjoying the view. They bantered for a few minutes and he parted with a remark about “spending a weekend climbing the beautiful peaks of the Pacific Northwest.” She laughed, blushed, and gave him her home phone number when he asked. He felt particularly powerful, with the novelty of an outsider and the intimacy of an insider.
Andrea Jayson’s office was a warm, windowless room about the size of three cubicles. The sign on the door said “Computer Geographic Surveying.” She had a couple of seventeen-inch flat-panel computer monitors connected to a confusing array of gear. There were two ergonomic keyboards on her large, unadorned desk. Jayson was a plain woman in her late thirties, with unbecoming eyeglasses, stringy hair, and a nervous habit of rubbing her nose. She also had an IQ close to 180 and had twice turned down offers from Microsoft and Sun Microsystems to stay with t
he city. No one understood why.
“How is my digital darling today?” Dorsey asked after a quick knock on her open door.
“I’m doing okay.”
“I was asking about the computer,” he said playfully.
For a moment she took him seriously, frowned, then realized he was kidding. She smiled, as if they were joking about a favored child. “You’re such a kidder.”
“I try. How are you doing?”
“Keeping busy. Can’t complain, wouldn’t do any good.”
He chuckled as if she had made quip worthy of Oscar Wilde.
“Well, darling, any interesting stats as far as numbers in our fair city?”
Mayor Robinson had implemented a program modeled on the Compstat system developed in New York by Mayor Giuliani. It involved almost real-time tracking of data, and then meetings where all responsible parties had to account for crime increases. No excuses that information, or key personnel, were unavailable.
“Nothing bad. Things have quieted down recently.” There had been a string of armed robberies starting a month or ago. She tapped a few computer keys, and a map of the Southwest Terwilliger area appeared on the screen. A few more keystrokes, and little symbols in the shape of a gun popped up in a cluster on the boulevard. More keystrokes, and the names of businesses that had been robbed were filled in. Largely bars, a couple of restaurants, a couple of convenience stores. As she tapped on the keyboard, the computer rotated through screens showing census data, socioeconomic profiles, arterial highways. “But it doesn’t make sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“Here’s another example.” Tap, tap tap.
“What’s this?”
“Rapes, all a similar MO. Entering the premises of a lone woman in the early-morning hours, usually through an open first-floor window.” The symbol on the computer screen was a cruelly grinning Satan. “You know the way they classify rapists?”
He shook his head.
“There’s sexual-gratification rape. Usually impulsive, the most prevalent, a lot of date rapes fall in this category.” She spoke as if she were reading from a textbook. “The anger rape is also unplanned, often with physical force in excess of what is necessary. It’s an act of revenge. There’s usually long periods between the assaults, as the perceived wrong increases. Power rapists are planners. They feel like losers and take it out on women. Then there’s the sadistic rapists. Into torture, bondage, mutilation. Often they’ve got a fascination with violent pornography. The real freaks. They collect souvenirs, like serial killers. Make audiotapes, steal items of intimate clothing to masturbate over.” She blinked her eyes.
