by Mark Schorr
“Why don’t you come in and we can shut the door,” Parker said softly to Hanson.
Hanson stepped into the apartment, and Trixie cringed like Fay Wray avoiding King Kong.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“Stay back,” Trixie said. “She’s an FBI agent. If you bother me any more, I’ll have you arrested.”
“Mr. Hanson, how do you respond to these allegations?”
“It’s a lie. I’ve been here once before.”
“I thought you said you were here twice,” Parker said evenly.
“Twice, but once there was no one here.”
“You see, he’s a liar,” Trixie said.
“What do you want me to do?” Parker asked the young woman. “Keep him away from me.”
The femme fatale was now the ingénue in jeopardy. She was dressed in sweats, with hair pulled back in a ponytail, a typical college girl. Hanson stood awkwardly, looking to the FBI agent, trying to figure out what was going on.
Parker sat on the small couch, calmly watching the two of them. In a small leather flip notepad, she jotted a few notes.
“I didn’t realize you were setting me up,” Hanson said to Louise.
“You brought him here?” Trixie asked.
“I wasn’t,” she said to Hanson. “And yes,” to Trixie. “I thought it best that you two discuss misunderstandings you might have had.”
“Keep him away from me,” Trixie said.
“You were talking as if you wanted to press charges. I made a few inquiries before we came here. They confirm what Mr. Hanson said. That you had disappeared. And that when Ms. I.aFleur was alive, you both were active in the sex trade.”
Trixie wrinkled her brow, then pouted.
“I have no interest in arresting you for that. You’re as entitled to protection as Laura Bush. But I do need you to be honest with me.”
“I better speak to my lawyer,” Trixie said. “In the future, all contacts have to come through him.”
“Thanks for taking the time.”
The FBI agent and the counselor rode wordlessly in the car for several minutes before Hanson said, “Want to tell me what that was about?”
“She called me making those allegations that you heard. I wanted to check them out. See you two face-to-face.” Parker said it without malice or triumph.
“What did you decide?”
“It confirmed my initial perception.”
Which was?”
“That she’s a bad liar.”
Even though he was confident in his own innocence, Hanson felt a wave of relief. Which was followed by an equally strong surge of anger. “It would have been better if you had let me know what was going on.”
“Brian, my impression of you was favorable but that doesn’t mean much. C’mon, you’re a counselor. You ever make judgments about someone, then find out you were grossly wrong?”
“But I don’t deliberately deceive them.” Hanson, feeling like he had sounded petulant, was eager to change the subject. “Why was she making up a story?”
“One possibility is you somehow did scare her and she’s fabricating it to get you out of her life.”
“That’s possible.”
“I’m not convinced. I couldn’t get a straight answer about where she’d been. Of course she could be nervous talking to a federal officer.”
“But it could also be someone put her up to it to discredit me, keep me from pursuing an investigation of Tammy’s death.”
“Could be. If it is, they made a lousy choice as far as a witness.”
“What do you recommend I do?” Hanson asked.
“Don’t screw up. And watch your back.”
On the ride to the dinner, Jeanie Hanson had the tight-lipped expression that Brian knew meant conversation would lead to an argument.
They parked in a nearly full lot a couple blocks from the twin glass-towered Oregon Convention Center.
The thirty-five-thousand-square-foot Portland Ballroom had been partitioned off into a four-thousand-square-foot rectangle. Large floral baskets were centered on white tablecloths on the twenty dozen-person tables. With thirty-foot-high ceilings and cinder-block walls, and despite more than two million dollars’ worth of public art in the hallways, the fifteen-year-old structure had all the charm of a Wal-Mart.
Waiters and waitresses distributed breadbaskets and water pitchers as hundreds of guests settled in. Ushers moved smoothly through the throng, guiding people to their reserved seats amid a drone of voices, greetings and chitchat, chairs being moved, backs being patted.
The large room was three-quarters filled. Hanson didn’t know anyone at his table. He did recognize several people at the long dais, including the mayor, the police chief, former U.S. senator Jake Charmaine, and several state, county, and city officials. They smiled, shook hands, and posed for pictures with the smaller fish that swam in and out of their presence.
Hanson felt claustrophobic. He hated the noise, the people, the tasteless catered food, the fake socializing. His clothing was too tight. He remembered the last time he’d worn it, some bank function arranged through Jeanie. She had a talent for mingling, easy smiles, polite laughter, and feigned attentiveness while searching for the right table to hop to.
Sitting on her other side was a guy about her age who chatted with a woman next to him, then shifted his attention to Jeanie. Because of the ambient noise, Brian couldn’t hear what was being said. Jeanie was surprisingly stiff, as if she knew and didn’t like him.
Hanson turned to the elderly woman next to him and they swapped introductions. Then the woman returned to talking with the man on the other side of her, who had briefly been introduced as a well-known cardiac surgeon. All around the table were little dyads and triads chatting. Hanson bit into a breadstick, still wondering why he had been invited.
He was halfway done chewing it when the man on the other side of Jeanie reached across her, extended his hand, and said, “Hi, I’m Tony Dorsey with the mayor’s office. You must be Brian Hanson.”
Hanson shifted into his assessment mode, something he was comfortable at, something he did well. Dorsey was trim, well-groomed, with a smile that was well practiced. Hanson noticed a small scar on his eyebrow. Dorsey was comfortable enough with Jeanie to reach across her for the handshake. The deputy mayor’s grip was firm but not impolitely bone-crushing. Good eye contact, no signs of tics, tremors, or psychomotor agitation.
As Dorsey sat back, Hanson recognized a telltale gun bulge near the deputy mayor’s hip. Why did the deputy mayor need a weapon? The mayor was seated at the dais with no bodyguard in sight, and Dorsey was more than a dozen yards away. Was there a threat expected at this dinner?
Hanson leaned back in his chair and focused on relaxation breathing. Within a few moments he was calmer. He watched his wife, tense but smiling, talking with others at the table. Dorsey chatted smoothly with people coming over to pay respects. His speech had normal rate, rhythm, and volume.
Hanson was in the zone, senses humming. He was like a sniper in a perch, saving his energy, studying the action with a cautious neutrality. His eyes swept the room, assessing threat potential, escape and evasion possibilities. He was as aware of the sharpness of the steak knife under his hand as he was of the nearest exit.
Then Dorsey was up and moving, artfully table-hopping as soon as the entree was done. The deputy mayor was talking to the police chief. No love there, the counselor deduced. Dorsey seemed to dominate, standing close, gesturing, while the chief looked off into the distance with a pained expression and nodded politely.
Dorsey seemed comfortable talking with a state senator, a congressional representative, an elegantly dressed woman with tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of pearls around her neck, a doddering senior whom Hanson recognized from newspaper photos as the former head of the largest lumber company in the region. Dorsey returned to the table for dessert.
Tony Dorsey finished the required schmoozing and now could focus on Jeanie and he
r knuckle-dragger husband. Dorsey began discussing the rainy weather they’d been having with the woman to his left as his right hand snaked down and rested on Jeanie Hanson’s knee. She barely masked her startled expression and tried to brush his hand away. Dorsey continued talking to the woman on his left while sliding his hand higher up Jeanie’s thigh. Jeanie struggled to remove it, but his grip was too strong. She clamped her legs together and stared straight ahead.
“Is everything okay?” Brian whispered.
“Fine,” she snapped.
Dorsey leaned over her and said to Brian, “Quite an event. Have you been to many of these?”
“Not really,” Hanson said.
Dorsey smiled a Cheshire cat grin. “They get tiresome pretty quickly. I have to go to a couple a week. Boring speeches, the same cast of characters.” Dorsey’s hand crept higher on Jeanie Hanson’s thigh. “My job is really not that interesting,” Dorsey said with false modesty. “But your job sounds intriguing.”
“Mine?” Hanson asked. “What do you know about what I do?”
“Jeanie and I have met a couple times,” Dorsey said. “She speaks highly of you.”
With Dorsey’s hand at the top of her thigh, Jeanie held a tight-lipped smile, a slight flush in her cheeks.
“She’s told me of the challenging folks you work with. Very admirable.”
Hanson gave his wife a surprised look. Jeanie shrugged.
“What else have you two talked about?” Hanson asked.
Jeanie looked even more uncomfortable.
“The usual boring political news,” Dorsey said. “Zoning issues, promising developments, who’s sleeping with whom.” Dorsey kept his bemused expression. “Of course that’s figuratively, not literally. I’m surprised Jeanie never mentioned it to you. She was telling me the other day how much she enjoyed our lunches, wanted to schedule them more often.”
Then the head of the city’s water bureau came over, and Dorsey, seemingly annoyed at being interrupted, was forced to shift his attention. He removed his hand from Jeanie’s thigh.
“Everything okay?” Brian asked her.
“Fine. I’m not feeling good.”
“Want to leave?” Brian asked hopefully.
The attorney who was master of ceremonies cleared his throat and spoke into the microphone. “Thank you all for coming. We’ve got some important people to honor tonight. I promise we’ll keep the speeches to a minimum.” He then went on for about five minutes, thanking various sponsors of the event and dignitaries who were present.
About a half hour into the speeches, Hanson decided to use the restroom. As the counselor headed down the corridor, Dorsey wiped his mouth with the white cloth napkin, stood, and winked at Jeanie.
“Wait, where are you going?” she asked.
He leaned over and whispered, “To spend quality time in the men’s room.” His tongue flicked out lightly and touched her ear. She jumped like she had been given an electric shock. “Don’t worry, I only like women.”
Dorsey sauntered down the corridor after Hanson. The counselor was at the sink, washing his hands.
“Great bladders thinking alike,” Dorsey joked as he emptied into the urinal. He glanced around, making sure the bathroom was empty. “Your wife did mention one other thing to me. Tammy LaFleur.”
Hanson dried his hands and stepped closer to Dorsey. “I’m not sure I know that name.”
“It’s okay. I want to help you. I understand you’ve been asking around about her.”
“Confidentiality laws don’t allow me to say anything about anyone who might or might not be a past or present client.”
“Sure, sure. Let me tell you some of what I know. She’s a woman who shot herself in the face a few weeks ago. Daughter of the former deputy police chief. A troubled girl, getting counseling through you. Don’t feel bad about it.”
Hanson folded his arms across his chest and said nothing.
“Jeanie was trying to help you. She said you were upset, going on a wild-goose chase. She wanted me to look into it. I know lots of people in the police bureau.”
“I didn’t realize Jeanie knew you so well.”
“We hit it off. She’s great. You’re a lucky man.”
“Thanks,” Hanson said flatly, taking a step toward the door.
“I did check into it,” Dorsey said. “Tammy committed suicide.”
“Okay,” Hanson responded.
As Hanson put his hand on the door, Dorsey said, “People are not happy about you snooping around.”
“People?” Hanson said, turning back to face Dorsey.
“You know Tammy comes from a well-connected family. They’d want her buried in peace. For things to settle down. You therapists call it closure, right?”
“If I did have a client named Tammy and she had died in a suspicious suicide, I believe her family and friends would want it followed up on.”
“It depends on who is defining it as suspicious. Maybe you’ve got a guilty conscience. Maybe you had a questionable relationship with her.”
Hanson stepped in toward Dorsey. The deputy mayor pushed back his jacket and let the gun in a belly holster show.
Hanson growled, “You think you could get that out before I’d shove it up your ass?”
“I hit a hot button,” Dorsey said.
Hanson took another step in. Dorsey held his ground, resting his hand on the gun butt. “Wouldn’t look very good for a psychotherapist to be acting like a dropout from an anger-management group,” Dorsey said. “Now listen, I know you were a tough guy during the Vietnam War. But your time is past. I know about you bothering her father right before he died, about you making a ruckus at a strip club. Go back to listening to your psychos tell their stories. Drop the LaFleur death. Your reputation is a fragile thing. So is your marriage. So is your life.”
“Is that a threat?” Hanson asked, the blood pounding at his temples.
“Friendly advice. Drop it. Or else.”
“Or else what? That’s a nine-millimeter Beretta you have there. Elegant, but it won’t stop me at this distance.” Hanson moved quickly, his left hand pinning Dorsey’s right arm against his body. Hanson pushed in, shoving Dorsey up against the wall, immobilizing his gun hand. Hanson’s right hand went to Dorsey’s throat and applied pressure. “How long would it take me to kill you?”
Dorsey gasped and struggled, as helpless as a fish on the dock.
The bathroom door opened. Hanson quickly stepped back. “Here, let me finish adjusting your tie,” Hanson said, straightening out Dorsey’s collar. “Nice to see you again.”
Dorsey sucked air in, coughing.
“Tony, good to see you,” said the new guest to the restroom. Paul Rankin, I’m with the fire bureau. Gotta put out a fire right away.”
He hurried to the urinal, grunted, and began relieving himself.
“You will regret this,” Dorsey muttered as Hanson walked out.
FOURTEEN
Brian drove with eyes straight ahead, arms stiff. Jeanie could tell that something was bothering him but was afraid to ask. Did he know what had gone on under the table with Dorsey? She reached over and kneaded his tight shoulders. “Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
A hard rain fell on the city streets, and the lights of oncoming cars reflected off the roadway. Traffic was heavy, a symptom of the city’s constant growth. What used to be a fifteen-minute drive from one side of the city to the other now took at least a half hour, even during off-hours.
They rode in silence for a while before Brian asked, “How well do you know Tony Dorsey?”
“The deputy mayor?”
“The guy sitting next to you,” Brian said levelly.
“I’ve met him at several meetings.”
“How did it happen that you told him about my client who was murdered?”
She was grateful that Brian didn’t seem to realize what had been going on at the table. “I don’t remember exactly. Probably the subject of crime came up at a meeting
. We started talking. I thought he could help.”
“I shouldn’t have told you anything. You shouldn’t have told him.”
“Well, excuse me for trying to help.”
Miles passed with nothing but the sound of their tires on the wet asphalt.
“He had a gun,” Brian said.
“What?”
“He was carrying a gun. Showed it off in the bathroom.”
“Showed it off? What kind of macho scene did you two have?”
“The testosterone was flowing but we came to an understanding.”
“What does that mean?”
Brian shrugged and they rode in silence for a while.
“He used to be with the CIA,” Jeanie said.
“I can see that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had dealings with people from the Agency in Vietnam. They think they know how to handle themselves in the field. They don’t.”
She tried to get him to say more but he switched on an oldies station and hummed “Street Fighting Man” as the Rolling Stones sang. When they began to play Led Zeppelin’s “Heartbreaker,” he sang along. She knew better than to try a conversation. Which was fine with her. She needed to decide how she would handle Dorsey the next time they met. How she would relate to her husband was secondary.
At home, Jeanie hurried in and went up to undress.
Brian Googled “Tony Dorsey Oregon Government.” He noticed the shading on a link and realized that there was a cookie in his computer, indicating that Jeanie had already visited the site. With a couple of keystrokes, he reviewed her search history.
Brian stared at the professional portrait of the deputy mayor. What level of intimacy was there between Jeanie and Tony Dorsey? He had been betrayed emotionally; was there a physical part to it as well? The deputy mayor seemed like her type—powerful, well connected, more concerned with getting projects done than doing the right thing. A typical political weasel. Was he ex-CIA or using that to hustle Jeanie?
Hanson looked over Dorsey’s bio, which was vague before his time in Portland. International consulting for the U.S. government, including work for the State and Defense departments. Then a bunch of bureaucratic babble about “infrastructure development in emerging nations” and “liaison with developing Balkan nations.” Transparent cover, Hanson thought.
