Matters of Doubt (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-seven

Picasso was asleep when I entered his room. The sight of him caused my chest to tighten. His face was drawn, the skin so pale it had a bluish tint. His lip and eyebrow rings had been removed, and the colorful bands of the coral snake coiled around his neck seemed somehow muted. His right arm was heavily bandaged and elevated in a sling device that held it off the side of the bed. His left arm had an IV drip and pulse monitor attached. He must have sensed my gaze, because his eyes slowly opened. In a weak, raspy voice he said, “Hey, wassup, Cal?”

“Not much. How're you feeling?”

His eyes welled up. “How's Joey, man? I can't get a straight answer around here.”

I couldn't believe no one had leveled with him. “He didn't make it. He died at the scene. I'm sorry.”

Picasso nodded, and a single tear broke loose and worked its way down his cheek. The tear was on the edge of his jaw when he said, “I knew it. I can still hear the shots. Jesus, how many times did they shoot him?”

“Eight, by my count.”

“Trigger happy bastards.”

“I'm as angry as you are, but the truth is, Joey made the call. Once he raised the barrel, they had no choice.”

“What the hell was he trying to do, anyway?”

“I'm not sure we'll ever know. Talking about his experiences, then seeing you get arrested seemed to push him over the edge. I think it was suicide by cop.”

Another tear broke loose. “Suicide?”

“Yeah. I think Joey just couldn't cope, so he baited the cops into killing him.”

I pulled a chair up to his bed and sat down. We talked about Joey, and he gave me the name of Joey's wife in San Francisco. I promised to contact her and offer our condolences. Then I glanced at my watch. “They only gave me half an hour. The cops arrested you because they found a screwdriver with your bloody prints on it. I need to know what happened. The truth this time.”

Picasso closed his eyes for a few seconds. His dark lashes looked like fine brushes against his pale skin. “Shit, I figured they'd find it all along. After I pulled Conyers out of the pool, I saw the screwdriver on the deck. I recognized it in a heartbeat, man—it was mine! I just stood there for a minute gaping at it. I couldn't believe it, but there it was. My old screwdriver with paint all over the handle, and blood, too. I knew I'd be toast if I just left it lying there. So I pried the cap off one of the gate posts in the back and dropped it in. You showed up right after that.”

“Pretty convenient hiding place.”

He chuckled, which made him cough. “I knew that hiding place. Conyers used to keep his stash in a bag tied to a string in that post. I saw him take that cap off a bunch of times. Best I could do on short notice. Didn't fool the cops for long, did it?”

I sighed. “You came up with that on the spot?”

He shot me a sideways glance. “Yeah, I came up with it on the spot, just like I said.”

“Why didn't you tell me this before?”

“Things were bad enough, man. I was afraid you wouldn't believe a dumb-ass story like that. Maybe you don't now.”

“Tell you the truth, I don't know what to believe.”

Picasso turned his head to face me. Color pooled in his cheeks. “You
don't
believe me, do you?”

“Should I?” I regretted saying that the moment it left my mouth, but it was too late.

He jerked his face away from me. “Fuck you, Claxton! You're like all the rest. Get the fuck out of here! I don't need you, man.”

“Picasso, I'm—”

“No. Spare me. Just get out!”

Alerted by Picasso's yelling, a nurse and the uniformed guard were standing at his door as I slunk past them. I think I said something stupid, like “Excuse me.” Mixed feelings churned around in me as I found my way to my car. I hadn't meant for things to get out of hand like that. I felt foolish and ashamed of my actions. After all, I figured it would come to this—the last brick in the wall of his frame-up. On the other hand, the doubt I felt was real. I had to express it, damn it.

I'd reached an impasse with myself.

I drove back to Caffeine Central, leashed up Archie, and headed for the clinic. On the way over, a call came in from Nando. I let it go to voice mail. I was in no mood to talk. A large group of street kids was milling around in front of the mural. Word of the shooting had obviously gotten out. When Arch and I approached, Caitlin rushed up to me and asked about Picasso. The rest followed. I told them what I could and ended by saying Picasso was counting on them to protect the mural. I figured he would have gotten around to that if I hadn't blown up the conversation. Caitlin assured me they would.

Anna was hunched over her computer when I entered her office. “How's he doing?” She aimed her glacial blues at me. I'd called earlier to tell her I was meeting with Picasso.

“Uh, he looked pale and tired. I talked to his nurse before I went in. She assured me he was doing fine.”

“Did you discuss the screwdriver situation?”

“Uh, that didn't go so well.”

“Why?”

“Well, I, uh, challenged his story a little bit, and he blew up. He decided I didn't believe him, and he told me to get the hell out.”

The blue in Anna's eyes seemed to fade. Now they were the color of ice. “
Do
you believe him, Cal?”

“I'm trying to.”

She placed her fingertips on the desk as if to rise, but she didn't move. “What does
that
mean?”

I shrugged and tried to smile. “It means I'm not sure. The evidence against him is pretty overwhelming. Maybe he went over there with the screwdriver just to threaten him, and things got out of hand. He lied to me, Anna. Now I'm not sure what to believe.”

She stood up and faced me. “Oh, Cal, how could you? If he lied, it was because he felt he had to. He didn't kill that man. I know it.”

Irritation washed over me like a wave. How can some people just
know
something? I wasn't built like that. I said, “Well, maybe I lack your faith in human nature,” which was my second really poor choice of words that day.

Anna's mouth quivered ever so slightly as she scooped up a sheaf of papers and stood up. “Excuse me, please, I've got patients to see.” She brushed by without looking at me and stormed down the hall. I stood there as my cheeks began to burn, wondering if there was any way in hell to start the day over.

Chapter Twenty-eight

A plan was forming in my mind—I would get out of Portland, grab my fly fishing gear at the Aerie, and head for the nearest river with a decent steelhead run. Give myself some time to think. But when I came out of Caffeine Central with my bags packed Nando was just parking his Lincoln Navigator in front of the building.

When he got out of his car I set my bags down and shook my head. “Cuba's going to be a submerged reef in ten years because of people driving cars like that.”

He opened his hands and raised his eyebrows. “What? I am buying American. Is it not the patriotic thing to do?” Then he glanced at my bags and added, “Where are you going?”

“Fishing. I need some alone time.”

“Ah, a wise thing to do under the circumstances, but, you should eat before such a journey. I want to hear the details of the shooting, and I have some information to share, too.”

We ate at a little Mexican joint on Division called Nuestra Cocina
.
It was painful to relive it, but I took Nando through the events of the night before. When I finished, he said, “I would not want to be a policeman in America. Too many guns. Too many crazy people.”

I told him what Picasso had told me about hiding the screwdriver and about our falling out. He shrugged and said, “What does he expect? He lied to you.”

“I know that,” I snapped back. Then I said something that had suddenly crystallized in the back of my mind, something that surprised me. “He would have taken that screwdriver into Conyers' backyard only if he went there with the intent to kill him. I'm not sure he would have done that. Kill him in a moment of rage, maybe, but premeditated?”

Nando arched his eyebrows and smiled. “So, you still believe him?”

I shrugged. “That's why I'm going fishing, to think it over.” Then to cut off any more discussion on that topic, I said, “So, what've you got for
me
?”

“Well, perhaps it is wise you are leaving town. I hear Jessica Armandy is on the path of war.”

“Why's that?”

“The young prostitute, Bambi—”

“Ex-prostitute.”

“Yes, excuse me. The ex-prostitute, Bambi, has been calling some of the other girls and encouraging them to leave Armandy's employ. Apparently, three young beauties have run away just like she did. Armandy is furious, and she doesn't have any idea where Bambi or the others got off to.”

I burst out laughing. “Oh, that's perfect, that's the best news I've heard all day. Armandy may have met her match.”

“She may be wondering if you encouraged Bambi in any way, or know where she is.”

I smiled. “I'll never tell.”

“Have you seen the mad Russian?”

I shook my head. “What else you got?”

“Maria Escobar has contacted the gardener, Clemente Rodriquez.”

“About what?”

“Hugo Weiman called her.”

My smile evaporated. “When?”

“A few days ago.”

“Why didn't she call me?”

“She told Clemente she didn't trust you. She talks to you and the next thing she knows, Weiman is calling and asking to meet with her. She wasn't happy about that.”

“When I talked to Weiman, I didn't even know she existed,” I shot back. “He must have gotten nervous after I confronted him. He's afraid she'll talk.”

“That's what I told Clemente. He went back to her, and now she has agreed to talk to you. She met with Weiman last night.”

“
What?
Last night? What the hell happened?”

He shrugged. “I don't know, but I have arranged for you to speak with her.”

We spent the rest of the meal speculating on what might have transpired between Maria Escobar and Hugo Weiman. Afterwards, Nando dropped me off at Caffeine Central, and I reluctantly unpacked while Archie watched from the corner with a slightly puzzled expression. There would be no fishing trip now. I spent a restless night and left for St. Johns at nine the next morning.

Whoever said there was no rest for the wicked wasn't kidding.

Maria Escobar was waiting for me at the taqueria and showed me to the same table as before. “Thanks for meeting with me, Maria,” I said as we took our seats. The place was empty, the shades drawn. She wore her pregnancy beautifully—her skin tone and dark hair glowed with health and vitality. “When's the big day?”

She smiled demurely, her face like an open book. “Around the first of September.” Her eyes were focused on me, clear and direct. “I read the articles you gave me. That poor boy was made an orphan by what happened that night at the cabin. I, ah, couldn't stand by and do nothing. But you must protect me from
la
migra
like you promised, Mr. Claxton.”

“I'll do everything I can.” It was the strongest statement I could give her. I wasn't sure where this was going, now that she'd talked to Weiman.

She fixed my eyes and held them hostage for a few moments. “I know you will, Mr. Claxton.”

That simple act sealed it for me. I pledged to myself not to let her down. “I know you met with Hugo Weiman last night, but before you get to that, I'd like you to take me back to that night in 2005 and tell me everything you remember.”

She joined her fingertips in the shape of a steeple and tapped them absently for a few moments. “Mr. Weiman was gone that Friday. I was cleaning upstairs and surprised Mrs. Weiman in the master bedroom. She was crying and had just closed the drawer of the side table on Mr. Weiman's side of the bed. She snapped her purse shut and rushed out, telling me she'd be back later that night. After she left I checked the drawer out of curiosity. The gun Mr. Weiman kept there was gone.”

“Did you see her take the gun?”

“No, but that gun was always in the drawer. I was afraid something awful might happen. Mrs. Weiman was not a nice person. She was an insanely jealous woman.” She cast her eyes down. “Once she even accused
me
of flirting with Mr. Weiman.”

“Did you?”

Her dark eyes came up flashing with anger. “No, it was the other way around.”

I nodded. “I see. What happened next?”

“Well, it must have been five hours later, around eleven. I was up in my apartment when I heard a car return.”

“One car?”

“Yes, her Jaguar. My apartment was above the garage. I looked out and saw her helping Mr. Weiman to the house. He had a bloody towel wrapped around his hand. I rushed down to help them. They told me he'd had an accident, but didn't explain. They were arguing. Mr. Weiman did not want to go to the hospital. Mrs. Weiman told him he must go. When we removed the bloody towel to look at the wound, Mr. Weiman nearly fainted. That's when he agreed to go to the hospital.”

“Did you see the gun?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Two days later Mrs. Weiman asked me to go to the river with her to pick up Mr. Weiman's car. I drove it back. A big Mercedes. On the way there, Mrs. Weiman asked me not to discuss what had happened with anyone.”

“But you told your friend Clemente, the gardener?”

She smiled mischievously. “He's Mexican. I figured she meant white people. Anyway, when Mr. Weiman returned from the hospital, he told me I was to tell anyone who asked that the accident happened at home, not at the fishing cabin. Then he told me he was giving me a big raise.”

“A lot of people would find it hard to turn down money like that.”

She sat back and squared her shoulders. “Being paid to lie? I could not do that. Besides, I didn't want to live with that crazy woman. So, I quit.”

She filled in a few more details, answered some questions, and when she finished I thanked her profusely. “Okay, now tell me what happened last night.”

“He took me to dinner at an expensive place in Southwest. He wanted to pick me up, but I told him I'd meet him there. He was very interested in the taqueria, you know, how is it going? Am I making a profit? I told him things were very tough, but I was squeaking by. He said he liked small businesses and would be interested in investing in mine, you know, to help me grow.”

I nodded. “What did you tell him?”

Her eyes flashed again, with fire this time. “I told him I wanted to own my business outright. No loans. He said, ‘Well, then maybe I can just make a contribution to your baby's college fund, no repayment necessary.'” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “That's when I decided to just tell him what I was feeling.”

My stomach started to dive, and I came forward in my chair. “Uh, what was that?”

“I told him I did not want his money, that I knew why he was offering it to me. I said what happened at the fishing cabin eight years ago was wrong. A mother was killed, a young boy orphaned. The boy became homeless because of what happened there. I told him he should be on his knees begging God to forgive him, not trying to buy me off.”

Nearly speechless, I managed to say, “How did he react?”

She shook her head slowly and met my eyes. “He just sat there, and his eyes filled with tears. I said, ‘Mr. Weiman, I do not think you killed that woman. You are a good man, not a murderer. You must tell the police what really happened that night. The boy has been suffering all these years.'”

She paused, her eyes burning with conviction. “He sat there for the longest time staring at his plate. Then he got up and said, ‘Maria, please forgive me,' and left. That was it. He left me with the bill, too.”

I drove back to Old Town with my mind spinning like a wheel in a rat's cage. Maria had told Weiman that she believed he was involved in a murder. What would he do now? Maria didn't think he was a killer and the truth was, I didn't either. I glanced at my watch. It was almost eleven, a Saturday. I decided to pay Hugo Weiman a visit.

Lake Oswego is a posh town south of Portland that takes its name from a man-made lake stretching like a skinny finger between the Willamette River and Interstate 5. Weiman's house was on the north rim of the lake, and like all the other million-dollar homes in the neighborhood, was unimpressive from street level—a three car garage and a massive wooden gate to the left of the garage with a call box mounted in it. I parked and got out of the car, thinking of Nando's Glock, which was sitting in my bedroom at the apartment. Why had I been in such a damn hurry? I should have swung by and picked it up. But Maria was right, I told myself. Weiman was no killer. Or was he?

I almost turned back, but the gate was ajar. I had the weirdest feeling that he had left it that way for me. In any case, I let myself in like I knew what I was doing. The gate opened to a steep, narrow staircase that led straight down to a dock and boathouse on the lake. The house was at my immediate right, a large structure that rambled down to the lake in three stories. A landing midway marked the entrance. The top story was curtained off and when I reached the landing, I caught glimpses of a well-appointed living and dining area through narrow windows on either side of a hand carved, wooden door. I didn't see anyone inside. I was almost to the base of the stairs when a side window afforded a diagonal view through a large bay window facing the lake. Weiman was sitting at a table on a deck cantilevered out over the lake. When I reached the level of the deck, I said, “Good morning, Mr. Weiman. It's Cal Claxton. I was hoping we could talk.”

He turned and squinted as he looked me over. “Oh, it's you. Claxton. I thought you might show up.” He wore a blue corduroy bathrobe over what looked like yellow silk pajamas. His face was pinched from apparent lack of sleep, his silver hair disheveled. A half full bottle of Grey Goose sat at his elbow next to a tumbler of liquid and ice and a pen and paper.

He didn't invite me to join him, but I moved across the deck and stood in front of him anyway. He looked at me and smiled. “Should be a good caddis fly hatch going on at the Deschutes about now. I was thinking about packing up my four weight and heading on over.” He looked down and shook his head. “But I can't go there. Too many ghosts.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Too many damn ghosts here, too.”

I sat down. “I know you didn't kill Nicole Baxter. Your wife shot her and then she tried to kill you. She came to her senses after she wounded you, right?”

Weiman took a long pull on his vodka, squinted at me and didn't respond.

“If you come forward, I think the courts would be lenient. You were in shock. It's understandable that you initially went along with the cover up, and then it was too late.”

He grew wistful and looked out over the water. “Why is it everyone loves salmon flies? Like goddamn celebrities. I caught my biggest redsides with the lowly caddis fly. Doesn't seem fair, does it?”

I nodded. “Look, I can help you get this matter off your chest.”

My words seemed to cut through his fog, and he snapped to attention, like some gears in his addled brain had finally meshed. I tensed up at the mood shift, and when he smiled a chill rippled down my spine. He said, “Oh, I think I've had about all the help from you I can stand, Claxton.” He reached into the pocket of his bathrobe and pulled out a long barreled pistol. It was a small caliber gun, probably a twenty-two, but it looked like a howitzer to me.

I stood up and backed away from the table, upending the chair behind me. “I've talked to the police,” I lied. “Lots of people know I'm here. You need to put that thing down.”

“You're just the messenger, Claxton. I wouldn't dream of shooting you.” With that, Hugo Weiman turned the gun around, placed the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.