Matters of Doubt (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

“Oh my God, I thought he was going to walk for sure,” Cynthia said, her hands clamped on the steering wheel as we tore onto the I-5 heading back to Portland.

I laughed. “Not a chance. He was hopelessly smitten by you, but I'm sure you didn't notice.”

She shot me a faux indignant look. “I wasn't using him, Cal. I'd say it worked out pretty well all the way around. He's coming down to Portland next weekend.”

It had worked out well indeed. Xavier Bidarte was hesitant at first, but once he started to talk he told us everything. He was X-Man—his name choice—and Larry Vincent was the target of Nicole Baxter's exposé. Vincent's victim was a beautiful young girl named Sherrill Blanchard. She wasn't a baby sitter, as the rumors had it, but a high school intern at the station. Bidarte had seen Vincent with her too many times. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw her late one night in Vincent's car, at least until Vincent's hand came up and pushed her head down. He went to the girl's mother, then the police, and was first astonished and then angered when nothing happened.

Cynthia shook her head. “I'll bet Nicky was surprised when Xavier walked in and handed her a story like that on a platter. I can't believe she didn't tell me about it.”

“Yeah,” I responded, “but she wouldn't have had much if Xavier hadn't hacked Vincent's email. Those puppy-love notes from the girl and Vincent's explicit responses back to her, compounded by the beginnings of the negotiations with the mother, gave her the makings of a bombshell with a lot of shrapnel.”

“I can understand why Xavier left Portland,” Cynthia went on. “I mean, suddenly Nicky disappears along with all the evidence he'd supplied her, and nobody else seemed to give a shit about the situation, including the girl's mother.” Cynthia squeezed the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. The speedometer nudged over ninety. “I can't believe Xavier didn't keep a copy of those files. We can't prove a damn thing unless the girl's willing to talk after all this time.”

We discussed various strategies for approaching Sherrill Blanchard, who was now a young woman of twenty-two or three. Bidarte had no idea what had become of her. The best approach, we decided, was a direct one. Cynthia would make the contact, provided we could locate Blanchard, which we didn't think would be that hard.

This was good as far as it went. Cynthia had a shot at resurrecting the blockbuster story that her friend was working on when she was killed. The story would take down a man who richly deserved it. But none of this helped Picasso. Sure, I now knew that Baxter had damaging information about Larry Vincent. When she vanished, it wasn't a stretch to believe that Mitch Conyers found the files and used them to blackmail Larry Vincent, who in turn killed him for it. Trouble is, I couldn't prove it. Not yet, anyway.

Cynthia let me off at the clinic. A couple of kids hanging out on the vacant lot next to the mural told me Caitlin had taken Archie down to the Burnside Bridge. I felt a twinge of anger at this. I was feeling less sanguine about Caitlin and didn't want Archie out and about in the city without close supervision. I found them with a group of kids lounging in Ankeny Square. Arch yelped when he saw me and pulled her out of the group by his leash to meet me. The oily herb smell of marijuana hung in the still air. The tall, blond kid I'd seen over at the clinic stood up, shot me an annoyed look, and said, “Well,
finally.
Come on, Snuggles, let's get out of here.”

I said to Caitlin, “Snuggles?”

She dropped her eyes and looked embarrassed. “Yeah, well, it's what my family calls me.”

I said, “Didn't Anna tell you not to bring Archie down here?”

“Uh, yeah, she did.” She glanced at the group, then back at me. “They wanted to come down here. I didn't think it would hurt.”

I nodded. “I can smell the pot, Caitlin. I know you're on probation. You sure you want to hang with these kids?”

“Come on, Snuggles, let's go,” one of the girls in the group called out.

She shuffled her feet for a few moments, then patted Archie on the head and turned to join them.

“Thanks for watching my dog,” I said to her as she walked away. She hesitated a moment as if she were going to turn and say something, but apparently thought better of it. Archie whimpered softly as she hurried off to join the group.

That night I had dinner with Nando at a Vietnamese joint over on Division called Pok Pok. He wore linen slacks and a salmon colored silk golf shirt stretched taut by his ample girth. After our beers had arrived and he had finished ordering for us—prawns grilled over charcoal, boar collar meat rubbed with garlic, and a noodle dish served with minced pineapple, ginger, and green mango—I said, “Putting on some weight, I see.”

He took a long pull on his beer, then smiled and patted his stomach. “It is probably true, although I do not own a scale.” He wagged a finger at me. “Eating well can never hurt you.”

I laughed. “I know a woman who would argue that point,” and went on to tell him what Cynthia Duncan and I had learned from Xavier Bidarte.

After I'd finished and answered his questions, he said, “The blackmail theory is admirable, Calvin, but we have no evidence that Conyers was blackmailing
anybody
, let alone this ball of sleeze, Vincent.”

“Tell me about it. I need to talk to Jessica Armandy again. If Conyers was blackmailing somebody, she would know about it. No doubt in my mind.”

Nando arched his thick eyebrows. “The last time you talked to her it did not go so well.”

“Look, she thinks I have some leverage with Bambi, right?”

He popped another shrimp in his mouth and nodded. “She would probably like you to speak to the young girl, get her to leave the other girls alone. Bambi has been bad for her business.”

“Well, I wouldn't do that even if I could, but Armandy doesn't know that. Suppose you told her I wanted to talk about a deal?”

“A deal you have no intention of honoring?”

“She wouldn't know that,” I answered, and when Nando shot me a judgmental look, I snapped back, “Damn it, a young man's life is on the line here. Give me a break.”

He shook his head and made a face. “This is very risky, my friend. And the Russian who dislikes you, you will have to worry about him, too.”

“I know that. Just set it up, Nando. Please.”

As it turned out, the problem of the Russian who disliked me came to a head sooner than I thought it would. Nando had just pulled away after dropping me off at Caffeine Central. I know, I should have had my guard up, but nothing looked out of place on the deserted street. I was fumbling for my keys in the dim glow of the streetlight when someone, a large someone, stepped around the corner of the building. It was Semyon, and he was too close to me to make ducking into the building or running an option, not that my male ego would have allowed that.

I turned to face him, tucking my keys into my fist for a little extra clout as the adrenaline floodgates opened. Where was the Glock when I needed it? Up in the apartment, of course. And I took no comfort in the fact that he was alone. That was just a reflection of his confidence that he could take care of me single-handedly.

The streetlight lit enough of his face for me to make out that same anticipatory glee I'd seen before. His thick arms hung at his sides slightly bowed, gunfighter style. He wore tight jeans, the same shit-kicker shoes, and a dark t-shirt that covered his upper body like a second layer of skin. No weapon. But then, why would he need one? He said, “Hello, asshole. We've got a score to settle.”

I locked my knees so they wouldn't begin shaking and prayed for a passing car, a bicycle,
anything
, but the street was deserted. He stepped forward, and I took a step back. “I'm not looking for any trouble, Semyon. This isn't a goddamn schoolyard. We're grown men, for Christ's sake.” I knew the words were futile, but they were all I could come up with.

He pointed a bratwurst-sized finger at me. “If that little bitch Bambi hadn't cold-cocked me, I would have finished this the first time.”

The image of Bambi's bruised and puffy face rushed back to me. I felt my gorge rise involuntarily and heard myself say, “Well, at least you're going to beat a man this time instead of a defenseless young girl.”
Jesus,
I said to myself,
there you go again!

Semyon eyes flared at my words. He was a slow learner, because he lunged at me and threw the same roundhouse right I'd seen before. I ducked under the clumsy punch, slammed the fist holding my keys into his gut, and then spun out of his range. He hardly noticed the punch. I dropped the keys, which had done more damage to my hand than to his stomach. He moved in and loosed an awkward left hook. I brought my right forearm up and deflected the punch, then countered with a straight left that caught him flush on the nose. He staggered back and crashed into the front door, which set Archie into a barking rage inside. I instantly regretted jettisoning my keys. With Archie's help, I might have a chance. But the keys were well out of reach.

Semyon wiped the blood trickling from his nose with his thumb, looked down at it, then back at me. Archie was going crazy on the other side of the door.

I turned my head, pointed to the jagged scar on my ear and said, “You did this. We could call it even, you know.” What the hell, I figured, it's never too late to negotiate.

Semyon gave me an incredulous look, said something in Russian, and came at me again. I was watching his hammer-like fists, so, of course, he kicked me. I twisted just enough that the blow skidded off my shin, but I lost my balance in the process. He lunged at me, and I ducked under his grasp, came up behind him and pushed him hard as I could. He was off-balance, and when he thudded against the building wall, Archie went wild.

Semyon turned around, put a hand on the fresh abrasion on his forehead, and smiled. I said, “Had enough?” It never hurts to ask.

He didn't seem to appreciate my little joke. Instead, he snorted again in Russian and charged me with both arms outstretched like a mad Russian bear. I knew that once he got his hands on me, I was finished. I stood upright as if I were going to take his charge, then at the last moment, ducked under his grasp, crouched down low and came up with everything I had in my quadriceps. It was definitely not a Marquess of Queensbury maneuver. My dad, who'd taught me to box, would have been ashamed, but I really didn't want to die in some stupid fight on the street.

I heard a sickening crunch as my head met the underside of his chin and saw a brilliant flash of light before everything went black. Again.

I don't know how long I was out, but the next thing I heard was Archie barking and scratching on the other side of the door. I sat up and gingerly touched the growing lump on the top of my head. The sidewalk I was sitting on took a familiar, nauseating half turn.

Semyon was sitting next to me, holding his jaw and groaning. He looked at me, focused his eyes, and said through clamped, bloody teeth, “Yew roke ma ja. Yew roke ma ja.”

“Yeah, well, you broke my skull. We should definitely call it even now.”

He doubled up in pain. “Aw, shi, dis hurts like a son ofa bitch.”

I clawed my cell phone out of my front pocket. “You probably need to get to a hospital, man. Hold on. I know somebody who might be able to help us.”

Chapter Thirty-two

I called Anna, and she picked up on the eighth or ninth ring. She'd dozed off reading a book, she explained. I told her we had a little medical situation that needed attention and wondered if she could drop by Caffeine Central. She wanted more information, but I told her it was a long story. I was in no shape to chit chat. I turned to Semyon. “I have a friend who's a doctor. She's coming right over to take a look at you.”

Still holding his jaw and moaning, Semyon used the door knob to pull himself up. This set Archie off again. I gathered up my keys, which were lying next to me on the sidewalk, held them out to him and said, “Here, let my dog out, would you? He's giving me a headache.”

He shook his head, refusing to take the keys. Archie broke out in another chorus of barks.

“It's okay,” I insisted. “He won't hurt you.” I extended the keys again. “Go ahead, let him out.”

Semyon took the keys and cautiously opened the door, then quickly stepped back. Archie looked at me first, then at Semyon, and as he did, lowered his ears, bared his fangs, and growled with such menace that it even scared me. He wasn't an aggressive dog, but it was clear he meant business. Semyon shot me a shouldn't-have-listened-to-you look, made a guttural throat sound and took a couple more steps back.

I looked at Arch and shot a hand up like a traffic cop. “It's okay, Archie. It's okay. Come here, boy.” My dog raised his ears and came over to me with his tail wagging tentatively, looked me over, and tried to lick my bloody head. I struggled to get up. Semyon came over, extended a hand, and pulled me to my feet. Archie positioned himself between us, but it was clear the hostilities were over. We were like a couple of gladiators who'd fought to a draw, but I'm sure the Romans would have given us both a thumbs down for our performance.

We stood there in awkward silence until Semyon met my eyes. “I'm sori bou Bambi. Jessca tol me to rufer up alil. I didn't mean ta hurter like dat. I never it a woman bafor.”

“Bambi would be glad to hear that. You should tell her in person. Maybe one day she'll be able to forgive you.”

Semyon nodded, and something shifted in that moment. I won't say we became friends, but at least we were no longer enemies.

Anna pulled up in her Volvo and got out, straining to see in the dim light. “Cal, is that you? Oh, my God, what's happened now?”

“Anna, this is Semyon. He's, uh, got a problem with his jaw. Maybe you could look at it?”

She looked at Semyon, then back at me. “Is he the Russ—”

“Yeah, but it's okay now. We've declared a truce.”

Anna gave Semyon's jaw a cursory examination. The right side along the jawline looked like he had a roll of quarters inside his cheek. The bulge was already turning a cloudy purple. She had him try to open his mouth, and he made a strange, wounded bird sound. Anna said, “Your mandible's badly broken, and you've chipped a couple of teeth. You need to go to the ER immediately.” Then she turned to me. “Are you okay?”

I pointed at the top of my head, accidentally touching the lump, which caused me to flinch. “Bumped my head.”

She took my head in her hands and gently bowed it. “Oh, that's a nasty bump, Cal. And the gash is going to need stitches. So, your head hit his chin? Is that what happened?”

I nodded. “Accident.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “How do you feel?”

“Whoozy.”

She went to her car and returned with a flashlight from her glove compartment. After checking my response, she said, “You might be mildly concussed. Who do you think you are, an NFL quarterback?”

I chuckled, and Semyon chimed in with a couple of clinch-jawed grunts.

Semyon wanted to drive himself to the hospital, and I offered to drive him, but Anna was having none of it. She drove us both to the Good Samaritan Hospital over on Twenty-second at the base of the West Hills. I'd been back in the waiting room for an hour, sporting five new stitches, when Semyon emerged with his jaw wired shut and the prospect of a liquid diet for the next several weeks.

There wasn't a lot of small talk on the way back from the hospital, but Semyon and my truce seemed to be holding. However, when I finally walked him to his car near Caffeine Central, he declined to shake my offered hand. That was okay with me. If we couldn't be friends, I'd settle for being his non-enemy.

When I returned, Anna was still in the driver's seat of her Volvo. “Get in. You'll need close observation tonight.”

“Lucky me,” I replied.

On the way back to her condo, Anna said, “Two fights with this guy, Cal? There was no way to avoid this? He could have killed you.”

I exhaled a breath and shook my head. “Nando had just dropped me off. Semyon came out from the side of the building. I wasn't expecting it. I tried to talk him down, but he wasn't listening.”

“So, you stood and fought. You're a male. It's in your DNA, I guess.” She fell silent for several moments, seeming to mull her statement over. “I wonder what I would have done in a situation like that? Sometimes, I wonder whether I'm principled or just a physical coward.”

“The survival instinct's built into everyone's DNA. You might surprise yourself,” I replied.

I had no idea how prophetic that statement would be.

The next morning, Anna dropped me off at Caffeine Central on her way to the clinic. Once again, I was given strict orders to take it easy, although I felt a hell of a lot better than after the last time I encountered Semyon. I spent most of the morning on the phone with clients and also my bookkeeper, Gertrude Johnson, who called to tell me she needed to move some cash from my savings account to my business account to cover the bills. “All this publicity about that homeless kid and the suicide of that lobbyist could kill your business, Cal. When are you going to wrap things up in Portland and get back to focusing on your clients in Dundee?”

“It's going well here, Gertie. I should have things wrapped up in no time.” I didn't want to worry her, and I didn't need the lecture I was sure to get if I told her the truth.

She paused for a long time before saying, “Uh huh. Well, I hope you're not shining me on, Cal. You can't afford it.”

That bit of news did nothing for my appetite, but sometime after one that afternoon I went into the kitchen, sliced an apple along with a chunk of Gruyere cheese, added a handful of walnuts, and poured myself a chilled glass of Argyle chardonnay. I had just sat down with
The Oregonian
spread out on the table when Nando called.

“The madam has deigned to grant you an audience tonight. You are to present yourself at the Happy Angus around ten to discuss issues of mutual interest.”

“Thank you, Nando. You can tell the madam I'll be there.”

“Done. By the way, I did not raise the issue of the mad Russian with her, but I am concerned he might try something when you leave the restaurant, even if you and she come to some sort of arrangement.”

I laughed. “I don't think he'll pose a threat.” I went on to explain what happened the previous night.

After I finished, he chuckled. “Speak low but carry a large club. That is you, my friend.” His voice grew serious. “But even though you say the Russian carries no grudge, which I find difficult to believe, you must be careful tonight. Perhaps it would be wise if I dropped in for a drink to even up the odds?”

“Yeah, I'd feel better if you did. But don't crowd me. I want Armandy to feel free to talk.”

At 10:10 that night, I climbed the broad spiral staircase to the bar at the Happy Angus. A silver haired man in banker's pinstripe was coming down the stairs with a young beauty draped on his arm. The man was jingling his keys, and the girl was laughing at something he'd said.

It seemed a quieter crowd that night. A soft buzz of conversation lubricated by expensive booze floated up from tight knots of couples, mostly men with women who could be their daughters, but they weren't. The women belonged to Jessica Armandy, perched at her corner table like a general observing a field of battle. She wore a tight, flaming red dress with a scoop neck that revealed an ample portion of cleavage decorated with a multistrand gold necklace. Her face was air-brushed perfection.

We exchanged greetings, and when I sat down she noticed the shaved, bandaged patch on top of my head. She wrinkled her brow and raised an eyebrow. “I see you've banged yourself up. Funny thing, my driver Semyon has a shattered jaw. Said it happened while he was sparring. You didn't happen to be his sparring partner, did you, Claxton?

I shook my head. “Had a squamous removed. Too much sun up here in the Northwest.”

She gave me a thin smile and took a sip of her drink without offering me anything. “Well, you've become quite the celebrity here in Portland. I hope you're not investigating any more of my clients. I can't afford to lose another one.”

I looked around the room. “Business seems to be pretty good.”

“It could be better, but it's hard to get good help these days. You know how it is.”

My turn to smile.

She narrowed her eyes and leaned into the table, her cheeks filling with color. “Goddamn it, Claxton, have Bambi call me. She's got a good business head, and I've got a great offer for her. We're planning to expand.”

I shrugged. “I could pass the message on, I suppose, but there's no guarantee what she'll do. Bambi thinks for herself.”

She flicked her hand dismissively and shot me an annoyed look. “I know that, damn it, that's why I like her. Just ask her to call me. Tell her I want to discuss a business opportunity.”

“Okay, I'll do it, but I need something from you first.”

The annoyed look returned as she drained her drink. She raised a finger and a waiter appeared. “Fill me up and bring him a Mirror Pond,” She glanced at me. “That's your beer, right?”

“It is, provided I get to drink it, not wear it.”

She laughed, a kind of lusty bark. “Not to worry. Seth's not here tonight. I made sure of that. He's a bit of a hot head, but who could blame him? He worshipped his stepbrother. Now, tell me, what is it you want from me?”

I leaned in, placing both arms on the table. “You and most of this town are rushing to judgment about who killed Mitch Conyers. I'm here to tell you you've got it wrong. Danny Baxter didn't do it.”

“Oh, please. Not that happy horseshit again. If Snake Boy didn't do it, then who the hell did?”

“Think about it. It was someone who wanted him dead, someone who saw the perfect opportunity to blame it on a young homeless man.”

She shrugged. “I don't know of anyone else. All I know is that kid hated Mitch's guts.”

“Oh, so Conyers was Mr. Congeniality. Come on, Jessica, you can do better than that. Let me spell it out for you. Who was Conyers
blackmailing
?”

She tried to look indignant but didn't quite pull it off. “Oh,
that
again. If he was blackmailing someone, he sure as hell didn't tell me about it.”

I straightened up in my chair. “You don't seem so sure. Maybe you thought of something after we talked last time, something you didn't think was important? I don't blame you for not wanting to talk about it. It doesn't put your friend in a very good light.”

She paused for several beats. “Why should I talk to you about this?”

“For openers, I'm not a cop. Sure, I'm trying to keep an innocent kid from being thrown under the bus, but I'm trying to find out who killed your friend, too. It's a package deal.”

She sighed heavily and took a sip of her cognac. “Well, Mitch always seemed to have more cash than I thought he should, especially around the end of the month.” She laughed. “At one point, I thought he might be skimming from my operation, so I had a client of mine who's an accountant go through the books. Didn't find anything out of line, so I dropped it. But I always wondered.”

“Let me guess. You started noticing this around June or July of 2005, right after Nicole Baxter disappeared.”

She turned her head slightly, as if in thought, then turned back. Her eyes narrowed and a blood vein in her neck appeared like a faint purple river. “What if I did?”

The lawyer in me screamed
don't tell her too much!
But I had to get her talking. I said, “When Nicole Baxter disappeared that May, she was working on a damaging exposé about a well known man in Portland. Conyers was practically living with Baxter at the time. I believe he found the article and all the supporting evidence after she disappeared and used it to extract hush money from that man. Conyers had plenty of leverage. The exposé would have ruined the man's reputation and sent him to jail.”

“You talking about Weiman?”

“No, it wasn't Hugo Weiman.” Her question disappointed me. She apparently didn't know the person being blackmailed.

“Then who the hell is it?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Then you don't know shit,” she scoffed.

I took a swig of beer to give myself time to think. Should I give Vincent up? I decided it was worth the gamble, that if she heard the name, she might make a connection. I said, “I know who the exposé was being written about, but I can't link him to Conyers yet.”

“Who is it?”

“Larry Vincent, your favorite radio personality.”

She sat very still for a moment. The color in her cheeks seemed to bleed away. “You're sure of this? Vincent?”

“I'm sure Vincent was Baxter's target. I need you to help me link him to Conyers. That would give him a whopping motive for murder.”

She nodded her head slowly, as if in deep thought. “Okay, I get the picture. Now, suppose I can help you. Then what happens?”

“The guy who brutally murdered your friend and business partner gets put away, and a young man gets his life back.”