Dominion (91 page)

“Yeah, Mr. Harper, this is Ollie Chandler, Portland Police. I’m calling to ask you a few questions about a case I’m working on.”

“What can I do for you, officer?”

“Detective. Homicide detective.”

“What can I do for you, detective?”

Ollie listened carefully for any cracks in the voice. So far, none.

“We’re checking out some phone calls and faxes made between your office and Reggie Norcoast’s office in August and early September.”

“Why?”

“Oh, we’ve got our reasons. What were these phone calls about?”

Harper hesitated. “I do political consulting for Mr. Norcoast and a half-dozen other politicians. We often talk campaign strategy. I used to work for him in Portland.”

“How many hours did you put in for Norcoast this summer?”

“I don’t know, off hand. How is this relevant to your investigation?”

“I suppose it must have been a lot of hours for you to be paid thirty-five thousand in one shot. And such a nice even number too. Let me ask you, Mr. Harper, did you have any visitors the day of September 2?”

“How should I know? You want me to check my Day-Timer? Okay, fine. Here it is. Looks like I was in the office all morning. A few appointments, phone calls, it’s all here. In the afternoon I had lunch, worked out at the health club, came back to the office for a few more appointments and a staff meeting. Satisfied?”

“Do you happen to remember how much money you were carrying that day?”

Long pause. “Who knows? What’s that got to do with anything? I usually carry maybe a hundred dollars in my wallet. I don’t know. I don’t have to answer any more of your questions. If you want to speak further, you can call my attorney. This conversation is over. Good-bye.”

Ollie put down the phone, then rubbed his hands together like a master chef mixing his ingredients. “Okay,” he said to Clarence. “It’s hit the fan now. I sent the message we’re onto him. If he’s smart, he knows I’m still fishing, that we don’t have enough to nail him. It’s risky, because he may try to cover his tail. On the other hand, often that’s what gives people away. Telling me I’d have to talk to his attorney was a dumb move.”

“Why?”

“Too defensive. At first, he was trying to sound casual, like a guy who had nothing to hide. But the more I showed him our hand, the more afraid of self-incrimination he got. Why should he care if I ask him about legit political consulting and a thirty-five-thousand-dollar fee? When I asked him what he was doing September 2, so what? Unless September 2 means something to him. I ask him how much money he was carrying, and if it’s the usual hundred bucks, it’s just an irrelevant question. If it’s thirty to thirty-five
thousand
, he has reason to get edgy. He sounded edgy. I didn’t accuse him of anything. I’m a detective—most the people I talk to aren’t suspects, they’re innocent people who may have info pertaining to the case. But he
assumed
I was accusing him. People assume that for a reason. Often because they’re guilty.”

“Why didn’t you say anything about the fax?” Clarence asked.

“That’s still my ace in the hole. I’m waiting to play it.”

“What next?”

“I don’t know,” Ollie said, grinning, rubbing his hands together again. “But whatever it is, it’s gonna be fun.”

At his Tuesday afternoon arraignment, Clarence sat in a courtroom full of the accused. Most of them, he assumed, were guilty, which reminded him that everybody else must assume he was guilty. What made him think he was the only innocent person here?

Clarence was formally charged, and a court date was set for February. That meant it would hang over his head another two and a half months while the DA’s office prepared their case against him. Meanwhile, everyone would have it permanently cemented in their minds that he was guilty.

The
Willamette Post
printed a feature subjecting Clarence to ridicule as another one of those conservative family values hypocrites. He’d often taken on the liberal weekly and mercilessly lampooned its terminal political correctness. This was their perfect opportunity for revenge. They made the most of it, printing a terrible, hard-edged picture of him. He wasn’t even sure where they’d gotten it. He looked so enraged in the photo it made him wince. Then there was a demure picture of Gracie, looking the young innocent Anglo exploited by the big bad black man. Under normal circumstances the
Willamette Post
would never portray a black man like this. But Clarence was an outspoken conservative. The most brutal treatment is reserved for traitors.

Ollie sent three more faxes a minute apart, just as he had the day before. He waited a few minutes, then called Matthew Harper’s private line.

“Mr. Harper, this is Detective Ollie Chandler. I talked with you yesterday, remember?”

“Are you harassing me, detective? If you are, I could take you to court.”

“Excuse me? This is just the second time I’ve called. How am I harassing you?”

“Are you the one who keeps sending these…”

“These what?”

“Never mind. What can I do for you?”

“Well, there’s a document that’s come to our attention. It was faxed to you from Councilman Norcoast’s office on August 29.”

“What document?”

“It says, ‘Harper: Counting on you to take care of the job. Make it soon.’ Sound familiar? Now, what job would that be talking about?”

“I don’t know what job. Not sure I ever received a fax like that in the first place. If I did, it was probably about a consulting job. Remember, I told you I do political consulting for the councilman.”

“Are you saying the councilman sent you that fax?”

“I didn’t say that. You’re the one that’s been sending me that fax, aren’t you?”

“Is there something about that fax that bothers you?”

“No. I’ve just had a half-dozen copies of it sent to me in the last two days. I don’t understand. What’s going on? Where did you get this fax?”

“Where do you think I got it? From the same person who sent it to you August 29, where else?”

“No… I don’t believe you.”

“Well, suppose I told you he says he was referring to something else, but he’s afraid you flipped out on him and you did something he never intended.”

Harper laughed. “Nice try, detective. What am I supposed to do now, say, ‘Tell him he’s not going to get away with it’?”

“Get away with what?”

“Setting me up for the fall.”

“What fall would you be anticipating?”

Harper hung up on him.

“The fish has bit,” Ollie said. “But there’s one thing I don’t get.”

“What?” Clarence asked.

“He seemed to know immediately I was bluffing when I told him the guy who sent him the fax claims he meant something else. Obviously I have the fax. Why wouldn’t he believe I’ve confronted Norcoast or Gray with it, and whichever of them sent it denies its real meaning? What tipped him off?”

Clarence shrugged.

“If I could inflate this evidence,” Ollie said, “I could argue probable cause to a judge to get my hands on Harper’s phone records. But it just isn’t enough. We know he got that fax at 3:32 P.M. on August 29. What I want to know is, who did he call then?”

Ollie looked up a number on his Rolodex, then dialed it quickly. “Ray? Ollie Chandler. How’s things in Sacramento? Listen, I’ve got something else I need you to do.”

“All right, let’s try it again,” Ollie said to Clarence. “Anybody at all who could have planted the heroin in your overcoat?”

“I’ll tell you once more, Ollie. The coat’s in my closet at home Wednesday night, right? I get up Thursday with my hangover. It’s raining. I wear it to my car, then take it off and lay it over the seat. I don’t put it back on until I park my car. I get in the elevator at the parking garage, go to the ground floor, walk to the
Trib
, come up the elevator, hang up my overcoat, and go to my desk. It’s that simple. I don’t see how anyone could have planted it until I got to the
Trib.
”

“Okay, then someone at the
Trib
planted it while the coat was on the rack. Who?”

“Everybody there has security clearance. These aren’t criminals, these are journalists.” He looked at Ollie. “Don’t say what you’re thinking, okay? Yeah, I guess somebody at the
Trib
could do something like this, but I really doubt it. My conservatism isn’t popular, but they don’t hate me that much. At least, I don’t think they do.”

“I’ll have Manny check into vendors, custodians, computer technicians, anybody that had access to the coatrack Thursday morning.”

“There
is
someone else who could have planted the powder,” Clarence said.

“Who?”

“Rodriguez.”

“The officer? Come on, Clarence.”

“We’ve been over this before, Ollie. To you it’s inconceivable a cop would do that. To me it’s a real possibility. He could have easily pulled it out of his pocket and planted it in my coat during his search. Be open-minded.”

“Okay.” Ollie sighed. “Let’s get back to whatever knocked you out for four hours on that bench. Is there anything else you ate or drank, anything that could have been poisoned?”

Clarence thought hard. “Yeah. That green powder stuff Geneva mixes in my orange juice.”

“The health food? Yeah, I hear you. But we can probably rule out Geneva as a suspect.”

“Well, she swears she’ll never divorce me, but more than once she
has
threatened to kill me.”

Ollie looked at his notes. “Breakfast was heated Grape Nuts with a packet of Equal, toast, and coffee. More coffee at the
Trib.
Sandwich at the deli for lunch. But nobody else at the
Trib
or the deli passed out later in the day. You sure you didn’t stop for a doughnut?”

“I’m not a cop, Ollie, I’m a journalist.”

“You are what you eat, isn’t that what they say? Journalists must eat a lot of bologna. Come on. You’re a big fellow. What else did you eat?”

“Ollie, that’s it, I’m telling you. Maybe it really was insulin shock. But it’s never come on so suddenly or put me out so long.”