Phillip Margolin - Wild Justice

Amanda laughed. If he accepted, her social life would improve 100 percent. The only man her age at the firm was married, and she spent most of her working hours out of the office at the law library, which was not heavily populated by swinging singles. She had bar-hopped a few times with two girlfriends she knew from high school, but she didn't like the forced gaiety. In truth, she found dating painful. Most of the men she' d gone out with hadn't held her interest for long. Her only serious affair had been with a fellow law student. It had ended when a Wall Street firm hired him and she accepted a clerkship on the United States Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit, which sat in San Francisco. Todd had made their continuing relationship conditional upon Amanda staying in New York and sacrificing the clerkship. Amanda had decided to sacrifice Todd instead and had never regretted the decision.

Though she didn't miss Todd, she did miss being with someone. Amanda had fond memories of buying the Sunday New York Times at one A.M. and reading it at breakfast over toasted bagels and hot coffee. She liked morning sex and studying with someone warm and friendly nearby. Amanda wasn't going to give up her identity for any man, but there were times when it was nice having a man around. She wondered if Tony and Justine were more than friends. She wondered if Tony would say yes to a cup of coffee.

Chapter 8

The weather in Portland was cold and wet, and Bobby Vasquez was tired and cranky. The wiry vice cop had spent the last two weeks trying to gain the confidence of a low-level junkie whose brother was connected in a big way to some very serious offenders. The junkie was sly and suspicious, and Vasquez was beginning to think that he was wasting his time. He was writing a report about their last meeting when the receptionist buzzed him.

There's a weird call on line one.

Give it to someone else.

Vasquez still had on the stained jeans, torn flannel shirt and red-and-black Portland Trailblazers T-shirt that he' d been wearing for two straight days. They smelled and he smelled, and he wanted nothing more out of life than a shower, a six-pack and tonight's Blazer telecast.

You're the only one in, the receptionist said.

Then get a number, Sherri, I' m busy.

Detective Vasquez, I've got a strange feeling about this. The person is disguising his or her voice with some kind of electronic equipment.

Sherri had just started, and she treated every new case as if it was the next O.J. Vasquez decided that it would be easier to take the call than argue with her, and it would definitely be more fun than writing the report. He picked up the phone.

This is Detective Vasquez. Who am I speaking to?

Listen to me, I won't repeat myself, the caller said through a device that produced an eerily inhuman monotone. Dr. Vincent Cardoni, a surgeon at St. Francis Medical Center, recently purchased two kilos of cocaine from Martin Breach. Cardoni is hiding the cocaine in a mountain cabin. He is going to sell it to two men from Seattle within the week.

Where is this cabin?

The caller told Vasquez the location.

This is very interesting, Vasquez was saying when the line went dead. He gazed at the receiver, then stared into space. The mystery snitch had said the magic word. Vasquez could care less about some junkie doctor. Martin Breach was another matter.

The closest they had come to indicting Breach was two years ago when Mickey Parks, a cop on loan from a southern Oregon police department, infiltrated Breach's organization. Vasquez had been Parks's control, and they had grown close. A week before Breach was going to be arrested, Parks disappeared. Over the next month, the vice and narcotics squad received untraceable packages containing the policeman's body parts. Everyone knew that Breach had killed Parks, knowing that he was a cop, but there was not a shred of evidence connecting Breach to the murder. Breach had cracked jokes during his interrogation while the detectives, including Vasquez, looked on helplessly.

Vasquez swiveled his chair and imagined a doctor in handcuffs slumped forward in an interrogation room, his tie undone, his shirt rumpled, sweat beading his forehead. A doctor in those circumstances would be very vulnerable. Draw a few pictures for him of the downside of spending time in the company of deranged bikers, honkie-hating homeboys and slavering queers and the doctor would drink gasoline to avoid prison. It wouldn't take much effort to convince a terrified physician that ratting out Martin Breach was easier than guzzling premium unleaded.

Vasquez swiveled again and confronted the first problem he foresaw. To arrest the doctor Vasquez needed evidence. The cocaine would do it, but how was he going to find Cardoni's stash? The courts had ruled that the phone tip of an anonymous informant was not a sufficient basis for securing a search warrant. If the informant would not give his name, he could be a liar with a grudge or a prankster. Information provided by an anonymous informant had to be corroborated before a judge would consider it. Vasquez could not get a warrant to search the cabin unless he could present some proof that the cocaine was inside. That was not going to be easy, but nailing Breach was worth the effort.

Chapter 9

The gravel in the nearly empty parking lot of the Rebel Tavern crunched under the tires of Bobby Vasquez's dull green Camaro. Two Harleys and a dust-coated pickup truck were parked on either side of the entrance. Vasquez checked the rear and found Art Prochaska's cherry red Cadillac parked under the barren limbs of the lot's only tree.

At night, the Rebel Tavern looked like a scene from a postapocalyptic sci-fi flick. Bearded, unwashed bodies clad in leather and decorated with terrifying tattoos stood four deep at the bar, eardrum-busting music made speech impossible and blood flowed at the slightest excuse. But at three on a Friday afternoon the cruel sun spotlighted the tavern's fading paint job and the jukebox was turned low enough for the hung-over to bear.

Vasquez entered the tavern and waited while his eyes adjusted to the dark. His investigation was not going well. Vincent Cardoni was under investigation by the Board of Medical Examiners, and his behavior at St. Francis Medical Center was becoming increasingly erratic and violent; there were even rumors about cocaine use. But none of this information provided probable cause to search Cardoni's mountain cabin for two kilos of cocaine. Vasquez was desperate, so he had set up this meeting with Art Prochaska, who had been busted by the DEA recently. Vasquez would have to help Prochaska with his federal beef if he wanted information, a prospect he found as appealing as a prostate examination, but it was starting to look as though Breach's enforcer might be his only hope.

Prochaska was nursing a scotch at the bar. While Vasquez bought a bottle of beer, Prochaska went to the men's room. Vasquez followed a moment later. As soon as the door closed, Prochaska locked it and slammed Vasquez face forward into the wall. Vasquez could not stand the feel of Prochaska's hands on him, but he expected the frisk and stifled his impulse to smash his beer bottle into the gangster's face. When the pat-down was finished, Prochaska stepped back and told Vasquez to turn around. The vice cop was standing close enough to smell the garlic on Prochaska's breath.

Long time, Art.

If I never saw you, it wouldn't be too long, Vasquez, Prochaska answered in a voice that sounded like a car driving over crushed gravel.

Vasquez took a sip of his beer and leaned back against the bathroom wall. I hear you're under indictment for possession with intent to distribute. I want to help you with the feds.

Prochaska laughed. You born again?

Don't be so cynical. I've been known to help bigger turds than you when it worked to my advantage.