Borderline Page 14

  Dorsey nodded. “They’re all freaks.”

  “Definitely. Here’s another case where we had a cluster of incidents. Same MO.” The satanic faces appeared in a few broad clumps. “Then the crimes stopped.”

  “Maybe they were arrested, or better still, hit by a truck.”

  “I’ve checked Robbery-Homicide and Sex Crimes. No arrests that would fit the profile. Believe me, that’s a big part of my job. We also check the morgue and for long-term hospitalizations.”

  “Moved away?”

  “Possible. This rapist would fit the pattern of either an anger or a power rapist. The data don’t add up.”

  “You’ve discussed these concerns with anyone?”

  “Several people, including the chief. They all say be grateful for small favors.”

  “Well, I appreciate your hard work.”

  “Thanks. You know, they had a suspect in mind for both of these crime patterns. I checked with the detectives. The suspect disappeared.” Dorsey shrugged. “I suppose that happens.”

  “Does the timing strike you as strange?”

  “You know what I say?”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Be grateful for small favors.” He winked, then headed out.

  During his first morning session, Hanson suffered a vivid flashback to a time when he’d listened to the sound of a buddy dying next to him. Hanson and his platoon had been pinned down by a sniper for more than an hour and had listened to the soldier screaming in pain, and fear of dying unattended. Unable to stand it, Hanson had finally jumped up and charge directly into the line of fire. The sniper had apparently disappeared into the forest moments before Hanson’s suicidal attack.

  The client was so absorbed in her own problems, she didn’t notice the sheen of sweat on Hanson’s brow or the tremor in his hand. The counselor managed to reground himself in the moment, finish the session, then hurry to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.

  He blamed the flashback on Vic, and the terror of being helpless in front of a gun again.

  Betty knocked at his door, interrupting his brooding. “You’re up on the crisis board. Got time for a call?”

  When the crisis team supervisor was out, Hanson provided backup. Just like his being de facto security guard. But Betty knew that he valued getting out of the office for fieldwork. He had been on the crisis team for years, initially resisting becoming “trapped in an office.” “I’ve got a two-hour chunk free,” Hanson said after glancing at his calendar.

  “Shouldn’t take too long. It’s a welfare check at the Mark Twain. Greg Burkett. He’s in the computer as a closed client.” She handed him a printout and he scanned it quickly.

  Burkett was a forty-two-year-old unpartnered male white with a primary diagnosis of polysubstance dependence, and a secondary diagnosis of chronic depression. Burkett, perennially unemployed, had gotten occasional jobs as a day laborer but now had a bad back. His health problems also included hepatitis C, high blood pressure, and several dental disasters. He had no family in the area and was intermittently homeless. There was a note that he was chronically suicidal, particularly when lonely, which was most of the time. He had made two serious attempts and had had six hospitalizations.

  The Mark Twain was a notorious single-room-occupancy hotel about ten blocks from the agency’s office. It would’ve rated negative stars in the AAA tour book. Small rooms with saggy, stained mattresses, broken windows, and shared bathrooms that smelled like they vented the entire city’s sewer system. There were said to be tunnels in the basement, connecting with the waterfront. Many of the Old Town businesses were rumored to have been recruiting stations for the many shanghai artists who worked Portland in the early part of the century, trapping drunken sailors who awoke fifty miles out to sea.

  The four-story redbrick building looked almost habitable in the subdued gray light of the drizzly day. The desk clerk, a slender Pakistani with a pencil-thin mustache, recognized Hanson.

  “It has been a long time since I have seen you,” he said.

  When Hanson asked, “How’ve you been?” he got a detailed account of how the man had had another son, had started community college, and was trying to get enough money together to put a small down payment on a house.

  “You called about Greg Burkett?” Hanson asked.

  “He was down in the lobby before, mumbling about suicide. I think he was drunk. Very bad. Room 310.”

  Hanson remembered that the slow-moving elevator was almost as foul as the bathrooms. He walked up the worn stairs, mindful of the grimy green walls, the smell of body odor and cigarettes, the dim lighting. The narrow corridor, not much wider than his shoulders, was lit by exposed lightbulbs hanging every dozen feet.

  Hanson rapped on the flimsy wooden door. “Mr. Burkett, Brian Hanson, I’m with Rose Community. Can you open up?”

  Silence.

  A little louder. “Mr. Burkett? I’m here to see how you’re doing. People are concerned.” A few more raps of his knuckles on the door. “Please open up.”

  A cheap lock clicked and the door opened a few inches. The man peering out looked better than Hanson had expected. A salt-and-pepper beard was neatly trimmed; his eyes were clear, his clothes clean. Burkett looked a lot healthier than most of the residents Hanson knew. “Who are you?”

  “Brian Hanson, with Rose Community.” The counselor pointed to his ID tag and passed a business card in through the six-inch gap where Burkett held the door open. “You worked with Polly from our agency,” Hanson said.

  “Yeah, Polly. Kinda cute, but naive.”

  Hanson didn’t say anything though he agreed with the appraisal. “You were talking about suicide?”

  Burkett harrumphed. “What about freedom of speech?”

  “I’ve no desire to interfere with your freedom of speech, just wanted to be sure that you’re safe.”

  “No one’s safe in this world.”

  Hanson made a mental check in the paranoid column, while aware that for anyone living in Old Town, it could be a dangerous world.

  “Can I come in?” Hanson asked.

  Burkett threw wide the door and gestured grandly. “Come right this way.”

  The cramped room was neat, sparsely furnished. A battered laminate night table had a couple of newspapers and a dog-eared Dean Koontz book. A mismatched dresser had only cigarette burns on top.

  The metal-frame bed was covered with a splotchy sheet. There was no evidence of alcohol or drug paraphernalia. No signs of a weapon, rope, or pills. Two stories up, it was doubtful that jumping would be a serious option.

  Burkett’s sinewy bare arms gave testament to his troubled history. There were numerous scars across his wrists, as well as evidence of collapsed veins and abscesses from intravenous drug use.

  As Burkett complained about the injustice of the world, Hanson had the feeling he was pretty close to sober and probably had a Cluster B personality disorder. He externalized responsibility for his problems and showed no insight into his chaotic interpersonal relations. Hanson felt the powerful desire to get away that so often went with the personality disordered.

  “What’s an old guy like you doing fieldwork for the Rose?” Burkett asked, though he was only a couple years younger than Hanson.

  Hanson struggled to not respond defensively. “You’re used to working with younger staff?”

  “Yeah, usually pretty young women. Gives me something to think about when I’m alone in my room. Can you get me some female room service?”

  “If you’re feeling depressed or upset in any way, please call,” Hanson said.

  Burkett fingered Hanson’s business card. “Crummy stock. And I see you’re not a Ph.D.”

  “It was disappointment to my mother,” Hanson said, regretting the wisecrack even before he was done saying it.

  “Hey, if I’m suicidal, could I get better housing?”

  Hanson found himself fighting the urge to say, “A mausoleum with a view.” Instead, he said, “No. If you com
e in, you can talk with one of our housing specialists to see about options.”

  “We’ll see,” Burkett said, as if he were considering doing Hanson a favor.

  “How’s my favorite up-and-coming real estate mogul doing?” Dorsey asked as Jeanie slid into the booth at the back. They had been there four times and it was “their” table. Since the deputy mayor had been a regular for years, the VIP treatment was no surprise.

  “Pretty good,” Jeanie said.

  “I should think so. I was at the permit office yesterday, took a look at your paperwork.” He had started a bottle of 1999 Moutaine Gris merlot, and poured her a glass. “I did notice one glitch.”

  “Really?”

  “A primary subcontractor on the electrical work—his license isn’t current in this state, just Washington.”

  “Damn.”

  “It’ll take a few weeks to get an emergency application through. And you’re at a crucial part.” He smiled. “Sometimes, these things can be expedited.”

  She looked at him hopefully. “What do I need to do?”

  He took her hand in his. “Be my friend.”

  She smiled coyly. “What does being your friend entail?”

  “You have a dirty mind.” He stroked her hand slowly, generating a tingly heat. “But I’m not that kind of guy. You really just need to be my friend.”

  “I consider you a friend.”

  “Excellent. Let’s see what’s good today.”

  The waiter, who had been waiting for his cue, came and recited the specials. They both ordered clams de brucca in a white sauce.

  “How’s life?” Dorsey asked.

  After several minutes talking proudly about deals she was negotiating, she asked, “And for you?”

  “Oh, meetings on top of meetings, relieved only by tedious paperwork and an occasional lunch with a pretty woman.” She felt warm, woozy, and blamed it on the half bottle of merlot they had finished. His hand on her forearm, fingertips gently rubbing the soft skin, was amazingly erotic. “Family life is little relief. The kids are okay but my wife gets on my nerves. She’s so, so boring.”

  She nodded.

  “How about your husband?”

  “We have our differences, but I guess we’re okay.”

  “You could do better.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re bright, beautiful, successful.”

  “He’s an okay guy,” she said defensively.

  “That’s true. Can you look me in the eye and say you don’t want more than that?”

  She avoided his gaze.

  “Okay, let’s change the subject. How’s Sherlock Holmes doing with his investigation?”

  “He’s fiddling along.”

  Dorsey chuckled. “Sherlock Holmes, fiddling.”

  She looked at him perplexed.

  “Holmes played the violin.”

  “Oh.”

  “What kind of fiddling? I’m curious.”

  “Nothing interesting. I saw the mayor quoted in the paper the other day about the possible city hall retrofitting and expansion. What’s that going to mean?”

  “You’re trying to change the subject,” he said.

  Fortunately the main course came and she got him talking about the city hall renovation. When they were done with the meal, he ordered another bottle.

  “I’ve got work this afternoon,” she said.

  “Ohh. You don’t want me to drink alone, do you? Particularly when it’s such a very good year.” He raised the wineglass, swirled it, and watched fluid the color of blood flow slowly down the inside. “It’s got legs, you see. Not as nice as yours, of course.”

  His hand returned to stroking her arm. The talk circled, but he brought it back to her husband’s investigation.

  “You’re holding back on me,” Dorsey was saying. “Friends don’t do that.” He stopped rubbing her arm. “You don’t want to hurt my feelings, do you?”

  “No, it’s just…”

  “I watch out for my friends. Do you know what I do to my enemies?” His smile disappeared, his expression instantly intimidating, his eyes as cold as a shark’s. “What’s he looking into?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “Jeanie, never bullshit a bullshitter.” He wiped his hand with the cloth napkin and pressed his fingertips together, making a sharp popping noise. “What’s he up to?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I only care to the extent that you won’t tell me. You don’t trust me?”

  What harm could it really do? Her husband’s actions were silly. There was no point in alienating Dorsey. She didn’t need to tell him that much. “He’s still obsessed with that client of his that was killed.”

  “Tammy LaFleur?”

  “I guess that’s her name.”

  “Do you think he was sleeping with her?”

  The thought had occurred to Jeanie but she’d dismissed it. Hearing the possibility voiced by Dorsey gave it some credibility. She felt angry with her husband for wasting time on the dead woman when he could have been using it to further his career.

  Under gentle but insistent questioning, she told him about Hanson’s visit to the FBI and to the former deputy chief. When she was done, she felt horribly guilty, and Dorsey sensed it.

  Dorsey’s lips were tight, his brow furrowed as he asked, “What’s with your husband anyway? Doesn’t he have anything better to do with his life?”

  “Can we talk about something else?”

  “You feel bad. You didn’t really want to share all that.” It wasn’t a question. “You know in spy tradecraft when you’re developing sources, you do them a small favor, build trust, then get them to give up confidential information. Once they do that, you’ve got them. No turning back.”

  Jeanie suddenly felt cold, queasy, the food a heavy ball in her stomach.

  Her feet were planted on the floor. She felt Dorsey’s foot, under the table, wiggling in between, forcing them apart.

  “If I were a spymaster recruiting you, now you’d be mine.” He moved his other foot between hers and slowly moved her feet wider apart. “You’d be an asset. I’d take what I needed, whenever I needed it.” Her legs were spread wide apart under the table and she felt vulnerable.

  His smile hadn’t changed. “No turning back,” he repeated.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, trying to sound stronger than she felt.

  “How would your hubby feel if he knew about this conversation?”

  “He wouldn’t care.”

  “Want to bet?” He took out his cell phone. “Let’s call him. I can say I heard from you about what he’s doing and want to help. I’ll bet you the cost of lunch he’s not amused.”

  Dorsey began punching in numbers.

  “No,” she said, so loudly that the people at the next table turned to see what was going on. “He’s a very private man.”

  “Of course.” Dorsey put the cell phone away. “My treat for lunch. I enjoyed it immensely.”

  He moved his feet away and she was able to close her legs. She locked her knees together and demanded, “What’s with you?”

  “It’s a game. I know you enjoy them. I want you to know who owns Boardwalk and Park Place here.”

  “I don’t want to meet for lunch again.”

  “But we will.” Dorsey took out his wallet and paid for the meal with cash. “Portland is a surprisingly small town. Our paths are destined to cross. I’ll make sure of it.” He hurried off without saying good-bye.

  Jeanie played with her napkin nervously until she noticed that the waiter was watching. She hurried from the restaurant to her car, unusually unsteady in her high heels.

  She drove off, noticing that her hands were shaking. It was only when she settled back into her desk at her office, checking voice mail and performing routine tasks, that she began to wonder. Had she ever told Dorsey the name of Brian’s client? And had the deputy mayor really known her husband’s work number well enough to dial it from memory? />
  ELEVEN

  Hanson tried to schedule as his last appointment of the day a client who was either easy or enjoyable to work with. Many times during his earlier years he had been challenged by a suicidal or homicidal client at 4:55 p.m. His own emotional resources were depleted, most hospital beds were taken, and there was no overtime pay in community mental health.

  Louis recounted amusing anecdotes about Portland as if he were socializing at a Kiwanis luncheon. “How come you’re letting me just shoot the breeze?” he asked, interrupting his tale about an irate farmer who dumped a ton of manure in front of city hall as a protest against urban development.

  “Does it seem helpful?”

  “No, but it beats watching Jerry Springer." Parker laughed. “You hear about the support group for compulsive talkers? It’s called On and On.” Parker laughed again. “I hear you’ve been a busy boy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Seeing old Chief Grundig and Louise. What did you think of her?”

  “Louis, we’re not here to talk about how I spend my off hours.” “Yeah, she can be a bitch,” Parker said, as if Hanson had answered his question. “But get her on your side, and she’s great. What’s your next step?”

  “Louis, I think we should revisit your treatment goals.”

  “To get rich and healthy, and move to a warm climate.”

  Hanson maintained eye contact with Parker and said nothing.

  “Oh great, one of them therapeutic staring contests,” Parker said. He leaned his head forward, mimicking Hanson’s posture and locked eyes.