Deception (46 page)

48

“My correspondence is a varied one and I am somewhat upon my guard against any packages which reach me.”

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES
,
T
HE
A
DVENTURE OF THE
D
YING
D
ETECTIVE

T
UESDAY
, J
ANUARY
7, 4:00
P.M
.

I’D
SEEN
PLENTY
of affairs among cops. But I hadn’t seen this one coming.

“I look forward to hearing what your wife thinks about this,” I told Baylor. “And Tommi’s husband.”

“Peter knows all about it,” Tommi said.

“He does?”

“I left the house around 10:30. He called me about midnight to see where I was.”

“You answered?”

“I told him I was with Karl.”

“Well, that was … honest.”

“He said he was sorry.”

“He
was sorry?” I asked. “I’d have thought you’d be sorry.”

She raised both arms, and her face contorted. “I didn’t hit him, you idiot. He hit me!”

I’d never heard Tommi Elam call anyone names. I was her first idiot.

“But … weren’t you two having an affair?”

“I’m married to him!”

“Not Peter. Karl.”

“An affair? With
Karl
?” Tommi said. “You
are
an idiot. I called Karl because Peter and I had a fight. For the first and only time, he hit me. He’d been fired that day and was drinking and … anyway, I was so upset I ran out of the house and started driving. I didn’t know who to turn to. I was sitting in Shari’s in a corner booth with a wet washcloth and ice some poor waiter gave me. Karl and Tiffany know Peter and me, and they’re always telling me God loves us. I was desperate for help, so I called him.”

“Why didn’t you tell your wife you went to meet Tommi?” I asked Karl.

“What makes you think I didn’t?”

“Well, I.” This didn’t seem the time to mention our conversation at WinCo.

“Tiffany doesn’t like wakingup when I get called out or come back. As soon as we got up in the morning I told her exactly what happened. We agreed that if anyone saw me leave the hotel, we’d say I got called out on ‘police business,’ which it was. It was one cop calling another cop, her partner, for help. We wanted to protect Tommi’s privacy.”

“But,” I said to Tommi, “when you gave your alibi, you said—”

“You think I’m going to tell a roomful of detectives my husband hit me?”

“Yeah, it would be a little awkward to say, ‘I was sucker punched by my soul mate.’ ”

Tommi started bawling, and Karl said, “Was that really necessary? You trying to be cruel?”

One moment I’m certain the guy’s the world’s biggest jerk. Now he’s suggesting I’m a bigger one.

He was right.

At 11:30 p.m. I parked my car on Salmon, off 60th, four blocks from the seminary parking lot. I’d told Ray Eagle he didn’t need to come, but after the part he’d played in the setup, he couldn’t stay away. He approached my passenger door window.

“I just drove by the spot,” Ray said, voice sounding like a junior high boy pulling a prank. “I can’t believe it’s so dark. Two streetlights out, the two closest to the parking lot—who’d have thought it? And there’s a chain, but it isn’t across the driveway. Perfect.”

“Yeah,” I said, tossing a recently cut chain link in the backseat, next to my eighteen-inch bolt cutter and pellet gun.

Ray gave me a look. It reminded me of Clarence. And my mother.

The cold night worked in my favor because it was natural to have my coat collar turned up. No trench coat or fedora tonight. I had my old green ski jacket and my blue stocking cap. Ray probably wouldn’t have been recognized anyway, but he wore a heavy scarf up to his mouth. We walked on opposite sides of the street, staggered so no one would think we knew each other.

Ray turned south on 58th. I walked Salmon to 57th and headed the block to Madison, leaning on a garage sale cane. I ambled, trying to time it right, looking as nonthreatening as possible, knowing there were observers. I saw three of them spread out at different locations, looking everywhere but at the corner of 57th and Madison, which meant that’s what they were interested in. One young woman was talking on a cell, and a harmless looking man carried a bottle in a sack.

At 11:59, just as I hobbled twenty feet north of Madison, a black Cadillac STS rounded the corner, barely visible because two streetlights had inexplicably gone out. The car slowly turned right, then took another right into the unchained driveway.

I crossed the street and continued south on the sidewalk across from the parking lot, where I could just make out the Cadillac, lights out.

Just then another car arrived from the east, turning south, then into the seminary parking lot. The silver BMW pulled in, rolling up close to the Cadillac, dimming his lights.

They sat for a minute while I continued to shuffle, peeking back over my shoulder as a curious bystander might. Who’d make the first move? My bet was on the Cadillac’s driver. He opened his door and stepped out, too quickly to let the inside light show his face. He walked to the BMW’s window, carrying a large envelope. The BMW window went down.

Suddenly the place exploded. Strobe lights came from both entries to the driveway and from the back of the seminary bookstore. Eight well-armed bodies rushed the cars.

“Police! Get out … now!” a huge voice demanded through a megaphone. “You … drop what’s in your hand. On the ground!”

The man from the Cadillac dropped the envelope, then dropped to the ground, saying something. No one was listening. The man in the BMW hadn’t moved quickly enough. Someone yanked his door open. I heard the stress on the hinge.

“What’s going on?” the man asked. “Don’t you know who—?”

An officer turned the short older man and pushed him against the BMW. “Hands behind your back.” I thought I recognized the cop’s voice. Paul Anderson.

Someone handcuffed the tall man facedown on the ground. Neither resisted, so things started to calm down. It was then that Anderson turned around the smaller man and someone said, “Hang on, isn’t that …?”

Paul Anderson, a foot from his face, finished the sentence.

“Raylon Berkley? From the
Tribune
?” His voice cracked.

“Let me up!” the man on the ground yelled. “Now!”

When he stood the light fell on his face. They didn’t have to ask for his ID.

Fifty feet away, I had the perfect view of a magical moment. So did the award-winning pizza-loving
Tribune
photographer, who’d received an anonymous tip that something momentous would happen at this corner around midnight.

While cops tried to wave her off, she took a dozen photos of Garrison Branch.

The mayor of Portland.

In handcuffs.

49

“Results without causes are much more impressive.”

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES
,
T
HE
A
DVENTURE OF THE
S
PECKLED BAND

W
EDNESDAY
, J
ANUARY
8, 12:05
A.M
.

FORTY
PEOPLE
IN
PAJAMAS
and bathrobes were on their front porches within thirty seconds. It was the Fourth of July six months early.

After some phone calls from the arresting officers, both Raylon Berkley and Mayor Branch were released, with profuse apologies. By the time the situation was resolved, I’d walked around on the other side of the hedge, where I heard the soundtrack. The mayor promised there’d be an investigation. “Whoever was behind this will be held accountable!” Berkley promised that the
Tribune
would expose the blunders of this “so-called police department.” Both men swore a lot, which I guess is a way of reclaiming your manhood when you’ve been emasculated.

There’s plenty of injustice in their city, but these two men were not accustomed to being on the receiving end of it.

I had no ax to grind with Mayor Branch. But he and Berkley were the leverage I needed on Chief Lennox. If they were in his pocket before, they weren’t now. If push came to shove, somebody might listen if Lennox transferred me to the badlands of Dakota or suspended me or tried to pull a cover-up. After this episode, Lennox’s wielding of power would be under close scrutiny. He’d have to think twice before any questionable move, including pulling me off the Palatine case. That’s what I wanted. Revenge for Mulch and Lou’s Diner was a nice bonus.

Ray and I went to Shari’s for a piece of pie. He seemed too jumpy to enjoy it. He’d hung back far enough that he didn’t see all the juicy stuff but said even from a block away the lights and sound were spectacular. After Ray and I went our separate ways, about 1:15 a.m., I thought I should head home to Mulch, but I was driving right past Rosie O’Grady’s. Halfway through my third beer it was time to visit the restroom, where celebrated Irish sports heroes, most of them rugby players, are featured on the walls. I made it back to my table and resumed my beer. My phone rang.

“What’s up, Phillips?”

“Sorry to bug you so late, but I know you’re usually up. Hear about the arrest? Raylon Berkley and the mayor. Somebody set them up.”

“Bummer. Who ordered the arrest?”

“I hear it was Chief Lennox. But that’s not why I called. We need to talk.”

“Okeydokey.”

“Not at the precinct.”

“Okeydokey.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m … okeydokey.”

“You’re at Rosie O’Grady’s, aren’t you?”

“How’d you know? Tailin’ me?”

“You’re drunk.”

“Not yet. But I’m workin’ on it.”

“I’ll come by your house in the morning. 8:00?”

“That early?” I looked at my watch. 1:52.

“It’s important. Go home and get some sleep.”

“I’ll finish this one. Then I’m out the door.”

“You shouldn’t be driving.”

“Just had three drinks. Or five.”

“See you in the morning. I still don’t think you should drive.”

“Bye, Mom.”

I tried to polish off the beer, but I tipped it onto the table, drenching the left arm of my trench coat. I stood to leave. I don’t lose my balance easily, but I stumbled. Needed to get out to fresh air. I walked toward my car, but wasn’t seeing right.

I tried my keys in two cars that weren’t mine. Needed to sit. Tried another car. It worked. Opened the door and put one arm on the hood, one on the door. All I could do to stand. Made my way into the front seat. Before driving, seemed like I should lay my head on the passenger seat.

“Hey!” Felt something on my shoulder. “I asked if you’re all right. Want me to call 911?”

Bright light in my eyes. Beard and mustache, security uniform.

“You need to get out of this here parking lot, mister. Bar’s closed. Somebody could mug you and steal your car. You need to go home. I’ll get some coffee. Hang on.”

I fell back asleep. Next thing I knew I smelled something strange, vaguely familiar. I was aware of my shirt feeling wet. Apparently I’d slopped that beer everywhere. I opened my eyes, and the guard was standing over me with a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

“You need this to drive. Drink it, then head home, okay?”

“Okeydokey.”

He walked away, disappearing around the Dumpster behind Rosie O’Grady’s. No other cars in the parking lot. Had to get home.

W
EDNESDAY
, J
ANUARY
8, 3:00
A.M
.

Phone rang at 3:19. Close enough to call it 3:00. I knew what that meant.

“Chandler? Sergeant Seymour. Don’t hang up. This is the third time I’ve called.”

“Huh?”

“I have to tell you something.”

“Tell me?”

“I need you to understand me.”

“Understand?”

“You must have been on a bender, Chandler. Listen, get up now and throw cold water on your face. Hear me? I’ll wait for you. That’s an order!”

“Yes, sir,” I said to Captain Weber of the third armored division in Da Nang. Not sure he heard me since I hadn’t seen him for thirty-seven years.

I lowered my throbbing head over the sink and repeatedly slapped my face with cold water. Didn’t reach for a towel. Didn’t think of that until I got back to my bed and discovered my soaked T-shirt.

“Okay, Captain.”

“It’s Sergeant Seymour.”

“Manny and I aren’t the up team again … are we?” Okay, I’m not sure that’s what I actually said, but that question was attempting to make it to my tongue.

“It’s one of the guys.”

“Platoon?”

“Listen to me, Ollie. It’s one of the detectives. It’s Brandon Phillips.”

“Phillips?”

“He’s dead.”

Sarge went on, talking gibberish. Finally I put down the phone.

I wanted to drop to the bed, but I dragged myself toward the kitchen. Somehow I shuffled to Mr. Coffee.

When I came back, I saw last night’s T-shirt, lying beside the bed. It looked strange. I picked it up.

The shirt had a dark four-inch circle on the front. I pulled it to my face and smelled. I choked, pulling it back. I’d first smelled that on clothes in Vietnam. And I’d smelled it on clothes at many murders. But never on my own shirt.

I put on plastic gloves, laid my shirt on the kitchen floor and stared, trying to remember. Finally, three cups later, I went to the utility drawer, took out scissors, and started cutting.