Phillip Margolin - Fugitive

Washington Park, 130 acres of forest featuring attractions like the Oregon Zoo and the Japanese and Rose Gardens, overlooks downtown Portland from the West Hills. During the day, it is a feast of colors and a place for thousands of visitors to play. At night, it is deserted: a place for drugs to be dealt, lovers to meet, and the occasional act of violence. At midnight, it is no place for a law-abiding citizen but it is a perfect place to transfer diamonds worth several million dollars to a trained assassin without being seen.

Charlie had no idea where Tuazama was lurking when he parked his car in the deserted lot near the Rose Garden and walked along a shadow-shrouded path to the amphitheater, but he was certain that the Batangan was close enough to protect his property from the predators who roamed the park at night.

During the summer, concerts and plays were performed in a meadow surrounded by trees and shrubbery. Tonight, the only light illuminating the grassy field was from a half moon. Char lie stepped onto the platform that served as a stage, as he had been told to do. His heart was thudding in his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment in an attempt to control his breathing. When he opened them, Nathan Tuazama was standing a few steps away.

“I brought them,” Charlie said, his voice shaking.

“I knew you would,” Tuazama answered confidently as he started toward Charlie. He’d taken two steps when a man stepped out of the space between two trees. His first shot caught Tuazama in the chest. The Batangan stumbled backward and reached under his jacket for his gun. More shots hit him from behind as two other men materialized out of the shadows. The rebels had used silencers and the shots had been mere whispers in the night. Tuazama tumbled onto the grass and the three men surrounded him. Charlie joined them.

“Hello, Nathan,” Pierre Girard said. Tuazama stared at him but didn’t reply. Blood trickled from his lips. “Do you recognize me? I’m Bernadette’s brother and I’m sorry I don’t have time to make you suffer the way Bernadette must have suffered.”

Pierre turned to Charlie. “Would you like to finish him?” he asked.

Charlie shook his head. Pierre turned back to Tuazama and shot him between the eyes. Charlie shuddered. He was relieved that Tuazama was dead but he didn’t feel any sense of satisfaction. Killing Tuazama hadn’t brought Bernadette to life.

“Did you bring the diamonds?” Pierre asked.

Charlie handed him the box.

“Thank you,” Pierre said. “We will always be grateful to you for the risks you took for us.”

“I’m the one who should be thanking you for saving my life here and at Sally Pope’s mansion,” Charlie said.

“We had to protect you until you could bring us the diamonds. We need them to buy the weapons that will bring Baptiste down.”

“Good luck in Batanga.”

“Thank you, Charlie. We will escort you to your car, then we must go,” Pierre said. “I will always remember what you’ve done for us.”

A lump formed in Charlie’s throat and tears filled his eyes. “I did this for your sister, Pierre. I did this for Bernadette.”

The din of the noisy crowd in the living room of Martha Brice’s penthouse dissipated when Amanda Jaffe shut the sliding door to the terrace behind her and Brice. It was a cool night in Manhattan and the threat of rain was keeping the guests inside. The party was in honor of the publication of Violent Homecoming . The reviews had been ecstatic and there was already a buzz about the book that cast it as the next In Cold Blood and Helter Skelter combined.

Earlier in the evening, Amanda had spotted Dennis Levy putting the moves on a stunning fashion model who had recently graced the cover of a sister magazine of World News. The girl appeared to be listening to Levy with rapt attention but Amanda suspected that she was only pretending to find him interesting. Dennis had been interviewed on network shows and written up as the next great writer of his generation, which meant that he was officially rich and famous, but fame and fortune did not miraculously transform a jerk into a decent human being. None of that mattered, of course. Amanda was certain that Levy would be in bed with the model before the night was through. A gorgeous woman could ignore unfortunate personality traits if a celebrity had enough money.

And maybe Dennis deserved to go to bed with a fashion model tonight, as his reward for doing the right thing. He had returned the photograph the morning after the custody hearing, even though Amanda could see that the decision had not been easy for the young reporter. But Levy’s virtue appeared to have been rewarded many times over and it was now Amanda’s turn to do a good deed.

“What did you want to talk about that we couldn’t have discussed inside?” Martha Brice asked Amanda.

“There are some things you need to see and I don’t think you’d appreciate my showing them to you if anyone else was around.”

“Why don’t you complete your show-and-tell so we can go back to the party? It’s chilly out here.”

“Okay, Moonbeam.”

Amanda expected a reaction and she wasn’t disappointed. The color drained from Brice’s face and she stared at Amanda for a moment before regaining her composure.

“Moonbeam? Why did you call me that?”

“Isn’t that the name you invented for yourself when you followed Charlie Marsh to Oregon from Yale?”

Amanda took two photographs out of her purse. The first was the picture of Charlie’s entourage that had been snapped at the Dunthorpe seminar. As soon as Amanda handed it to Brice, the editor’s shoulders sagged.

“I’m not crazy about the shaved head,” Amanda said.

“Where did you get this?”

“It was in Sally Pope’s case file. No one would have seen it if Charlie hadn’t come back to stand trial.”

“I look so young,” Brice said as she stared at the picture.

“How did it happen?”

“How did what happen?” Brice asked cautiously.

“To put your mind at ease, the authorities are half-convinced that Tony Rose shot Pope and I have no reason to change their mind. I can’t prove you killed the congressman, anyway, and I have no interest in telling my theory to the police now that Charlie’s case has been dismissed.”

“What about Charlie?”

“He’s going to keep his mouth shut, Delmar Epps is dead, and Werner Rollins didn’t see you. I don’t know what Gary Hass saw but no one would believe him, assuming that he even saw you shoot Pope. If he did, I doubt he’d ever make the connection between the hippie he saw in Oregon in the dark for a few minutes twelve years ago and the successful businesswoman who runs World News.”

“You think I killed Arnold Pope?”

Amanda smiled. “No one is listening to our conversation, and you don’t have to admit a thing, if you’re worried.”

“I have nothing to worry about. I’m just curious to know why you think I’m a murderer.”

“The gun has always been the key. If Delmar Epps had it when the fight started, any number of people could have shot Junior, but it had to be you if Epps left the gun in the limo. Mickey Keys, Charlie, Delmar Epps, and you drove to the Westmont in the limo. Mickey Keys remembers Epps dropping the gun during the ride to the country club. It freaked out Keys because the barrel was pointing at him when it hit the floor of the car and he thought he was going to be shot. He got very upset and yelled at Epps. Keys had a very clear memory of Epps putting the gun on a seat in the limo after he yelled at him, but he can’t remember what happened to it after that and no one else can say what happened to the gun once the limo stopped at the Westmont.