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  She thought about others in her position who had been linked in one way or another to failing projects. The senior partners were swift in their retribution. At best, she would wind up in a closet office, doing intern-like scut work at a reduced salary. Maybe that was worse than being fired.

  The elevator chimed at the twentieth floor and she walked slowly across the thick blood red carpet, through oversize heavy glass swinging doors, into executive row. Each office had a drop-dead gorgeous view and a drop-dead gorgeous assistant. Plus a second assistant, more mundane in appearance, but gifted at secretarial and administrative skills. The anteroom was empty, his assistants gone for the day.

  Lovejoy had a corner office with views of Mount Hood, Mount Adams, and Mount St. Helens. With clouds rolling in, the floor-to-ceiling windows seemed barely to hold back the oppressive engulfing gray. Through his open door, she saw him at his mahogany desk. “Come in, Jeanie,” he said, continuing to study a sheaf of papers.

  She didn’t have much time to wonder how he knew she was there.

  He glanced up and gave her a smile as warm as an Alaskan winter. She wasn’t sure whether he wanted her to sit, or whether that would imply or encourage a longer visit. No one wanted to spend more than the minimum amount of time in his office. Lovejoy had the nickname “Mr. Burns,” since he reminded people of the frail, evil billionaire on The Simpsons. Since the cartoon creator came from Portland, there was speculation that Lovejoy or a relative had been the inspiration for the character.

  “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing with a slender, age-spotted hand toward one of two matching cordovan leather chairs that faced his desk. The chairs coordinated with his high-backed chair, as well as the matching couch, which could seat five people comfortably. Off to one side was a marble pedestal with a bust of Simon Benson, in front of an oil painting of the lumber baron and another of his son, on wood-paneled walls. Benson’s name was on one of the city’s premier hotels, and his land in the Columbia Gorge had been donated to become highly utilized parkland.

  She sat primly, waiting. Lovejoy returned his attention to the papers on his desk. After several minutes, he looked up and gave her another chilly smile. She could see his eyes this time, a cold, bright blue. He reviewed papers slowly for a few more minutes. When he looked up again, he seemed almost surprised she was still there.

  “I knew your father,” he said. “Good man.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair and rubbed the back of his head. “I can see his lines in your face. Good Christian blood.”

  She nodded.

  “Too many Jews in this town nowadays. They’ve even been mayors, buying up the place.” He ran a bony hand over his face, then pointed to the Simon Benson bust. “Things were better back then. You know about the Benson Bubblers?” Lovejoy was notorious for his Portland history quizzes.

  “The fountains?”

  “Yes, the bronze drinking fountains all over downtown. He gave them to the city. You know why?”

  Lovejoy was related to one of the founders of Portland, Asa Lovejoy. Originally a Bostonian, Asa had tossed a coin and lost naming rights to Francis Pettygrove, who hailed from Portland, Maine.

  “A charitable act?”

  He laughed. “I don’t really believe you’re naive enough to think someone as successful as Simon Benson would do anything out of the kindness of his heart. His workers got drunk during summer months, claiming they had to drink beer to quench their thirst. He put up the bubblers for free water and garnered the support of the women’s temperance groups. Pretty clever, eh?”

  “Indeed,” she said, trying to sound fascinated. “I’ve heard what an intriguing man Benson was. And he was your grandfather?”

  “Great-grandfather. Quite interesting. Sometime when we don’t have important concerns to discuss, I’ll be happy to provide details.”

  “I look forward to it,” Jeanie said, cocking her head and trying to look demure.

  Lovejoy smiled with teeth almost as white as his hair. “Jeanie, twenty years ago that coy look might have distracted me.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I don’t care what you meant. You’re off track. This mall project you’ve been working on is falling apart.”

  “Not really falling apart, it’s—”

  He slapped the papers he’d been reading down on his desk, the sharp report as harsh as a gunshot in the quiet office. “Permits canceled. A detailed EIR ordered. A contractor arrested on an outstanding warrant. Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “It’s the deputy mayor. Tony Dorsey.”

  “I know who the deputy mayor is. I also know about his reputation. If you were romantically involved with him, breaking up in the middle of a project is exceptionally poor timing.”

  “Mr. Lovejoy, I’m married.”

  “Yes, and I’m sure that’s an insurmountable obstacle to sleeping with him. Listen, I’ve seen how you are in meetings, making googly eyes at the men. Getting them to lose a dozen IQ points. I’m not criticizing you, obviously your tactics worked. The partners have been watching you for a while and recognized your potential.”

  Hanson felt as if she’d been pimped off by the rich and powerful partners, even though it had been her own decision.

  “I haven’t slept with Tony Dorsey. Or any other clients,” she said.

  “Well maybe you should have.”

  “I can’t believe you’re suggesting that.”

  “I never did,” he said smugly. “All we’ve discussed is problems with this development. A $350 million deal going awry is a serious matter for our firm. And your career.”

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked, her tone a mix of challenge and desperation.

  “That’s up to you. I would suggest making peace with Tony Dorsey. Whatever that takes.”

  “I think this actually stems from my husband and him having heated words.”

  Lovejoy looked amused, as if everything she said was digging her in a bit deeper. “I don’t care what goes on with you and your husband. I do care if it is spilling over into the workplace. If your husband is annoying people who can affect our business, he needs to be reminded of his proper place. Your husband is the one who does that low-paid counseling work, isn’t he?”

  “It’s important to him to serve the community.”

  “Admirable, but he needs to know his place,” Lovejoy said. “His salary couldn’t afford your monthly bill at Nordstrom. Figure out what you need to do.” He returned his attention to his papers without saying good-bye. Jeanie wasn’t sure the appointment was over. After a couple of minutes of being ignored, she backed out of the room.

  She rode the elevator down, absorbed in her thoughts, ignoring a late-working colleague who greeted her. She had known as soon as she had gotten the summons what she would have to do. She called Tony Dorsey.

  “This is Tony,” he said.

  She had expected voice mail and sputtered for a moment before saying, “Hi, this is Jeanie.”

  “You’re working late,” he said.

  “So are you,” she responded, after a moment’s hesitation.

  “Want to work late together?”

  “Tony, I’m calling because a whole bunch of things seem to be going wrong with the mall project.”

  “Really. That’s too bad.”

  “They’re all connected with the city.”

  “Really,” he repeated, and she knew for sure he was behind the problems.

  “I need your help in clearing things up.”

  “Well then, maybe you should come by. We can talk about it.”

  “I should be getting home.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m booked out a few weeks. Call my assistant tomorrow and see if she can help. But I’m not optimistic. City bureaus are getting much tougher. Cracking down on a few high-visibility projects is a great way for them to get the message out about tough enforcement.”

  “You think you could help if I came by tonight?”

  “Definitely.”r />
  “I’ll be by within a half hour.”

  Brian Hanson drove quickly, weaving in and out of the sluggish traffic, getting a few beeps, and more than a couple of obscene gestures. Heavier traffic meant longer, more unpleasant trips and more belligerent drivers. He remembered when Portland was a city that prided itself on its politeness. Gone now, due to the urban growth his wife adored.

  What would he say to Trixie to convince her to trust authorities? Even his most eloquent talk didn’t guarantee someone making the right decision.

  He parked, looked around, saw no one in the street, and hurried to Trixie’s door. “Trixie! It’s Brian Hanson. Trixie?” he shouted, pounding on the door. He tried the knob and it opened. He looked back at the street, momentarily wondering if he should call 911. He was in combat mode, senses alert, moving forward quickly, silently.

  “Trixie! Trixie?” No response. She was not in the kitchenette near the front door, or the living room. He heard the sound of the TV from the bedroom and felt a momentary sense of relief.

  “Trixie? It’s Brian. You here?”

  She was sprawled on the bed in front of the TV cabinet, a needle still hanging from her arm. He felt for her pulse. Nothing. He took a step toward the telephone and saw it had been ripped out of the wall.

  Brian lifted her off the bed and laid her on the floor, needing the hard surface to begin CPR. He wanted the cell phone from his car, but for right now getting her breathing was more important. She was a blue-gray color, cyanotic, a few minutes away from death. He bent over her, scanning the room while continuing to give her CPR.

  The closet door was partially opened. He positioned himself so that if someone came out, he could evade and counterattack. The roaring whine of a NASCAR race blasted from a TV, loud enough to mask the sound of an attack. The thirty-two-inch set balanced precariously on a cheap pressed-wood shelf set.

  Fifteen compressions, two quick breaths. After four, check for a pulse.

  Even before he saw the movement, he realized there was someone under the blanket that was tossed too casually on the sofa. The figure rose up, throwing the blanket and swinging a blackjack toward his head. The millisecond awareness had given Hanson a chance to lift his shoulder. The sap bounced off his deltoid. Hanson’s right arm went numb.

  At the same time there was a knock at the front door and it quickly opened. Louise Parker had her gun drawn as she stepped into the room.

  Hanson’s attacker wore a ski mask. He swung again at Hanson and then rolled to the side as Parker’s weapon wavered and she tried to get a clear shot. The attacker kept Hanson between himself and the FBI agent.

  “FBI! Freeze!” Parker yelled repeatedly.

  Hanson launched a back fist with his left arm. The attacker dodged the blow and rapped his wrist with the blackjack, sending shooting pains up Hanson’s arm. Brian was forced to abandon Trixie as he surged toward the attacker, who swung a roundhouse right at Hanson’s head. Hanson evaded, pivoted, and landed a solid kick to the attacker’s ribs. He heard the satisfying ooof of air being knocked from the attacker’s lungs and felt a crunch. The attacker yelped in pain and Brian was confident he had broken at least one of the man’s ribs.

  The attacker kicked the TV shelf, and the thirty-two inch screen fell, taking the shelving with it. After the loud crash, the images stopped, but the noise of racing cars continued. The attacker drew his silenced Colt 9 mm, firing it with a sharp spliiiiit. A hole appeared in the wall behind Parker. She dove to the ground as he fired a second shot. Parker smashed into the side of the sofa and was momentarily stunned. The attacker aimed at her.

  Hanson lunged, knocking the gun up. The bullet grazed the FBI agent’s head. Brian grabbed for the gun and the attacker swung the blackjack, catching Hanson flat on the temple.

  Then there was darkness.

  The potbellied guard in the white shirt and dark blue pants smirked as he had Jeanie sign in the log book at the front desk and told her, “Mr. Dorsey said to expect you.”

  “Where’s his office?” she asked, trying to sound professionally distant.

  “Second floor, end of the hall, next to the mayor’s. He’s waiting for you.”

  “Thank you,” she said crisply.

  She sensed his eyes on her backside as she walked swiftly down the hall. She turned around suddenly and caught him looking. He leisurely began to read his Oregonian.

  She had expected there to be more after-hours hustle and bustle but only a couple of offices were lit. A couple of cleaning crews didn’t seem to pay attention to her.

  Each click of her heels on the marble floor felt like the tread of a prisoner on death row. She had already destroyed her marriage for her career, and now her career was in jeopardy. She would do whatever she needed to preserve her job. And she knew that Dorsey knew that as well. She found his office and knocked at the partially open door.

  “Come in, come in,” he said cheerfully. “Care for a drink? Anything from Perrier to Chivas Regal?”

  “I’ll have the Perrier,” she said, noticing how dry her mouth was.

  “My pleasure,” he said, and spun his chair around. He took a few steps to a wooden cabinet and retrieved a bottle of water and a Sam Adams beer. “Your husband staying clean and sober?” he asked, handing her the water.

  “I’m not here to talk about my husband.”

  He put on an exaggerated pout. “Are you a protective little wifey?”

  “I came here to talk about what’s been going on with the project, how all of a sudden there are so many problems.”

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked, holding up a report that appeared to be a dozen pages long.

  “How could I?”

  “You’re being feisty. I like that in a woman.”

  “Tony, I want to clean up any questions that have come up and then go home.”

  “How touching. The point is, you’ve already betrayed your husband. It doesn’t need to be in the bedroom. You’ve been co-opted. An easy recruitment.”

  He gestured toward his bookcase, which had several dozen espionage novels and nonfiction tomes. “They make it sound glamorous, but a recruitment is simple. Greed, glory, patriotic fervor, lust, fear. There are a few classic motives to be worked. It’s human nature. Don’t feel bad. Everyone is vulnerable to something.”

  “You got me to tell you things I shouldn’t have. What’s to stop me from walking away right now?”

  “Your marriage is a train wreck or you wouldn’t have been so easy to recruit. Your love has gone into your job, where you were properly rewarded.” Dorsey held up the report and waved it. “But now the partners are overextended. They need this project, for which they’ve gotten all kinds of publicity and more than a few million dollars. A birdy told me that you’ve got quite a personal interest in it as well. You’ve got everything short of your husband’s IRA bet on this succeeding. If the city has problems, changes principal contractors, word gets out, banks get nervous, the reputation spreads of failing on a major project.”

  “We have a contract with the city.”

  “A two-hundred-ninety-seven page contract, to be exact. Our counsel has found about fifty pages’ worth of conditions that are problematic. Unfulfilled promises, deadlines not met.”

  “But that’s typical. We’ll have it made up by—”

  “Have you ever foreclosed on a mortgage where the lender promised to have it resolved by the end?” He finished his beer, leaned back in his chair, and stretched.

  “What do you want?”

  Dorsey rolled his chair back from his desk. “I want you to get on your knees in front of me and beg for my help.”

  “We’ve got lawyers. We can fight this.”

  “Yes, and six months down the road plus a few million in billable hours, you might win. Of course your firm would have been so dragged through the mud you’d be lucky to get a contract for a McDonald’s in Estacada. And who’s going to take the fall? One of those proper old gents who run the show? Mr. Lovejoy? Or maybe
an overly ambitious female who showed once again that women don’t have the rocks to make it happen.”

  She breathed in and let out a heavy sigh, seething and struggling not to say anything that would make it worse.

  Dorsey grinned, his pleasure at her discomfort evident. “Yeah, I can picture old man Lovejoy rubbing that bust of Simon Benson, waxing poetic about the good old days when women knew their place.”

  “Tony, I thought we were friends. I thought we had this deal going forward.”

  “It can still happen.” Dorsey swiveled in his chair so he was facing her. “I need a sign of your dedication, your willingness, your respect.” He gestured with his finger for her to go down.

  Very slowly she knelt.

  “Good. Now tell me how important this is.”

  “Tony, I really need you to straighten this out. There appear to be significant misunderstandings and overzealous enforcement that could wreck the deal. Hundreds of jobs could be lost, reputations damaged, the project set back months, if not years.”

  He rolled his chair forward, reached over, and began stroking her hair. Initially she cringed, but then allowed it. He petted her as if she were a well-behaved dog. “What do you want your buddy Tony to do for you?”

  “Make calls. Get it straightened out.”

  “Straightened out. I can do that. But there’s something I want you to do for me.”

  “What?”

  He began to unzip his fly.

  “No!”

  “Suit yourself.” He rolled his chair back a few inches. “Call back tomorrow and we’ll see if my assistant’s intern can get some of this cleared up. She’s a sweet kid, barely twenty, just learning the ropes, but enthusiastic.”

  “You know she can’t get these changes made.”

  “But I’m very busy.” He sat, with his open fly less than two feet from her face. “Except for my friends. You show me how friendly you can be and I make a couple of phone calls right now.”