Philip Margolin: Gone ,but not forgotten

"Far, far worse," Darius repeated. Then he closed the lighter and walked across the motel room. The blonde rolled over and lay with the white sheet tangled around her hips, leaving her slender legs and smooth back exposed. Each time she sobbed, her shoulders trembled.

Martin Darius watched her in the motel mirror as he adjusted his wine-red tie. He wondered if he could convince her this was — all a joke, then get her to submit to him again. The thought brought a smile to his thin lips.

For a moment, he toyed with the image of the woman kneeling before him and taking him in her mouth, convinced that he wanted her back. it would be a challenge to get her on her knees after the way he had crushed her spirit. Darius was confident he could do it, but there was a meeting to attend.

"The room's paid for, he said. "You can stay as long as you want."

"Can't we talk? Please, Martin," the woman begged, sitting up and turning on the bed so that her small, sad breasts were exposed, but Darius was already closing the motel room door.

Outside, the sky looked ominous. Thick, black clouds were rolling in from the coast. Darius unlocked the door of his jet-black Ferrari and silenced the alarm.

In a short while, he would do something that would increase the woman's pain. Something exquisite that would make it impossible for her to forget him. Darius smiled in anticipation, then drove off without the slightest suspicion that someone was photographing him from the corner of the motel parking lot.

Martin Darius sped across the Marquam Bridge toward downtown Portland.

The heavy rain kept the pleasure boats off the Willamette River, but a rusty tanker was pushing through the storm toward the port at Swan Island. Across the river was an architectural mix of functional, gray, futuristic buildings linked by sky bridges, Michael Graves's whimsical, post-modern Portland Building, the rose-colored U.S. Bank skyscraper, and three-story historical landmarks dating back to the eighteen hundreds. Darius had made his fortune adding to Portland's skyline and rebuilding sections of the city.

Darius changed lanes just as a reporter began the lead story on the five o'clock news.

"This is Larry Prescott at the Multnomah County Courthouse speaking with Betsy Tannenbaum, the attorney for Andrea Hammermill, who has just been acquitted in the shooting death of her husband, City Commissioner Sidney Hammermill.

"Betsy, why do you think the jury voted 'not guilty'?"

"I believe it was an easy choice once the jurors understood how battering affects the mind of a woman who undergoes the frequent beatings and abuse Andrea suffered."

"You've been critical of this prosecution from the start. Do you think the case would have been handled differently if Mr. Hammermill was not a mayoral candidate?"

"The fact that Sidney Hammermill was wealthy and very active in Oregon politics may have influenced the decision to prosecute."

"Would it have made a difference if District Attorney Alan Page had assigned a woman deputy to the case?"

"It could have. A woman would have been able to evaluate the evidence more objectively than a man and might have declined prosecution."

"Betsy, this is your second acquittal in a murder case using the battered wife defense. Earlier this year, you won a million-dollar verdict against an anti-abortion group and Time magazine listed you as one of America's up-and-coming female trial lawyers. How are you handling your newfound fame?"

There was a moment of dead air. When Betsy answered she sounded uncomfortable.

"Believe me, Larry, I'm much too busy with my law practice and my daughter to worry about anything more pressing than my next case and tonight's dinner."

The car phone rang. Darius turned down the radio.

The Ferrari purred as it pulled away from the traffic. Darius glided into the fast lane, then picked up on the third ring.

"Mr. Darius?"

"Who is this?"

Only a few people knew the number of his car phone and he did not recognize the voice.

"You don't need to know my name."

"I don't need to speak to you, either."

"Maybe not, but I thought you'd be interested in what I have to say."

"I don't know how you got this number, but my patience is wearing thin.

Get to the point or I'll disconnect."

"Right. You're a businessman. I shouldn't waste your time. Still, if you hung up now, I can guarantee I'd be gone but not forgotten."

"What did you say?"

"Got your attention, huh?"

Darius took a deep, slow breath. Suddenly there were beads of perspiration on his brow and upper lip.

"Do you know Captain Ned's? It's a seafood place on Marine Drive. The bar's pretty dark. Drive there now and we'll talk."

The connection was broken. Darius lowered the phone onto its cradle. He had slowed without realizing it and there was a car on his bumper.

Darius crossed two lanes of traffic and pulled onto the shoulder of the road.

His heart was racing. There was a shooting pain in his temples. Darius closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest. He willed his breathing back to normal and the pain in his temples eased.

The voice on the phone was rough and uncultured.

The man would be after money, of course. Darius smiled grimly. He dealt with greedy men all the time. They were the easiest to manipulate. They always believed the person they were dealing with was as stupid and frightened as they were.

The pain in his temples was gone now and Darius was breathing easily again. In a way he was grateful to the caller. He had grown complacent, believing he was safe after all these years, but you were never safe. He would consider this a wake-up call.

Captain Ned's was weathered wood and rain-spattered glass jutting out over the Columbia River. The bar was as dark as the voice promised.

Darius sat in a booth near the kitchen, ordered a beer and waited patiently. A young couple entered, arm in arm. He dismissed them. A tall, balding salesman in a disheveled suit sat on a stool at the bar.

Most of the tables were taken by couples. Darius scanned the other booths. A heavyset man in a trench coat smiled and stood up after Darius fixed on him.

"I was waiting to see how long it would take you," the man said as he slipped into the booth. Darius did not reply. The man shrugged and stopped smiling. It was unsettling to sit opposite Martin Darius, even if you thought you held the winning hand.

"We can be civilized about this or you can be bitchy," the man said. "It don't matter to me. In the end, you'll pay."

"What are you selling and what do you want?" Darius answered, studying the fleshy face in the dim light.

"Always the businessman, so let's get down to business. I've been to Hunter's Point. The old newspapers were full of information. There were pictures, too. I had to look hard, but it was you. I got one here, if you'd like to see," the man said, sliding his hand out of his coat pocket and pushing a photocopy of a newspaper front page across the table. Darius studied it for a moment, then slid it back.

"Ancient history, friend."

"Oh? You think so? I have friends on the force, Martin. The public don't know yet, but I do. Someone has been leaving little notes and black roses around Portland.

I figure it's the same person who left 'em in HUNTER's Point. What do you think?"

"I think you're a very clever man, Mr…?" Darius said, stalling for time to dope out the implications.

The man shook his head. "You don't need my name, Martin. You just have to pay me."

"How much are we talking about?"

"I thought two hundred and fifty thousand dollars would be fair. It'd cost you at least that much in attorney fees."

The man had thinning, straw-colored hair. Darius could see flesh between the strands when he bent forward. The nose had been broken. There was a gut, but the shoulders were thick and the chest heavy.