stared at their wedding picture. Rick was grinning. He had told her he had never been so happy. She had been so filled with joy, she was afraid she could not hold all of it. How could a feeling like that disappear?
Chapter Four
'Late night?' Wayne Turner's secretary asked, trying, unsuccessfully, to conceal a grin.
'it shows, huh?
'Only to those who know how perky you usually look.'
The night before, Turner, Senator Raymond Colby's administrative assistant, had gotten stinking drunk celebrating the senator's nomination to the Supreme Court.
This morning he was paying for his sins, but he didn't mind. He was happy for the old gent, who had done so much for him. His only regret was that Colby had not run for President. He would have made a great one.
Turner was five feet nine and slender. He had a narrow face, high cheekbones, close-cropped, kinky black hair that was graying at the temples and brown skin a few shades darker than his tan suit. Turner weighed about what he had when he first met Colby. He hadn't lost his intensity, but the scowl that used to be a permanent feature had wilted over the years. Turner hung his jacket on a hook behind the door, lit his fourth Winston of the day and sat behind his cluttered desk. Framed in the window at his back was the shining, white dome of the Capitol.
Turner shuffled through his messages. Many were from reporters who wanted the inside scoop on Colby's nomination. Some were from a.a.s for other senators who were probably calling about Colby's crime bill. A few were from partners in prestigious Washington law firms, confirmation that Turner need not be worried about what he would do after the senator became Chief justice.
Washington power brokers were always interested in someone who had the ear of a powerful man. Turner would do all right, but he would miss working with the senator.
The last message in the stack caught Turner's eye. It was from Nancy Gordon, one of the few people whose call he would have returned yesterday afternoon if he had made it back to the office. Turner assumed she was calling about the nomination. There was a Hunter's Point, New York, number on the message slip.
'It's Wayne,' he said when he heard the familiar voice at the other end.
'How you doin'?'
'He's surfaced,' Gordon answered without any preliminaries. It took Turner a few seconds to catch on, then he felt sick.
'Where?'
'Portland, Oregon.'
'How do you know?'
She told him. When she was through, Turner asked,
'What are you going to do?'
'There's a flight to Portland leaving in two hours.'
'Why do you think he started again?'
'I'm surprised he held out for so long,' Gordon answered.
'When did you get the letter?'
'Yesterday, around four. I just came on shift.'
'You know about the senator?'
'Heard it on the news.'
'Do you think there's a connection? The timing, I mean. It seems odd it would be so soon after the President made the announcement.'
'There could be a connection. I don't know. And I don't want to jump to conclusions.'
'Have you called Frank?' Turner asked.
'Not yet.'
'Do it. Let him know.'
'All right.'
'Shit. This is the absolute, worst possible time for this to happen.'
'You're worried about the senator?'
'of course.'
'What about the women?' Gordon asked coldly.
'Don't lay that trip on me, Nancy. You know damn well I care about the women, but Colby is my best friend.
Can you keep him out of it?'
'I will if I can.'
Turner was sweating. The plastic receiver was uncomfortable against his ear.
'What will you do when you find him?' he asked nervously. Gordon did not answer immediately. Turner could hear her breathing deeply.
'Nancy?'
'I'll do what I have to.'
Turner knew what that was. If Nancy Gordon found the man who had haunted their dreams for the past ten years, she would kill him. The civilized side of Wayne Turner wanted to tell Gordon that she should not take the law into her own hands. But there was a primitive side of Wayne Turner that kept him from saying it, because everyone, including the senator, would be better off if the man Homicide Detective Nancy Gordon was after died.
The microwave buzzed. Alan Page backed into the kitchen, keeping one eye on the television. The CBS anchorman was talking about the date that had been set for Raymond Colby's confirmation hearing. Colby would give the Supreme Court a solid conservative majority and that was good news, if you were a prosecutor.
Alan took his TV dinner out of the microwave, giving the food the briefest of glances. He was thirty-seven, with close-cropped black hair, a face that still bore the scars of acne and a sense of purpose that made most people nervous. His rail-thin body suggested an interest in distance running. In fact, Alan was thin because he had no use for food and ate the bare minimum that would keep him going. It was worse now that he was divorced. On a good day, breakfast was instant coffee, lunch a sandwich and more black coffee and dinner a pizza.
A reporter was interviewing someone who knew Colby when he was c.e.o. of Marlin Steel. Alan used the remote to jack up the volume. From what he was hearing, there was nothing standing in the way of Colby's confirmation as Chief justice of the United States. The doorbell rang just as the Colby story ended. Alan hoped it wasn't business. There was a Bogart classic on at nine that he'd been looking forward to — all day.
The woman standing on Alan's doorstep held a briefcase over her head to shield herself from the rain. A small, tan valise stood beside her. A taxi was waiting at the curb, its wipers swinging back and forth and its headlight beams cutting through the torrent.
'Alan Page?'
He nodded. The woman flipped open a leather case she was clutching in her free hand and showed Alan her badge.
'Nancy Gordon. I'm a homicide detective with the Hunter's Point P.D. in Hunter's Point, New York. Can I come in?'
'Of course,' he said, stepping back. Gordon signaled the taxi, then ducked inside. She held the briefcase at arm's length, shook off the water on the welcome mat, then pulled in the valise.
'Let me take your coat,' Alan said. 'Can I get you something to drink?'
'Hot coffee, please,' Gordon answered as she handed him her raincoat.
'What's a detective from New York doing in Portland, Oregon?' Alan asked as he hung the coat in the hall closet.
'Does the phrase 'Gone, But Not Forgotten' mean anything to you, Mr.
Page?'
Alan stood perfectly still for a second, then turned around. 'That information hasn't been released to the public. How do you know about it?'
'I know more than you can imagine about 'Gone, But Not Forgotten,' Mr.
