Gone, But Not Forgotten Read online

  “We can be civilized about this or you can be bitchy,” the man said. “It don’t matter to me. In the end, you’ll pay.”

  “What are you selling and what do you want?” Darius answered, studying the fleshy face in the dim light.

  “Always the businessman, so let’s get down to business. I’ve been to Hunter’s Point. The old newspapers were full of information. There were pictures, too. I had to look hard, but it was you. I got one here, if you’d like to see,” the man said, sliding his hand out of his coat pocket and pushing a photocopy of a newspaper front page across the table. Darius studied it for a moment, then slid it back.

  “Ancient history, friend.”

  “Oh? You think so? I have friends on the force, Martin. The public don’t know yet, but I do. Someone has been leaving little notes and black roses around Portland. I figure it’s the same person who left ’em in Hunter’s Point. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re a very clever man, Mr. …?” Darius said, stalling for time to dope out the implications.

  The man shook his head. “You don’t need my name, Martin. You just have to pay me.”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  “I thought two hundred and fifty thousand dollars would be fair. It’d cost you at least that much in attorney fees.”

  The man had thinning, straw-colored hair. Darius could see flesh between the strands when he bent forward. The nose had been broken. There was a gut, but the shoulders were thick and the chest heavy.

  “Have you told the people who hired you about Hunter’s Point?” Darius asked.

  There was a brief flicker of surprise, then a flash of nicotine-stained teeth.

  “That was terrific. I ain’t even gonna ask how you figured it out. Tell me what you think.”

  “I think you and I are the only ones who know, for now.”

  The man did not answer.

  “There is one thing I’d like to know,” Darius said, eyeing him curiously. “I know what you think I’ve done. What I’m capable of doing. Why aren’t you afraid I’ll kill you?”

  The man laughed.

  “You’re a pussy, Martin, just like the other rape-os I run into in the joint. Guys who were real tough with women and not so tough with anyone else. You know what I used to do to those guys? I made ’em my girls, Martin. I turned ’em into little queens. I’d do it to you too, if I wasn’t more interested in your money.”

  While Darius considered this information, the man watched him with a confident smirk.

  “It will take me a while to come up with that much money,” Darius said. “How much time can you give me?”

  “Today is Wednesday. How’s Friday?”

  Darius pretended to be considering the problems involved with liquidating stocks and closing accounts.

  “Make it Monday. A lot of my holdings are in land. It will take me until Friday to arrange for loans and sell some stock.”

  The man nodded. “I heard you didn’t believe in bullshit. Good. You’re doing the right thing. And, let me tell you, friend, I’m not someone to fuck with. Also, I’m not greedy. This’ll be a one-shot deal.”

  The man stood. Then he thought of something and grinned at Darius.

  “Once I’m paid, I’ll be gone and forgotten.”

  The man laughed at his little joke, turned his back and left the bar. Darius watched him go. He did not find the joke, or anything else about the man, amusing.

  Four

  A hard rain hit the windshield. Big drops, falling fast. Russ Miller switched the wiper to maximum. The cascade still obliterated his view of the road and he had to squint to catch the broken center line in the headlight beams. It was almost eight, but Vicky was used to late suppers. You put in the hours at Brand, Gates and Valcroft if you expected to get anywhere. Russ grinned as he imagined Vicky’s reaction to the news. He wished he could drive faster, but a few more minutes would not make much difference.

  Russ had warned Vicky he might not be home on time as soon as Frank Valcroft’s secretary summoned him. At the advertising firm, it was an honor to be asked into Valcroft’s corner office. Russ had been there only twice before. The deep, wine-colored carpets and dark wood reminded him of where he wanted to be. When Valcroft told him he was going to be in charge of the Darius Construction account, Russ knew he was on his way.

  Russ and Vicky had been introduced to Martin Darius this summer at a party Darius hosted to celebrate the opening of his new mall. All the men who worked on the account were there, but Russ had this feeling that Darius had singled him out. An invitation to join Darius on his yacht arrived a week later. Since then, he and Vicky had been guests at two house parties. Stuart Webb, another account executive at Brand, Gates, said he felt like he was standing in a chill wind when he was with Darius, but Darius was the most dynamic human being Russ had ever met and he had a knack for making Russ feel like the most important person on Earth. Russ was certain that Martin Darius was responsible for making him the team leader of the Darius Construction account. If Russ was successful as team leader, who knew what he would be doing in the future. He might even leave Brand, Gates and go to work for the man himself.

  As Russ pulled into his driveway the garage door opened automatically. The rain pounding on the garage roof sounded like the end of the world and Russ was glad to get inside the warm kitchen. There was a large, metal pot on the stove, so he knew Vicky was making pasta. The surprise would be the sauce. Russ shouted Vicky’s name as he peeked under the cover of another pot. It was empty. There was a cutting board covered with vegetables, but none of them was sliced. Russ frowned. There was no fire under the large pot. He lifted the lid. It was filled with water, but the pasta was lying, uncooked, next to the pasta maker he had bought Vicky for their third anniversary.

  “Vick,” Russ shouted again. He loosened his tie and took off his jacket. The lights were on in the living room. Later, Russ told the police he had not called sooner because everything looked so normal. The set was on. The Judith Krantz novel Vicky was reading was open and facedown on the end table. When he realized Vicky was not home, he assumed she was over at one of the neighbors.

  The first time Russ went into the bedroom, he missed the rose and the note. His back was to the bed when he stripped off his clothes and hung them in the closet. After that, he slipped into a warm-up suit and checked the cable guide to see what was on TV. When fifteen more minutes passed without Vicky, Russ went back into the bedroom to phone her best friend, who lived down the block. That was when he saw the note on the pillow on the immaculately made bed. There was a black rose lying across the plain, white paper. Written in a careful hand were the words “Gone, But Not Forgotten.”

  CHAPTER 2

  As Austin Forbes, the President of the United States, walked toward United States Senator Raymond Francis Colby he passed through the rays of sunlight streaming through the high French windows of the Oval Office, creating the impression that God was spotlighting a chosen son. Had he noticed, the diminutive Chief Executive would have appreciated the vote of confidence from above. The results of his earthly polls were not nearly as complimentary.

  “Good to see you, Ray,” Forbes said. “You know Kelly Bendelow, don’t you?”

  “Kelly and I have met,” Colby said, remembering the in-depth interview the President’s troubleshooter had conducted just two weeks before.

  Senator Colby sat in the chair the President indicated and glanced out the east windows toward the rose garden. The President sat in an old armchair that had graced his Missouri law office and followed him up the ladder of power to the Oval Office. He looked pensive.

  “How’s Ellen?” Forbes asked.

  “She’s fine.”

  “And are you fine? You’re in good health?”

  “Excellent health, Mr. President. I had a thorough physical last month,” Colby answered, knowing that the FBI would have furnished Forbes with his doctor’s report.

  “No personal problems. Everything’s going
well at home? Your finances are sound?”

  “Ellen and I are celebrating our thirty-second anniversary next month.”

  Forbes stared hard at Colby. The good old boy vanished and the hard-nosed politician who had carried forty-eight states in the last election took his place.

  “I can’t afford another fiasco like this Hutchings thing,” Forbes said. “I’m telling you this in confidence, Ray. She lied to me. Hutchings sat where you’re sitting and lied. Then that reporter for the Post found out and …”

  Forbes let the thought trail off. Everyone in the room was painfully aware of the blow that had been dealt to Forbes’s prestige when the Senate voted against confirming the nomination of Mabel Hutchings.

  “Is there anything in your past that can cause us problems, Ray? Anything at all? When you were c.e.o. of Marlin Steel did you ever pay a corporate bribe? Did you use marijuana at Princeton or Harvard Law? Did you knock up some girl in high school?”

  Colby knew the questions were not ridiculous. The aspirations of presidential hopefuls and Supreme Court nominees had run aground on just such rocky shoals.

  “There will be no surprises, Mr. President.”

  The silence in the Oval Office grew. Then Forbes spoke.

  “You know why you’re here, Ray. If I nominate you to be Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court, will you accept?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Forbes grinned. The tension in the room evaporated.

  “We make the announcement tomorrow. You’ll make a great Chief Justice.”

  “I’m indebted to you,” Colby said, not trusting himself to say more. He had known the President would make the offer when he was summoned to the White House, but that did not keep him from feeling as light as a free-floating cloud.

  Raymond Colby sat up as quietly as possible and shuffled his feet along the carpet until he found his slippers. Ellen Colby stirred on the other side of their king-size bed. The senator watched the moonlight play on her peaceful features. He shook his head in amazement. Only his wife could sleep the sleep of angels after what had happened today.

  There was a liquor cabinet in the den of Colby’s Georgetown town house. Colby fixed himself some bourbon. On the upper landing the antique grandfather clock ticked away the seconds, each movement of the ancient hands perfectly audible in the stillness.

  Colby rested his glass on the fireplace mantel and picked up a framed and fading black and white photograph that had been taken the day his father argued a case before the United States Supreme Court. Howard Colby, a distinguished partner in Wall Street’s most prestigious law firm, died at his desk two months after the photograph was taken. Raymond Colby may have been first at Harvard Law, c.e.o. of Marlin Steel, the governor of New York and a United States senator, but he always saw himself in relationship to his father as he had been that day on the steps of the court, a ten-year-old boy under the protection of a wise and gruff giant whom Raymond remembered as the smartest man he had ever known.

  There were fifty-three broad steps leading from the street to the entrance to the Court. Raymond had counted as he climbed them, hand in hand with his father. When they passed between the columns supporting the west portico, his father had stopped to point out “Equal Justice Under Law” engraved in the bone-white marble of the Great Hall.

  “That’s what they do here, Raymond. Justice. This is the court of last resort. The final place for all lawsuits in this great country.”

  Massive oak doors guarded the Court’s chambers, but the courtroom was intimate. Behind a raised mahogany bench were nine high-backed chairs of various styles. When the justices filed to their seats, his father stood. When Howard Colby addressed the Court, Raymond was surprised to hear respect in the voice of a man who commanded the respect of others. These men in black, these wise men who towered over Howard Colby and commanded his respect, left a lasting impression. On the train ride back to New York, Raymond swore silently to sit some day upon the bench of the nation’s highest court. His dream would come true when the President made his announcement at tomorrow’s press conference.

  The waiting had begun Friday when a White House source told him that the President had narrowed his choice to the senator and Alfred Gustafson of the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals. This afternoon, during their meeting in the Oval Office, the President told Colby it was his membership in the Senate that made the difference. After the disastrous defeat of Mabel Hutchings, his first nominee, the President wanted a sure thing. The Senate was not going to reject one of its own, especially someone with Colby’s credentials. All he need do now was pass through the nominating process unscathed.

  Colby put down the photograph and picked up his drink. It was not only the excitement of the nomination that kept him from sleep. Colby was an honest man. When he told the President that there was no scandal in his past, he was telling the truth. But there was something in his past. Few people knew about it. Those who did could be trusted to keep silent. Still, it concerned him that he had not been entirely candid with the man who was fulfilling his greatest dream.

  Colby sipped his drink and stared at the lights of the capital. The bourbon was doing its job. His tense muscles were relaxing. He felt a bit sleepy. There was no way to change history. Even if he knew what the future would bring, he was certain he would have made no other choice. Worrying now would not change the past and the chances of his secret surfacing were very small. Within the hour the senator was sound asleep.

  CHAPTER 3

  One

  The pathetic thing was that after the affairs and the lies, not to mention the divorce settlement, which left Alan Page living in the same type of shabby apartment he had lived in when he was a law student, he still loved Tina. She was what he thought about when he was not thinking about work. Going to a movie did not help, reading a book did not help, even bedding the women with whom his well-meaning friends fixed him up did not help. The women were the worst, because he always found himself comparing and they never stacked up. Alan had not been with a woman in months.

  The district attorney’s mood was starting to affect his staff. Last week, Randy Highsmith, his chief deputy, had taken him aside and told him to shape up, but he still found it hard to cope with bachelorhood after twelve years of what he thought was a good marriage. It was the sense of betrayal that overwhelmed him. He had never cheated on Tina or lied to her and he felt that she was the one person he could trust completely. When he found out about her secret life, it was too much. Alan doubted he would ever fully trust anyone again.

  Alan pulled into the City garage and parked in the spot reserved for the Multnomah County district attorney, one of the few things Tina hadn’t gotten in the divorce, he mused bitterly. He opened his umbrella and raced across the street to the courthouse. The wind blew the rain under the umbrella and almost wrenched it from his hand. He was drenched by the time he ducked inside the gray stone building.

  Alan ran a hand through his damp hair while he waited for the elevator. It was almost eight. Around him, in the lobby, were young lawyers trying to look important, anxious litigants hoping for the best and dreading the worst, and a bored-looking judge or two. Alan was not in the mood for aimless social chatter. When the elevator came, he pushed six and stepped to the rear of the car.

  “Chief Tobias wants you to call,” the receptionist told him as soon as he entered the district attorney’s office. “He said it was important.”

  Alan thanked her and pushed open the low gate that separated the waiting area from the rest of the offices. His private office was the first on the right along a narrow hall.

  “Chief Tobias called,” his secretary said.

  “Winona told me.”

  “He sounded upset.”

  It was hard to imagine what could upset William Tobias. The slender police chief was as unflappable as an accountant. Alan shook out his umbrella and hung up his raincoat, then sat behind his large desk and dialed across the street to police headquarters.
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  “What’s up?” Alan asked.

  “We’ve got another one.”

  It took a moment for Alan to figure out what Tobias was talking about.

  “Her name is Victoria Miller. Twenty-six. Attractive, blond. Housewife. No kids. The husband is with Brand, Gates and Valcroft, the ad agency.”

  “Is there a body?”

  “No. She’s just missing, but we know it’s him.”

  “The same note?”

  “On the bed on the pillow. ‘Gone, But Not Forgotten.’ And there’s another black rose.”

  “Was there any sign of a struggle this time?”

  “It’s just like the others. She could have disappeared in a puff of smoke.”

  Both men were silent for a moment.

  “The papers still don’t know?”

  “We’re lucky there. Since there aren’t any bodies, we’ve been handling them like missing persons cases. But I don’t know how long we can keep this quiet. The three husbands aren’t going to just sit around. Reiser, the lawyer, is on the phone every day, two or three times a day, and Farrar, the accountant, is threatening to go public if we don’t come up with something soon.”

  “Do you have anything?”

  “Not a thing. Forensics is stumped. We’ve got no unusual fibers or hairs. No fingerprints. You can buy the notepaper at any Payless. The rose is an ordinary rose. Ditto the black dye.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “We’re doing a computer search on the m.o. and I’ve got Ross Barrow calling around to other police departments and the FBI.”

  “Are you looking into possible connections between the victims?”

  “Sure. We’ve got lots of obvious similarities. The three women are around the same age, upper middle-class, childless, housewives with executive-type husbands. But we’ve got nothing connecting the victims to each other.”

  Tobias could have been describing Tina. Alan closed his eyes and massaged the lids.