Drake left the ISIS building and headed to his office, thinking about Kaamil’s SLS and whether his cherished 993 could keep pace. His car handled better and, with all the improvements he’d made, could reach a top speed of 180 mph. But the SLS AMG could go from zero to sixty-two miles per hour in three point two seconds, with a top speed of 197 mph. Money couldn’t buy you love, but it sure could buy you more speed.
Drake was still thinking about Kaamil’s choice of transportation when he noticed a black Suburban like the one at ISIS in his rear view mirror. Suburbans are popular in the Northwest, but Drake was wary of coincidences. He downshifted into second gear just before the exit to I-5 and accelerated down the entrance ramp.
The Suburban cut in front of a UPS truck and followed. Drake caught a flash of the gold lettering of the ISIS logo.
Traffic was congested, and Drake kept several cars ahead of the Suburban as he entered the Terwilliger curves at a sedate five miles per hour over the speed limit. When traffic slowed for the curves, he spotted an opening in the middle lane that gave him a path to the next exit. Downshifting again, he rocketed through the opening and raced ahead to Exit 298, speeding down the exit ramp at seventy-five miles per hour.
At the bottom of the ramp, Drake took full advantage of his car’s braking power, slid to a stop, turned left, and accelerated to catch up with the traffic heading up Macadam. He glanced in his rear view mirror and saw the Suburban was nowhere in sight.
The rest of the way to his office he assessed the situation, as if he were an operator again. Kaamil had every reason to be curious. He would have been, if their roles were reversed. Why act like his visit had been a surprise? Why point him to Sam Newman so quickly? Kaamil should have been concerned their security system failed and said they were investigating. He didn’t even voice a concern about that. Something was wrong, and it had something to do with Kaamil.
Drake’s office was on the Riverplace, a quarter of a mile south of the Rose Garden Arena. The Riverplace ran along the Willamette River next to a marina. The wide promenade was lined with shops and restaurants, and ended at the north end with an upscale hotel.
Before he married Kay, Drake lived in a condominium above a small bookstore that specialized in rare books. When he left the D.A.’s office, the bookstore became available after its owner died. He bought the bookstore and converted it into a law office, with the office and the condo connected by a back flight of stairs. The deck of his condo looked out over the marina and the river beyond. If he needed a break, a walk along the boardwalk did the trick.
After Kay found the old vineyard in Dundee, Drake rented the condo to his secretary and her husband, Paul. He often thought about living in the condo again, but Margo and Paul were happy there. He couldn’t ask them to move. There was also the promise he’d made to Kay before she died, to replant the vineyard and restore the old stone farmhouse.
Drake pulled into his building’s parking garage, entered the security code and drove up to his second-floor parking space. At the door to his old condo, he buzzed his secretary to let her know he was entering from the back stairs.
When he walked into his office, Margo greeted him from her desk.
“Good morning, or should I say, good afternoon,” she said, without looking up.
Margo was the first secretary assigned to work for him when he’d joined the D.A.’s office ten years ago. She was a senior secretary then, and only available because the man she’d worked for had recently died of a heart attack. She’d been bitter, depressed and difficult to work with at first, but they had gradually warmed to each other and become a great team.
She was fifty, black, and a woman you did not want to mess with when she was in one of her moods. Her short hair was graying, but her eyes were as dominant behind her silver wire-frame glasses as they had ever been. Her dress code was always law-office professional. Behind her I’m-in-charge-here attitude, however, she had a warm heart for anyone who earned her trust.
“All right, Margo, cut me a little slack here. I’ve been away for a day and a half, and this morning has all been work.”
“I’d be the last to know, as your formerly trusted and relied-upon secretary. As I’ve been telling your clients, I’ll let you know how and where he is when I see the whites of his eyes, if they are still white, that is.”
“Enough. I should have called. You win. Bring two cups of coffee to my office and we’ll talk,” Drake surrendered.
He walked up the stairs to the loft and waited for Margo to follow. The space had been the upper level of the bookstore and also served as the store manager’s and bookkeeper’s office. Now it contained his desk, bookshelves and a leather couch he slept on when he worked late and didn’t want to drive home to the farm. From the half wall of the loft, he could look down on Margo’s work area and the waiting area.
Margo walked in and set his coffee on the desk blotter. She sat down carefully, with her own cup, in one of two chairs in front of his desk.
“So talk,” she said.
“I met with the manager at ISIS. Not a nice guy. He said I should look at the head of security at Martin Research. He didn’t seem concerned at all that their security system malfunctioned and someone was killed there. When I drove here, they tried to follow me. And to top it off, when I got here I found my beloved secretary had developed a severe case of insubordination.”
“Actually your secretary isn’t insubordinate. She’s scared, and isn’t skilled at hiding it. Turn on the video cam and take a look at our friend outside on the bench.”
The old bookstore owner had been pistol whipped by a robber and had installed a security camera over the front door. There were two monitors for it, one next to Margo’s desk and another on the wall next to his.
Drake switched on his monitor and stared, clenching his fists. A muscular black man, wearing a black Trail Blazer T-shirt, black jeans and black running shoes sat on the bench, glaring at the front door through wraparound sunglasses.
“Doesn’t look like a potential client, does he? Maybe I should see what he wants.”
“Be careful. I doubt he’s here because of your legal acumen. If he is, please refer him to someone else.”
Drake dashed down the stairs, through the waiting area and pushed through the front door. In less time than it took for the watcher to swivel his head from a pretty girl passing by, he covered the distance to the bench.
“You need an attorney? You’ve occupied this bench for more than twenty minutes, without feeding the parking meter over there.”
Drake stood with the sun at his back, a six-foot-two shadow looming over the thug. He noticed a crescent moon tattoo on the man’s forearm, and calloused knuckles on both hands. Possibly a Muslim, but definitely a martial arts devotee. Drake resisted the urge to step back when the man stood, all six-foot-eight of prison-yard muscle and meanness.
“You got a problem, me being here? This a public place, ain’t it?”
“Sorry,” Drake said, as their eyes locked in stare down, two feet between them. “I thought you were trying to get up your nerve to come in and see me. If all you want to do is sit and stare at my front door, be my guest. If you change your mind, come in. And tell your boss he’s welcome too.”
Back in his office, he studied the watcher on Margo’s security monitor. The man pulled a cell phone off his belt, talked for a few moments then walked off.
“Wish our security system included audio. I’d like to know who our watcher reported to,” Drake said. “You okay?”
“Sure. You want me to send Paul a picture of this guy and see what he comes up with?”
“Couldn’t hurt, although I doubt we’ll see him again. He was here to let us know they know where we work. But let’s be careful. I’m not sure what’s going on. Keep the front door locked unless you know who it is.”
Drake asked Margo to get Sam Newman on the phone and returned to the loft. He liked Newman, but he’d only talked with him for thirty minutes or so. Still, as a prosecutor listening to felons and to their attorneys, he had developed a pretty decent internal polygraph. Sam Newman didn’t make his needle quiver.
Before he was halfway through the phone messages on his desk, Margo buzzed and said Sam Newman wasn’t available, that she’d left a message for him to call.