"Look, why don't you talk this over with Quinn? Maybe he'll join you at the press conference and tell everyone how you saved his life and how this masked guy tried to force him into convicting you. If Quinn will help, it could be the break we need."
Crease sighed. "How soon can you set up the press conference?"
"I'll have you on the air Thursday night, prime time. We might even get national coverage."
"Then, God help me, let's do it. And God help Richard Quinn."
[2]
Quinn threw two more logs into the stone fireplace in the living room of Frank Price's beach house.
"You warm enough?" Quinn asked Laura.
"Uhm."
Laura was bundled up in a wool sweater and jeans. A glass of wine sat on a low table at her elbow. Quinn settled on the floor beside Laura and they both stared through the huge picture window at the rain that pounded the beach and the boiling whitecaps that rolled over the beleaguered sand. The fire crackled and Quinn felt the heat on his face. He had good memories of this rustic cabin where he had spent many of his summers growing up. He was sorry that he would have to drive back to Portland tomorrow.
"What are you thinking about?" Quinn asked. "If it's business, you're in big trouble."
Laura laughed. "Believe it or not, I haven't thought about my practice since we crossed the coast range. The mountains must block the brain waves from Price, Winward."
Quinn put his arm around Laura's shoulder. He, too, had felt a lessening of tension as the landscape changed from urban sprawl to farmland and forest during their Sunday morning drive to the coast. By the time he and Laura were finishing bowls of thick, steaming clam chowder at a ramshackle restaurant of weathered wood on the Newport waterfront, he was a different person. An hour after lunch, Quinn and Laura were making love to the sound of rain pattering on the shake roof of the beach house and the murders were a universe away.
When they awoke Monday morning, a storm was brewing in the Pacific, but the rain held off until three. Quinn and Laura had walked the beach, driven into town for lunch, then spent the afternoon reading in front of the fire.
"If it's not business, then what caused that glazed look in your eyes?"
Laura looked a little guilty.
"You won't be mad at me?" she asked sheepishly.
Quinn squeezed her shoulder and kissed the top of her head.
"Speak. I know you. You'll brood all night if you don't get whatever is bothering you off your chest."
"Why do you think Brademas told Lamar, Sr., that Junior was embezzling the money?"
Quinn groaned.
"You said you wouldn't be mad."
Quinn sighed. "Brademas was Hoyt's head of security. He was supposed to tell him."
"I know, but wouldn't it have made more sense for Brademas to keep Hoyt in the dark? If Brademas hired Jablonski to kill Hoyt and Senator Crease so he would get a share of the estate when Junior inherited, wasn't Brademas risking a lot by going to Senior? What if Hoyt called in the police immediately after finding out about Junior? What if he changed his will the same day?"
"I see what you mean. Maybe Brademas didn't think of the plan until after he spoke to Hoyt."
"That would explain it," Laura said in a tone that let Quinn know she was not really convinced. "And there's something else. That visit from Marie Ritter when she was pretending to be Claire Reston."
"What about it?"
"What was the point? What possible purpose was served by having Ritter pretend to be her sister?"
Quinn shrugged. "I guess Brademas and Junior wanted to shake me up so I'd go along with their blackmail scheme."
"But you were already a mess. They'd threatened to frame you for murder. You thought you'd be disbarred, disgraced and incarcerated in a rat-infested prison on St. Jerome. Ritter's visit was really overkill."
"Wait a minute. Ritter told me where she was staying just when Fran Stuart walked in. Brademas and Junior were creating a witness. After Ritter was murdered, Fran could testify that Ritter was upset when she left my chambers and that I knew her hotel room number."
"That makes sense, but what if you saw through Ritter's makeup and figured out that Claire Reston and Andrea Chapman were the same person? You'd know Ritter wasn't murdered on St. Jerome. Brademas and Junior would have lost their leverage. Why put Marie Ritter in the same room with you when everything was going so well? Why take the risk?"
"They probably figured that I'd be so shaken up that I wouldn't be able to figure out that Reston and Chapman were the same person. And they were right. If I hadn't seen the scar on Ritter's hip I would still believe that Claire and Andrea were different women. They took a risk, but given my state, it wasn't all that big a risk."
Laura snuggled close to Quinn. "You're probably right."
Quinn kissed Laura. "Even if I'm not right, I don't care. I want to forget about Ellen Crease, Lamar Hoyt,fils and perey and Jack Brademas."
Laura kissed Quinn. "I've been a bad wife. I promise not to mention the case or anything even remotely connected to law for the rest of our stay."
"Good. Because even a single slip of the tongue will be severely punished."
"Oh? What might you do?"
"Hmm. Ravishing comes to mind."
Laura fluttered her eyelids. "You mean that I'll be ravished if I say anything connected with law?"
"You betcha."
Laura smiled seductively and whispered, "Habeas corpus."
[3]
Lamar Hoyt, Jr., lived on the eighth floor of a brick and glass condominium near the Vista Bridge. Anthony flashed his badge at the security guard and told him not to announce the arrival of the detectives and the four uniformed officers who accompanied them. When they arrived at Junior's apartment, the officers stationed themselves on either side of the door and Dennis rang the bell. He had to press the button five times before an angry voice, thick with sleep, asked, "Who is it?"
Anthony held his badge in front of the peephole and said, "Open up, police."
The door swung open, revealing a huge living room decorated with low-slung, modern furniture of polished metal, glass and smooth woods. Anthony saw the lights of Portland through a floor-to-ceiling window that stretched across the outer wall of the apartment. The other walls were decorated with framed posters or paintings with a skiing theme. The top of a glass coffee table was covered with empty beer bottles, a half-filled bottle of red wine and an open pizza delivery box containing only the half-eaten remains of a slice of pepperoni and cheese.
"Real class, Junior," Anthony said.
"Ah, shit," Junior replied when he recognized the detective.
Junior was wearing a dark blue silk bathrobe belted loosely at the waist. The robe hung open a little, exposing Junior's hairy legs and torso and a pair of bright red bikini underpants.
"May we step inside, Mr. Hoyt?" Dennis asked.
"No, you may not."
"I'm afraid we have to insist," Dennis responded patiently.
"I'm calling my lawyer."
"Maybe you'd better do that," Anthony said. "Tell him to njieet you downtown."
"Down . . . It's the middle of the night. I'm not going anywhere unless you've got a warrant."
Dennis smiled and handed Hoyt his copy of a search warrant.
"What's this about?" Junior asked nervously.
Why don't we talk inside?"
Junior backed away from the door. Dennis noticed a dining area in front of the picture window that was relatively clean. He motioned Junior toward it. Anthony took a seat at the head of a large dining table and Dennis sat beside him. Two policemen stationed themselves near Junior and he eyed them anxiously.
"We have a new lead in your father's death and we need your help, Mr. Hoyt," Dennis said.