Borderline

by Mark Schorr

She dropped him by his house and he walked as quickly as he could to the door, hoping that he looked better than he felt. The morphine drip had worn off and he was fighting the pain with a few ibuprofens. He didn’t want to show Parker how sore he was, or discuss it with his wife.

  From the threshold to his house Brian waved at Parker, and she drove away. After easing open the door, he stifled a groan as he slipped off his shoes in the foyer. He stripped down to underwear and shirt with a minimum of wincing and walked stiffly to the bedroom.

  Jeanie groggily sat up in bed. “Where’ve you been?” she asked.

  “Minor accident,” he said.

  “Are you okay?”

  He finished undressing slowly. “Sore. Best thing is for me to get to sleep.”

  “Okay.”

  He didn’t ask why she hadn’t answered the phone; she didn’t pursue details about the accident. He could tell she had taken a sleeping pill and was glad when she quickly drifted back to sleep.

  He lay in bed, mindful of the pain, not avoiding it, letting it come and go without attachment. Sleep was often difficult, a problem he traced back to trying to stay awake in Vietnam. There were days back then when he barely slept, not trusting those on guard duty, painfully attuned to the sounds of the jungle, waiting for the subtle changes that would mean an attack.

  His mind reviewed the shoot-out at Tammy’s, and he decided he had done a good job for an unarmed middle-aged guy. He went to sleep smiling. The attack had validated the hypervigilance from his PTSD.

  Back in her spacious but cozy one bedroom condo in Johns Landing, Louise found herself surprisingly alert. She poured herself a glass of Riesling and wrote notes for the FD204 investigative report forms she’d have to do.

  Sitting in a Herman Miller Eames chair, bare feet tucked under a small wrought iron and clear glass table, she gazed through the large window at the Willamette River, moving sluggishly a hundred or so yards away. Gusts of wind kicked up tiny whitecaps. It reminded her of Hanson. Quiet, with hints of turbulence.

  She’s been married briefly to an FBI rookie/accountant she’d met at Quantico. Somehow he’d expected she would drop out of the Academy and become a contented hausfrau. They clutched each other for support in a stressful time and lasted less than a year.

  With her job that had a fifty-hour a week minimum, irregular hours, and lots of secrets, dating opportunities were limited. The tough exterior she developed to survive her job intimidated many men.

  Hanson was not a good choice. He was older by a decade, married, and a possible person of interest in the investigation. But seeing his heroics in the apartment, and watching him struggle with his issues in the ER, she’d had strange thoughts. Like how good he looked despite what he had been through, and with no effort at grooming. Or how his body conveyed a restless power, and attractive energy. Like what kind of father he’d be to the child she’d just about giving up on having.

  She pushed the thoughts from her mind until she finally lay down to sleep. Then she drifted off savoring a fantasy that her minister would not have approved.

  Abundant fish in the Columbia River and soil rich with river nutrients had made Sauvie Island the Mall of America thousands of years before white men first arrived. Now it was covered with farmland and a huge nature preserve. Blue herons, bald eagles, and hundreds of other birds roosted there. The wildlife competed with herds of cows, leading to periodic flare-ups of farmers versus environmentalists versus weekend bicyclists and beachgoers.

  Former senator Jake Charmaine’s three-million-dollar estate was on a low hill that was the highest spot on the relatively flat island. The retired senator worked as a lobbyist with a client list that included several lumber companies, two electronics giants, and one large sneaker and sportswear firm.

  Mayor Robinson mentally reviewed Charmaine’s background as he drove Highway 30, parallel to the railroad tracks, past the industrial complexes and the shipyards until the man-made development—which some saw as ugly but the mayor saw as triumphs—thinned out and the trees took over.

  He was driving his wife’s Lexus. It was standard procedure for a police officer-bodyguard to chauffeur him in the dark blue Crown Victoria that served as the mayor’s official car. But he knew the cop would have dual loyalties and every move would be dutifully reported to Forester. Usually Robinson was amused by the pressures of being under political surveillance. But this was a meeting he didn’t want noted. He had no idea what the purpose was, a rebuke or a reward.

  Robinson stopped at the intercom mounted next to the metal gate with the big “JC” on it. He was quickly buzzed in. The driveway curved between drooping willow trees; past a tennis court, a stable, and an Olympic-sized swimming pool; and up to the sprawling old farmhouse that looked well kept but unassuming from the outside. As Charmaine’s butler-secretary-man Friday led him in, however, it was evident that millions had been spent to upgrade the home. Rich oak paneling, recessed museum-quality lighting, bronze busts on marble pedestals, brooding oil paintings, high ceilings with detailed woodwork on the beams. A large brass telescope on a wooden tripod sat in front of the picture window, facing the beach. One wall was dominated by a sixty-five-inch-long, two-inch-deep flat-panel plasma TV. CNN, the sound muted, was playing.

  “This place is beautiful,” Robinson said sincerely.

  Charmaine smiled ruefully. “It’s going to be like Hearst Castle before my wife’s done.”

  Moving with an old man’s fragility, he fetched a thick Cuban cigar from a rosewood humidor. “I’d offer you one but I know you’re not a smoker,” Charmaine said, lighting the cigar. The politician puffed on the Cohiba for a full minute, savoring the taste. Robinson watched the tip on the cigar grow red, the ash beginning to expand with a seeming life of its own. The mayor studied the lined face, with piercing blue eyes and thick white hair that showed no signs of receding from his high forehead.

  “Why did you invite me here, sir?” Robinson asked after a few minutes of polite pleasantries.

  “You’re being talked about as a candidate on a statewide or national level,” Charmaine said.

  “Really?” Robinson tried not to sound too eager.

  “I know you well enough to know you’ve been thinking about the next step. Adam Dawson has made it clear he’s going to be leaving the Senate by the next election. The timing could work out perfectly. He’d be willing to endorse you.”

  “That’s great.”

  “It could be. But you’ve got to put your house in order.”

  The senator leaned close enough that Robinson could see the capillaries under his pale skin. “The committee is not going to take chances on premature flameout. We have checked into you and your immediate associates, your West Wing cast.”

  Robinson stiffened, since only his closest allies knew about his West Wing nicknames for the staff. Clearly Charmaine had resources in his inner circle.

  “There is a whole different level of scrutiny you must be attuned to,” Charmaine said. “You run up a tab at a casino, hire an undocumented alien as your nanny, take home a tart from a bar, and it will turn up on the news. Or on one of those Internet Web sites. Of course we checked you out before this conversation.”

  “I gather I passed?”

  “You did. We also checked that you weren’t finessing the numbers on the crime stats. That’s going to be the hot issue in the campaign. Crime is much easier for John Q. Public to understand than fiscal reform or the national debt. Crime is such a core issue, affecting economic development, civic pride, allocation of resources. That mugger in the alley will get them to the polling booth. Imagine if the crime-fighting strategies you implemented are translatable to New York, Los Angeles, Washington, D.C. How would those places be with a crime rate cut in half?”

  “The tactics should be applicable to a larger city.”

  “We didn’t honestly see what you’re doing differently. Some is the ‘broken window’ approach, addressing problems when they’re small nuisances. Then there’s communit
y-oriented policing, an adequate staffing ratio.” Charmaine paused and puffed. “Chief Forester deserves credit. He’s job hunting, you know.”

  Robinson didn’t, but didn’t want to admit it. He nodded.

  “The chief has put in for a couple of big-city jobs. Boston, Chicago. Plus sniffing around for the directorship at ATF.”

  Robinson nodded as if it weren’t news to him. “What’re his chances?”

  “So-so. He’s not perceived as a great leader or visionary, more someone who lucked out. Some think the DA deserves more credit. And there are rumors.”

  “Of what?”

  “A vigilante-type thing going on.”

  “I can’t imagine that.”

  “This is the West,” Charmaine said with a contented puff. “It wasn’t that long ago that there were about as many unsanctioned hangings as legally approved ones.”

  “Going back to what you were saying, am I seen as someone who just lucked out?”

  “You wouldn’t be here if you were. You’ve got the media presence. Even if your success is attributable to luck, you’ve capitalized on it nicely. The economy of the city is better than most of comparable size. You’ve put together a competent administration. There are concerns though.”

  Robinson leaned forward, attentive.

  “The police chief’s relationship with his son. Either he has got to cut the ties altogether or make peace with him. He loses the gay vote by being homophobic and the fundamentalist vote by not being condemning enough. That’ll pull you down if you are tied to him.”

  “Okay.”

  “Your press person, she’s got a drinking problem.”

  “Had one. She’s in recovery.”

  “Not for the past six months.”

  Robinson shook his head. “I’m impressed with your sources, even if I’m skeptical.”

  “The comptroller has a gambling problem. Not enough to be an issue, but he’d better be careful. You don’t want your man holding the purse strings to be revealed as financially irresponsible.”

  “I’ll talk with him.”

  “I’m glad you’re so receptive. But they’re not the biggest potential problem.”

  Robinson waited.

  Charmaine took a puff, as if carefully choosing his words, though Robinson was sure he had thought out exactly what he’d say much earlier. “Tony Dorsey. He’s a dangerous womanizer.”

  “Many pols have had an eye for the ladies,” Robinson said defensively.

  “He gets off on abusing and exploiting.”

  Robinson was shocked, like a parent hearing an unwanted truth about a favored child. He had had suspicions, even heard the rumors, but Charmaine was so matter-of-fact, acting like it was public knowledge. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not one to be slandering a man’s name. I was able to read a sealed deposition from one of his former victims.” Charmaine shook his head. “Bad stuff.”

  “He’s been vital to me. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Talk to him. If there’s any sign he’s not getting the message, cut your losses.”

  “Is he at it right now?”

  “I hear he’s diddling a married real estate woman with a husband who’s a psycho. You don’t want a story about your boy being killed as part of a triangle gone bad.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Charmaine stood, slowly. “Time for my nap,” he said. “I’m glad we had this chat. Come back and see me in a couple weeks. I’ll have a better handle on whether we’re talking Senate or White House by then.” “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome,” Charmaine said, shaking his hand warmly. “I’m sure you’ll remember who helped you on the way up when I come a-lobbying.”

  Driving back to the city, Robinson was swept by wave after wave of powerful emotions. Joy over the possibilities, anger at his errant staff, particularly Dorsey, shame over Charmaine knowing more than he did about Robinson’s own people, fear that his bright future would be screwed up. By the time he reached his office, he was settled enough to begin taking action.

  The mayor gaveled the close of the city council meeting. There had been minimal dissent, a little grandstanding, nothing out of the ordinary. A couple of audits were reviewed and approved, the actual work having been done by staff before the meeting. At least two of the five-member council knew as much about audits as a third-grader would about calculus.

  Dorsey gathered the papers. The mayor prided himself on being paper-free, or at least paper-light, and retaining the information in his head. While he had a phenomenal memory, he relied on Dorsey and the rest of his staff to keep track of details and make him look well informed.

  As the mayor and his aide walked down the arched hall to the mayor’s office, Dorsey could tell that something was bothering his boss.

  “I’ll start working on that projection of corporate tax adjustment,” Dorsey said as they were about to separate.

  “I need to speak with you for a moment,” Mayor Robinson said in a tone that was a command and not a request.

  “Sure,” Dorsey said amiably, his mind quickly reviewing possible counterpunches for whatever issue Robinson had in mind.

  They entered Robinson’s office and the mayor said, “Shut the door behind you.”

  Dorsey did, and Robinson strode to his desk, then sat in his high-backed leather chair. He gestured for Dorsey to sit facing him.

  “I’ve always tolerated your eye for the ladies,” Robinson said, playing with a black Montblanc pen from his desk. “You won’t insult me by denying it, will you?”

  Dorsey met his inquisitive expression, poker-faced.

  “This latest one, she’s married, isn’t she? She was seated with her husband, next to you, at the dinner?”

  Dorsey was trying to figure out Robinson’s source. Jeanie wouldn’t dare, she had too much to lose. The mayor had sources throughout city hall, from janitors to deputy directors, as wired as a Florentine prince. Did Dorsey’s wife know and would she have called? Or maybe the mayor had only heard rumors and was bluffing.

  “Tony, you’ve got a lot of talent. But it wouldn’t be the first time a guy threw away a great career because he was letting his dick do the thinking.”

  Dorsey was silent, still trying to figure out the mayor’s source.

  “I need you to promise that you’ll stop this,” Robinson said. “I’ve known about your peccadilloes in the past. This isn’t the time. I’ve shown that what we’ve done here works. Criminals have learned to find a place for themselves other than our city, while good citizens find it safer than ever. If you want to follow me to Washington, you’d better stop immediately.”

  Dorsey thought quickly, wondering whether docile contrition was the best way to appease his boss. But he found his anger rising. “What I do off-hours is my own business,” he snapped.

  “If it is off-hours. And not while representing my office in any way, shape, or form.”

  “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,” Dorsey said softly.

  “What?”

  “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,” he repeated. “You know what’s been going on. You haven’t said anything about any of it.”

  “Meaning?”

  “If I go down, don’t expect me to do it without a fight. I am seen as representing your office.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Mr. Mayor, you know me well enough to know I don’t make threats. I’ve appreciated your support and confidence. I have worked my hardest to make sure they are well deserved. It would upset me greatly if our relationship were to sour.”

  “You’re refusing?”

  “I can be more discreet. But if I go down, you know what will happen to your administration. The press would be intrigued by the real source of your success. And the full story of Tammy LaFleur. I won’t go gently into the night.”

  Robinson fiddled with his pen. The meeting hadn’t gone the way he had anticipated.

  “If you have no other questions,
Mr. Mayor, I need to get back to work.”

  Robinson waved him off.

  The door clicked shut behind him as Dorsey exited. Robinson’s secretary gave the deputy mayor a questioning glance. Dorsey bobbed his head and strutted away.

  With just a few hours’ sleep, a headache worse than his worst hangover, and an arm sore from the day before, Hanson insisted on going to work. Jeanie Hanson had called in sick and he’d left her in bed with an undefined malaise.

  “You look awful,” Betty Pearlman told him affectionately as he sat in the lunchroom, sipping a microwaved ramen soup.

  “Thanks, that’s a fine assessment. You ought to consider a career in behavioral health care.”

  “I would but the pay’s terrible,” she said. “Okay, enough witty repartee. There’s a cop here who wants to talk to you about Eleanor Malinowski.”

  He mentally reviewed his current caseload and recently closed cases, but the name didn’t seem familiar. “I’ll talk with him, but I’d prefer you be there,” Hanson said. “To back me up on confidentiality.”

  The way that the detective hurriedly hunched down into his seat as they entered the office made it obvious he had been peering at papers on Pearlman’s desk.

  Betty held up the top papers, her application for renewal on her Costco card. “Find anything interesting?” she asked sarcastically.

  “My name is Detective Quimby,” the detective said. He had a sharp rodent face, with a pointy nose and a thin mustache. It was offset by a smooth smile, elegant manners, and expensive clothing. Blue blazer, red classically patterned silk tie, pearl tie tack, sharply creased chinos, and shiny brown shoes that looked expensive.

  “Tell me about Eleanor Malinowski,” Quimby said.

  “I’m fairly restricted in what I can say,” Hanson said as Pearlman nodded support. “Even when someone dies, her confidentiality privilege survives her.”

  “That’s if she’s a client. I’ve checked OHP billing records. There’s no evidence of her attending this or any other county clinic.”

  “I would have thought that information would be restricted,” Pearlman said.