“Come on in,” Carasco said.
“Thanks for seeing me, Judge.”
“Thanks for showing Stacey a good time,” Carasco answered.
“That’s who I want to talk to you about,” the young DA said.
Carasco looked at his watch. “It’s late and I missed lunch. Let’s get out of here and get a bite to eat. We can talk over dinner. Bocci’s is only a few blocks away.”
The mention of the restaurant where he’d had his first date with Stacey made Hennessey want to throw up. He was certain he wouldn’t be able to eat a thing, but the trip to the restaurant would give him more time to think about how he was going to approach Carasco.
The weather outside was as dark as Hennessey’s mood. He hunched his shoulders to ward off the damp, chill wind that was gusting off the river and walked to the restaurant lost in thought.
Bocci’s was an old-fashioned Italian restaurant with red-and-white-checkerboard tablecloths, melting wax candles squeezed into the necks of Chianti bottles, and an endless tape that played songs like “That’s Amore.” Carasco was well known, and the maître d’ brought him to a booth in the back with dark-stained wood and red leather banquettes. Carasco ordered veal parmigiana, a side of pasta, and a glass of wine without looking at the menu. Hennessey ordered tortellini in brodo, a thin soup with pasta, which was all he thought he could digest. When Carasco kidded him, he lied and said he’d had a big lunch.
After the waiter left, Carasco talked about an appeal from one of his cases that the Oregon Supreme Court was deciding. Hennessey pretended to be interested, but he was just paying lip service as he tried to think of a way to bring up Stacey and her warrants.
The meal came. Carasco took a few bites of his dinner. Then he gave Hennessey the opening he needed.
“So, what did you want to talk about?” Carasco asked.
“I … It’s Stacey, Judge.”
“Yes?”
“She’s not what she seems,” Hennessey blurted out.
“How so?”
“How well do you know her?”
“Not that well. She’s the daughter of a friend. He told her to look me up when she got to town.”
“Did she tell you that she’s lived in Portland before?”
“No.”
Hennessey swallowed. He felt nauseous, but he decided the best thing to do was close his eyes and jump off the high board.
“Stacey has warrants for prostitution from a few years ago.”
Carasco was lifting a piece of veal toward his mouth, but he stopped his fork in midflight. “What!?”
“She’s a prostitute.”
Carasco placed his fork on his plate. “How did you find out? You didn’t…?”
“No, no.” Hennessey reddened. “We did sleep together, but I never paid her. Only, she’s going to say I did if I don’t get rid of her warrants.”
“Did you do what she asked?”
“No. It’s a crime. That’s why I need to talk to you. She said she’d tell Vanessa Cole I slept with her for money if I don’t get rid of the warrants.”
Hennessey flushed with embarrassment at the thought of the Multnomah County district attorney seeing the sex tape.
“I don’t know what to do. I thought, maybe, you could talk to her.”
“I could, but I don’t really know her. There’s no reason she’d listen to me.”
“You’re a judge. You could threaten her with something. Get a detective in the room. Have her arrested on the warrants or for extortion.”
“That wouldn’t stop her from involving you.”
Carasco’s phone rang. He looked at the screen. “Sorry, I have to take this. It’s Betsy, my wife.”
Carasco talked at the table, and Hennessey heard the judge’s side of the conversation.
“Hi, honey. No, I’m having dinner at Bocci’s with one of the new DAs. Mentoring. Yeah, I’ll be home soon.” The judge looked at Hennessey. “Do you have the time?”
“It’s seven fifteen.”
The judge nodded his thanks. “It’s seven fifteen, honey. I should be back by eight thirty, latest.”
The judge listened for a moment. Then he said, “Love you.” He disconnected and looked across the table. “This is very serious, Ian.”
“What should I do?”
“I need some time to think. Did you drive to work?”
“Yes.”
“Can you drive me home? I took a Lyft in. We can talk on the way.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The cell phone rang. Maria looked up when Joe answered it.
“One second,” he said before going onto the landing that fronted the second-floor motel room. Joe pressed the phone to his ear and backed against the wall to get away from sheets of rain that were being driven onto the landing by gusts of frigid air.
“I’m gonna be on the street in five minutes,” the voice on the other end said. “Be there.”
The call disconnected, and Joe went inside.
“I’ve got to go,” he told Maria.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I have a job.”
“What job?”
“The people who are paying for the motel need me to do some work.”
“At this hour?”
“I’ve got to go,” Joe answered.
“It’s legal, right?”
“Of course,” Joe said, kissing her cheek as he slipped into a hooded rain jacket. “I won’t be long,” he assured Maria, even though he had no idea how long he would be.
The giant was behind the wheel of a dull brown Ford. Joe ran through the driving rain and jumped into the front seat.
“Where are we going?” Joe asked after they’d driven in silence for several minutes.
“You’ll find out soon enough. Give me the phone.”
Joe did as he was told. Then he watched the scenery as they drove out of the seedy part of town where his motel was located, across the river, and into affluent Portland Heights, which loomed above the city in the hills on the west side of the Willamette.
The road wound upward past large houses with spacious lawns. Joe had never been in this part of town, and he couldn’t help staring. After a while, the car turned onto a side street with larger lots where the houses were even bigger and hid behind high hedges. The car pulled to the curb in a shadowed area between
