Philip Margolin: Gone ,but not forgotten

"You know why you're here, Ray. If I nominate you to be Chief justice of the United States, will you accept?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

Forbes grinned. The tension in the room evaporated.

"We make the announcement tomorrow. You'll make a great Chief justice."

"I'm indebted to you," Colby said, not trusting himself to say more. He had known the President would make the offer when he was summoned to the White House, but that did not keep him from feeling as light as a free-floating cloud.

Raymond Colby sat up as quietly as possible and shuffled his feet along the carpet until he found his slippers. Ellen Colby stirred on the other side of their king-size bed. The senator watched the moonlight play on her peaceful features. He shook his head in amazement. Only his wife could sleep the sleep of angels after what had happened today.

There was a liquor cabinet in the den of Colby's Georgetown town house.

Colby fixed himself some bourbon. On the upper landing the antique grandfather clock ticked away the seconds, each movement of the ancient hands perfectly audible in the stillness.

Colby rested his glass on the fireplace mantel and picked up a framed and fading black and white photograph that had been taken the day his father argued a case before the United States Supreme Court. Howard Colby, a distinguished partner in Wall Street's most prestigious law firm, died at his desk two months after the photograph was taken.

Raymond Colby may have been first at Harvard Law, c.e.o. of Marlin Steel, the governor of New York and a United States senator, but he always saw himself in relationship to his father as he had been that day on the steps of the Court, a ten-year-old boy under the protection of a wise and gruff giant whom Raymond remembered as the smartest man he had ever known.

There were fifty-three broad steps leading from the street to the entrance to the Court. Raymond had counted as he climbed them, hand in hand with his father. When they passed between the columns supporting the west portico, his father had stopped to point out each justice Under Law" engraved in the bone-white marble of the Great Hall.

"That's what they do here, Raymond. justice. This is the court of last resort. The final place for all lawsuits in this great country."

Massive oak doors guarded the Court's chambers, but the courtroom was intimate. Behind a raised mahogany bench were nine high-backed chairs of various styles.

When the justices filed to their seats, his father stood.

When Howard Colby addressed the Court, Raymond was surprised to hear respect in the voice of a man who commanded the respect of others. These men in black, these wise men who towered over Howard Colby and commanded his respect, left a lasting impression. On the train ride back to New York, Raymond swore silently to sit some day upon the bench of the nation's highest court.

The announcement would be made at tomorrow's press conference.

The waiting had begun Friday when a White House source told him that the President had narrowed his choice to the senator and Alfred Gustafson of the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals. This afternoon, during their meeting in the Oval Office, the President told Colby it was his membership in the Senate that made the difference. After the disastrous defeat of Mabel Hutchings, his first nominee, the President wanted a sure thing.

The Senate was not going to reject one of its own, especially someone with Colby's credentials. All he need do now was pass through the nominating process unscathed.

Colby put down the photograph and picked up his drink. It was not only the excitement of the nomination that kept him from sleep. Colby was an honest man.

When he told the President that there was no scandal in his past, he was telling the truth. But there was something in his past. Few people knew about it. Those who did could be trusted to keep silent. Still, it concerned him that he had not been entirely candid with the man who was fulfilling his greatest dream.

Colby sipped his drink and stared at the lights of the capital. The bourbon was doing its job. His tense muscles were relaxing. He felt a bit sleepy. There was no way to change history. Even if he knew what the future would bring, he was certain he would have made no other choice.

Worrying now would not change the past and the chances of his secret surfacing were very small. Within the hour the senator was sound asleep.

The pathetic thing was that after the affairs and the lies, not to mention the divorce settlement, which left Alan Page living in the same type of shabby apartment he had lived in when he was a law student, he still loved Tina.

She was what he thought about when he was not thinking about work. Going to a movie did not help, reading a book did not help, even bedding the women with whom his well-meaning friends fixed him up did not help. The women were the worst, because he always found himself comparing and they never stacked up. Alan had not been with a woman in months.

The district attorney's mood was starting to affect his staff. last week, Randy Highsmith, his chief deputy, had taken him aside and told him to shape up, but he still found it hard to cope with bachelorhood after twelve years of what he thought was a good marriage. It was the sense of betrayal that overwhelmed him. He had never cheated on Tina or lied to her and he felt that she was the one person he could trust completely. When he found out about her secret life, it was too much.

Alan doubted he would ever fully trust anyone again.

Alan pulled into the City garage and parked in the spot reserved for the Multnomah County district attorney, one of the few things Tina hadn't gotten in the divorce, he mused bitterly. He opened his umbrella and raced across the street to the courthouse. The wind blew the rain under the umbrella and almost wrenched it from his hand. He was drenched by the time he ducked inside the gray stone building.

Alan ran a hand through his damp hair while he waited for the elevator.

It was almost eight. Around him, in the lobby, were young lawyers trying to look important, anxious litigants hoping for the best and dreading the worst, and a bored-looking judge or two. Alan was not in the mood for aimless social chatter. When the elevator came, he pushed six and stepped to the rear of the car.

"Chief Tobias wants you to call," the receptionist told him as soon as he entered the district attorney's office. "He said it was important."

Alan thanked her and pushed open the low gate that separated the waiting area from the rest of the offices. His private office was the first on the right along a narrow hall.

"Chief Tobias called," his secretary said.

"Winona told me."

"He sounded upset."

It was hard to imagine what could upset William Tobias. The slender police chief was as unflappable as an accountant. Alan shook out his umbrella and hung up his raincoat, then sat behind his large desk and dialed across the street to police headquarters.

"What's up?" Alan asked.

"We've got another one." it took a moment for Alan to figure out what Tobias was talking about.

"Her name is Victoria Miller. Twenty-six. Attractive, blond. Housewife.

No kids. The husband is with Brand, Gates and Valcroft, the ad agency."

"is there a body?"

"No. She's just missing, but we know it's him."

"The same note?"

"On the bed on the pillow. "Gone, But Not Forgotten." And there's another black rose."

"Was there any sign of a struggle this time?"

It's just like the others. She could have disappeared in a puff of smoke."

Both men were silent for a moment.

"The papers still don't know?"

"We're lucky there. Since there aren't any bodies, we've been handling them like missing persons cases. But I don't know how long we can keep this quiet. The three husbands aren't going to just sit around. Reiser, the lawyer, is on the phone every day, two or three times a day, and Farrar, the accountant, is threatening to go public if we don't come up with something soon."