The Undertaker's Widow (11 page)

Moments after Clark was admitted to Gage's house, a servant placed a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice, a pot of steaming coffee and a plate with two croissants on a table that stood on the tiled deck of Gage's twenty-five-meter lap pool. The lap pool was four lanes wide and heated. Entering the humid air of the pool house caused beads of sweat to form on the brow and upper lip of Senator Gage's administrative assistant. Clark sat down at the table and watched Gage make his final turn. Then he lost interest and glanced out through the wall of glass on the east side of the pool house. On most days, Clark would have seen the apple orchards, lush farmlands and
green foothills that stood between Gage's twelve-thousand-square-foot home of glass and cedar and the snow-covered slopes of Mount Hood. But today the landscape was gray with mist and there was little to see.

Gage boosted himself out of the pool. He was forty-six years old but he was only slightly slower in the pool than he had been in his days as a competitive swimmer. Some of the hair that covered Gage's lanky body was starting to silver.

Gage toweled himself dry, then crossed the pool deck and sat opposite Clark.

“Have you seen the latest polls?” he asked Clark angrily.

“Crease has fifty-one percent, you've got forty-four and the rest are undecided,” Clark answered calmly.

“That's right. Before the murder, we were dead even. Crease has gotten everyone's sympathy for losing a husband, and the press has made her out to be a female version of Rambo. I am sinking fast.”

Gage took a bite of his croissant. Clark waited patiently.

“Did you listen to Crease's press conference in Bend?”

“I missed it.”

“A reporter asked Crease how her husband's murder affected her. She stared him down for a second or so. Then she told him that she would be dead, too, if the gun control lobby had its way and that Hoyt would be alive if the tough crime measures she's advocating were law. After that, she looked into the camera for a few seconds more. Then she told all those voters that she couldn't bring her husband back, but she could dedicate the rest of her life to trying to prevent similar catastrophes from happening to them and to seeing that those who break the law regret it.”

Gage smiled without humor and shook his head in
wonder. “She is one heartless bitch and she has played Hoyt's murder like a violin virtuoso.”

Clark allowed himself a rare smile.

“She may be playing a different tune by next week,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Cedric Riker called me. He wanted to make certain that you knew before the press. He's going to the grand jury this morning. It looks like Fargo tipped the scales.”

Gage grinned broadly.

“That's that, then,” the senator said with satisfaction. “Once the indictment comes down, she's dead.”

“That's how I see it.”

“Good work, Ryan. Very good work.”

Henry Orchard knocked loudly on Ellen Crease's hotel room door because he knew she would be sound asleep after an exhausting day of campaigning. Crease's campaign manager was a slovenly, overweight dynamo who was uninterested in anything but politics. Until minutes ago, Orchard had been a happy man. His candidate had exploded in the polls, breaking away from a dead heat to take a substantial lead over Benjamin Gage.

“Who is it?” Crease snapped. She sounded wide-awake. Orchard was not surprised. Crease never seemed to tire and she needed little sleep. When she did sleep, she had a knack for waking up fully alert.

“It's Henry. Open up. Something's happened.”

Orchard heard Crease cross the room. Her door opened and he walked in. Orchard was unshaven and there were dark shadows along his fleshy jowls. The shirt
he had thrown on was dotted with stains and his socks did not match. Crease was wearing a quilted bathrobe over a floor-length flannel nightgown. Only the bedside light was on in the room, but Orchard did not turn on any other lights. He spotted an armchair near the window and dropped into it.

“I just talked to a source in the Multnomah County District Attorney's Office. Tomorrow Cedric Riker is going to ask a grand jury to indict you for murder.”

“What?”

“He's looking for two counts. Lamar and the guy who shot him.”

Crease looked stunned. “Is this the first you've heard about this?”

“Absolutely. I knew the investigation was still open, but I haven't heard a thing suggesting that you were under suspicion.”

“What have they got? What's the evidence?”

“I don't know and neither does my informant. The first thing I asked him was what Riker's got, but only Riker and the investigating officer …”

“Lou Anthony?”

“Right, Anthony. They're the only ones who know for now. What do you think they have?”

“There's nothing out there, Henry,” Crease answered bitterly. “And this really hurts. I loved that old bastard.”

Crease found a cigar in her purse and lit it. Then she paced across the room until she arrived at a writing desk. She pulled out the desk chair and sat on it, facing Orchard.

“This is unbelievable. An indictment will kill us.” Crease thought for a moment.

“It's Gage,” she said angrily. “It has to be. He contributed heavily to Riker's campaign and they go way
back. Gage and Riker cooked up this whole thing to help Gage climb back in the polls.”

“I'd like to think that,” Orchard replied cautiously, “but this isn't any old dirty trick. We're talking an indictment for murder. Riker would have to have some evidence to show the grand jury. And even if Riker's a prick, Lou Anthony isn't. He's an old friend of yours, isn't he?”

“I know Lou,” Crease answered thoughtfully. She blew a plume of smoke toward Orchard. “You're right. Lou wouldn't phony up evidence.”

Crease was quiet for a moment. Orchard watched her.

“What do you suggest I do, Henry?” she asked after a while.

“The same person who warned me about the grand jury is going to call me the minute he hears that Riker has an indictment. Riker probably has your campaign schedule. I know the way he thinks. He's going to get the local sheriff to arrest you, preferably at some campaign function for maximum embarrassment. He'll work out the timing so you have to spend a night in the local jail, then he'll have you flown back to Portland in handcuffs and parade you through the airport the way the Romans used to display conquered enemy chieftains.”

Crease shook her head in disgust. “Riker is such a creep.”

Orchard smiled. “Of course, we won't let him do any of this. As soon as I hear that Riker's got his indictment, you'll disappear. When the sheriff arrives with his warrant, you won't be here. I've arranged for a private plane to fly us back to Portland. It's on standby. And I have Mary Garrett on retainer. She tells me that she'll set up a time to surrender you when it's convenient for us and she'll schedule an immediate bail hearing.”

“Garrett, huh.”

“We can't fuck around with this, Ellen. I've seen Garrett in court. She's a great white shark. More important, the press loves her and you need the press as much as you need a good lawyer.”

The decor of Mary Garrett's office was ultramodern and disorienting, as if the decorator had artistic dyslexia. Ellen Crease could not find a straight line anywhere. She did see many gleaming aluminum tubes, myriad sheets of odd-shaped glass and numerous objects whose function was not easily identifiable. The lawyer Henry Orchard had chosen for her fit into this setting quite nicely. Her wardrobe and jewelry were expensive, but the clothes and accessories did not look quite right on the birdlike, five-foot woman. It was as if Garrett were under a court-ordered punishment to wear them as a means of emphasizing her dense glasses and overbite. Had this been true, the joke would have been on the court, because Garrett knew she wasn't a beauty queen and didn't care. What she did care about was winning and that was something she did very well.

As soon as the introductions were made, Garrett asked Henry Orchard to leave the room so she and Ellen Crease would have privacy. Crease sat in a director's chair. Its arms and legs were polished metal tubing and the back and seat were black leather that sagged a little, so that the height of the chair's occupant decreased. Garrett sat behind a wide glass desk on a high-backed chair of black leather. The chair could be elevated by pushing a button so that the diminutive attorney was always taller than her clients.

“I think your politics suck,” was the first thing Garrett said to Ellen Crease when the door closed on Henry Orchard. “In fact, I can't think of a single thing you stand for that I agree with. I thought I should put that on the table right off.”

Garrett had caught Crease completely off guard. There was a smirk on Garrett's lips and arrogance in the way she held her body. She was clearly communicating her opinion that she did not need Ellen Crease as a client but that Crease could not do without her as her attorney. If anyone else had treated her this way, Crease would have been out the door, but Garrett's combativeness endeared her to Crease. Perhaps it was the fact that her arrogance was wrapped in such a small and unattractive package. Instead of flushing with anger, Crease felt herself breaking into a wide grin.

“Then let's not talk politics,” Crease said.

Garrett grinned back at her. “Good. I've been told that you have a thick skin. I wanted to see for myself. You're going to need it before this thing plays out.”

“What exactly do you take ‘this thing' to be?”

“The Prince of Darkness's dumber brother has an indictment charging you with two counts of aggravated murder. Aggravated murder, as you know from your days as a cop, carries a possible death sentence.

“Before I go any further, I'm going to explain the attorney-client relationship to you. And I want you to listen very closely to what I say, because this is not just a civics lecture.

“Anything you tell me is confidential. That means that, by law, I'm forbidden to tell anyone what you confide to me. It also gives you the freedom to tell me the most outrageous lies, but you may pay a price if you aren't completely honest. The best liar I ever represented is sitting in prison because I turned down a plea offer
that would have kept him out of jail as a result of a fairy tale that he concocted. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly. But I have no reason to lie to you.”

“Then why did Riker go to the grand jury?”

“Isn't it obvious? Have you seen the latest polls? Cedric Riker is one of Ben Gage's tools. Gage was a major contributor to Riker's campaign and Riker owes him his job. Indicting me is a way of paying back Gage.”

“I don't doubt that Riker is motivated by politics, but he can't go in front of a grand jury without evidence.” Crease remembered that Orchard had said the same thing. “What does he have on you, Senator?”

“I don't know.”

Garrett formed a steeple with her fingers and thought out loud.

“We know Jablonski fired the shot that killed your husband, so the only way you would be implicated in your husband's death would be if you hired him to do it.”

“Ms. Garrett …”

“Call me Mary. We're going to be seeing a lot of each other.”

“Mary, then. I didn't even know Martin Jablonski existed until my husband was murdered. Cedric Riker could not have any evidence implicating me in my husband's death, because I had nothing to do with it.”

“Let's approach this problem from a different angle,” Garrett said. “Was there something going on in your relationship with Lamar Hoyt that Riker could interpret as a motive for murder?”

Crease hesitated and Garrett concluded that her client was making a decision that would shape the direction of her representation. After a moment, Crease looked directly at her lawyer and said, “There's the money I'm going to inherit and the Hoyt Industries stock, which will make me the majority shareholder. But
if I had hired Jablonski to kill Lamar, it would have been because Lamar was cheating on me with a woman named Karen Fargo.”

“How long had you known?” Garrett asked softly.

“Since Lamar stopped having sex with me regularly.”

“Did you confront your husband?”

“Yes. I wasn't surprised. In fact, I'd been expecting this for some time. I was Lamar's third wife and each marriage followed a pattern. Lamar would marry a woman in her twenties, then tire of her when she turned thirty or so. He began cheating on his first two wives when they were about my age and I expected him to cheat on me. The difference is that I'm not a docile airhead like the first two Mrs. Hoyts. I loved Lamar and I decided to break the cycle so I could keep our marriage intact.”

“What did you do?”

“I made it crystal-clear to Lamar that I wasn't going to stand for his bullshit. He bought off his first two wives. I told Lamar that he'd be living on the street if he tried to pull this crap with me. Then I asked him point-blank if Miss Fargo could ring his bell the way I did. That got him thinking.”