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Cutler looked as if he was at his wit’s end. “I like Vanessa. I do, and I’ve tried very hard to deal with her problems, but it’s getting to be too much. She’s a brilliant woman, a terrific reporter. If it weren’t for her mental problems she’d be going for the Pulitzer. But she has trouble separating reality and fantasy, and it’s getting worse instead of better. What I don’t understand is why the FBI is talking to her, much less giving credence to anything she says.”

  “I can’t explain, but it is in connection with a case.”

  “Is she in trouble?”

  “Not from us. Tell me, Mr. Cutler, has she ever mentioned a man named Carl Rice to you?”

  “That sounds familiar.” Cutler snapped his fingers. “He’s in the book. Aw, no. Don’t tell me it’s about her book. I mean that’s a total fantasy. I’ve read it. She doesn’t have a shred of evidence to back up anything she says.”

  “What book is that?” Hobson asked, although he had read a copy that had been made from a manuscript that had been surreptitiously copied by an employee at a publishing house who was paid under the table by the FBI.

  “She’s written this expose of her father. She claims that he ran a secret army unit during Vietnam that committed all sorts of crimes. Only she doesn’t have a shred of proof.”

  “What does she say about Rice?”

  “He was supposed to be one of Wingate’s assassins.”

  Cutler took a deep breath. “You can’t put any stock in these wild accusations, Mr. Hobson. When Vanessa was in her twenties she saw a very gruesome torture murder. She was staying at a congressman’s house in California. I think that’s what started her problems, because she was hospitalized for a year after that at some private sanatorium for the shock of seeing this guy killed. She says this old boyfriend of hers, Carl Rice, killed the congressman to get evidence he had about this army thing her father was supposed to be running. But you can’t believe anything she says about General Wingate. She hates him. I mean, really hates him. Vanessa blames him for everything that’s gone wrong in her life: her mother’s death; being in that psychiatric hospital. She even thinks that he was involved in the Kennedy assassination.”

  “What?”

  “She claims her father was the second gunman on the grassy knoll. Then she claims that she was never crazy and that he put her in a sanatorium to keep her from telling what she knows.” He shook his head.

  “You don’t believe what’s in the book?” Hobson asked.

  “Hell, no. And I know where she got that stuff, too. She has a huge collection of books and articles about real clandestine government operations, like Phoenix, and a ton more about Roswell, Kennedy assassination conspiracy theories, and that sort of crap. Her book is a mishmash of the real stuff and what the conspiracy nuts believe.”

  “Do you have any idea where she went?”

  “No. I talked to her last night, right after she called the cops, but she didn’t tell me where she was. And this is the first I’ve heard that she was going anywhere.”

  “If she calls you, will you let me know where she is?”

  Sam looked uncomfortable. “You swear that you’re not going to arrest her, that she’s not a suspect in anything?”

  “You have my word. I’m concerned that she might find Carl Rice and he might hurt her.”

  “Then this Rice is real?”

  “Yes. She did go out with him in high school, and she met him again right around the time that Congressman Glass was murdered. She told the police that Rice killed the congressman.”

  “So, she’d be in danger if she ran into this guy?”

  “She might be.”

  Sam took a deep breath. “If she calls, I’ll try to find out where she is.”

  “For the record, I promised Vanessa that I’d offer you protective custody.”

  Sam shook his head. “Just have someone drive me back to the paper, and promise you’ll vouch for me if my boss asks any questions.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  As soon as Ami Vergano, attorney and single mother, was identified as the parent of the little boy who had rushed to Daniel Morelli’s side, helicopters from the TV stations buzzed her house, reporters started knocking on her door at all hours, and the phone began ringing incessantly. Ami tried to explain that she was only Morelli’s landlord, but the reporters wanted to know if he was her lover or Ryan’s father. By the time they grew bored and moved on, Ryan was a mess. Ami had tried to shield him, but he had seen his friend shot and bleeding, he had heard some of the cruel unending questions, and he had seen the distress they caused his mother.

  Two days after the fight at the ball field, Ami walked an uncharacteristically subdued Ryan to his fourth-grade homeroom. She extracted a promise from the principal and Ryan’s teacher that they would not allow reporters, Ryan’s classmates, or anyone else to talk to him about the incident at the ball field. Ami hugged Ryan and reluctantly drove downtown. Her office was in an old brick building on Front Avenue, across the street from a waterfront park that ran along the Willamette River. Ami might have been depressed, but the weather was balmy and the sun promised a happy day. In a few hours, speedboats would be tearing past sleek watercraft with multicolored sails and the park would fill up with dog walkers, women pushing strollers, and kids playing hooky.

  An Irish bar occupied the ground floor of Ami’s building. The entrance to the upper floors was between the bar and a travel agency. On the third floor, the elevator doors opened across from a firm that built websites. Down the hall to the right was an architect’s office. At the other end of the floor was the suite where Ami shared space with a three-person law firm and two other sole practitioners. A Hispanic woman with a baby; a neatly dressed black man; and a blond woman wearing aviator glasses, a tan blouse, and jeans were seated in the reception area. Ami had no scheduled appointments, so she assumed that none of the people in the reception area were waiting for her. As she stopped at the reception desk to get her messages, the receptionist leaned forward.

  “The woman in the tan blouse is here for you,” she whispered. “She doesn’t have an appointment.”

  After checking her messages to make certain that there was nothing urgent, Ami walked over to the blonde.

  “I’m Ami Vergano. I understand you want to see me.”

  The woman stood up. She didn’t smile or offer a hand. “I hope you have some time free. If you’re busy, I can wait.”

  “Can you tell me what this is about?” Ami asked warily. If this was another reporter, Ami was going to commit mayhem.

  The woman looked at the other clients. “I’d prefer to speak to you in private.”

  Ami led the way to her broom-closet-size office at the rear of the suite. The window looked down on the bar’s parking lot. Diplomas covered one wall, and another displayed a seascape that she’d taken as a fee from another artist for whom she’d written a contract with a gallery. There were two client chairs, a credenza that ran beneath Ami’s window, and her desk, which was covered by pleadings, memos, letters, and law books. A picture of Ami, Chad, and Ryan stood on the credenza, and a picture of Ryan sat next to her phone.

  “How can I help you, Ms….?”

  “Kohler. Vanessa Kohler. I live in Washington, D.C. I flew into Portland late last night.”

  Ami’s brow furrowed. “You didn’t fly all the way to Oregon to consult with me on a legal matter, did you?”

  “Actually, I did. I heard your name on CNN. They said that you’re a lawyer. They also said that Daniel Morelli was living with you.”

  Ami glared at her visitor. “Are you a reporter?”

  “Mrs. Vergano, I do work for a newspaper, but I’m not here for a story.”

  “What paper?” Ami demanded angrily.

  Vanessa sighed. “I’m employed by Exposed. It’s a supermarket tabloid, not a daily. I assure you that my trip to Portland and this meeting have nothing to do with my job. I’m here on my own, not for a story. I knew Dan in high school and in D.C. in the mid-eighties. We were very
close at one time. I want to hire you to represent him.”

  “Ms. Kohler, the press has made my life and my son’s life hell for the past few days. I’m not sure I trust any reporter. But even if I believed you, I couldn’t help you. I don’t practice criminal law and my only contact with it is a required course I took during my first year in law school. I am not competent to represent anyone facing any kind of criminal charges, let alone something this serious.

  “But even if I were a great criminal lawyer, I couldn’t represent Dan. You never represent someone you know. And there’s a potential conflict of interest. I’m a witness. I saw what happened. The DA could call me and I’d have to testify that I saw Dan stab Barney Lutz in the throat and throw that policeman to the ground. So, you see, there’s no way I can do what you want me to do.”

  Vanessa leaned forward. She looked intense. “I don’t care about all that. What I need is someone who can get me in to see Dan. I called the hospital. They said he’s being held in a secure ward. They won’t let anyone but his attorney visit him. You can get a message to Dan. Maybe you can get me in as another attorney or an expert witness.”

  Ami’s anger boiled up again. “This sounds like a ploy to get an interview.”

  Vanessa gripped her hands tightly in her lap to control her mounting frustration. “I told you, I am not here as a reporter. I care for Dan and I want to help him. I’m probably the only person who can help him. There are things I know, things he knows. He could use his knowledge to cut a deal.”

  “What things?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you that.”

  Ami decided to put an end to the meeting.

  “Look, Ms. Kohler, this isn’t going to work. I’d get disbarred if I lied to the police so you could see Dan. I might even be arrested. You’re going to have to find another attorney.”

  “When you talked about Dan on TV, it sounded as though you cared for him.”

  “I do like Dan, but I’ve only known him for a short time.”

  “He’s a very good man, Mrs. Vergano, but he’s been wounded emotionally. He needs our help. I know how to help him, but I have to see him first.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help you, Ms. Kohler.”

  Vanessa took a check for $25,000 out of her pocket and laid it on the blotter. Ami stared at the check longingly. How she could use $25,000.

  “I must see Dan before it’s too late,” Vanessa said. She sounded desperate. “You have no idea how important this is. If you care about him at all, you’ll help me. His life is in danger.”

  “From who?”

  Vanessa shook her head. “You have to trust me on this. They may know that Dan is here already. If they don’t, they’ll know soon. Then it will be too late.”

  Vanessa Kohler made Ami very uncomfortable, but the money…it could be the beginning of a college fund for Ryan. She could use it to pay down some of her debt. And what if Morelli really was in some danger more serious than his legal problems? That was hard to believe, but so was what had happened on the baseball diamond. For a moment, Ami thought about taking the $25,000, but her conscience would not let her.

  “You’re asking me to put my livelihood at risk for a man I don’t really know. You’re going to have to give me more if I’m going to take this type of risk.”

  “I don’t know what I can say. I thought you’d help because you knew him.”

  “The man I thought I knew was a gentle person. I’m having trouble reconciling that with what I saw.”

  “From what I can tell, he was protecting your son’s coach from a beating.”

  “Yes, but there are limits. He stabbed Barney Lutz in the throat. He almost killed him. And what about what he did to the policeman?”

  “The policeman came at him from behind. Dan didn’t know who he was.”

  “He’s a violent, dangerous man, Ms. Kohler, and my son was around him a lot. God knows what he might have done to him.”

  Vanessa stared hard at Ami. “You know in your heart that he would never hurt your boy. You know he’s not like that.”

  “You said yourself that you knew him last in the mid-eighties. People change. The man I saw two days ago is a killer.”

  Vanessa was on the edge of her chair, leaning forward like a runner at the start of a race. She gripped Ami’s desk so tightly that her knuckles turned white and her eyes bored into Ami’s with such intensity that Ami wondered if her visitor was dangerous.

  “If Dan is a killer, I know who made him like that. This man is ruthless. Once he learns that Dan is in Portland, he won’t stop until Dan is dead. The only way to keep him alive is to make a deal with the authorities. I can convince Dan to do that, but I have to meet with him face to face.”

  Ami tried to sort out her feelings. What if Kohler was telling the truth? Morelli was an enigma. What Dan had done had shocked and upset her because the Daniel Morelli who had lived at her house and had been so kind to her son was nothing like the man who had acted with such brutal efficiency at Ryan’s game. She liked and respected the artist who had stayed with her, but the violent man who had almost killed Barney Lutz terrified her. Which one was the real Morelli? She decided to take a chance and try to help the man she thought of as a friend.

  “Look, Ms. Kohler, I’ll try to visit Dan. I’ll give him a message from you. I’m not going to charge you $25,000, though, because I can’t take the case. Write a check for a $1,500 nonrefundable retainer and I’ll charge you by the hour. If you want help finding a real criminal lawyer, I’ll do that, too.”

  Vanessa’s shoulders sagged with relief. She smiled for the first time.

  “Thank you, and let’s make the retainer $5,000. I can afford it. There is one thing, though. I don’t want anyone except Dan to know that I’ve retained you. Is that understood? No one can know that I’m in Portland or that I hired you. Can you promise me confidentiality?”

  “I’ll keep you out of it,” Ami said. But as Vanessa ripped up her first check and began to write another, Ami thought about what she had just agreed to do and wondered what she had gotten herself into.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As soon as the door closed behind her new client, Ami regretted her decision to visit Morelli. Her fear and doubt increased as she drove to the county hospital and peaked when she opened the door to the office of Dr. Leroy Ganett, the physician in charge of Morelli’s case.

  Ganett was a tall, angular man with unruly brown hair who sat with his back to the room’s only window. His office was furnished with a dull gray metal desk and an old wooden bookshelf. Ami introduced herself, and Ganett waved her into a seat in front of a wall covered by his degrees and a picture of him in shorts and a T-shirt standing on a dock beside a gigantic marlin.

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. Vergano?”

  “Daniel Morelli is my client. I want to meet with him.”

  “No one told me that the court appointed a lawyer.”

  “I’m not court-appointed. I’ve been hired to represent Mr. Morelli.”

  Ganett frowned. “I don’t know if I can let you see Morelli without the DA’s approval.”

  Ami was afraid that Dr. Ganett would say something like this. She honestly had no idea whether the district attorney could prevent her from seeing Dan. She wasn’t kidding when she told Vanessa Kohler that she knew next to nothing about criminal law. She did remember something that she’d seen on a TV lawyer show, though.

  “Dr. Ganett, everyone in America has a right to counsel. It’s guaranteed by the Constitution. The district attorney has no power to keep Daniel Morelli from his attorney. Neither does this hospital.”

  Dr. Ganett looked unsure of himself. Ami smiled and addressed him in her most reasonable tone.

  “Look, doctor, I don’t have any desire to make a federal case out of this visit, and I’m sure you don’t want to have the hospital dragged into court over an issue it can’t win.”

  Ami half hoped that Ganett would refuse to let her see Dan. It was an easy way out. But Ga
nett shrugged.

  “There’s a policeman on duty. If he doesn’t object, I won’t.”

  “Thanks. How is Mr. Morelli doing?”

  “He’s depressed and withdrawn. He hasn’t said a word to anyone since he got here. But I’d be surprised if he wasn’t depressed. He’s been shot; he’s facing criminal charges. Depression would be normal under these circumstances.”

  “What’s his physical condition?”

  “He was a mess when we got him. One bullet penetrated the spleen and grazed the left kidney. We had to remove the spleen. Then there was blood loss. He’s on antibiotics and analgesics for the pain, and we’re running some tests because he’s spiking a fever, but considering everything, he’s doing fine.”

  Ganett handed Ami a medical report. “Here. You can keep that. It’s a copy.”

  Ami scanned the report, and Dr. Ganett translated the medical terminology that Ami did not understand. Morelli’s white count showed a mild leukocytosis with a shift to the left. There were some old scars and evidence of plastic surgery and a flat plate of the abdomen showed metal fragments posterior to the right iliac crest compatible with shrapnel. The hematocrit was stable at 31.

  “You wrote that the incision is healing,” Ami asked. “What does that mean in terms of how long Mr. Morelli will be in the hospital?”

  “I’m not releasing him to the jail tomorrow, if that’s what you want to know. He still needs to be hospitalized. But he’s pulling through nicely, so he may not be here long.”

  “Thanks. Can I see Mr. Morelli now?”

  “Sure thing.”

  The security ward was on the third floor at the other end of the hospital. A muscular orderly dressed in white pants and a short-sleeved white shirt was reading a paperback western at a wooden table to the right of a metal door. In the center of the door was a small, square window made of thick glass. A push-button bell was affixed to the wall beside the door. The orderly put down his book when he saw Dr. Ganett and Ami approaching.

  “Mrs. Vergano is with me, Bill. We want to see Mr. Morelli.”