Falling Again (6 page)

He commiserated with her but said she needed to let it go for the moment and get the piece on the Anderbock bill written and then finish a piece on earthquakes she’d started researching before she left, because it had been moved up as the cover story for next week.

He also asked her to look into a new non-profit foundation. The Green Machine—an over-cutesy name she thought—financed by Duke Wellington and Sherman Bischler, purported to provide seed money for start-up businesses in the field of green energy. Her boss wanted to know if there was a connection—or a contradiction—between the foundation and the Anderbock bill.

Secretly delighted because interviewing the two men might give her a way to keep her investigation into the white power story going, she made the calls to ask for interviews with them.

Text messages from Nick continued for a few days after she returned to Portland, then stopped. No surprise, really. She knew he was on another assignment and assumed their time in Washington together was a vacation fling to him, nothing more. After all, she’d decided that’s what it was. Why wouldn’t he? If she just remembered to think of it that way, it would be better for all concerned.

However, he must have told his sister they’d seen each other in D.C. because the phone call he’d assured her would come finally did. And as part of her determination to consider it a fling that had been flung, Fiona blithely described the week she’d spent in Nick St. Claire’s arms—in his bed—as merely a couple dinners out and a chance to see his exhibit. Amanda sounded disappointed; Fiona was almost sorry. The whole story was much more interesting.

But her time with Nick soon took a backseat to her work when, a week after she returned from D.C., Fiona snagged interviews with both Duke Wellington and Sherman Bischler.

Wellington was first. She’d never been in his office but had heard rumors of its opulence—antique Persian rugs, an extensive art collection by local artists Mel Katz, Mark Rothko, and Ray Atkeson, a view of the city—and was almost as curious about the office as she was about the man.

She dressed carefully in her most conservative suit and found herself at his door twenty minutes early for her appointment. Duke Wellington’s secretary, a middle-aged woman who acted like she was guarding Fort Knox, had looked dubiously at her computer when Fiona announced she had an appointment for an interview before disappearing into his office to see if he was ready.

While she waited for the secretary’s return, Fiona looked at the photos on the wall. Most prominent were two photographs of the anglophile Wellington in formal dress, being presented to Queen Elizabeth at a garden party by his friend, Nigel Hetherington, the British consul in Portland. The rest of the wall was covered by shots of Wellington with former mayors, governors, Congressmen, and senators—a preponderance of them Republicans with a few Democrats scattered in.

“Interested in my wall, are you, Ms. McCarthy?” She wasn’t sure how long Duke Wellington had been standing behind her, so absorbed in the images she’d become.

“It’s an impressive collection of photos, Mr. Wellington. If you ever want to write a book on Oregon politics, it looks like you have the material to do it.” She turned and put her hand out for him to shake. “And it’s Fiona.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Duke. I’ve thought about writing a book but never seem to have the time to get going on it. Maybe I could persuade you to write it for me.” He waved at the open door to his office. “Come in, please. Would you like coffee? And how do you like it?”

“Thank you. Black, please.” She followed him into a well-appointed space overlooking the city. The paintings she’d heard about were prominently displayed. In addition, he had several sculptures and, on well-lighted shelves, two pieces of what she recognized as Amanda St. Claire’s glass art. A large, completely neat and organized desk with a Herman Miller Aeron chair behind it took pride of place in the center of the room, but Wellington waved her to a circle of leather chairs around a glass-topped table near one of the windows.

The coffee was served in matching china cups she was tempted to turn over to confirm they were English bone china. After a few sips, Wellington asked, “Now, why is
Willamette Week
interested in our little foundation?”

“We’re always interested in new approaches to finding solutions to old problems, and this sounds like it fits. Do you mind if I record our interview as well as take notes?”

He shook his head; she pulled a recorder, pad, and pen out of her bag and started the interview.

Wellington explained how his interest in power generation had led to the formation of a foundation to funnel money to start-up businesses in green energy sources. The Northwest was running out of the cheap hydropower the region had grown on, and replacement sources, as well as the businesses manufacturing the elements to produce the power, were needed.

He displayed a calm and approachable demeanor during the whole interview. His delivery was smooth, he sounded convincing in his facts. His body language; leaning forward, looking directly at her, seemed to say he was as enthusiastic about this as he’d ever been about anything he’d done. He was sharp, slick, and didn’t miss a trick, including the way her skirt rode up when she leaned forward to check on her recorder.

Yet it all sounded too pat; too canned. Of course, it was possible he’d given the speech too many times to too many other people. And she knew he had a reputation for disliking the press so this might be his way of protecting himself. But from what?

What could hide behind a foundation with money to loan out to green energy sources? As it was his fortune he was investing, she was sure he wasn’t wasting it. He had ridden out any number of regional recessions, surviving both the timber industry going over a cliff and hi-tech taking a bath, coming out the other side in every instance with more, not less, money.

She didn’t interrupt his polished flow of words until he was finished, and then she asked how these efforts fit with the Anderbock bill, which he supported, for example. He wasn’t the least bit ruffled by the question, as if he’d been waiting for it. He explained how the projects they were financing would take a while to get up and running and in the meantime, coal and natural gas—which industry already knew how to use—would be needed.

After an hour she left, disappointed it had been bland, boring, and without one break in the flow of conversation to get in a question about the White Knights, however obliquely.

Two days later it was Sherman Bischler’s turn. The interview felt like déjà vu, from the first moment she entered his office. It, too, was imposing with the requisite photos on the wall of the man with important people, although Bischler’s were all businessmen. And his collection of artwork from local artists didn’t include any work by Amanda St. Claire. He did have a large sculpture of a very fierce looking eagle. And he had flags in the office, one the Stars and Stripes, the other the Oregon state flag. The view from his office was as impressive, the furniture as expensive, the coffee as good as she’d experienced in Duke Wellington’s office. Even the answers to her questions were similar.

Only the conversation after her allotted hour was different.

As Bischler walked her to the outer door of his office, he said, “I care very much about what happens in Portland; in Oregon. That’s why I’ve put my money into this foundation. I may not be Bill Gates, but I still think I can do some good.”

“It sounds like you’re doing more than most. The Foundation seems like a worthwhile endeavor.”

“I hope it is.” He paused at the door, not opening it for her. “Given what’s happening here right now, this may not be the best way to help, but it’s what I can do. For the moment.”

“What do you mean, what’s happening?”

“The way things are being run in Portland right now creates a bad business climate.”

“Can you give me an example?”

“When have we ever had an attempt on a mayor’s life? And surely you’ve heard the other rumors.”

“Rumors? I’m not sure what you mean.”
Where the hell was he going with this?
She broke eye contact with him, glancing down at the pen she still held in her hand, looking for something to write on.

“I think you do.” His voice was low, as if sharing a great confidence. “You’re a smart woman. But if the rumors are true, a smart woman would be a careful woman.”

She felt her breath catch and her eyes widen. “Are you giving me some kind of warning?”

“Now how could I be warning anyone when I don’t know any more than you do about the rumors running around? No, I’m just saying, it’s not, shall we say, stable in Portland at the moment. The atmosphere’s not good for business and it’s not good for crusading reporters.”

The smile she tried to get out wouldn’t budge. “Thanks. I’ll keep what you said in mind.” Reaching for the doorknob she let herself out. Later, in the elevator, as she frantically scribbled the conversation down in her notebook, she thought,
Ben is not fucking going to believe this.

The third phone caller in less than ten minutes got the brunt of her annoyance at the repeated interruptions. “Fiona McCarthy,” she snapped, warning whoever had dared to contact her to make it short.

“Oops. Sounds like I’m interrupting.”

She relaxed back in her chair and smiled into the phone. “You’re not, Nick. Everyone else is. The phone won’t stop today. How are you?”

“Surprised you’re willing to talk to me. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. We’ve been so far out in the wilderness there was no signal. It’s hard to believe how many places there are in North America where you can’t make a cell phone call or get wifi. At least no one was shooting at me there, which was a pleasant change.”

“No apology needed.” She felt a tap on her shoulder. “Hold on a minute, will you?” She put her phone down to look over a piece of copy a colleague had thrust in front of her, talked over a couple of changes with him, then went back to the phone call. “Sorry, where were we?”

“I was interrupting you at work.”

“It’s Monday, when we start to put the paper to bed. This week is particularly bad for me because I’ve got the cover story.”

“So, I guess you’re not free for dinner tonight.”

“You’re in Portland? Great. But yes…I mean, no…well, whichever answer means I can’t have dinner with you tonight. I’ll be here until nine or ten.”

“Buy you a drink after you’re finished?”

“A quick one. Are you staying at Sam and Amanda’s?”

“No, at the Paramount Hotel.”

For two seconds she wondered about the significance of his staying at a hotel, but then the thought was gone. “I’ll meet you in the bar there. I’ll call you when I leave the office.”

At nine forty-five she walked into the bar, sure she must look like the survivor of the kind of natural disaster she’d been writing about. Her navy blue linen pants were wrinkled, her white scoop-neck knit top had printer ink on one sleeve, and her eyes looked like they’d packed bags for a ’round-the-world cruise. She’d run a brush through her shoulder-length hair and applied fresh lipstick before she got out of the car without even looking in a mirror, sure if she saw how dragged-from-the-rubble she looked, she’d cancel the drink date until she could get a good night’s sleep and a change of clothes.

As she approached the booth where he was waiting, Nick stood, reaching out his hand to her and saying, “Hello, beautiful” before holding her a bit longer than polite convention demanded as he kissed her cheek. She slid into the booth; he sat close beside her, keeping her hand.

“Sorry I’m such a disheveled welcoming committee, but it’s been a long day,” she said.

“You look great even with ink decorating your chin.”

Her hand wiped automatically at her face but came away with no ink to show she’d gotten rid of the offending substance. “Oh, hell. My printer ran out of ink at a bad moment and I made a mess of changing the cartridge because I was in a hurry. I’ll go get it off as soon as I order a beer.”

He dipped a cocktail napkin into his glass of water and, holding her face in one hand, rubbed at the spot. “There. Your face is ink-free and as beautiful as always.”

She smiled and ducked her head at the compliment, then ordered a glass of local microbrew from the server, after which she sighed and sank back into the booth. “Every Monday I wonder what it would be like to have a job where we don’t start the week in a frenzy. Unfortunately, I love where I work so I guess I’ll never find out.”

“So what’s your cover story this week? Or is it so secret you’d have to kill me if you told me?”

“This one doesn’t come close to being worth killing for. The story is about the earthquake danger in Portland and the Northwest coast.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, it’s serious stuff. Apparently we’re overdue for a specific kind of very destructive earthquake. It’s called a…”

“…subduction zone earthquake. A more powerful kind than the slip-strike earthquakes they have on the San Andreas fault.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. One of the stories I came to do photographs on is about earthquakes. When I asked if you were kidding, I meant it was weird we’re working on related stories.”

“I thought you said you were coming here on a tourism story.” He was watching her with such a warm, affectionate look, she sat up straighter and pushed her hair back from her face to try and improve the view for him.

“Both, actually. The one I talked about in D.C. is a story my friend Travis pitched to a travel magazine. He started out featuring one or two of the Cascade mountains, Hood and St. Helens, if I remember right. Then he added Mt. Adams and Jefferson. I’m afraid to read his texts any more for fear he’s added more. The earthquake one is for
National Geographic
. It shouldn’t take much time. The other could be a longer assignment.”

“Is the earthquake story only about Portland?”

“No, it’s a major cover story on the earthquake risks in the United States in places other than California, which everyone knows about. The Northwest is only part of the story. I took it because I would be here anyway.”