hand. It was Pat Gorman’s money, anyway.
“Was Senator Jack Carson in Oregon on the Sunday Jessica Koshani was killed?” she asked.
“I saw him get off his private jet Sunday afternoon.”
“How do you know it was Carson?”
“He flies commercial when he’s looking for votes, but I’ve worked on his plane enough to know what he looks like.”
“And you definitely saw him?”
“Yeah, but just a snatch. What attracted my attention was the hoodie. He was wearing nice slacks, but he was also wearing a gray sweatshirt with a hood.”
“Do you remember anything else?”
“There was a black guy with him, and a town car was waiting on the tarmac. The black guy hustled him inside. It drove off right away.”
“If he was wearing a hood, how did you see him?”
“The hood fell back when he was walking down the steps. I was with the refueling crew, and I was near enough to look him in the eye. And that’s what I know.”
“Do you have any idea where the car went?”
“Nope.”
“What time did the plane land?”
“That I can tell you. It touched down a little after five P.M.”
“Can you describe the black man who helped Carson out of the plane?”
The man thought for a second. Then he nodded.
“He had a shaved head, and he sort of looked like a football player. Not a lineman, a cornerback.”
Dana couldn’t think of anything more to ask, so she slid the money across the table. The mechanic palmed the bills and slipped them into his pocket.
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you,” he said. Then he looked around the food court and left. While he walked away, Dana debated whether to believe his story and decided that he was probably telling the truth. Jack Carson had been in Oregon, but not at his cabin. So where had he been?
D ana drove from the airport to the senator’s Portland office, then to his campaign headquarters. None of the staff in either place admitted seeing Carson during the period he claimed he was in Oregon.
An old friend from Gorman’s college days covered politics for the Oregonian. Dana treated him to dinner and learned a lot about Gorman’s college carousing but nothing about the senator that she could use for her story. Frustrated, she returned to her hotel, watched an in-room movie, and went to sleep.
The next morning, Dana’s cell phone rang just as she was getting ready to take a shower.
“What’s up, Pat?” Dana asked.
“Turn on CNN.”
As Dana switched on the TV, Gorman told her that Exposed had put out a special edition with a headline that read WHERE WAS SENATOR CARSON HIDING? with a subhead that read NO PROOF SENATOR WAS IN CABIN and a story based on her investigation. When she found CNN, she saw Jack Carson standing behind a podium with his wife by his side. Neither was smiling.
“I have always believed in the adage that honesty is the best policy, but I stand here today to tell you that I was not honest with my wife, my constituents, or the American people when I stood here a few days ago and said that I had been at my mountain cabin in Oregon during the days I was missing.”
“Your story flushed him out,” Gorman said. “Good work.”
On the screen, Carson’s eyes dropped. When they returned to the camera, he looked tormented.
“I was in Oregon, but I am ashamed to say that what I did there dishonored my wife and our marriage.”
Carson took a deep breath. “None of this is Martha’s fault. I take full responsibility. Martha has been a wonderful wife and a full partner in my political life, and there is no excuse for what I did.”
The senator looked down again and paused before resuming.
“Over the years, the American people have heard the sordid tale of one politician after another who has soiled his marriage with an unseemly affair. I am thoroughly ashamed to say that I have become a tired cliche. Some months ago, I spent one night with a woman. I have no excuses to make. The fault is mine alone, and I regretted my betrayal of my marriage vows immediately after I committed this unpardonable sin. I also made it a point to stay away from the innocent partner in my terrible mistake after that single night.
“The woman in question assumed that there was more to it than I did, and I can’t blame her. She called me repeatedly. I did not answer her calls. The day before I disappeared, she left a message with Lucas Sharp, my chief of staff, saying that she would go to the press if I continued to ignore her. Mr. Sharp was not aware that I had strayed, and he confronted me. We decided that the best way to end the confusion was for me to fly to Oregon and talk to this woman. And that is what I did.
“The two of us had a heart-to-heart. I explained that I loved my wife and regretted what I had done. She was very understanding. When I returned to Washington, I confessed my infidelity to Martha. She has forgiven me. I would not have blamed her if she didn’t, but our marriage has always been strong, and I truly believe we will weather this storm. Thank you.”
“Who is the woman?” a reporter shouted as the senator turned to leave. Carson turned back to the microphone.
“In the past, the women who have been named in these situations have been smeared and held up to ridicule. This is my fault and I have promised this woman that I would not reveal her identity. I stand by that promise. The relationship lasted one night, and it was over by the next day. I see no reason other than prurient interest for the press to drag her through the mud. Thank you again.”
The senator left the podium, and the talking heads started to dissect him like hyenas tearing at fallen prey. Dana switched off the set.
“The plot thickens,” Gorman said.
“It’s an old and tired plot that’s been done to death, Pat. If you tried to sell the story to a book publisher, no self-respecting editor would buy it.”
“You forget that I have no self-respect, Miss Cutler. If I did, I’d have sold Exposed years ago.”
Dana sighed. “What do you want me to do, as if I can’t guess?”
“I want you to get me an interview with Carson’s paramour.”
Dana went back to the senator’s Portland office and his campaign headquarters, but no one would talk to her. Next she called up the reporter from the Oregonian. He said he didn’t know any more than she did. He was also honest enough to admit that he wasn’t going to share any information he dug up if there was any risk that Dana might scoop him.
After a thoroughly depressing day, Dana returned to her hotel and ordered room service. She had just tipped the waiter when her room phone rang. Dana was intrigued. She’d given everyone she talked to her cell phone number, and that was the number Gorman would call.
“Yes?” she answered.
“Dana Cutler?” the caller asked. Dana didn’t recognize the voice, and it sounded as though the caller was disguising it.
“Speaking.”
“Dorothy Crispin.”
“What?”
“The girl the senator screwed. She’s a law student, and she has an apartment at 1276 Southwest Spruce Terrace.”
“How do you…?” Dana started, but the line was dead.
Dana hung up the phone and sat back in her chair. She’d just gotten a real break, if Dorothy Crispin was Carson’s lover, but who had given her the information, and why?
Dana checked her watch. It was eight thirty, not too late. She pulled on her trainers, checked her guns to make sure they were loaded, and left her hotel room.
Dorothy Crispin lived in John’s Landing, a section of the city near the Willamette River where town houses and apartments filled in the gaps between older homes. Spruce Terrace wound its way from Corbett Avenue up a hill until it dead-ended in a cluster of garden apartments. The entrance to Crispin’s apartment was at the end of a
