“My aunt,” Randi replied.
Maxine nodded. “Camille will put us up.”
“Good. Call her now. Then pack and go while Hastings is not around.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Marvin Turnbull had just come back from a contentious meeting with his board when Tyler Harrison called.
“I have bad news, Marvin,” Harrison said.
“What happened?”
“I called Frank Nylander in Portland on the Voss case. He’s dead, murdered.”
“You’re kidding?”
“I wish I were.”
“What happened?”
“He was killed in his office the evening he got back from our meeting.”
“Do they know who killed him?”
“I just talked to the receptionist. She told me that no one has been arrested.”
“Where does that leave the case?”
“It’s too early to say. Nylander had a good relationship with Voss. If anyone could convince him to settle, it would have been Frank.”
“Shit,” Turnbull muttered.
“Yeah,” Harrison agreed.
“So, what happens now?”
“Barring a miracle, we prepare for trial.”
“And the newspapers get hold of the story, which means we’re fucked.”
“I’m afraid so. I could try to get a gag order, but I had an associate research the question, and our chances would be almost zero.”
Turnbull’s end of the line went silent and Harrison waited.
“Voss will need a lawyer,” Turnbull said. “It will probably be someone in Nylander’s firm, but he could hire someone else. Either way, it will take a while for the new attorney to get up to speed, and that gives us time. Hell, a new lawyer might even be able to convince Voss to settle.”
“You’re right. If two lawyers advise the same thing, he might see the light.”
“This might work to our advantage, Tyler. Let me know what happens.”
“Will do,” Harrison said.
Turnbull disconnected and closed his eyes. The board had been informed about Leonard Voss’s refusal to settle, and they were in panic mode. Turnbull had sounded confident during his conversation with the firm’s attorney, but he was a realist. Voss was on a mission. He would never settle. If his lawsuit made headlines, the company would be ruined. More important, he would lose his job, and his stock would be worthless. Something had to be done, and he could see only one solution that would solve his and the company’s difficulties.
Ivar Gorski’s burner phone rang while he was in his motel room, performing katas, dancelike exercises that karate practitioners use to simulate combat. Gorski stopped in mid-kick and answered the call.
“We need to implement plan B,” Turnbull said.
Gorski hung up without saying anything in case someone was listening. He knew this wasn’t likely, but Gorski had stayed alive by being paranoid.
As soon as he ended the call, he continued his exercises. They calmed him and helped him think clearly. By the time he was showered and shaved, he had decided how he would carry out his mission.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Marsha Armstrong called Carrie Anders at seven in the morning on Tuesday.
“I just got a call from Saint Francis Medical Center. Doug’s there on the third floor. I’m getting ready to drive over.”
Carrie was headed to work, but she changed direction. Anders’s phone rang again just as she was about to get out of her car, in the hospital parking lot.
“Carrie?” Robin said.
“What’s up?” Anders replied.
“I wanted to give you a heads-up. Randi Stark called me last night. She was very upset. She thought she saw Blaine Hastings watching her house.”
“Is she sure it was Hastings?”
“No. She told me she saw a man from her bedroom window. He was about a block away, it was dark, and his face wasn’t illuminated. The best she can do is say that the person she saw had a build similar to Hastings’s.”
“Do you want me to have a car drive by tonight?”
“That won’t be necessary. They’re staying with a relative for a while.”
“Okay. Give Randi my number, and tell her to call if she thinks she’s in danger.”
“Will do.”
Marsha had not arrived when Anders walked into Reception, so she went to the nurses’ station on the third floor and had the doctor who was treating Armstrong paged.
Moments later, a young man wearing a white coat walked down the hall.
“Dr. Sanchez?” the detective asked as she flashed her ID.
The doctor nodded. “You’re here about Mr. Armstrong?”
Anders nodded in turn, and the doctor started walking toward a room that was halfway down the corridor. “Can you tell me what happened to him?” Anders asked.
“Mr. Armstrong was wandering around downtown at three in the morning. An officer spotted him and brought him here. He told me he didn’t know who he was or what had happened to him, and he didn’t have a wallet or phone we could use to identify him. This morning, he remembered his name and we called his wife.”
Anders stopped in front of the room. “What injuries does he have?”
“There’s some superficial damage to his face—a gash on his forehead, a split lip, black eyes, and cuts and abrasions on his nose, but nothing serious.”
“Does he remember how he was injured?”
“No. He told me the last thing he remembered before the police found him was flying back from Seattle last Tuesday.”
“Do you think his injuries caused his amnesia?”
“Neurological amnesia can result from a brain injury, but I found no sign of that.”
“Last week, Mr. Armstrong’s partner was beaten to death in an extremely violent manner. I’ve heard that amnesia can be caused by witnessing a traumatic event. If Mr. Armstrong witnessed his partner being bludgeoned to death, could that have brought on the problem?”
“There is a rare type of amnesia called dissociative amnesia, which is caused by emotional shock or trauma, such as being the victim of a violent crime.”
“Can a person who develops dissociative amnesia recover lost memories?
“Loss of memory caused by emotional shock is usually brief.”
“Can I talk to Armstrong?”
“Yeah, but I’ll want to be in the room to observe. If I think he’s getting too upset, I’m going to stop the interview.”
Anders started to open the door to Armstrong’s room. Then she thought of something. “Can I tell Mr. Armstrong that his partner is dead?”
Dr. Sanchez frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now. If he remembers, you can ask him what happened. But the news that his partner was murdered would probably upset him.”
“Okay,” Anders said as she opened the door.
When the detective walked into the room, Doug stared at her.
“Good morning, Mr. Armstrong,” Anders said as she walked to the side of the bed and displayed her shield. “How are you feeling?”
“Not great.”
“Do you know who I am?”
Armstrong’s brow knitted and he looked closely at Carrie. “Did you work on one of my cases?”
“Yes. My name is Carrie Anders, and I’m a detective with the Portland Police Bureau. We’ve met on a few occasions in connection with some of your cases.”
Doug shook his head. “I’m sorry, but my memory…”
“No need to apologize. Dr. Sanchez told me that you’re experiencing some memory loss. In spite of that, I’d like to ask you a few questions. Do you feel up to answering them?”
“I’ll try.”
“Can you tell me how you were injured?”