The Fear in Her Eyes

by Grant McKenzie

  THE MULTNOMAH County Courthouse was an impressive 100-year-old stone block in the column-heavy Classical Revival style, but with a giant hole carved in the middle. Whether that was to allow justice to shine in or bullshit to float out depended on which side of the bench one sat.

  Originally, the central courtyard was where Prohibition-era do-gooders poured confiscated alcohol down a large drain that ran into the sewers and out to the Willamette River. But seeing this as yet another perfect example of government waste, several enterprising court workers had the bright idea to divert the free liquor to their own containers. Unfortunately, drunks aren’t known for keeping secrets. The courtyard was eventually filled to make space for more offices and a jury room.

  The uniformed guard in the lobby phoned ahead as Ian made his way to the elevator and rode up to the sixth floor. There was no receptionist behind the front desk, and although the 25,000-square-foot space was crowded with offices and desks to accommodate a harried staff of roughly 170 people, only a scant few were occupied outside of normal office hours.

  A light-skinned Hispanic man with the slim build of a distance runner stepped out of an office halfway a short distance down the narrow corridor. As he made his way toward Ian, a friendly smile formed on his clean-shaven, youthful face. He was dressed for golf—a pastel yellow V-neck sweater over white T-shirt and dark relaxed-fit slacks—rather than the office, which told Ian that Helena must have pulled a few strings to delay his tee time.

  Deputy District Attorney Rolando Aguilar held out his hand. “You must be Ian. Pleasure to finally meet you.”

  Ian accepted the man’s hand. “Didn’t know you were trying?”

  “Indeed. Children First is doing terrific work. Important work.”

  “Glad you think so. We need all the muscle we can get to have our funding increased.”

  Rolando’s laugh was as soft and polished as his handshake. “Don’t we all.”

  Inside Rolando’s small, windowless office, Helena was sipping coffee from a paper cup on the visitor’s side of a standard office warehouse oak-veneer desk. Her eyes were red-rimmed and slightly puffy, but any trace of tears or insomniac shadows had been brushed away by an expert application of makeup.

  When Ian entered, he handed her a small bag, the brown paper glistening in spots from contact with its greasy contents.

  “You didn’t,” she said.

  “Couldn’t resist.”

  Helena rolled her eyes, opened the bag and inhaled. “I just gained five pounds.”

  “It suits you.”

  “What’s this?” Rolando squeezed by Ian and moved to his side of the desk.

  “Inside joke.” Ian took the seat next to Helena and fastened a hard gaze on the younger man. The temperature in the office dipped sharply. “So what the hell were you doing visiting Tyler Young in prison?”

  “Straight to the point, I see.” Rolando sat stiffly in his chair, shoulders squared, chin held high, as though he had been trained at the threat of a nun’s sharp ruler never to slump.

  “Hate to delay your golf game,” said Ian. “So?”

  Rolando showed the palms of his hands in a practiced gesture to display he had nothing to hide. “Young contacted me.”

  “Why?”

  “He wanted to make a deal.”

  “In exchange for the identity of who hired him to kill my daughter?”

  Rolando’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Yes. How did you know?”

  Ian ignored the question. “Did he tell you who it was?”

  “We hadn’t reached that stage. Admitting to being a hired killer is a more serious charge than—

  “What did he want?”

  Rolando sniffed in annoyance at the interruption. “He was requesting transfer to an out-of-state prison without any increase in jail time.”

  “Out-of-state?” Helena interjected. “Was he afraid for his life?”

  “He didn’t tell me his reasons.”

  “But him showing up dead in his cell makes that a reasonable assumption,” said Ian.

  Rolando shrugged. “I couldn’t comment.”

  “You didn’t think to put him in protective custody?” Helena asked.

  “We weren’t at that stage, and I didn’t know he was in danger.”

  Ian exhaled. “Did you even ask?”

  “No. It—

  “Yeah, you weren’t at that stage.” Sarcasm dripped like venom from Ian’s tongue.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, but we have to follow certain procedures to—

  “Save it,” Ian snapped. “If you don’t know what Young had to sell, then you’re no damn good to me.”

  “Ian!” Helena scolded. “There’s no need to be rude.”

  “No?” Ian lurched out of his chair and stared daggers across the desk. He couldn’t blame Helena, so Rolando bore the full brunt of his fury. “Maybe if the deputy DA had asked a few more questions, we’d know who hated us enough to rip out our hearts and leave us alive to suffer the loss.”

  Rolando blanched. “Look, I’m sorry, but—

  His eyes burning and his ears closed, Ian turned his back and stormed out of the office.

  15

  A flash of yellow made Ian turn to study the traffic as he exited the courthouse, but none of the vehicles driving by were familiar. Dismissing it, he climbed into his own car and pulled the door tight to block out the noise. The side window rattled in its frame to remind him that it was old, tired and worn out—not unlike its owner.

  He sat in silence and breathed—deep, slow, cleansing—until he felt the pressure in his arteries start to ease and the formation of a headache stall. In control again, he pulled out his phone, scanned through his contacts, and dialed.

  Kestrel Carroll answered her own phone, which was rare for a lawyer. In another time, Ian knew he would have liked Kestrel. She had a pleasing, unassuming manner, a quick smile, and a voice as smoky as Ella singing scat. But from the moment she stood up to defend Tyler Young, he could only see her through blood-smeared glasses.

  “It’s Ian Quinn. Do you remember me?”

  “I do, Mr. Quinn. What can I do for you?”

  “Are you still acting as Tyler Young’s lawyer?”

  “Interesting that you should ask.” She paused as if expecting Ian to ask why. When he didn’t, she continued. “Mr. Young never filed an appeal of his conviction, so in that regard, no. However, I received a phone call from a charming man at the Oregon State Penitentiary this morning to inform me that Mr. Young has recently died while in custody. I assume that is why you are calling.”

  “Yes.” Ian tried to keep his tone civil, his anxiety hidden. “I need to know if his personal effects, the stuff he kept in his cell, journals, letters, anything he could have written on, would be sent to you.”

  “It appears so.” Kestrel sighed. “Though what I am going to do with it, I have no idea. Young never mentioned any family, and none certainly showed up to the trial. A character witness could have—

  “Can I look through it when it arrives?” Ian interrupted.

  Kestrel hesitated. “I am not sure that—

  “It’s important,” Ian pushed.

  “Well, if no family comes forward, I can’t see how there would be anything particularly unethical about such a request.”

  “Good.” Ian swallowed and pressed forward with a new thought. “I also need to know if Young ever confided anything to you. A secret or a confession, perhaps, that was only to be told after his death?”

  “You are sounding very mysterious, Mr. Quinn. What is this about?”

  Ian decided to go all in and told her about the note.

  “Oh my!” Kestrel’s voice crackled with surprise. “If I had known anything of the kind, I would have insisted he give up the name.”

  “Even if it meant the death penalty?”

  “The only person visiting the gas chamber would be whomever hired my client.” Her voice became steel. “I would have exposed that name, Mr. Quinn.
Count on it.”

  Ian swallowed again, but his saliva burned like acid.

  “Could you call me when Young’s personal effects are delivered?”

  “I shall make a note.”

  Ian offered up a lame thanks before disconnecting.

  On the seat beside him, a second paper bag glistened. Ian picked it up and unfolded the top. Not wanting to be impolite, he had originally bought an extra doughnut for the deputy district attorney before deciding that rudeness was more palatable than hypocrisy. Reaching inside, he retrieved a chocolate-covered doughnut in the vaguely humanoid shape of a voodoo doll. Its facial features were inked in icing of different colors, and it came with a crunchy pretzel stick in place of a pin.

  Imagining Young’s pale, dead face on the prison morgue slab, Ian plunged the pretzel into the doll’s heart and bit off its head. Raspberry jelly filling dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

  WHEN THE phone rang, its caller ID read: Homicide. Ian wiped the jelly off his chin with a paper napkin and answered.

  “Did the big Texan leave you any?”

  Jersey laughed. “Yeah, an apple and a blueberry. Apparently he doesn’t like the fruity ones. Thanks.”

  “Did he tell you it was a bribe?”

  “He mentioned that. Said it was better than any he ever received, except for the time he spent on the Dallas vice squad, but I asked him not to share the details.”

  “Quite the character.”

  “You have no idea.”

  Pleasantries over, Ian asked, “Did you look up Young’s cellmate?”

  “You still nearby?”

  “Just a few blocks away.”

  “Drop in. Let’s talk.”

  “One more thing,” Ian added. “I was driving around Molly Flannigan’s neighborhood this morning on the off chance I could spot her, and the cops were swarming a house nearby. Any idea what that was about?”

  “I’ll make a call. See you in a few.”

  ON THE fourteenth floor of the Portland Justice Center, Ian made his way through the cubicle maze to Jersey’s desk. Sitting nearby with his scaly boots perched on the corner of his desk, the cowboy eyeballed him through crinkled slits. His crow’s feet were so deep they put Charles Bronson and Clint Eastwood to shame. Sitting opposite him, Detective Preston’s smartly dressed partner was busy typing up a report. Ian noticed the unexpected glint of gold cufflinks on the cuffs of his immaculately ironed shirt, and wondered who he had pissed off to get stuck with the cowboy.

  Preston rapped his knuckles on the desk to get his partner’s attention and pointed a gnarled finger in Ian’s direction.

  “He’s to blame,” said Preston.

  Preston’s partner glanced up and moved his head from side to side in a slow, deliberate motion of disappointment.

  “Can’t you read the signs?” he asked.

  “What signs?” answered Ian.

  The detective’s lips curled into a crooked smile. “Never feed a fat Texan sugar. It only makes them more ornery than usual.”

  “Hey!” Preston protested. “Who you callin’ fat?”

  Without breaking stride, Ian swerved the impending tiff.

  Jersey was talking to his partner, an attractive raven-haired woman who Ian had briefly met once. He recalled her name was something exotic, and in searching his memory banks came up with Amarela, Detective Amarela Valente.

  By the size of the smile on Jersey’s face and the easy banter between them, Ian could immediately sense the bond they shared. A part of him was happy to see that life could still hold promise of deep connection, but another part ached with an unwelcome stab of jealousy and remorse. He remembered when Helena used to look at him like that, and he at her. But even that connection paled in comparison to how he was viewed through Emily’s eyes. She had looked at him with more love than he ever imagined a heart could hold.

  Before Ian could reach his friend’s desk and be reintroduced to Amarela, Jersey snatched up a folder and steered him over to a small alcove that served as the staff lunchroom.

  Pouring coffee into two paper cups, Jersey said, “I asked about that house raid you mentioned on the phone. Kinda odd. Somebody from inside the house reported a break-in, but there was nobody there when uniform arrived. Glass in the rear door was broken, TV vandalized, and a basement door was off its hinges.” Jersey studied Ian’s face for a reaction. When he didn’t receive one, he continued. “In the basement, uniform found two rooms that appear to have been set up for some dirty deeds. Turns out the current occupant is a known sex offender. The rooms should be enough to violate his parole. Sex crimes got a search warrant and is investigating.”

  “They know where he works?” Ian asked.

  “Local bottling plant, but he hasn’t shown up for two days. His foreman says that’s unusual.”

  Ian turned away and stared blindly at the staff notices pasted on the corkboard. “Does sex crimes think he might have anything to do with Molly?”

  Jersey blanched. “Why, you suspect something?”

  Ian couldn’t keep the anger out of his tone. “Only that a young girl has gone missing at the same time as a fucking neighborhood predator drops off the radar.”

  Jersey stayed calm and professional. The reason he wore the badge. “I’ll make sure sex crimes knows.”

  “If you hear of any link …”

  “I’ll call.”

  “Thanks.” Ian swallowed his frustration in a sip of coffee. It tasted like copper pipe. He indicated the folder in Jersey’s hand. “Is that Young’s cellmate?”

  Jersey opened the folder. “Name is Lee Hogg. Career criminal, addict, and all-around crazy fuck. Although he prefers your basic snatch and grab, the last conviction was a bad one. Carved a guy’s face to shreds with a broken wine bottle in an argument over who got the last chicken nugget. Hogg got the nugget and a year behind bars, while the other guy lost an eye and any chance of entering future beauty pageants.”

  Ian rubbed his chin. “Hogg sounds like a good guy to have on your side if you were worried about being attacked.”

  “Sure.” Jersey agreed. “Keep him supplied with his drug of choice, and you’d have a loyal watchdog who’d show his teeth on command. You’re thinking that’s what Young did?”

  “He survived a year inside until his cellmate was set loose. On his own, he didn’t make it a week. Sounds plausible.”

  “They haven’t ruled Young’s death a homicide.”

  “I have.” He glanced down at the report. “You get a photo?”

  The mug shot showed Lee Hogg on the day he was arrested: wild-eyed, snarling, with hair like a flaming tumbleweed. Take away a little of the crazy, add in a warm bed and twelve months of three square meals a day, and Hogg was the same person who sold Ian the newspaper containing Young’s note.

  “He’s in a halfway house on the east side. Raven’s Rest, you know it?”

  His mind already focused on his next move, Ian nodded absently.

  “Be careful talking with this guy,” Jersey continued. “Without the prison docs keeping check on his meds, he’ll be plunging off the crazy cliff like a condemned man at the gallows.”

  16

  Raven’s Rest was a four-story brick building in a part of town that had known better days. If you could acid wash the graffiti-spattered panels that crowned each generously wide doorway, you would find traces of family businesses that once made hardworking immigrants from eastern and northern Europe pop the buttons on their shirts with pride.

  A large tin pig swung above one particular doorway, the weakened bolt securing its rump having snapped in a recent storm so that only one anchor remained at its throat. A stubborn blister of flesh-colored paint clung to one leg in a final standoff against the overwhelming invasion of marmalade rust, while the faint outline of the butcher’s name could still be discerned in raised letters hammered into its metallic flesh. You had to look close, but painted beneath the raised letters was the proud proclamation: & son.

  Ian knew that sw
ine far too well. As a child, he played on these streets, kicked the can, skinned his knees, and kissed as many of the neighborhood girls as would let him. Later, he dodged cars and fists, ran fast and stole candy from Mr. Patelli at the corner store. Looking up at the sign now, the only surprise was it had taken this long for the damn pig to finally hang itself.

  He parked in front of a small bakery/diner that had managed to survive the neighborhood’s decline with all-day breakfasts, fifty-cent coffee, and oven-fresh bread. After crossing the road to Raven’s Rest, Ian pushed through a heavy door that had once boasted a plate-glass insert but now wore the opaque face of painted plywood and industrial screws.

  Inside, a small lobby was sequestered from the rest of the building by a second security door and a bank teller’s window that looked into the supervisor’s office.

  “Can I help you?”

  Ian turned to the window to see a skinny man with jarring false teeth, flesh the color of ash and spit, a garish purple bow tie, and a cheap hairpiece that appeared to have been fitted when his head was wider. The window had a circular pattern of perforations at face level and an open slot at the bottom for the exchange of keys and mail. Someone with a nicotine tongue had recently given the transparent barrier a big, sloppy lick.

  “I’m looking for Lee Hogg.” Ian held up his phone and showed the copy he had snapped of Hogg’s mug shot.

  “What’s he done?” The man stuck a bent knuckle into one nostril as if to widen the opening for better air circulation.

  “Nothing,” said Ian. “I just want to talk.”

  “You’re not a cop.” It was a statement, not a question. “Social worker? Parole officer?”

  “None of the above,” said Ian.

  “Huh.” The man moved his knuckle to the other nostril and gave it a sharp twist. He sniffed and seemed pleased with the result. “You got ID?”

  Ian handed over his Children First identity card. The man looked at it, frowned, reached under his wig to scratch his scalp, and handed the card back.