Amanda Jaffe stroked hard and felt her body rise as she cut through the water in the YMCA pool. This was the final fifty of a two hundred-meter workout leg, and she was going as hard as she could. For a moment, she felt like she was flying instead of swimming, then the far wall appeared and she jackknifed her body into a flip turn. Amanda came out of it perfectly and dug in for the final twenty-five meters. She was a tall woman with broad shoulders and well-muscled arms that moved her forward with grace and speed. Seconds later, she crashed against the wall and came up gasping for air.
'Not bad.'
Amanda looked up, startled. A man crouched on the edge of the pool with a stopwatch in his hand. He had messy auburn hair and looked to be in his early thirties--somewhere around her age. His build marked him as a competitive swimmer. Despite his cheery grin and pleasant features, Amanda backed away from the wall to put space between them.
'Want to know your time?'
Amanda tried to ignore the sliver of fear that cut through her gut. She was still too winded to speak, so she nodded warily. When the man told her the time, Amanda couldn't believe it. She hadn't swum that fast in years.
'I'm Toby Brooks.' He motioned toward the first two lanes where several men and women of various ages were churning the water. 'I'm with the Masters swim team.'
'Amanda Jaffe,' she managed, fighting to tamp down her fear.
'Nice to meet you.' Suddenly Brooks looked puzzled. Then he snapped his fingers. 'Jaffe. Right!' Amanda was certain he was going to mention one of her cases. 'UC Berkeley about 1993?'
Amanda's eyes widened from surprise, relieved that Brooks was not going to make her relive the recent past. ''92, but that's pretty good. How'd you know?'
'I swam for UCLA. You won the two hundred free at the Pac-10s, right?'
Amanda smiled despite herself. 'You have some memory.'
'My girlfriend at the time was one of the women you beat. She was really upset. You sure ruined my plans for the evening.'
'Sorry,' Amanda said. She felt uncomfortable with Brooks so close.
Brooks grinned. 'No need to be. We weren't getting on that well, anyway. So, what happened after the Pac- 10s?'
'Nationals. Then I quit. I was pretty burned out by my senior year. I stayed away from pools for about five years after I graduated.'
'Me, too. I ran for a while until my joints started to ache. I just got back into competitive swimming.'
Brooks stopped talking and Amanda knew he was waiting for her to continue the conversation.
'So, do you work at the Y?' she asked for something to say.
'No. I'm an investment banker.'
'Oh,' Amanda said, embarrassed. 'I thought you were coaching the team.'
'I swim on the team and help out. Our coach is out sick today. Which reminds me. I put the clock on you for a reason. Ever thought about competing again? The Masters program is pretty low-key. We've got a good spread in our age groups--late twenties to three swimmers in their eighties. We could use someone with your experience.'
'Thanks, but I have no interest in competing.'
'Could have fooled me, the way you went at that last two hundred.'
Amanda knew that Brooks was just trying to be friendly, but he just made her anxious. To her relief, he glanced over at the far lanes where a group of Masters swimmers had gathered along the wall. He stood up.
'Duty calls. It was nice meeting you, Amanda. Let me know if you change your mind about joining the team. We'd love to have you.'
Brooks walked back to his charges. Amanda sank low in the water, leaned her head against the edge of the pool, and closed her eyes. Anyone watching would think that she was recovering from her swim, but Amanda was really fighting to keep her fear in check. She told herself that Brooks was just being friendly and that she had nothing to worry about, but she still felt anxious.
Little more than a year ago, she had almost died solving a horrifying series of murders committed by a surgeon at St. Francis Medical Center. She had never fully recovered from the experience. Before the Cardoni case, swimming was a sure way to relax. That didn't always work now. Amanda thought about trying another hard two hundred, but she didn't have the mental or physical energy to swim another lap. The encounter with Brooks had drained her.
Chapter Three.
The caterers were packing up and the band had already left when Harold Travis said good-bye to the last of the guests who were not on the special-contributors list. Those four men were lounging in the den, smoking Cuban cigars and sipping 1934 Taylor Fladgate port. They were also making the acquaintance of some special ladies who were going to give them an erotic thank-you for their illegal campaign contributions to the man who would soon be the Republican nominee for president of the United States.
The fund-raiser had been held in the countryside, miles from Portland, in a seventeen-thousand-square-foot octagonal house; one of four owned by the chairman of the board of a California biotech company, who was in the master bedroom with a stunning Eurasian beauty. Moments after the taillights of the caterer's van faded away, Travis nodded to one of several bodyguards who had moved among the guests inconspicuously during the evening. When the guard began speaking into his cell phone, Travis crossed the lawn and lay down on a lounge chair at the edge of the swimming pool. The house lights reflected in the dark water, floating ghostlike in the ripples caused by
