The Undertaker's Widow (28 page)

Quinn remembered the day that he moved into the
Price home. It had been the day of his parents' funeral. He'd been putting his clothes away, still dressed in his black suit and too stunned to change, when Price came into his new bedroom. Quinn could picture him standing in the middle of the room, his arms dangling at his side, looking ill at ease. Quinn had been holding a stack of white crew-neck undershirts in his hand.

“I know you're about all in, so I'll make this short,” Frank had said. “Anna and I don't have children. We didn't plan it that way. It's just the way it worked out. Your father is as close as we came. He was a great lawyer and one of the best men I ever met. When he married your mother, we were overjoyed and we came to love her as much as we loved Pat. Anna and I can't take the place of your parents. We'd never try. But we're here for you whenever you need us.”

Quinn warmed quickly to Anna, but it took him years to feel comfortable with Frank Price. Now, when he was close to losing him, the full import of what the feisty old man had done for him flooded in and it made him realize what it would mean to lose Laura, too. Love was a precious commodity, which people possessed rarely in this life. When you found it, you could not let it slip away. Quinn loved Laura and he was going to fight for her. He vowed to call her as soon as he arrived at the courthouse. He would tell her how much he loved her and he would beg her to take him back.

The Multnomah County Courthouse had been constructed in 1914 when there were few cars and parking was easy, so it did not have a garage. Judges with seniority were assigned spaces across the park across from the courthouse in the basement of the Justice Center, but Quinn's parking space was in a garage three blocks away where the county rented space. Quinn stopped at the
entrance and put a plastic card in a slot. A metal bar rose and Quinn drove in. His space was in a corner far from the entrance on the lowest floor. The ceiling above the space was low where the ramp from the floor above sloped down and the corner was always in shadow.

There were no other cars around when Quinn parked his Volvo, which was not surprising since it was after nine at night. He knew a security guard patrolled the garage but he did not see him and assumed that he was making his rounds on another level.

Quinn's attaché case was in the backseat of the car. He opened the front door and stepped out, closing it behind him. He opened the back door on the driver's side and bent down to retrieve the attaché. When he straightened up, he saw movement in the side view mirror. Quinn turned and raised the case reflexively. Whatever the attacker had in his hand bounced off its side, but the blow was hard enough to drive Quinn backward into the side of the car.

Quinn lowered the attaché enough to see a tall man wearing jeans, gloves, a dark blue windbreaker and a ski mask. There was a sap in his right hand. Quinn was certain that he was the same man who had broken into his apartment. Quinn was taller and heavier than his assailant but he had never been good with his fists. He had won his only fight in high school because of his size, not his skill. Quinn circled warily, holding the attache in front of him like a shield. The attacker edged closer. Quinn yelled for help. As the scream echoed off the concrete, the attacker feinted with the hand that held the sap. Quinn raised the attaché and the man kicked him in his shin. Quinn gasped. His right leg gave way and Quinn dropped his arms while still holding onto the attaché. The attacker smashed the sap into the left side of Quinn's head. Quinn's hands flew to his face and he dropped the case. The man hit Quinn in the solar plexus
to silence him. Quinn fell against the car, hitting his head hard on the edge of the roof. He started to slump to the floor, but his attacker propped him up.

Quinn was almost unconscious. He heard the driver's door open and felt his attacker push him into the front seat. He wanted to sit up, but his body would not obey him. His vision blurred. Quinn thought he saw his attacker take a handgun out of the windbreaker and place it on the hood of the car. Quinn tried to struggle up, but rough hands grabbed both of his legs. He heard his assailant swear. The man was trying to stuff Quinn's legs into the car.

Quinn suddenly remembered his car keys. The Volvo could be opened or locked from a distance using a small keypad that was attached to the key. The lock button on the automatic door opener doubled as a panic alarm. Quinn groped in his pants pocket until he felt the plastic keypad. Just as his assailant finished pushing one of his legs into the car, Quinn held the lock button down for a count of three. The locks on all four doors clicked down. The attacker stopped, surprised by the sharp sound. The car alarm blared. Adrenaline coursed through Quinn. He kicked out with both feet. They struck solidly and drove the man back. Quinn launched himself out of the car and landed a wild right to the side of his attacker's head. The punch had no force and the man rolled with it, then connected solidly with Quinn's ribs. Quinn grunted and the man struck him in the throat.

“Hey! What's going on here?” a security guard yelled from the far end of the garage. Quinn's attacker glanced toward the guard, doubled up Quinn with a front kick and ran toward the exit. Quinn slumped over the hood of the Volvo just as the guard ran past him. The guard was overweight and out of shape. He chased the attacker for a short distance, then turned back to Quinn.
The judge looked down and saw the handgun. He pocketed it just as the guard asked, “Are you okay?”

Quinn slumped against the car. His throat hurt and he had trouble talking for a moment, so he just nodded.

“You're lucky I came down here on my rounds.”

The guard took Quinn's elbow and helped him to straighten up. He picked up Quinn's attache.

“Is this what he was after?” the guard asked.

“That's just a file in one of my cases,” Quinn croaked.

The guard realized the area of the garage he was in.

“Are you a judge?”

Quinn nodded.

“You don't think this was some guy you sentenced?”

“No. He was probably after my wallet.”

Quinn sat in the car until he caught his breath. He touched the side of his head where he had been sapped, and winced. The back of his head also hurt where it had smacked against the roof of the car, but the skin was not broken. His ribs, shin and head hurt and felt a little sick from being kicked and punched in the body.

“Do you want to go to the hospital?” the guard asked.

“No.”

Adrenaline had made the attack seem surreal. Now it was wearing off and Quinn began to shake, as it dawned on him that he could have been killed.

“I'd really like to go to my chambers in the courthouse.”

“You're certain?”

“Positive.”

He was afraid to return to his apartment, which his assailant had penetrated with ease.

“I'll walk you over to make sure nothing else happens.”

“Thanks. And thank you for saving me.”

As the guard and Quinn walked to the courthouse, Quinn asked, “Do you have to report this?”

“Definitely.”

“It's just that I can't identify the man who attacked me. He was wearing a mask. And he didn't get anything. I don't want to waste police time when there's nothing I can say that will help them.”

“This is pretty serious. This guy may have attacked someone else. Besides, it's the rules.”

“Will the police have to talk to me right away? I'm pretty tired. I'd rather give my statement tomorrow.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

The security guard rode up with Quinn to his floor. Quinn unlocked the door to his office. He heard the guard report the attack on Fran's phone while he washed his face in the bathroom.

The guard rapped on the doorjamb and Quinn stepped out of the bathroom.

“You're okay for tonight. They're gonna send over a patrolman in the afternoon.”

The guard left. As soon as the door closed, Quinn took a step forward and the gun slapped against his side. Quinn took it out. When the policeman interviewed him about the attack tomorrow, he would give it to him. As he looked at the weapon a thought occurred to Quinn. He went through the sequence of the attack. The man had used a sap, so he wanted Quinn unconscious. When the assailant believed that Quinn was unconscious, he put the gun on the hood of the car and tried to stuff Quinn's legs into the car. Why do that? Why not just use the gun?

An answer occurred to Quinn. He felt ill. The police had the photographs of Quinn and Andrea in the Cove of Lost Souls. They suspected him of killing the woman at the Heathman. His assailant was planning on
making it look like Quinn had committed suicide in his car. The gun would be placed in Quinn's hand. When the body was discovered it would look like Quinn had killed himself rather than face disgrace. An investigation might have cleared Quinn. Suicide would end the case.

Quinn let the gun rest in his hand and he flashed back to the fight in the garage. He'd been beaten, but he had fought back and it had felt good. For the first time since this insanity had started, he had not been a punching bag. He wondered what he would have done if he'd had the gun when he was attacked. He knew nothing about guns, but he believed that he would have fired it. The thought unsettled Quinn. He had experienced many emotions since Andrea Chapman was murdered, but anger was not one of them. Anger was not an emotion that Quinn felt often. He rarely had a reason to be angry, but he was angry now. Someone was playing with his life and he was going to find out who it was.

Quinn suddenly realized that there was someone else who was in danger, someone who had a motive as strong as Quinn's to discover the people behind the plot to fix the
Crease
case and the resources to fight back. Quinn went to his desk. He opened Ellen Crease's file and found the form that she had filled out so that she could be released on her own recognizance. Then he dialed her unlisted phone number.

Two armed and uniformed guards were waiting for Quinn just inside the front gate of the Hoyt estate in a patrol vehicle with the markings of a private security company. As soon as Quinn stopped his car, the passenger door of the patrol car opened and a man with the build of an offensive lineman walked to the gate.

“Please step out of the car, sir, and show me some identification,” he commanded. Quinn noticed that he kept one hand on the butt of a holstered revolver. The guard in the car also watched Quinn's every move.

A gray mist covered Portland and the air was cold and clammy. Quinn shivered and hunched his shoulders. He slid his driver's license through the bars of the front gate. As soon as the guard was satisfied that the judge was the person he claimed to be, he told Quinn to return to his car. Quinn waited while the guard radioed the house, glad to be in a warm place again. Moments later, Quinn heard a low hum. The gate opened wide and the guard told him how to reach the house. Quinn drove through the gate. In the night sky was a dim quarter-moon. Quinn's headlights only made the barest incursion into the thick fog that obscured most of the grounds. Twice he saw an armed guard on patrol.

A handsome man in a gray business suit was waiting for Quinn when he parked in front of the mansion.

“Come in, Judge,” the man said, extending a hand. “I'm Jack Brademas, head of security at Hoyt Industries. The senator wanted me to sit in on this meeting.”

Quinn shook hands and Brademas led him into the library, where Lou Anthony had talked to Ellen Crease on the evening of the murder. Crease stood up when the men entered. She was wearing jeans and a white shirt under a baggy sweater. A cigar smoldered in an ashtray at her elbow.

“You look cold, Judge,” Crease said. “Would you like tea, coffee, or something stronger?”

Quinn noticed a coffee urn and a teapot sitting on a cherrywood sideboard next to several fine-china cups and saucers.

“Coffee, please.”

“Would you, Jack?”

Quinn sat down across from Crease in a high-backed
chair and Brademas handed him a cup. The senator waited patiently while Quinn took a sip. Quinn's exhaustion was apparent, as was the discolored swelling on the side of the judge's face.

“When you called me, you sounded so upset that I agreed to meet with you,” Crease said. “Now that I've had some time to think, I'm wondering if this meeting doesn't violate some code of ethics. I am the defendant in a case you're hearing.”

“Matters have gone way beyond that, Senator. There are events happening on the periphery of your criminal case of which you have been completely unaware. Both our lives are in danger.”

“Please explain that.”

“Senator, you have some very powerful enemies. People who will stop at nothing, including murder, to harm you. They have already effectively destroyed my career as a judge. Tonight they tried to kill me.”

“What?”

“Monday evening, a man in a ski mask broke into my apartment. He had photographs of a young woman and me that have the potential of destroying my career and my marriage. The man threatened to make the pictures public if I didn't fix your case so that you would be convicted of murdering your husband and Martin Jablonski.”

“But you ruled for me. You destroyed the State's case.”

“Yes. I did the only thing I could think of to protect you,” Quinn said softly. “Because of what I did, a woman was murdered and an attempt was made on my life.”

“Judge, this is getting a bit confusing,” Jack Brademas interrupted sympathetically. “If we're going to help, we have to know everything that's happened to you. Why don't you start at the beginning?”

Quinn recounted the trip to St. Jerome, the ruse
that was used to trick Laura into flying to Miami, the visit from Claire Reston, his discovery of the second explanation for the blood spatter evidence found on the armoire, Reston's murder, and the recent attempt on his life.