Matters of Doubt (8 page)

Chapter Twelve

By the time I got to the Aerie that Friday, the sun was low, and dirty white clouds were churning up the valley, threatening rain. I'd stopped first at my office to meet with a prospective client and pick up my mail, which had accumulated in a pile below the slot in the front door—an overdue check from a client, three fliers, two catalogs, and four bills. The ratio of bills to checks was not encouraging.

However, when I saw Archie at the gate, my spirits rose. You'd think I'd been gone a month the way he carried on. Then he calmed down, bolted off, and returned with a slobbery tennis ball in his mouth and a manic gleam in his eye. I threw the ball long and high and he caught it on the first bounce. We kept this up until rain thrummed over the ridge from the valley and chased us into the house.

I fed Arch, and after pouring a glass of wine, began looking for something to eat. My search was cut short when I found a covered bowl of meaty beef stew in the refrigerator. I raised my glass and said, “Bless you, Gertie.” Gertrude Johnson had not only fed my dog, but left a meal for me. A phone call of thanks was in order, but I ate the stew first.

I was exhausted by the events of the last two days and turned in early. It had cleared off and a waning moon hung between the Doug firs like a bruised lemon. I stood at the open window in my bedroom and watched it for a while in the company of my friend the owl, whom I could hear but not see. I envied that damn moon, moving around up there in a predictable path, no matter what. I'd come to Oregon to find some kind of order, some peace in my life. And now, for reasons I couldn't quite explain, I felt that what little stability I'd cobbled together was threatened.

I pushed the dark thoughts down and took several lungs full of cool air and exhaled them slowly. I thought of Picasso and all the other kids out there trying to make it on the cold streets. How the hell did it come to this? They all have a story, Picasso told me—don't judge. But I would judge—not the kids, but the adults who'd let them down. I closed the window and climbed into bed. Archie settled onto his mat with his muzzle between his paws, and I fell asleep thinking about Anna. Anna,—a female Holden Caulfield—trying to catch all those kids before they slipped into the abyss.

I awoke the next morning determined to get some exercise. As I laced up my jogging shoes, Archie went out in the hall and stood by the staircase, whimpering and wagging his tail. A run with me would prove things were completely back to normal. But our run was delayed when I stopped at the mailbox for a quick look at the morning paper. I'd already seen the initial coverage of Conyers' murder in yesterday's paper—a factual account containing no surprises or new information. Picasso and I were described as witnesses and not persons of interest in the article.

Today's paper was a different story. The headline read “Murder witness and journalist clash.” It was accompanied by a photograph of me grappling with Picasso right after he'd drop-kicked the camera. I took one look at it and shook my head. I had his arms clamped in my hands, and his head was thrown back, affording a view of the coral snake decorating his throat and showcasing his eyebrow and lip jewelry. The reporter was bent over next to us holding his hand. The caption below the picture mentioned that the reporter worked for a small, online newspaper.

The article described the altercation and what provoked it and went on to give the backstory surrounding Nicole Baxter's disappearance and the discovery of her remains on the Deschutes River. In other words, it put Picasso and to a lesser extent, me, squarely in the crosshairs of
public
as well as police scrutiny for Conyers' murder. I suppose I knew it was bound to happen, but I was taken aback at the speed of it. It didn't help that the article gave Picasso's address as Dignity Village. I figured there were more than a few readers who would associate the address with drug use and violence, although both were expressly forbidden at the village.

I quickly scanned the rest of the paper. Milo Hartung's death hadn't made that news cycle.

I put the paper back in the box and to Archie's delight, started jogging up the hill toward the cemetery. We hadn't gotten more than a mile when my cell rang. I'd reluctantly brought the damn thing with me. I pulled up and managed a hello while still panting.

“Cal? It's Anna. Are you alright?”

“Yeah. You caught me jogging. I'm a little winded.”

“I'm at the clinic, Cal. The detectives are here again. They just told me Milo Hartung was found dead in his apartment.”

I cringed inwardly at the prospect of having to lie to her. “I'm sorry to hear that, Anna. What happened?”

“They said it looked like a drug overdose. Oh, Cal, he was so close to turning his life around.”

“You mentioned that you suspected he might be using again.”

She sighed, and I felt a stab of guilt for having left the young man crumpled on the floor in his bathroom. “I know I did,” she said, “but I was hoping I was
wrong
.” I heard a single sob.

“You did all you could for him, Anna.”

She laughed with a bitterness that surprised me. “No, Cal. We
never
do enough for these kids.” We lapsed into silence. Finally, she continued. “Right now, the detectives are talking to the janitor, Howard. They asked him to come in this morning. They're back in the storage room, I think.”

My gut tightened. “Is Picasso there?”

“No. I didn't see him.”

“Good. If he comes in, remind him not to talk to
anyone
unless I'm present, okay?”

“I'll tell him, but the detectives have no reason to suspect he's involved in Milo's death, do they?”

“No, I don't think so. He can account for his whereabouts after the Conyers' murder. Look, Anna, if anything unexpected comes up, call me.”

After our conversation, I turned my phone off and resumed my jog. Usually a sure-fire remedy for what ails me, the run had hardly made a dent in my stress level. Afterwards, I went into the kitchen and fixed a three egg omelet fortified with smoked salmon, tomato, red onion, jalapenos, and a sharp Tillamook cheddar. Good food was another way to deal with anxiety.

For the rest of the morning, I lost myself in an all out assault on the weeds in my vegetable garden. At noon I checked my voice mail at the office. There were half a dozen calls from reporters wanting a statement from me. I ignored them. Later that afternoon I was fertilizing my blueberry patch when my cell rang again. It was Nando. After we kicked around the newspaper article, he changed the subject. “The pill you removed from Milo's apartment is Oxycontin.”

I considered this for a moment. “So, someone could have brought those over to Milo's apartment and after they got him blitzed, overdosed him with the heroin. That would be simple enough to pull off.”

“Yes, and extremely hard to prove. Mixing the two drugs is common.”

“You're right. So, even if Scott and Jones dislike coincidences as much as we do, they probably won't get anywhere with this.”

“I have something else. The young artist was correct. Jessica Armandy
is
a woman of the night, a madam, actually. She owns an escort service called Eros' Dreams. I am told Mitchell Conyers and she had an arrangement—”

“An arrangement?”

“Yes. Some of her, ah, most attractive employees work out of his restaurant, the bar, actually. You know, clients meet them there, for drinks, perhaps dinner. It is good for both businesses. But here is the interesting point—one of her best clients is Weiman and Associates, the political lobbying firm. I believe you mentioned that Hugo Weiman is the owner of the property where Picasso's mother was found.”

“Nice work, Nando. That was fast.”

He chuckled. “Thank you. I have some contacts in the industry. It is very competitive, but there are few secrets. Eros' Dreams is at the top of the chain of food.”

“Any direct links between Conyers and Weiman?”

“My sources know of none, but they're still making inquiries.” I thanked Nando again and before we signed off he said, “You know, Calvin, this could get ugly, and it won't be cheap, either. Are you sure you want to continue?”

“Yeah, I'm sure.” What else could I say?

I was stretched out on the couch later that afternoon trying to catch up on my sleep, but a couple of pesky flies kept buzzing around and landing on my face. Just as I finally dozed off, my cell phone buzzed like another irritating insect. I thought seriously about throwing it through the window before I answered it. It was my old buddy Pete Stout, the District Attorney for Multnomah County. We exchanged greetings and he asked me how it was going.

“Never a dull moment,” I answered. “It's starting to feel like the old days in L.A.”

“So I hear. I, uh, can't make our racketball date tomorrow. Something's come up.”

My mind raced for a second. I'd completely forgotten that we'd made the date during my last conversation with him. I forced a laugh. “Something's come up for me, too.” There was no way we were going to socialize now, and we both knew it. Not with the probability that his office would be prosecuting my client in the near future. In fact, I was surprised he'd even called.

“Listen, Cal, regarding this matter you got involved in. I don't know what happened or what your plans are going forward, but my guys tell me the crime scene looks a little hinky, like somebody's screwed with it.” He paused, but I chose not to speak. “Just a word to the wise.” He hung up without waiting for my reply.

I sat there staring at the blank phone screen, feeling like I'd just been slapped in the face. It was a warning pure and simple. I guess Stout figured he owed me one. This was about the murder weapon, or the lack of one. I was sure of it. Why would someone try to set up Picasso and not leave the weapon behind? It was a question I should have faced up to before being blindsided like this. I didn't have any answers, but what I did know was that Scott and Jones now suspected me of helping Picasso dispose of the weapon. That made me an accessory to murder.

I sat there as the room slowly darkened. Archie finally came in from the kitchen and laid his muzzle in my lap and whimpered a couple of times. He was hungry. I fed him and tried to figure out what I was going to do for my dinner. But the fact was, I'd completely lost my appetite.

Chapter Thirteen

The call I was expecting came on Sunday around noon, although I didn't necessarily expect it to come from Anna Eriksen. For a moment, I entertained the possibility that it was a social call, but I had no reason to expect that. Her tone set me straight in a hurry. “Cal? It's me again, Anna. I'm at the clinic. The police just took Picasso away. He was here working on his mural.”

“Did they cuff him?” I asked.

“No. I saw them put him in their car. He wasn't handcuffed.”

“Good. That means they didn't arrest him. They're going to question him again. Maybe they're hoping they can get him to talk without me being present.”

“I told him not to talk to anyone, like you asked me. But I'm not sure I got through. I'm never sure with him.”

I told Anna I was on my way. Then I called Central Precinct in Portland and got Scott's voice mail. I left a message. Then I repeated the process and asked for Jones. I got him live. I told him I'd be there in an hour and that there were to be no interviews until I arrived. He shot back that I'd saved him a call, since they were going to bring me in for more questioning anyway.

I threw some clothes, toiletries, and a couple of books in an overnight bag and went down the backstairs and through the kitchen to the study for my laptop and briefcase. I was almost out the door when I thought of the information Picasso had given me. I still had some papers and another thumb drive I hadn't looked at. I went back and added his briefcase to my load.

Archie confronted me in the front hallway. His ears were down, an anxious look in his eyes. I hesitated for a moment, and he whimpered a couple of times. “Okay, big boy, you're coming this time.” I grabbed his leash and doubled back into the kitchen for his food and water bowls and a bag of kibbles.

I worked my way through the vineyards to Dundee, and as I headed north on 99W, began to turn the situation over in my mind. The biggest question mark was the murder weapon. If Picasso was telling the truth about the absence of a weapon at the scene, then either the murderer took it with him for some reason or hid it somewhere on the property. No way the killer would
take
the weapon. That made no sense at all. That meant the killer stashed the weapon somewhere after piercing Conyers' skull. I didn't buy that either, but there was a lot I didn't understand about this case, so I held it out as possible but not probable.

The other possibility was that Picasso had hidden the weapon and lied to me about it. I thought about his reaction when I asked him about the paint can opener.
What if I'm wrong about him?
I pushed the ugly thought down. After all, I told myself, I crossed that bridge, right? I had, but the little voice in my head was still there.

The traffic slowed to a crawl on 99W, seeming to mimic my thought process. Out of frustration, I turned off at Sherwood and cut over to the I-5. It was smooth sailing from there into Portland.

I parked on Second Avenue, fed the meter, and rolled the windows half way down for Archie. Central Precinct was an imposing hexagonal midrise occupying the entire block on Second between Madison and Main. After I'd cleared the metal detector and signed in, Lieutenant Scott came down to meet me. Following brief pleasantries he said, “Thanks for coming in counselor. We just need to go over a few things with you and Mr. Baxter.” The overhead fluorescents glared off his glasses, which kept me from reading the look in his eyes.

“We're glad to help, Lieutenant.”

I saw his eyes now, dark slits, all business. He looked tired. “Your boy came in without any trouble. You must be relieved, considering his temper.”

“He's not my boy,” I snapped back. “About today—we're happy to respond to questions regarding our earlier statements, but that's it. We're not breaking any new ground here.”

“Sounds like you've decided not to cooperate. It's your call, counselor, but don't whine to me if the press picks that up and runs with it.” With that, Scott left me at the door to the room where Picasso was waiting.

He was dressed for work in ragged jeans, combat boots, and a t-shirt with something written beneath the paint spatter that took me a few moments to decipher—Live Simply So Others Can Simply Live. He looked tired, too, and tense. His three day growth made the snake on his neck look like it was hiding in the grass.

When we bumped fists, I noticed his eyebrow ring was missing, and the punctured eyebrow itself looked less red and swollen. I pointed. “Where's the ring?”

He touched the spot with his finger. “Doc took it out. Infected, like you said. She gave me something to put on it.” Then he smiled. “Don't worry, it's going back in.”

I opened a hand and said, “It just wouldn't be you.”

He tried to stifle a smile, but failed. “You heard about Milo Hartung, right?”

I nodded. “What do you think happened?”

His dark eyes studied me for a moment. He shrugged. “It's easy to OD, man, especially with smack. But the timing's weird.”

I nodded again. “If Milo set you up with a fake note, then he knew too much.”

His eyes enlarged and he tugged absently at his lip ring. “You think he was snuffed like Conyers?”

“I can't prove it, but my gut says that's what happened.”

“Wow, two murders related to me? Should I be feeling important here?”

I laughed in spite of myself. “You
are
important. Someone wants you to take the fall in the worst way.”

Picasso sighed like the world was resting on his shoulders. “What about the guy I kicked? Is he cool?”

“I haven't heard a thing, but I seriously doubt he's cool.”

He hung his head in his hands. “Oh, man, that was
stupid
. I did some checking on that freaking camera on the net. I'm pretty sure it was a Canon XL2. Those suckers cost over four thousand bucks.”

I whistled involuntarily. “Look, we'll deal with that when the time comes. Right now, we need to focus on this interview. I told Scott and Jones that we'd answer questions about our statements, but nothing else. Don't be surprised if they spring something on us.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Maybe they found the murder weapon.” I was watching him carefully.

His face clouded over, and he said in a lowered voice, “Is it cool to talk about this shit in here?”

I tensed up. “Yeah, it's okay. Why? Do you have something to tell me?

He lowered his eyes. “No, man. You know everything I do.”

“Good,” I said, sounding more positive than I felt. I didn't particularly like his reaction, but his tells were inconclusive once again. And this was no time to bring up doubts.

Scott and Jones interviewed me first, taking me back over every detail and bringing up absolutely nothing new. The only exchange of note occurred before the cameras were rolling. Jones flashed me a mock-friendly smile and said, “Mr. Claxton, Pete Stout says you're a standup guy. And I gotta say on a personal note, I admire what you're doing.”

I met his gaze and waited to see where he was going with that. I saw Scott shift in his seat out of the corner of my eye.

Jones continued, “It takes guts to help out a kid like Baxter. I mean, it can't be good for your practice in Dundee. Folks down your way don't understand these Portland street kids. They think they're all pierced and tattooed killers. They're probably wondering why you'd want to get mixed up with one.”

“Haven't heard any complaints.”

“Glad to hear that,” Jones replied, glancing at Scott and flashing a toothy grin.

Scott chuckled and added, “It's early days, counselor.”

Jones said, “You know, you're seeing the street scene here in Portland for the first time, but we've worked with a lot of these kids. There's one thing you can say about nearly all of them—they're great cons, right, partner?”

Scott nodded. “A few years on the street, they have their PhDs in it.”

Jones went on, “Like I said, counselor, I admire you for believing in a kid like Baxter when so many factors suggest otherwise.”

I said, “I'm a lawyer. I don't have to
believe
in my clients. But since you brought it up, I do happen to believe Danny Baxter didn't kill Mitchell Conyers. He's an intelligent young man. He wouldn't have killed Conyers shortly after telling several people he was going to meet with him. Furthermore, if he had just killed Conyers, he wouldn't have dived into that pool and pulled him out, thinking he might still be alive. And if he did it, where's the murder weapon?”

Scott and James exchanged glances but remained silent.

“So, who did kill Conyers?” I went on. “It was public knowledge that he and Mr. Baxter had an altercation at Nicole Baxter's memorial service. Shortly after the incident, Conyers is murdered and Mr. Baxter lured to the crime scene with a phony message given to him by Milo Hartung. Hartung turns up dead the next day. How convenient. So, gentlemen, I hope you're looking hard at any enemies Mr. Conyers might have had. Oh, and one more thing. Danny Baxter's a lefty and the person you're looking for is right handed.”

They exchanged glances again but maintained their half-bored cop expressions. Finally, Scott said, “Can we get started now?”

Nothing new came up in Picasso's interview either, and it was a lot shorter. It was going reasonably well until we got to the question of the murder weapon. Scott said to Picasso, “Okay, you told us that you came in the side gate, saw Mr. Conyers in the water, jumped in without hesitating and pulled him out. What happened after that?”

Picasso rolled his eyes and looked at me. I nodded for him to go ahead. “I, uh, kind of panicked and decided to go for help. I came out of the gate, and that's when I saw Claxton standing on the front porch.”

Jones said, “So, you pulled the body out of the pool and went directly out the gate?”

“Yeah, that's what I just told you.”

Scott said, “You also told us that you did not see anything lying around that could have been used to strike Mr. Conyers. Is that right?”

“That's right.”

“Tell me,” Scott continued, “How could you be so sure there was nothing lying around if you were so panicked?”

I tensed again and held my breath.

Picasso glanced at me then back at Scott. The color in his face seemed to deepen a shade. “I didn't see anything, man. What can I say?”

Jones said, “Maybe you heard Claxton out there and hid the weapon?”

Scott glanced at me and chimed in, “Or maybe Claxton here helped you hide it?”

Picasso started to reply but I waived him off as I stood up. “That's it, gentlemen, we're out of here.”

Picasso and I walked out of Central Precinct without saying another word. When we reached my car, I said, “Come on, let's take a walk.”

I leashed up Archie and the three of us went down to the river, crossed under the Hawthorne Bridge, and stopped at a bench near the Salmon Springs Fountain. A gaggle of screaming kids were playing in the fountain, and an army of tough looking workers were setting up carnival rides on the grass strip running up to the Morrison Bridge. It was nearly Rose Festival time.

We sat down and Picasso's gaze drifted to the kids running under the arcing jets of the fountain, kids who had parents watching them and homes to go to. He sighed. “I'm so screwed. Those two cops don't believe anything I've said.”

I scratched the top of Archie's head while I thought about how to reply. The sun went behind a cloud, and suddenly the fountain looked dark and cold, but the kids were oblivious. “That's what cops do—try to fluster you and then see how you react.”

“Yeah, and we stomped out of there. That can't be good.”

“Not if we left because we were unjustly accused, right?”

He chewed his lip and nodded. “I'm sorry I got you mixed up in this.”

I chuckled. “Don't worry, my skin's plenty thick. But, look, why do I get the feeling you're waiting for another shoe to drop? Are you sure you've told me everything?”

“
Jesus
, Cal, how many damn times are you going to ask me that? I told you, man, you know everything I do.”

Archie raised his head to look at Picasso, and I raised my hands. “Okay. Just so we're clear on that.”

We sat in silence as the sun broke free again, dappling the river in silver light. Finally, Picasso said, “So, what happens now?”

“They don't have enough to hold you, so we've got some time. We need to figure out who wanted Conyers dead and who was smart enough to come up with this elaborate frame.”

“How in the hell are we going to do that?”

“I'm not sure yet, but my hunch is the whole thing's related to the discovery of your mom's remains.”

“You mean whoever killed Conyers killed my mother?”

“It wouldn't surprise me.”