He takes a long time looking at me, tapping his fingers on the table. “You got a P. I. license?”
My anxiety goes up a notch, but I keep it under wraps. “I’m not a private investigator. I’m a consultant.”
“Don’t split hairs with me, Ms. Lake. I’ve got my own investigation going on. On you. I’ve got some feelers out, and soon I’ll know just why you left Denver. But what I do know doesn’t make you look good.”
“I’ve got nothing to hide.” But I could hear the hollowness is my own voice, and I know he hears it too.
“Nice try. But your reputation precedes you, Lake. See, I’ve already been warned about you.” He drops his voice, until it’s so low I can barely hear it, but the venom is there in spades. “There’s nothing I hate worse than a dirty cop.”
“What?” It’s so not what I expect him to say. I’m shocked. And furious. I jump to my feet. “I’ve never been dirty. Not ever. And if anyone says different, it’s a lie.”
“You may have squirmed away from Denver just in time, but if you think your big city corruption is going to fly here, think again.” He sits back and resumes his normal voice. “I know all about how you alerted your criminal friends to a police raid, and good men were hurt because of you. I’ll be watching you, Lake. Now get out, before I lose my temper.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
WHEN I LEAVE the police station, I feel both shaken and stirred. I try to talk myself down as I set off on the long walk home. At least the station is only a couple of blocks from the Riverwalk, so my journey will at least be scenic. This portion of the trail is paved with asphalt. An occasional thorn-studded blackberry branch reaches out to snag my trousers, so I’m distracted for a bit from the thoughts and fears hammering behind my eyes.
How much do you think Olafson knows?
Whatever it is, it isn’t true. I’ve never been dirty.
Gotten close to the edge a time or two, though, yeah?
I was undercover, dammit!
Olafson said he’d been warned. That means someone in Denver told him about me. I clench my fists, uselessly. Who was it, and what did they say? Not my handler, no way. Someone on the strike team? But my undercover identity shouldn’t’ve been known to anyone. Still, office gossip. War stories. Word gets around, even when it shouldn’t.
Worst case scenario, what if Olafson discovered that I was in a psych hospital? I could certainly kiss any work opportunity with the police department goodbye. But really, I’ve already done that. And it’s not like he can arrest me for anything. Whatever he says, I’m still a good cop. I am.
But he accused me of being dirty, of leaking information. The implication being: for money. He must be referring to the raid on the Baxter Building. But I didn’t say anything to anyone.
Sonny knew you were a cop.
Yeah, he did — I thought I’d given myself away somehow. Gangsters have a nose for law enforcement.
What if someone at the department squealed?
It’s true that three officers were hurt. That the element of surprise hadn’t been as decisive as they’d planned. That the leader of the Black Dogs — Sonny’s gang — had been missing, when we thought — when I’d thought — that all the main players would be present. But if Sonny knew ahead of time, why did he stick around?
To kill me?
I’m spinning. Thoughts and what-if’s are ricocheting around my head like a pinball. I try to get a grip, bring some order to the chaos. That was all in the past and a thousand miles away. It can’t affect me here. Olafson is just trying to intimidate me.
Sounds like it’s working.
I stop to look out over the river. Half a dozen freighters are anchored in the channel, waiting for berth openings in Portland or further upstream. The shiny black head of a sea lion bobs out among the waves. It looks at me for a long time before dipping back beneath the surface and arching away like a sleek brown torpedo.
The lumpy spine of hills on the Washington side of the river has square brown patches where clearcutting has shaved away the trees. The landscape here is so different from Colorado. Back there, I’d never seen a river the size of the Columbia, big enough to accommodate ocean-going ships. And the air is so much more humid. Even now, the clouds bellying up at the mouth of the river promise more rain, a soft spring shower to gift the ever-present greenery with moisture.
I like this little town at the confluence of river and sea. It’s authentic and real, and I want to be a part of it. I want to stay. I won’t let Olafson or anyone else push me out.
I don’t want to be part of a hierarchical organization any more. Toe the line, take orders, worry about how my colleagues will see me, or how some reporter will portray my actions to a condemning public. But most of all, I don’t want my actions to endanger someone else, again. By working alone, I can mitigate that danger. If I am going insane, at least I won’t take anyone else down with me.
Whatever happens, I have to follow my own certainties. Even when I’d been a detective I’d been prone to the odd hunch, just like any good cop. Sometimes impressions and instinct are all you have. That, and perseverance. Just keep digging until something turns up.
Or until you pop out on the other side of the planet.
By this time, I’ve reached the Maritime Museum, with its curving roof reminiscent of an ocean wave.
