Damage Control Read online

  “What happened?” Griffin stepped back to allow Dana to sit in one of the two chairs.

  “I was in a car accident.”

  Griffin moved to the inside of the horseshoe to make room for Logan. The office windows, which overlooked a courtyard, were at his back. “Are you all right?”

  “My car was totaled, but I’m okay.” She looked to Logan, hoping to further explain his presence. “The doctors have advised me against driving for a few days. The medication can make me drowsy. But you know me, Brian. I’m a workaholic. Have to keep up the billable hours.”

  Griffin shook his head, disbelieving. “My God, when did this happen?”

  “Just yesterday,” she said, wanting to avoid details. “Really, I look worse than I feel. The entire thing was my fault.”

  “Molly wasn’t in the car with you, was she?”

  “No, thank God; it was just me.”

  Griffin shook his head. “You really didn’t need this now. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  The only person Dana suspected would know more about her brother was Brian Griffin. She knew what it was like to spend ten to twelve hours a day with colleagues. After a while, you got to know some as well as a spouse. She suspected Griffin and her brother had spent a lot of time together. Her brother’s office was just three doors down.

  The reason for her visit was a story that had run on the front page of the metro section of the Seattle Times perhaps six months earlier. Dana remembered the article only because she’d seen the name of the law school, and she paid closer attention to things connected to James. The article itself had been bland. She hadn’t given it a second thought until she sat for six hours on the plane back from Hawaii, mulling over how James could have come in contact with the senator’s wife. She was able to find the story on the Internet and print a copy for Logan.

  Griffin reached into his pocket and pulled out a red bandana, cleaning the lenses of his glasses as he spoke. “Did you want to discuss James’s estate now?”

  “Actually, I’m hoping you can help me with something else. I was going to call. I’m sorry for the intrusion.”

  “Not at all. What is it?”

  “Well, the law firm is sponsoring a seminar on women in the law here in Seattle, and I’m on the committee,” she said, trying to sound convincing. “And I recalled an article in the Seattle Times a while back that Elizabeth Meyers spoke here at the law school.”

  Griffin nodded. “It was a bit of a coup for the school. She doesn’t make public appearances very often.”

  “That’s what I understood. So I was hoping to find out how the law school got her to come.”

  The cell phone clipped to Logan’s belt rang. He removed it and stood. “I’ll take this outside.” He answered as he stepped into the hallway, closing the door.

  Dana turned back to Griffin. He had a smile on his face, and for an instant she thought he was about to ask her what she really wanted to know. She tried to cover it with another question. “Am I missing something?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to …” Griffin chuckled, finished polishing his glasses, and put the wire frames back around his ears. “When I think of James, I just naturally think of you being there. Sometimes I forget you weren’t a part of everything we did. You don’t remember her, do you?”

  “Remember who?”

  “Elizabeth Meyers. Elizabeth Adams.”

  Dana shook her head. The name rang no bells.

  “She was in James’s and my freshman dorm.”

  Dana and James had chosen different dorms, believing that going to the same school was close enough for twins.

  “You remember? James brought her home to your house for Thanksgiving, freshman year. Actually, he invited her and her roommate. Don’t you remember that?”

  As Griffin spoke, Dana’s mind peeled back the years until she saw the auburn-haired girl with the bright blue eyes and perfect smile in the family kitchen. With finals a week after the holiday, some students who lived out of the area didn’t have time to get home and instead spent the holiday with friends. “She looks a bit different now, with her hair darkened and the nose job,” Griffin said, adding, “I don’t know why she would do that, or why she always wears sunglasses. I guess it’s the Jackie O thing.”

  Elizabeth Adams was tall, with long legs and a thin waist. She had walked into the kitchen, confident and sure of herself, and asked to help with the dinner, immediately ingratiating herself to Kathy Hill. The two of them had spent hours talking while James sat on a stool at the counter, slobbering like a big dog waiting for a bone. When it came time for dinner, Dana intentionally sat between them. Her mother had made her move.

  Griffin leaned back, twirling an unfolded paper clip between his thumb and index finger. “She lived right across the hallway from us freshman year. I kept pushing your brother to ask her out, but he said he didn’t want to spoil their friendship. He said he was afraid that if it didn’t work out, he’d have to live next door to her the rest of the year. Truth was, she intimidated him. Hell, she intimidated all of us. I think he convinced himself that being friends with her was better than being her ex-boyfriend.” He stopped twirling the paper clip and looked up at the photographs on the wall. “I married my college sweetheart, and hindsight tells me there is some truth to that. By the time James mustered the courage to ask her out, Elizabeth was no longer a well-kept secret within the freshman class. Every guy on campus either knew her or wanted to know her, including Robert Meyers.” Griffin put down the paper clip. “At least your brother didn’t lose out to a beer-swilling fraternity slob. Not too many people can claim they lost the love of their life to a future president.”

  Dana felt tongue-tied. Obligated to say something, she said, “No, not too many people can claim that.”

  “After Meyers and Elizabeth got involved, she was never around. Then we heard she dropped out and went with him to Harvard and got married the following year.”

  “How did you get her to speak here?”

  “It was a program for female law students. James and I were part of the committee. At one of the meetings, he looked across the table at me and said, ‘What about Elizabeth Adams?’ I thought he was kidding, but everyone else thought it was a great idea. They got him to do what took me twenty years of trying.”

  “So James called her?”

  Griffin shook his head. “He was still a chicken; he called her secretary. But Elizabeth called back and personally accepted.” He sat forward, elbows on his desk. “I’ve read the criticism of her in the newspapers—that she can be aloof—but that’s not how she was here.” It wasn’t how Dana remembered her, either. “To us, she was the same old Elizabeth,” Griffin continued. “Her speech was pointed and crisp. She was very poised and friendly. I got the impression she really enjoyed herself that day.”

  Dana looked past Griffin to a picture on the wall. She recognized her brother amid a pack of graduation-gown-clad men and women, the redbrick steeple buildings of the University of Washington in the background. When she looked back at Griffin, his eyes had narrowed. She knew he was seeing through her thinly veiled excuse for coming to his office. He was likely recalling their conversation by the pool at the reception following James’s funeral.

  “Why are you asking me this, Dana?”

  The office door opened. Logan stuck his head in. “I need to get going. All set?”

  Thankful for the intrusion, Dana stood. She shook Griffin’s hand. “Thank you for your help.”

  “If there’s anything that I can do…”

  She shook her head. “I’m going to handle this. It’s better this way,” she said, hoping her tone would appease him. “I’ll call you about the estate.”

  Logan waited in the hall. When she stepped out, Griffin followed her. “Dana?”

  She turned.

  “Is everything going to be all right?”

  She nodded. “Yes, Brian. I’m going to see that it is.”

  LOGAN WALKED HER down three
flights of stairs, holding her by the elbow as if to ease the pain he knew he’d cause by rushing her. When they stepped out the glass door, the pain stabbed at her side, making it difficult to catch her breath. She finally had to stop in the courtyard. “Why are we rushing?”

  Logan let go of her elbow. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Someone called the precinct with information on Laurence King’s death. He wants to talk to me in confidence.”

  A light mist fell, and the wind blew her hair in her face. “Who is he?”

  “He wouldn’t leave a name.”

  “Did he say what it was about? Did he say what he knew?”

  “No.” Logan took her by the elbow again and helped her across Twelfth Street, where he had parked in front of a Starbucks. “He said he read about the killing in the newspaper and had information for the detective in charge of the investigation.”

  She stopped as he opened her car door. “Be careful, Mike.”

  He nodded, then gestured that he’d help her into the car. “He wants to meet at a restaurant downtown—a public place. I don’t want to keep him waiting; he sounded squirrelly on the phone.”

  “It was her,” she said, looking up at him. “It was Elizabeth Meyers.”

  “I heard your conversation from the hallway,” he said, nodding. “But I also know we don’t have a single witness who can verify that, and without one, we won’t get very far, which is why this guy could be important.” He closed her door and hurried to the driver’s side, getting in.

  “Where are you meeting him?”

  “McCormick’s Fish House on Fourth Avenue. He said he’d be there at noon.” He looked at his watch. “And I still need to get you back to your mother’s.”

  That meant driving her across the bridge to the east side of the lake, then driving back to Seattle. It was at least a half-an-hour detour. “I’ll go with you,” Dana said.

  Logan shook his head. “This guy wants to talk to me alone.”

  “Then I’ll wait in the car. I don’t want my mother to see me like this just yet.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know how long this is going to take, and you need to rest. I think you feel worse than you’re letting on.” He looked to be considering their options, then said, “Hang on. I need to make some time here.” He punched the accelerator. The Austin Healey shot down Twelfth Street and merged onto I-90, heading east, toward the bridge. The engine settled into a sweet hum.

  “You’re going the wrong way,” she said, confused. “Downtown is the other way.”

  “We’re not going downtown,” he said. “I’m taking you some-place where you can rest.”

  40

  MICHAEL LOGAN EXPLAINED that his home sat atop Cougar Mountain in Issaquah, which had not escaped the massive development of homes, town homes, and shopping centers spreading farther and farther east of Seattle. Portions of the top of the mountain, however, had been designated a regional park and had not yet been stripped of dense foliage and old-growth trees. It remained home to an occasional but increasingly rare bobcat, cougar, and black bear. Radio towers were also atop the mountain, accessed by a gated dirt road on plots of land that Logan leased to the state. As the Austin Healey wound its way up the dirt and gravel road past the towers, Dana looked up at a three-story treated pine structure that rose from the ground, as inconspicuous as the huge trees surrounding it. The road circled around the back of the property. Logan drove around to the front. The house had been built around existing cedars and dogwoods. Huge cathedral windows rose to a pitched roof. Like William Welles’s home, it blended into the surrounding landscape and foliage. Tree stumps in the yard had been cored in the center and plugged with ceramic pots overflowing with flowers and vines.

  Dana stepped from the car to a symphony of music. Large silver wind chimes hung from overhead tree branches, spinning and twirling in a light breeze. “Did you build those?” she asked.

  Logan nodded. “Built it all.”

  She looked at the house, then back to him. “You built this?” It sounded more skeptical than she had intended.

  He shrugged. “Be it ever so humble.” He started for the front door. “I have to warn you that the inside is still a work in progress.”

  “It’s incredible. Who designed it?”

  “My wife.” Logan walked across a wood bridge that crossed a creek and led to a large porch. He unlocked the front door, and Dana followed him inside to a slate-floor entry and river-rock wall. A waterfall cascaded into a pond of lily pads, plants, and koi fish. The entry led to a sunken living room with a rock fireplace that stretched twenty-five feet to the pitched ceiling. Timbered logs sprouted through the floor, intersecting with overhead wooden beams to form an elevated second floor. Footbridges spanned between the lofts. With the sweeping views of the surrounding landscape, it felt very much like being outside.

  It’s a tree house, Dana thought, recalling her comment to Logan as they had sat in her bedroom.

  Perhaps recalling the same conversation, Logan said, “Sarah loved the outdoors. She loved to climb anything, really—rocks, trees. She said height gave a person a different perspective.” He took Dana’s coat and hung it in a closet near the front door.

  “I can’t believe anyone could design this,” Dana said.

  “It was part desire and part necessity,” he said, walking back into the room. “The property belonged to her great-grandfather. The state of Washington tried to force a sale, but Sarah refused. She was concerned the state would just turn around and sell the land to the highest bidder. They hassled us over building permits and imposed regulations to prevent us from building anything that would disturb the land. I think they were pretty confident we wouldn’t be able to build anything that complied, and figured we’d get frustrated and sell.” Logan smiled. “They didn’t know my wife.”

  “What does she do?” Dana asked, confused by Logan’s prior statement that he was not married.

  “She was an architect by education, but Sarah was really an artist.” He pointed to the walls. “The paintings are also hers.”

  The walls were lined with abstract art. Dana stepped to one. “She did these?”

  “Up until the day she died.”

  Dana turned from the painting.

  “Sarah died five years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” She considered the paintings, then remembered the timing and started to ask the question before thinking better of it. “So she never …”

  “Lived here?” Logan said. “No. No, she didn’t. I started it after she died, and it’s taken me five years to get this far. I haven’t had the time to complete it, but I will. It’s kept my mind occupied—helped me to forget when I needed that. Now it helps me to remember.”

  “I can’t believe you built this. It’s amazing.”

  “I contracted out some of the more difficult parts—it’s next to impossible to get heavy equipment up here,” he said, trying to sound humble. “We had to use some old building techniques to raise the platforms.”

  “It’s spectacular.”

  “A labor of love, I guess you could say. I’ve become somewhat obsessed with construction details and paranoid about things like dry rot. So it’s taking me longer than it should. But I feel an obligation to Sarah to get it perfect. It’s the last thing she ever designed.” He looked at his watch. “The kitchen’s on the second level. Help yourself to whatever you can find in the fridge or cabinets. It’s not much, I’m afraid.” He stepped from the room.

  “I’ll be fine.” Dana picked up a photograph from an end table. In it, Michael Logan knelt with his arm around a woman in a wheelchair, her head tilted awkwardly to the right, her mouth open, her arms and hands twisted and bent.

  “That’s Sarah,” Logan said, walking back in.

  Dana put the picture frame back on the table. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  He shook his head. “I invited you here, and that picture is on the table to be seen. Sarah died from complications from muscular dystrophy.” He l
ooked again at his watch. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

  “I’ll be fine. Go. You’re going to be late.”

  “I’ll call you later. And I’ll have a patrol car sent over.” He walked up the stairs to the entrance. “There’s a guest bedroom, second loft on the right. Just be careful on some of the suspended walkways. I haven’t had a chance to solder all the joints. Some are hanging on clips. They’re safe to walk on, just don’t jump around on them too much.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be doing any jumping.” He smiled. “What I’d really like is a computer with Internet access.”

  “My office is over there.” He pointed to a loft to the west. “Best view in the whole house. Try to get some rest, though; you’ve been going nonstop for a week.”

  “I’ll have all my life to rest.”

  He nodded, resigned. “I’ll call later.” She walked him to the door. “You’re not going to sleep, are you?” he asked. She smiled at him. “Lock the door behind me.”

  “I’ll be fine, Mike. Who could find me all the way out here?”

  41

  MC CORMICK’S FISH HOUSE, at the corner of Fourth Avenue and Columbia Street in downtown Seattle, was well-known. Within blocks of the King County Courthouse and the newly constructed City Hall, it had once been the Oakland Hotel. Built in 1827, it had a brick exterior and an interior decor that maintained a feeling from the past with dark wood booths, Tiffany lamps hanging from a bronze-plated inlaid ceiling, a white terrazzo floor, and hunter-green curtains hanging halfway up the windows facing the street. Logan told the maître d’ he was meeting someone in the bar. The man directed him up three stairs to his left, where he found a traditional bar and an oyster bar. Logan sat on a stool at the corner of the traditional bar so he could watch the front door. On the wall above hung a sign counting down the number of days until next year’s St. Patrick’s Day. He declined a menu from the bartender, ordered a Coke, and watched the television above a huge stuffed salmon mounted on the wall.

  After several minutes, Logan felt a tap on the shoulder. The man who stood behind him was heavy, the kind of weight acquired from eating and drinking well. His chin hung over the collar of his shirt, nearly obscuring the knot of his tie.