Philip Margolin - Gone ,but not forgotten

"I'd like to speak to Wayne Turner, please."

"I'll connect you to his secretary." Betsy picked up the mug. Her hand was trembling.

She wanted to sound confident, but she was scared to death.

"Can I help you?" a pleasant female voice asked.

"My name is Betsy Tannenbaum. I'm an attorney in Portland, Oregon. I'd like to speak to Mr. Turner."

"Mr. Turner is very busy with the confirmation hearings. If you leave me your number, he'll call you when be gets the chance."

Betsy knew Turner would never return her call.

There was only one way to force him to get on the phone.

Now Betsy was convinced she knew what had happened in Hunter's Point and she would have to gamble she was right.

"This can't wait. Let Mr. Turner know that Peter Lake's attorney is on the phone." Then Betsy told the secretary to tell Turner something else.

The secretary made her repeat the message. "If Mr. Turner won't talk to me, tell him I'm sure the press will."

Turner's secretary put Betsy on hold. Betsy closed her eyes and tried a meditation technique she had learned in a Y.W.C.A. yoga class. It didn't work, and she jumped when Turner came on the line.

"Who is this?" he barked.

"I told your secretary, Mr. Turner. My name is Betsy Tannenbaum and I'm Martin Darius's attorney. You knew him as Peter Lake when he lived in Hunter's Point. I want to talk to Senator Colby immediately."

"The senator is extremely busy with the confirmation hearings, Ms.

Tannenbaum. Can't this wait until they're over?"

"I'm not going to wait until the senator is safely on the Court, Mr.

Turner. if he won't speak to me, I'll be forced to go to the press."

"Damn it, if you spread any irresponsible "Calm down, Mr. Turner. If you thought about this at all, you'd know it would hurt my client to go to the papers. I'll only do it as a last resort. But I won't be put off."

"if YOU know about Lake, if you know about the senator, why are you doing this?" Turner pleaded.

Betsy paused. Turner had asked a good question.

Why was she keeping what she knew to herself? Why hadn't she confided in Reggie Stewart? Why was she willing to fly across the country for the answer to her questions?

"This is for me, Mr. Turner. I have to know what kind of man I'm representing. I have to know the truth. I must meet with Senator Colby.

I can fly to Washington tomorrow."

Turner was silent for a few seconds. Betsy looked out the window. In the office across the street, two men in shirtsleeves were discussing a blueprint. On the floor above them, a group of secretaries were working away on word processors. Toward the top of the office building, Betsy could see the sky reflected in the glass wall, Greentinted clouds scudded across a green-tinted sky.

"I'll talk to Senator Colby and call you back," Turner said.

"I'm not a threat, Mr. Turner. I'm not out to wreck the senator's appointment. Tell him that."

Turner hung up and Betsy exhaled. She was not used to threatening United States senators or dealing with cases that could destroy the reputations of prominent public figures. Then she thought about the Hammermill and Peterson cases. Twice she had shouldered the burden of saving a human life. There was no greater responsibility than that. Colby was just a man, even if he was a United States senator, and he might be the reason Martin Darius was free to murder three innocent women in Portland.

"Nora Sloane is on one," Ann said over the intercom.

Betsy's divorce client was supposed to meet her at the courthouse at eight forty-five and it was eight-ten.

Betsy wanted to concentrate on the issues in the divorce, but she decided she could spare Sloane a minute.

"Sorry to bother you," Sloane said apologetically.

"Remember I talked to you about interviewing your mother and Kathy" Do you suppose I could do that this weekend?"

"I might be out of town. My mom will probably watch Kathy, so you could talk to them together. Mom will get a kick out of being interviewed.

I'll talk to her and get back to you. What's your number?"

"Why don't I call you? I'm going to be in and out."

"Okay. I've got court in half an hour. I should be done by noon. Call me this afternoon."

Betsy checked her watch. She had twenty minutes to prepare for court and no more time to spend thinking about Martin Darius.

Reggie Stewart found Ben Singer, the attorney who handled Samantha Reardon's divorce, by going through the court records. Singer had not heard from Reardon in years, but he did have an address near the campus.

Most of the houses around the University were older, single-family dwellings surrounded by well-kept lawns and shaded by oak and elm trees, but there was a pocket of apartments and boardinghouses that catered to students located several blocks behind the campus near the freeway.

Stewart turned into a parking lot that ran the length of a dull-gray garden apartment complex. It had snowed the night before. Stewart stepped over a drift onto the shoveled sidewalk in front of the manager's office. A woman in her early forties dressed in heavy slacks and a green wool sweater answered the door. She was holding a cigarette.

Her face was flushed. There were curlers in her strawberry-red hair.

"My name is Reggie Stewart. I'm looking for the apartment manager.

"We're full," the woman answered brusquely.

Stewart handed the woman his card. She stuck her cigarette in her mouth and examined it.

"Are you the manager?" Stewart asked. The woman nodded.

"I'm trying to find Samantha Reardon. This was the last address I had for her."

"What do you want with her?" the woman asked suspiciously.

"She may have information that could clear a client who used to live in Hunter's Point."

"Then You're out of luck. She's not here."

"Do you know when she'll be back?"

"Beats me. She's been gone since the summer." The manager looked at the card again. "The other investigator was from Portland too. I remember, because you two are the only people I ever met from Oregon."

"Was this guy big with a broken nose?"

"Right. You know him?"

"Not personally. When did he show up?"

"It was hot. That's all I remember. Reardon left the next day. Paid a month's rent in advance. She said she didn't know how long she'd be gone. Then, about a week later, she came back and moved out."

"Did she store anything with you?"

"Nah. The apartment's furnished and she hardly had anything of her own."

The manager shook her head. "I was up there once to fix a leak in the sink. Not a picture on the wall, not one nic-nac on a table.

The place looked just like it did when she moved in. Spooky."

"You ever talk to her?"

"Oh, sure. I'd see her from time to time. But it was mostly 'good morning' or 'how's it going' on my part and not much from her. She kept to herself"

"Did she have a job?"

"Yeah. She worked somewhere. I think she was a secretary or receptionist. Something like that. Might have been for a doctor. Yeah, a doctor, and she was a bookkeeper. That was it. She looked like a bookkeeper, too.

Real mousy. She didn't take care of herself. She had a nice figure if you looked hard. all, athletic. But she always dressed like an old maid. it looked to me like she was trying to scare men off, if you know what I mean."

"You wouldn't happen to have a picture of her?"

"Where would I get a picture? Like I said, I don't even think she had any pictures in her place. Weird. Everyone has pictures, knickknacks, things to remind you of the good times."

"Some people don't want to think about the past," Stewart said.

The manager took a drag on her cigarette and nodded in agreement. "She like that? Bad memories?"

"The worst," Stewart said. "The very worst."