"Okay, but I want to clear it with the boss."
"Tell him you're helping me investigate," Barry said. Then he was gone.
Tracy watched Barry walk away and smiled. He sure had a cute butt.
They'd run together a few times and it had been fun. So far Barry had been a perfect gentleman, which was fine, but Tracy had decided she liked him enough to take matters a little further herself, if he didn't make a move. A romantic picnic in a beautiful setting seemed an ideal time to get started.
Tracy knew she was going to enjoy the coast, no matter what happened between her and Barry. She tried to remember what fresh air and sunshine were like. She had not seen much of either since she started as Reynolds's associate. Not that she was complaining. Working for Matthew Reynolds was everything she thought it would be. Still, the coast would be a great change of scenery after being cooped up with law books all week.
There were two addresses listed in the file Reynolds had opened for Charlie Deems. The first was for the apartment where Deems lived when he was arrested for the Hollins murders. Deems never returned to it. He had been in the county jail or on death row until his conviction was reversed. The apartment was rented to someone else now and the landlord had no idea how to reach Deems.
The second address was in a run-down section of north Portland. Barry Frame peered out the passenger window into the fading daylight and tried to read the numbers on a bungalow that stood back from the street. A chain-link fence surrounded the bungalow. Its gray paint was peeling.
The yard had not been mown in weeks. One of the metal numbers on the front door was missing, but the other three numbers were right.
Barry opened the gate and walked up a slate path. Loud music blasted through the front door. Barry recognized grating guitars, rowdy drums and a sound that was closer to screaming than singing and quickly identified the group as another Pearl Jam knockoff. He rang the doorbell twice, then tried heavy pounding.
Someone turned down the volume and Barry knocked again.
"Stop that racket. I'm coming," a woman shouted.
The living-room curtains moved. Barry stepped away from the door and tried his best to look nonthreatening. A moment later, the front door was opened by a slender, barefoot blonde who was dressed in cutoffs and a bikini top. The shadows cast by the setting sun smoothed the lines hardship had etched into her features and for a moment Barry was fooled into thinking she was a teenager.
"Who are you?" the woman asked belligerently.
Barry held out his identification. "My name's Barry Frame.
I'm an investigator working with Matthew Reynolds. He's an attorney."
"So?"
"Are you Angela Quinn?"
"What's this about?" she asked, cocking her hip and leaning against the doorjamb. The pose was intended to distract him and it worked. Barry could not help noticing her long, smooth legs and the impression her nipples made on the fabric of the bikini top.
"We're trying to get in touch with Charlie Deems. Mr. Deems consulted with Mr. Reynolds a few years ago and he gave him this address and phone number for messages. Are you Angela?"
Barry saw fear flicker in Angela Quinn's blue eyes.
"I don't know where Charlie is," Angela said as she started to close the door.
"Wait. You were his girlfriend, right?"
"Look, mister, I'll make this simple. I dance at Jiggle's. Charlie used to hang out there and we were friends for a while. Then he killed that kid."
Angela shook her head, as if she still couldn't believe it.
"Charlie wrote me from death row. I'm a sucker. I wrote him back, once or twice, because the guy doesn't have anyone else and I never figured I'd see him again. My mistake. The first place he goes after they let him out is my house. I let him stay. But he's gone now, and I don't know where he is."
"If you dislike Deems so much, how come you let him stay?"
Angela laughed, but there was no humor in it.
"Mister, you must not know Charlie very well. You just don't say no to him." Angela shuddered. "The bastard stayed more than a month and that was a month too long. I hope I never see him again.
"Can you remember when Charlie left?"
"It was about two weeks ago."
"Do you remember hearing about a Supreme Court justice who was killed by a car bomb?"
Barry saw the fear again. "Why do you want to know?" Angela asked, suddenly suspicious.
"Mr. Reynolds, my boss, is representing the woman who's charged with killing the judge. Charlie is going to be a witness in the case and we want to talk to him about his testimony."
"I told you I don't know where he is."
"Did Charlie ever say anything about the judge's murder to you."
Angela looked like she was debating whether to talk to Barry.
"This is just between us," he said, giving her his most reassuring smile.
"Why should I believe that?"
Barry stopped smiling. "Look, Angela, I know how dangerous Deems is and I'm not going to put you in danger. I just want this as background. Did Charlie discuss Justice Griffen's murder with you?"
"No, he didn't say nothin' to me, but he was watching a story about it on the news when I was getting ready for work one night, and he seemed real interested. He even asked me if I had the paper, because he wanted to read about the killing. Now that I think about it, Charlie left right after that."
"And there hasn't been any contact since he left? He's never called?
You didn't have to send him any clothes? Stuff he left behind?"
"Nope. I have no idea where he is."
"Well, thanks. You've been a real help. Here's my card. If he does contact you, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know where I can find him."
"Yeah, sure," Angela said. The door closed and Barry wondered how long it would take for his business card to find its way into the trash.
Charlie Deems sat on the back porch of a farmhouse in Clackamas County smoking a cigarette and watching the grass sway back and forth. It was the most exciting thing that happened at the farm, but that was okay with Charlie. Two years of living in a cell the size of a broom closet, locked down twenty-three out of every twenty-four hours, had taught him how to deal with idle time.
Out past the high grass was a stand of cottonwoods. Past the cottonwoods were low rolling hills behind which the sun was starting to set. Charlie felt content. His plans were moving forward slowly, but steadily. He was living rent-free and, except for a steady diet of pizza and Big Macs, he didn't have much to complain about.
As soon as Charlie was released from the Oregon State Penitentiary, but before he contacted Raoul, he reestablished contact with people who worked for Otero. Raoul had changed some of his ways of doing business, but for the most part the cocaine flowed along the same river it was traveling when Deems was working the waterways. For instance, there was a certain rest stop on the interstate where trucks from Mexico stopped on their way to Seattle. While the drivers relieved themselves, shadowy figures relieved the drivers of a part of their cargo that never showed on the manifest, then faded into the night. This evening, one of his babysitters had told him that several arrests had been made at that rest stop and a large amount of cocaine had been confiscated. Charlie's steak dinner reflected the DA's appreciation.
Charlie took another drag on his cigarette. He smiled as he pictured the confusion Raoul would experience as each piece of his organization crumbled. Soon the cops would catch the fish who was more afraid of prison than Raoul. Someone would wear a wire and Raoul's own words would weave themselves into the rope that would hang him. Then the grand jury would start to meet. It would take a while, but Charlie could wait.
What he could not wait for was the day he would testify against Abigail Griffen. He wanted to look her in the eye as his testimony brought her down. For two years, the bitch had been at the center of every one of his sexual fantasies. If he had a dollar for every time he had raped or tortured her in his dreams, he would be living in a villa on the French Riviera. And while he would certainly enjoy a chance to visit with Ms.