She decided to keep her hand on her gun. She could do it by simply putting her hand in her purse. She’d have to keep some distance between them.
She opened the door and flipped on the light. The combined odor of cleaning fluids and stale air assailed her. Where was the air-conditioning unit? Motel rooms always depressed her. They were so sterile and so impersonal. She often thought that hell must be a series of motel rooms where people sat, alone and unconnected.
There was a queen-size bed covered by a faded yellow bedspread. Two pillows were tucked under the spread and two cheap, natural-wood-colored end tables with matching lamps flanked the bed. A dresser with a large mirror faced the bed. A color TV perched on one corner of the dresser; a phone, with instructions for dialing out-of-town and local calls, sat on the other. Two sagging Scandinavian chairs were the only other furniture. Darlene sat in the one facing the door and put her hand in her purse. The door opened.
“Hi, Darlene,” the trick said. He was of average height, maybe a little under six feet. His slacks were light brown. The flowered shirt looked expensive. So did his polished shoes. She noticed that he locked the door when he closed it, and she tightened her grip on the revolver.
“Why did you do that?” Darlene asked nervously. The trick grinned.
“I thought we could use a little privacy,” he said. He had been moving toward her, but he stopped when he reached the bed.
“Why don’t you take your clothes off?” he asked quietly. “I want to see those breasts we were talking about.”
Darlene decided everything had gone too far. She had made a mistake and she wanted to get out. Maybe the guy was a freak. Maybe he just wanted her to get nude, then he’d beat off. There’d be no violation of law. Just some sick bastard whose wife didn’t satisfy him. She’d be a laughing-stock. She felt ill. Why hadn’t she followed instructions?
“Look,” she said, “this isn’t a peep show. If you want to have sex, say so, or I’m leaving.”
“Don’t go, Darlene,” he said, “I’ll make it worth your while.”
His voice was husky now. She could almost feel his sexual desire. He was moving again. Almost to her. Darlene made her decision. She was going to end this right now. She would say he propositioned her. She had to. She’d make up a story. The trick would cop a plea anyway. He’d be too embarrassed to go into court for a full-blown trial.
“Forget the money, mister,” she said, standing. “You’ll need it for a lawyer.”
The trick froze.
“What?” he said.
“You heard me. I’m a cop and you’re under arrest.”
FROM THE CORNERof the McDonald’s lot Ortiz watched Darlene climb the stairs. She walked to the door near the far end of the landing and looked around before entering one of the rooms. A few seconds later a blond man walked out of the shadows at the other end of the landing and walked quickly to the door. It was too far to get a good look, but the man was slim and athletic looking. He could see the flowered shirt and tan slacks pretty clearly.
When the door to the motel room closed, Ortiz started to worry. He should be up there, but he didn’t want to ruin her bust. He tried to decide what to do. Ryder had paired them because of his experience. If anything happened to Darlene, it would be his fault. Ortiz made up his mind. He sprinted across to the motel.
Ortiz heard the scream as he reached the stairs to the second floor. He froze and there was a crash and a second scream. The lights were on and he could see the man’s blurred silhouette through the flimsy motel curtains. It was all happening very fast. He realized that he was not moving.
The lights went out and he took the stairs two at a time. Someone was moaning in the room. Someone was breathing hard. He crashed the heel of his shoe into the door just above the lock. There was a splintering sound, but the door held. He swung his foot again and the door crashed inward. The globe lamp that hung outside the door turned the room a pale yellow. Darlene was sprawled like a rag doll against the side of a chair in the far corner of the room. Her head hung limply to one side, and blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. There was a jagged red slash across her neck, and the floor around her was covered with blood.
Something exploded across Ortiz’s eyes and he dropped his gun. He was propelled into the room and he felt a burst of pain in his neck and upper back. His head crashed into the metal edge of the bed as he twisted and fell. He slumped against the bed. There was a man standing in the doorway, in the light of the globe lamp. Standing for a moment, then bolting like a startled deer. Ortiz felt consciousness slipping away. He tried to concentrate on the face. The blond, curly hair. He would never forget that face. Never.
4
“David, come over here. There’s someone who wants to meet you.”
David looked around and saw Gregory Banks standing near the fireplace with several other people. Gregory was a political ally of Senator Martin Bauer, and he had organized this cocktail party at his spacious riverfront home to help raise funds for the senator’s reelection.
Gregory was a large man. An ex-boxer and ex-Marine, he had started his adult life as a longshoreman and union organizer, then gone to night law school. Gregory worked as a lawyer for the unions, and the unions had made him a wealthy man.
The summer before his last year in law school, David had driven cross-country and fallen in love with Portland. One week after graduation, David said good-bye to his family and flew west from New York to take the Oregon bar examination. He had never regretted the move. East Coast law schools tended to push their graduates into corporate practice and left them with a feeling that there was something grubby and demeaning about opening a solo practice and actually going into a courtroom. In Portland the feeling was different. There still existed a spirit of individualism that encouraged a person to try to make it on his own. Within a week of passing the bar, David hung out his shingle on the fourth floor of the American Bank Building.
David was good and soon developed a reputation as the man to see if you were charged with a serious crime. He also volunteered to take ACLU cases, pro bono. While working on a prison-rights appeal, David met Gregory Banks, another volunteer. Despite the difference in their ages, they hit it off immediately. One evening, Banks invited David home for dinner and broached the possibility of David’s joining his firm. David took a week to decide. He disliked the idea of giving up a measure of his independence, but he liked the idea of being associated with Gregory Banks. He accepted, and by the time the firm moved its offices to the First National Bank Tower, he was a name partner.
“David, this is Leo Betts, a professor at the law school,” Gregory said, introducing a tall, hawk-nosed man with greasy, shoulder-length hair. Professor Betts was standing next to a mousy woman in her early thirties.
“And Doris, his wife,” Gregory added. David shook hands with the professor.
“Leo read your brief in the Ashmore case.”
“An excellent job. I’m having my first-year criminallaw class read it as an example of first-class appellate argument.”
“I’d look on it as a punishment assignment,” David said. “It was over a hundred pages.”
Everyone in the group laughed, and Gregory indicated another couple, a short, balding man and his tall, elegantly dressed wife.
“John and Priscilla Moultrie. John’s with Banker’s Trust and Priscilla teaches at Fairmount Elementary School.”
Gregory had an annoying habit of introducing a person by telling his line of work. David nodded at the couple, but his attention was on an attractive young woman who had wandered over and was standing on the fringes of the group.
“What is the Ashmore case, Gregory?” Mrs. Moultrie asked. The young woman was watching him and their eyes met momentarily.
“Isn’t Ashmore that fellow who raped and murdered those schoolchildren?” her husband asked.
“Yes,” Professor Betts answered with a smile. “David was able to get the conviction reversed by the state
