Hush (30 page)

Celek said uneasily, ―Lockwood?‖

―Call nine-one-one,‖ Danner grunted in disgust.

―Oh, man . . .‖ Celek put his cell phone to his ear and took a few steps back but watched Danner with a worried eye.

―I‘m not gonna kill him,‖ Danner muttered to the freckle-faced Celek. ―I don‘t want him dead. Yet.‖

He went back inside the garage and turned off the car‘s engine, and he heard the sirens as he stepped outside again. The EMTs appeared within minutes and started Lloyd on oxygen.

―Is he okay?‖ Celek asked them.

The taller of the two EMTs answered, ―He‘s breathing, but he should be coming around by now.‖ He frowned. ―Did he take something else?‖

―Probably,‖ Danner growled. ―He wanted to kill himself pretty badly, I imagine. He was in the garage when I got here.‖

―He was in his house until about forty-five minutes ago,‖ Celek said. ―I was outside.‖

―We need to pump his stomach,‖ the second EMT said.

―Gotta get him outa here,‖ the taller one answered tersely, and they loaded Lloyd into the back of the ambulance and took off, sirens screaming.

Celek stared after them. ―Maybe he did know I was following him,‖ he said guiltily.

Danner drew a deep breath, deeply furious with Jarvis Lloyd, but it wasn‘t Celek‘s fault.

―He came to us,‖ Danner reminded the younger man. ―He probably already had this in mind. He just couldn‘t quite confess last night. Whether he made you or not doesn‘t really matter.‖

Celek shot him a grateful look. ―Thanks.‖

Danner shrugged. ―Truth.‖ They walked to their respective vehicles, Danner‘s mind on Lloyd‘s trip to the bar. Whom had he planned to meet this afternoon? To Celek, he asked, ―How‘s that burglary case coming? With the nightclub venues?‖

―Nothing new. But most of ‘em have happened on weekends, so maybe something will break soon.‖

Danner nodded and climbed into the Wrangler. Time to check out the
Casablanca
bar and see if he could learn something.

―He was drinking water,‖ the bartender told Danner half an hour later when he caught up with him inside Rick‘s—no surprise there, considering the motif.

―Just water?‖

He nodded. ―Said he was waiting for someone. Guess they never showed.‖

A waitress wearing all black except for a silver sequined headband around her forehead said,

―He took a couple pills.‖

―When?‖ Danner demanded.

―Right before he left. What‘s wrong with him? He was like the saddest guy on the planet.‖

―He got involved with the wrong woman,‖ Danner told her. ―Maybe he was trying to meet her today. Have you ever seen him before?‖

The bartender and waitress both shook their heads. ―If he came at night, you‘d have to check with Len,‖ the waitress said. ―He‘s on at six.‖

Danner checked his watch. Getting close to it, but there was still some time. ―I‘ll do that.‖

He drove back to the station and called ADA Charisse Werner and told her that Jarvis Lloyd was in the hospital after a suicide attempt, then, needing a shower and shave, headed back to his apartment.

Hank Sainer stood in front of the wide windows of his rented condo on Portland‘s south waterfront and watched a storm move in from the west and pour buckets of precipitation onto the Willamette River, which slowly rolled by thirty floors below. The day had disintegrated into a dark, sodden mess that matched his mood as his mind was on his political career and all the choices he ‘d made that had brought him to this place, this precipice, this end.

He‘d struggled for years to hide his past and had been surprisingly successful. He‘d even loved and lost a beautiful, politically connected woman whose father had rained money down on him and his endeavors even though the man was a staunch Republican and Hank was a Democrat.

A middle-of-the-road Democrat, though, so a man Geri‘s dad could accept. He‘d expected Hank to marry Geri and start a family, but that wasn‘t in Hank‘s plan. Hank had loved Geri and had wanted to marry her, but things had gone sideways.

Geri, though Hank had believed she was past the baby-having time, as his daughter Dana called it, wanted to have a child of her own. Hank reminded her that he was a grandfather—Dana had two daughters of her own, Sage and Sara—and that he had no interest in starting another family at this late date. His refusal had not been received well and Geri ended their relationship soon afterward. Sometime later her daddy‘s money and goodwill dried up as well.

He‘d been more heartbroken than he‘d expected to be. And in those hours, weeks, and months of self-reflection that followed, he‘d come to some hard truths. His political career, the one baby he‘d truly cared for and tended to, to the exclusion of almost everything else—and that included his own daughter—was stagnating. Partly because he‘d lost some enthusiasm himself; partly because a deep secret, a career-ending mistake, was boring its way out from the locked place he‘d kept it safe in for so long.

It was just one of those things that was bound to finally happen. And though Hank had feared it for years—the public exposure, the scandal—he had come to terms with things and honestly didn‘t give a damn any longer.

So he‘d decided to take action. Face the dragon head-on and slay it, if he could.

But then . . . Annette was murdered.

Now Hank closed his eyes, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. He rubbed a hand over his chin, willing away the sense of guilt. He hadn‘t known she would kill her. He hadn‘t known she was that desperate.

He turned from the window and walked jerkily across the expanse of gray carpet, unable to stand his own company. The place was decorated in the midcentury modern style, Geri‘s taste, all whites and grays and chrome with a wet bar behind a pair of sliding doors that would ha ve made the Rat Pack proud. Hank didn‘t notice. If he was committing political suicide, he was going to do it now, before things got worse.

Plucking his cell phone from his pocket, he punched in a number that was not on his call list, surprised when the call was picked up.

―I know you killed her,‖ he said. Then tacked on the lie, ―I was there. Watching. You just didn‘t know it.‖

The voice squawked in fury on the other end.

―I don‘t care,‖ he said. ―I‘m tired of waiting. I‘m tired of hiding. It‘s over.‖ For a half moment he thought about delivering a further ultimatum, but the message was already understood.

When the voice blasted on, he simply snapped the cell phone shut.

He would wait until Monday. One more long weekend. He would talk to Coby Rendell and tell her what he knew.

And then, as the story broke, he would make himself watch that bitch of a reporter, Pauline Kirby, as she both shredded his political life and opened the way to a whole new one for him. He ‘d gone on one miserable date with Pauline, a nadir in his dating career, though she‘d had some interest in him. His demise would surely warm the cockles of her cold, shrunken heart, but it also would let him rise from the ashes like a phoenix.

Just before six Danner phoned Coby and his call went directly to voice mail. Figured. He found cell phones slightly amusing, as the person he was calling so seldom seemed to pick up.

Screening? Maybe. Or just plain who the hell cares to answer.

He thought of a ton of things he could say: why he‘d been so hard to reach; how frustrated he was that he couldn‘t work on Annette‘s homicide; how much he looked forward to seeing her.

But when her voice mail beeped, he asked simply, ―Do you know Dooley‘s?‖ then gave her the address of the downtown bar frequented by the men in blue. ―Can you meet me there tomorrow, after work? I‘ve been buried, but I want to see you. About six? Let me know. Thanks.‖

It wasn‘t much of a message, really, considering there was this thrumming thing going on between them, an engine starting to rev. He was purposely holding back after being at her place the

other night. He‘d wanted so much and been a bit alarmed at his own desire. There had been a lot of really going nowhere nights these last few years, and he didn‘t want any of that with Coby. Not that it ever had been, but he wasn‘t taking any chances that his own jaded ways might jump up and bite him in the ass.

Still . . . the thought of seeing her brought a quickening to his pulse.

With an effort, he corralled his galloping thoughts. There was much to do. Starting with Len, the bartender at Rick‘s.

Dooley’s
. . .
tomorrow after work. . . .

Coby saved the message, then clicked off voice mail. ―Tomorrow,‖ she repeated, wishing it were today.

She stopped by a deli on the drive home and picked up two different types of salad, salsa fiesta and spinach, and a baguette loaf. At home she settled in with a full plate, a glass of white wine, and the television remote. Turning on the news, she ate her dinner and watched the flickering images on the screen, but her mind wouldn‘t engage.

Checking the time, she put down her half-finished plate and picked up her cell phone, scrolling through the numbers until she found one for McKenna. She reached McKenna‘s voice mail, which gave her the times and place of McKenna‘s next appearances on Friday and Saturday nights at the Joker in southeast Portland. When the beep came, Coby was trying to write down the address and momentarily lost focus. ―Uh . . . McKenna, it‘s Coby. I was just wanting to talk about everything. I‘ll try to come to one of your shows this weekend. Maybe we can talk after?‖ She was about to say more but that damn voice jumped in asking if her message was all right or if she wanted to redo it. Why? she asked herself in a fury. Why? That damn voice invariably happened whenever she didn‘t want it to. Cyber voice from hell, but she figured this time at least, she ‘d gotten the message across.

Glancing down at the notes she‘d made for McKenna‘s comedy engagement, she decided to make an appearance at the club after she met with Danner.

Maybe he would even go with her.

Danner stepped into Rick‘s about six thirty and looked for Len, who turned out to be a tall, sandy-haired twentysomething with wire-rimmed glasses and a restless way of watching the crowd in the bar that spoke of experience with rabble-rousers.

Danner showed Len his ID and then asked if they could talk. The bar was in transition between the happy-hour crowd and the diners. Len said, ―Ten minutes,‖ and jerked his head to a side door that led to inner rooms. Danner ordered a beer, placed it on the end of the glossy wood bar, put his foot on the brass rail, and gave the room a once-over as well. The crowd was mostly fortysomething, at least for the women. The men were older, as a rule. The inebriation level was climbing and Danner could see why Len was vigilant; any one of the drinkers could tip over the edge from mildly drunk to wasted without some kind of watchdog.

After ten minutes and an exodus of businessmen, Danner watched a couple of nice-looking women go through the very door Len had pointed out to him. When Len gave him the high sign, he followed him through to a short hallway with several offices in the back. The two women were standing outside the door of the farthest office, smiling and talking to someone unseen. A man.

Whose deep baritone sounded impatient, though the women didn‘t seem to care.

Len went into the first office and shut the door behind Danner. ―You‘re here about the guy whose wife and daughter got killed last month. I got a call from Jimmy. You stopped by earlier.‖

―Has he been here before?‖ Danner asked, pulling out a picture of Jarvis Lloyd.

Len gave it a long, long look. ―Yeah, maybe. You could ask one of Rick‘s girls.‖

―Rick‘s girls?‖

He handed the picture back to Danner and gave him a sideways glance. ―You saw a couple of ‘em down the hall.‖

―Rick . . . like the owner Rick?‖

He nodded. ―Rick with a silent ‗p‘ in front.‖

―Ahh.‖

―Yeah, he‘s my boss, but he kinda sees himself as a local Hugh Hefner. Has an apartment where they all stay. They hang around the bar a lot, but they‘re looking for something else.‖

―They might know Mr. Lloyd?‖ Danner lifted the photo.

―There was one chick . . .‖ Len frowned. ―Didn‘t really fit in, but she got Rick‘s crank going for a while. Tough bitch, though. You could ask him.‖

―Would the other girls remember her?‖ Danner asked, sensing by the way Len talked that an interview with the owner might not get him the information he sought.

―Talk to Katrina. She knows everything about everything.‖

With that he opened the door and yelled down the hall, ―Cat! Got a minute?‖

One of the women straightened from her slouch outside Rick‘s door and came Len‘s way.

As she approached, Danner raised his estimate of her age about five years. She looked good, but in that overly worn way that women on the prowl for a long time sometimes acquired. ―Yeah?‖ she asked, sizing Danner up with interest.

―I‘m Detective Lockwood with the Portland PD. We‘re looking for information on this man, Jarvis Lloyd.‖ He handed her the picture, which she reluctantly accepted.

―What about him?‖

―Jesus, Cat,‖ Len said, annoyed. ―He‘s the home invasion guy. The one whose wife and kid got killed!‖

―Why should I know him? Fuck you, Len.‖