Matters of Doubt (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-five

Two days after I walked out of jail Picasso was arraigned for the first degree murder of Mitchell Conyers and ordered held without bail.

“What happened to you?” Picasso asked. It was a week later, and I was visiting him in an interview room at the Multnomah County Jail. A faint scent of body odor left by the previous occupants hung in the air, and one of the overhead fluorescent bulbs flickered annoyingly. Alicia Cole was scheduled to meet with us but had a conflict at the last minute.

I sat down across from him, put my briefcase down and pointed at the bare spot on my head. “You mean this? I, uh, went another round with the Russian cage fighter.”

“You're kidding!” He exclaimed with a grin he couldn't force back. “Are you okay? What the hell happened?”

I told him about the second fight. When I described how Semyon and I had somehow made peace, Picasso shook his head at me, “Don't be too sure, Cal. He might change his mind about you after trying to eat through a straw for a month.”

I shrugged. “How are you feeling?” His right arm was in a thick cast and sling, and his skin looked pale against a bright orange jump suit that sagged on his thin frame. But his eyes were clear and alert.

“Like Joey used to say, ‘Everyday's a holiday.' Any luck with the art supplies?”

I took a small sketch pad and a special issue ballpoint mounted on a pliable plastic shaft from my briefcase and handed them to him. “That's the biggest pad they permit, and the only kind of pen you're allowed to have.”

He bent the shaft back and forth playfully. “Too bad. I was planning to use a pen to break out of here, but thanks anyway.” He shot the flickering fluorescent light an annoyed look, opened the pad and put pen to paper. “If I can't draw I'm going to go nuts,” he added without looking up. “And I'm worried about my mural. Is it okay?”

“It's fine. Your posse's taking good care of it.” I handed him a photo. “Here, they wanted me to give you this.” It was a picture of them kneeling in front of the mural, clowning around in various poses.

He laughed. “Where's Caitlin?”

“She wasn't around that day. She lost the apartment, you know. She's, uh, hanging around a lot more with her old family, I hear.”

He dropped the pen and massaged his forehead with his free hand. “Shit, that figures. She's probably using again and God knows what else.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “She had a shot,” he said, more to himself than me.

“I know. I guess some people have to hit bottom hard before they figure things out. But don't worry, Doc's not giving up on her.” What I didn't tell him, of course, was what Doc had told me—that Picasso was probably the only person Caitlin ever listened to outside her “family.”

We both fell silent. People shuffled by in the hall outside the room, and we heard a string of expletives followed by a loud, “Pipe down.” Picasso focused on something on the wall behind me for the longest time. “Well,” he said, finally, “at least she's free to go wherever she wants.”

“Hey,” I said, “don't get down. We're going to get you out of here.”

“But that dude killing the shock jock's a big setback, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah, it's harder to prove a dead man did something, but not impossible.”

“What the hell happened?”

“From what Jessica Armandy was willing to tell me, Seth Foster went storming over to Vincent's houseboat after she told him about the blackmail plot. He was going to get some answers, he told her. She said, ‘I knew he had a temper, but I never dreamed he'd kill the guy.'”

“How did Armandy find out about Vincent?”

I must have looked pretty sheepish as I paused to put an answer together. By this time, he was sketching again. “I, uh, told her about him. I was hoping she could link him directly with Conyers somehow. It didn't quite work out that way.”

He looked up from his sketch pad. “Jesus, Cal. You set the whole thing off.”

I nodded. “I know. I screwed up. Should've kept my mouth shut.”

He brushed my comments off with his free hand. “Don't beat yourself up, man. If Armandy didn't know what that dude was going to do, how the hell were you supposed to know?”

“There's more to the story,” I went on. “Turns out Vincent had an airtight alibi the day Conyers was killed. He was in Seattle doing a guest appearance. Lieutenant Scott called me last night to break that cheery bit of news.”

Picasso's face clouded over. “Oh, man. Vincent getting killed is one thing, but having an alibi. That's a clincher. I'm toast.”

I put a cautionary hand up. “Yeah, that was my first reaction, too, but then it hit me—Vincent didn't have the
cajones
to kill anyone himself. He hired people to do his dirty work. Just look at how he handled the scandal with Sherrill Blanchard. And that alibi seems way too convenient. He's out of town exactly one day, the day Conyers was killed.”

“So, you think he used a hit man
or something?”

“Yeah, that's exactly what I think.” I shook my head and made a face. “I should have thought of it a long time ago.”

“But the hit man's probably long gone by now.”

“Not necessarily. He doesn't know we've figured this out. That gives us an advantage.”

I tried to leave him with some hope, but when time was up, I could see the concern lingering in Picasso's eyes. Who could blame him? After all, the existence of a hit man was mostly conjecture at this point, and he knew that as well as I.

When I was in my car I looked again at the sketch he'd torn off and handed to me as I was leaving the interview room. “Here,” he said, “this is for you. No extra charge.” It was a deft rendering of me, and he'd caught me looking sheepish. I could only laugh and shake my head.

That afternoon I had a meeting with Cynthia Duncan and Alicia Cole in Cole's office. The news from Cynthia wasn't good. Sherrill Blanchard wasn't willing to talk about what had happened between her and Larry Vincent. Cole asked, “Now that Vincent's dead, do you think she'll change her mind?”

“I don't know,” Cynthia answered. “At the moment, she's still not returning my phone calls.”

“Blanchard's cooperation would be useful in Picasso's defense,” Cole continued. “It'll bolster the blackmail claim, which provides an alternative theory for Conyers' murder.” As she said this, both Cole and I looked at Cynthia.

Cynthia's jaw flexed. “Don't worry. I'll get her to talk. The truth needs to be told about this creep. Right now, he's being treated like some martyred hero. It's disgusting.”

The conversation swung to Seth Foster next. I asked Alicia, “When are they going to let you depose him?”

“I'm getting the run around on that,” she answered. “He's not talking except to claim self-defense and the DA's still not sure whether to charge him with manslaughter or murder one. In any case, I haven't heard a whiff of anything to suggest he's saying he killed Vincent to avenge his stepbrother's murder. That would be great for us, but I'm not sure we can count on it.”

That evening I was supposed to have dinner with Anna. She'd promised to cook. But at about 5:30 she called and said she was snowed under with a report due to her board the next morning. I told her she still had to eat, and that Archie and I would bring something to her office.

At 6:30 that evening I stood in front of the clinic with a hot pizza balanced on my palm, the box radiating warmth and smells that had Archie salivating despite the fact that I'd just fed him. When Anna opened the door, I handed her a cold six-pack of Mirror Pond. “Here. A couple of these will enhance your report writing ability. Guaranteed.”

She took the beer and laughed, eyeing the pizza. “Sizzle Pie, my favorite order out, how did you know?” She kissed me on the cheek and patted Arch on the head. “Come in, I'm starving.” Strands of gold-streaked hair lay looped across her forehead, and her eyes shone like translucent blue ice above darkened half-moons of weariness.

“That's enough! I've got to stay awake tonight.” I was pouring a Mirror Pond into a plastic cup for her. Archie had settled in at her feet.

I handed her a slice of pizza on a paper plate. “Can't your board cut you some slack? I mean, you're head doc and head administrator at the same time. Something's gotta give.”

She rolled her beautiful, tired eyes. “The board members are all busy people. Rescheduling is
not
an option.”

She nibbled some cheese off the pizza and took a sip of beer. “How're your plumbing skills?”

I eyed her warily. “Uh, severely limited. What's the problem?”

“Oh, we've got a u-trap under the sink in the examining room that's leaking. And the toilet in the back keeps running. A plumber will charge me two hundred bucks just to walk across the threshold. I'd rather spend that money on my patients. God, I miss Howard, even if he was a pain in the backside. That man could fix anything.”

“Huh,” I said. “I forgot about him. Krebbs, wasn't it? Howard Krebbs?”

Anna nodded.

“He never came around again after you had that falling out?”

“Never saw him again. You know, he was all pissed off that I was standing by Picasso. It was funny, he worked around here as a volunteer, but I never had the feeling he had any empathy or compassion for the kids we serve. He always seemed kind of put off by them.”

I set the slice of pizza that was halfway to my mouth back on the plate and leaned forward. A couple of gears in my head meshed. “When did he start working here?”

“Around mid June, I guess. He just showed up one day. Said he was from Seattle and between jobs, that he just wanted to help out. I offered to pay him minimum wage, but he told me he would donate his time. I couldn't believe my luck. He was a gift from the economic gods.”

“Mid-June. That would be, what, three weeks or so after Nicole Baxter's memorial service, right?”

She nodded, her eyes widening. “Yes, and about the same amount of time before Conyers was killed. You don't think he had anything —”

“I don't know, but my latest theory is Larry Vincent hired someone to kill Conyers. Howard was on the inside here, and the timing's pretty good. He could have easily had Milo Hartung deliver the fake note to Picasso, taken the screwdriver from Picasso's backpack, and killed Conyers with it. Was he around the day of the murder? That would be June 26.”

Anna turned her chair around and pulled her calendar up on her computer screen. “Let's see. Oh, of course, I remember now. I asked him to come in that morning to replace some fluorescent bulbs in the examination room. I was anxious to get that done because I was expecting guests from the mayor's office and planning a brief tour.”

“Was he around that afternoon?”

She paused for a moment, tapping a folded index finger on her lips. “No. He left right after he changed the bulbs. That would have been 10:30, maybe, no later than eleven.”

I nodded. “That fits. Conyers was killed that afternoon.”

Her eyes enlarged again. “And Milo? You think he killed Milo that night?”

“It would have been pretty easy, given Milo's drug habit.”

“But it seems so bizarre,” Anna said. “I mean, why didn't Vincent just hire someone to go out and shoot Conyers, if he wanted to get rid of him? Why go to all the trouble of a frame-up?”

I smiled and nodded. “I've asked myself the same question a dozen times. Look, Vincent wanted to get rid of Conyers, because he was tired of paying blackmail, right? He knew that he'd run the risk of becoming a prime suspect if the cops found out about that, and Vincent had no way of knowing who else might know. So, he would need a foolproof set up and a rock-solid alibi. Along comes a young, scary looking homeless man who attacks Conyers, threatens to kill him, and it all lands on the front page of
The Oregonian
. Voila
.
Vincent saw his chance and jumped on it.”

Anna said, “Oh, my God. And he couldn't do it alone, because he needed an alibi.”

“Right. He was conveniently out of town that day. Plus, he could use the bully pulpit of his radio show to put pressure on the justice system to rush to judgment on Picasso.” I picked up a lined yellow pad and a pen from her desk and said, “Now, tell me everything you can remember about this guy.”

We went back over Howard Krebb's activities at the clinic, his comings and goings, including the exact date he started work and when he left, and his relationships with her staff. There were none to speak of, except that she had seen him talking to Milo Hartung a couple of times. He hadn't revealed anything whatsoever about his personal life either, nor had he left any personal items behind except for a single deck of well worn playing cards. On a few occasions, Anna had seen him playing solitaire when things were slow.

“Did you run a background check on him?” I asked next.

Anna looked embarrassed for a moment. “No. I should have, but I didn't. He was a volunteer, and I didn't want to go through the time and expense. I needed him right away. Background checks take weeks.”

“What about an address?”

She pulled up a file on her computer screen. “Uh, I have an address, no phone number.” She wrote it down on a note pad, tore the sheet off and handed it to me. “Are you going to talk to him?”

“Not at the moment, but I'm going to check him out, see if he's still in town.”

Anna's face showed concern. “What if he finds out you're investigating him?”

I smiled. “Well, right now he's just a gleam in my eye. Don't worry, I'll be careful.”

Right.

Chapter Thirty-six

“Are you sure you gave me the right address for Krebbs?” I was sitting in my car talking to Anna at the address she'd given me in Gresham, a blue collar town just east of Portland. “Archie and I got a little restless, so we drove over to have a look at his place, you know, just to scope it out. It's a motel. The kind you rent by the hour. It cost me twenty bucks to get the attendant to tell me Krebbs isn't staying there.”

I read the address back to her.

A few moments later, she came back on the phone. “Yes, that's the address I gave you. Maybe he's moved.”

“That's a possibility. I asked the attendant to look back in June, and he just laughed. I don't think they're real big on record keeping at this place.”

Back at my apartment still later that night, I called Anna again. “It's me again. I know you're busy, but are you sure it's Krebbs with a double b? I'm not finding a Howard Krebbs spelled that way anywhere in Oregon. There's a Millard Krebbs in La Grande, but he's eighty-nine years old. There are a couple of Krebs with one b, but no Howards, and none in the Portland metropolitan area.”

“Yes, I'm sure that's how he spelled it,” she answered. “How about looking in Seattle? He said he'd moved down from there. Maybe he's staying with a friend or relative now, so he hasn't established an address yet.”

“There's a handful of Krebs with one b, but none with a double b in Seattle. I checked.”

“That's strange. Maybe your friend Nando can locate him. I imagine a PI like him has a better database than the computer white pages.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” I answered. What I didn't say was that Nando's searches cost money. But after I hung up, I reluctantly called him and explained the situation.

“So, here's what we've got,” Nando said after I finished—“Howard K-r-e-b-b-s with no middle initial, white male, approximate age forty to forty-five, previous address, somewhere in Seattle, no phone number, no Social Security number, no known place of employment, no photograph, right?”

“That's it.” I exhaled a breath. “Here's the thing, Nando. If this guy's really a hit man hired by Vincent, then you can bet his name isn't Howard Krebbs, and he doesn't live in Gresham. So, who I really need to find is the guy who
said
he was Howard Krebbs when he worked at the clinic. How in the hell do I do that?”

There was a long pause. “If he used the name, he probably knew it was reasonably safe to do so, and since he was volunteering to work, he would have had a Social Security number, just in case the doctor asked for one. Do you agree?”

“Yeah, you're right, although the Doc didn't ask for his Social Security number.”

“Did the police interview him after the murder?”

“Yes, briefly, I think. There was no reason to suspect him of anything.”

“Then I think this person purchased
his identity from someone, an identity that would stand up to a certain amount of scrutiny. It is not difficult to buy such an identity in this town.”

“Do you know who's in the business?” I asked, my pulse quickening.

Nando sighed like the weight of the world just landed on his shoulders. “Yes, I know these people, but they have the highest business ethics.”

I suppressed a laugh. “Meaning?”

“Meaning they do not divulge information about their clients.”

“It's nice to know there's still honor among thieves. You can't do anything?”

He sighed again. “I do have a contact in the industry who owes me a favor. Perhaps I could prevail upon him, but it could be expensive.”

My turn to sigh. “Can you just find out if we're on the right track without breaking me?”

“I will do my best, my friend. It would help if I had a picture of this man.”

I paused for a moment. “You know, I think I can solve that problem. Give me a day to come up with something.”

I called Alicia Cole next. She told me she was visiting Picasso the next morning to go over his account of the day of the murder one more time. I explained the situation surrounding Howard Krebbs and the fact that Anna didn't have a photo of him. I told her Picasso could undoubtedly make an accurate sketch of the man from memory, and she agreed to ask him.

I picked up the sketch around noon the next day. It looked dead-on to me, but I'd only seen the man a couple of times. I stopped by the clinic to show it to Anna. She laughed and said, “That looks more like Howard than Howard. What are you going to do with this?”

“First, I'm going to borrow your scanner and shoot a copy to Nando. And there are other people I want to show it to, people connected to Larry Vincent.”

It turned out that Xavier Bidarte—Nicole Baxter's source for the Vincent exposé—happened to be in Portland that night visiting his new steady girlfriend, Cynthia Duncan. I stopped by her apartment and showed him Picasso's sketch. Dead end there. He told me he'd never seen the man.

The next day Archie and I drove over to see the retired KPOC station manager, Arnie Katz. I found him in his garage again, painting the trim on an intricate birdhouse that had a familiar profile. “Looks like 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue to me,” I said as I entered the garage.

He looked up and smiled, but his expression changed abruptly when he recognized who I was. He said, “You're the guy that found Vincent's body. I saw your picture in the paper. You're not a writer, you're an
attorney.
”
He spat the last word out like it was a bad clam or something. “What the hell do you want now?”

I apologized for not being completely honest and tried to show him the sketch of Krebbs, but he told me to get the hell off his property. I tried to argue, but he was having none of it. As I was leaving, I set a copy of the sketch on his workbench along with one of my cards. “Please take a look at this sketch, Mr. Katz. If you recognize this man, contact me. It's a matter of life and death.”

I took the Ross Island Bridge back over to the west side of Portland, stopped at a market on Macadam and bought two bottles of water, a turkey sandwich, and a twelve ounce black coffee. Out in the parking lot I poured Archie some water in a dish I kept in the car, and he eagerly lapped it up before hopping in the back seat. I found a parking space on Macadam that afforded me a clear view of the KPOC parking lot across the street. I began eating the sandwich, but it was barely edible. I pulled the turkey from the second half of it and gave it to Archie. He loved it.

Several people exited the station around noon, but not the person I was looking for. I groaned, thinking maybe she didn't go out for lunch. One thing was certain. I wasn't going to show my face inside the station for fear of another reaction like Katz's. To my relief, Shelly—the receptionist with the very long legs—came out at 12:25 and got into a white Honda Civic. I followed her to a sub shop, and when she got out of her car I got close enough to call out to her. “Hi, Shelly. We meet again.”

She looked puzzled for a moment before recognizing me. Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh, my God, you're the writer, the guy they thought killed Larry. Then they found out some other person did it.”

I nodded, relieved she apparently didn't read the newspaper very carefully. “Yes, it was a terrible experience, and I'm sorry about the loss of your friend and colleague.”

Her expression hardened like stone. “I don't wish a dead man any ill will, but he was no friend of mine. Couldn't keep his hands to himself, if you know what I mean.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I heard he was like that.” I pulled out the sketch, and showed it to her. “I'm wondering if Larry Vincent knew this man or if you ever saw him around the station?”

She examined the sketch then looked back at me a little more skeptically. “Is this guy wanted for something?”

I laughed. “No, I'm just trying to identify him for background purposes.”

She scrunched up her nose, little girl fashion, “Well, sorry, I don't know who he is.” Then she added, “If you want, I'll put the sketch up on the bulletin board at the station for you. What's his name?”

“Uh, no thanks. I'd rather you keep this to yourself. You know, confidentiality and all that.”

“We have photographs of all our former and current employees. I could look for him in the files, if you want.”

I hesitated for a moment, but I had a feeling I could trust her. “Okay, I'd appreciate that, but please don't show the sketch around, and don't say anything about what you're doing for me. This kind of research is highly confidential.”

She nodded solemnly.

I fished a card out of my wallet and jotted my cell phone number on the back. “If you find anything, give me a call.”

She batted her mascara-laden eyelashes at me and smiled. Her eyes were a pretty periwinkle blue, and one was slightly larger than the other. “And what if I
don't
find anything?”

I gave her a puzzled look.

“Can I still call you?”

I chuckled and even might've blushed a little. “I'm very flattered, Shelly, but I'm, uh, sort of seeing someone.” It sounded a little strange when I said it, but, yeah, it was the truth. I
was
seeing someone. Sort of.

Nando called just as I got back to Caffeine Central. “I had to twist someone's arm
very
hard, but I believe I have made a bingo for you. The man in the sketch you sent me purchased the Howard Krebbs identity package.”

“When?”

“In June. I do not have an exact date.”

I felt a rush of excitement. “That's a bingo alright! Did you get a name?”

“Unfortunately, no. The man paid in cash and did not give a name. They seldom do.”

“Nando, you're a Cuban miracle!”

He chuckled, a deep baritone resonance. “I don't think the person who gave me that information would necessarily agree with you, but I accept the compliment nonetheless.”

I knew the answer to the next question, but I asked it anyway. “This is good enough to go to the cops with. I don't suppose you have or could imagine getting any hard evidence to support the claim?”

Nando's tone turned brittle, almost hard. “Calvin, I already crossed the line here to save you money and will have to watch my back for some time. There is nothing more I can do.”

“Okay. Understood. And thanks, Nando.”

In the immortal words of Mark Knopfler—“Sometimes you're the windshield, sometimes you're the bug.” Well, I was feeling like the windshield when I leashed up Archie and headed for the clinic. I was anxious to tell Anna what Nando had told me.

We caught her in her office, and before I could say a word she said, “Cal, I've found something.”

She handed me a small datebook. “I was cleaning out a cabinet in the records room when I found this. It was in a mangy old sweater that Milo used to wear. I know the datebook is his because I gave it to him. He kept screwing up his schedule. I thought it might help him.”

I glanced down at the book but kept quiet, knowing she had more to tell me.

“Look at this, she said, taking the book back and opening it to the month of June. She pointed to an entry on June 26. In a bold, legible hand, it read—
9:00 HK-DND
.

I smiled broadly. “Nice work. Looks like Milo was meeting with Howard Krebbs and someone else just two nights before the murder. Who's DND?”

Anna shrugged. “I don't have a clue.”

“You think Picasso might know?”

“Maybe. It would be worth asking him.”

“For sure,” I replied. We went back over everything we knew about Howard Krebbs one more time, but nothing else surfaced.

That night Anna
did
cook dinner, which was a good thing, because I was tapped out. Actually, I supplied most of the directions, and she did the heavy lifting, all the while telling me cooking was not her forté. She had brought a couple of nice steaks, baking potatoes, fresh mushrooms, asparagus, and a bottle of reserve Carabella pinot noir.

When she finished trimming the mushrooms, I said, “Make sure the butter's nice and hot when you sauté those ‘rooms. It'll sear the juices in. And if you want a dynamite sauce for the asparagus, try some Dijon, a little mayo, juice from half a lemon, and salt and pepper. Simple, but delicious.”

She smiled and shook her head. “How did you learn to cook like this, anyway?”

“It was either learn to cook or eat out all the time. I couldn't afford the latter. Plus, there aren't that many restaurants I want to eat at. Call me picky.”

She chuckled as she put the mushrooms in the skillet and began stirring them. Without looking up, she said, “Picasso told me about your wife. I'm so sorry, Cal.”

I squirmed in my chair. “Uh, thanks. I'm, uh, it was a long time ago.”

She looked up then, her face almost pleading. “How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

She turned to face me. “How did you put it behind you?”

I dropped my eyes and studied the pattern on the linoleum floor for a few moments, then looked up. “The truth is, you never put it behind you. Not completely. Time's your best friend. You have to find a way to forgive yourself, Anna. That's the key.”

She nodded, and I watched helplessly as her eyes welled up. “Time's no friend of mine,” she said in a thick voice. “It's like everything happened yesterday, you know? Every time I get up in the morning, it's there to greet me.”

“You have to let it go. What happened to your brother was tragic and unfair and horrible, but it wasn't your fault. Your brother would want you to move on.”

I got up and took her in my arms, and she cried until my shirtsleeve was wet. She finally pulled her head up, laughed and said, “Shit, I burned the damn mushrooms.”