Matters of Doubt (9 page)

Chapter Fourteen

The light was good that afternoon, so Picasso went back to the clinic to work on his mural. He was unsettled by the interview, but I knew by now he didn't allow much to stand in the way of his art. It provided a tight focus for his life, and I admired him for that. He used a key Anna had given him—a demonstration of her trust—to open the back door of the clinic. I went down the hall to Anna's office with Arch on his leash. She was typing away on her computer with her back to the door. I knocked softly so I wouldn't startle her.

“We're back.”

She swiveled around, swept a lock of hair off her forehead and smiled. Our eyes met, and just for an instant I got caught up in the pale blueness of hers. I broke eye contact. “How did it go, Cal? I've been worried.”

“About as well as it could have. Picasso's back at work now.” Her eyes dropped down and took in Archie.

“Is he okay in here?”

“Sure. Just not in the treatment rooms. He's an Aussie, right?”

I nodded. “A tricolor. Name's Archie. Why don't you join us for a walk, and I'll fill you in. It's Sunday. You deserve a break.”

Anna wanted to go down to the river, and Archie and I didn't mind a second trip. We walked over to Burnside and at the bridge took the stairs back down to Tom McCall Park. The clouds had blown to the north, and the park was filling with sun-starved Portlanders anxious to cure their vitamin D deficiencies. The sun made us squint, and the brisk, shifting breeze had polished the day to a diamond brilliance. As we walked, I filled her in on the day's events and where the case stood. I left out the part about Scott and Jones accusing me of tampering with the crime scene. I had a feeling that would only worry her needlessly. By this time, Anna had Archie's leash, which seemed to please them both.

When I got to my theory about the killer being right handed, Anna whirled to face me, her eyes enlarged, excited. “Picasso's
left
handed, Cal.”

I smiled. “I know. Just like da Vinci and Escher.” Then I went on to tell her about the position of the wound, the blood spatter I'd seen and how I'd watched the crime scene techs re-enacting the death blow.

Relief flooded her face. “Then you've proved he's innocent!”

I shook my head. “It's not that simple. It's an argument that can be made, but it's not ironclad by any means. It could have been a backhanded blow, but I don't believe that's the case.”

She nodded slowly and turned to face the river. The afternoon light had dulled somewhat, like silver to pewter, and the air off the water smelled fresh and clean. Across the river, cars spilled silently down the I-5 ramp from the Marquam Bridge like lemmings. “I see,” she said. “Well, it's a start.” She put a hand over mine and looked at me. “Cal, you have no idea what your support means to Picasso. He's never had any kind of male role model in his life.”

I nodded, feeling a tinge of discomfort. I wondered just how much she expected from me. But I shrugged the thought off. After all, the sun on my skin felt good, and her hand felt even better. We stood there looking out at the river while I finished talking about the interviews. A cruise ship passed by, heading upriver. Tourists in sunglasses and shirt sleeves were lined up on both decks. It seemed they were all gawking at us—a handsome dog, a beautiful woman, and a lucky man.

I said, “Tell me about yourself, Anna. What brought you to the clinic and a seven day work week?”

She hugged herself, as if suddenly chilled. “I grew up in lower Manhattan, Tribeca. I would've probably stayed back east, but after my brother died, I wanted to get away, far away. I came out here to do my residency at OHSU. A local nonprofit was looking for someone to run a clinic for the homeless just about the time I finished up. It was my dream job, and it didn't hurt that I'd fallen in love with Portland and the Northwest by then. So I applied, and here I am.”

“Sorry about your brother.”

“Thanks. It happened over seven years ago.” She hugged herself again and smiled wistfully. “I still miss him like crazy.”

“I'm sure you do.” I waited, sensing she had more to say.

“Peter was my little brother. There were just two of us. He was the screwup, the poor student, and I was little miss straight-A perfect. At least that's how my parents saw it. Actually, Peter was brilliant. Too brilliant. School bored him to tears.”

“There's nothing worse for a bright kid.”

“That's right. Anyway, he started acting out, using drugs, and wound up on the streets. He died in some kind of fight over a sleeping bag. Stabbed to death.”

“Oh, that's terrible.”

She gazed out on the river and nodded her head slowly. The wind twirled a lock of her hair. “It
was
terrible. My parents essentially disowned him when he started using drugs.” She turned to face me, her eyes suddenly shiny with moisture. “Of course,
I
was too busy at medical school.
I
didn't have time for his problems.” She dropped her eyes and raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, God, there I go. I'm getting morose.”

“No, no, it's okay. I understand.”

She glanced at her watch. “I need to go.”

With Archie between us, we headed back. At the Burnside Bridge stairs a young man sitting on the sidewalk asked us for change. Despite the warm day, he wore the hood of his sweatshirt up. He had a cherub face roughened by a sparse, uneven beard and a large, raw scab on his lip. I started to reach for my wallet, but Anna waived me off with her eyes. She said, “Are you new in town?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Hungry?”

He cast his eyes down and nodded, as if ashamed to admit it.

“The best and cheapest food is at the Sisters of the Road Café. It's at Sixth and Davis. If you can't pay they'll let you work it off.” Then she added, “You need to have that sore on your lip examined.”

He raised a finger to his lip and touched the sore gingerly. I had the impression he hadn't seen his reflection in a mirror in a long time.

Anna handed him a card. “The clinic at this address is free. Drop by and I'll treat it for you.”

He thanked her and as we walked away, I said, “I liked the way you handled that. I never know what to say or what to give these kids.”

Anna laughed. “Yeah, I know. I used to be like an ATM, but I'm older and wiser now. You can buy meal tickets at the Café and give them away when you're stopped. That way you know your money's not going for drugs.”

Picasso was still hard at work when we got back to the clinic. There were six or eight kids in their teens or early twenties lounging on sleeping bags and propped against backpacks there on the field behind him. The mood was festive, enhanced, no doubt, by the joint that was being passed around. Anna said, “They've heard about Picasso's problem. This must be a show of support.”

Up near the front, right below the scaffolding, I noticed Caitlin, the young girl I'd seen that first day. She was leaning back on her arms, watching Picasso sketch. She wore a pink sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, jeans, and hiking boots. Her oval face and bright amber eyes were framed in dark, stringy hair that cried out for shampoo. She had a delicate nose and a wide, full mouth that seemed to smile, even at rest. The angry red blotches of acne on her cheeks did little to detract from her soft beauty. A tall young man sat next to her wearing grubby black jeans and a studded leather jacket. He stood up, stretched, and ran his fingers through shoulder-length blond hair. Anna said, “Uh oh.”

I looked at her. “What?”

She nodded at the young man and said under her breath, “I think that guy's a member of the family Caitlin used to belong to.”

“Family?”

“You know, they hung out together, five or six of them, for safety. They were into petty theft and survival sex. She promised to stay away from them.”

“What's survival sex?”

“Sex for food and money. Some of these kids are forced into it.” She averted her eyes. “Caitlin's seen her share of that.”

I cringed inwardly, thinking of my own daughter, a graduate student at UC Berkeley. I felt a surge of anger bordering on nausea for all the so-called adult males who would stoop to such behavior.

We stood in silence for a while. The rough sketch of the mural was coming together, one square in the grid at a time; each square a proportional representation of a corresponding image in Picasso's sketch book. A stream of humanity spilled from the flanks of Mt. Hood west to the river and across into the center of the city. Ordinary people arm in arm with folk heroes, spiritual leaders, and cultural icons as Picasso saw them. I chuckled and said to Anna, “Look, you're still in there. Who's that next to you?”

Anna laughed. “That's Bono, I think. That's the price I extracted for being in the mural. See the guy on the other side, the one with the beard? I think he's Alan Ginsberg.”

I looked again. “Or Karl Marx.”

We both laughed. “No, it's Ginsberg, for sure,” she said.

When I left the clinic that afternoon, Picasso had finished up for the day. He was standing with his bike on the sidewalk talking to Caitlin. A full head taller than she, he was bent over, listening intently. Her hair jounced as she gestured and talked. Just two young kids hanging out.

Anna went back to work, I dropped my gear off at Caffeine Central, and after feeding Archie, walked over to Jake's Famous Crawfish for dinner. Since I was living rent free, I decided to treat myself to what might be the best seafood restaurant anywhere. I ordered dinner and a glass of Argyle reserve chardonnay, and while I waited for my food, called Nando. I planned to spend at least two days here in Portland, and I needed to get my ducks in a row.

Of course he was appalled I was dining alone. No self-respecting Cuban would ever do such a thing. “At least you are eating well,” he commented, “although some of Jake's dishes are a bit on the bland side for my taste.”

“I'm having the razor clams.”

“A case in point,” he said. “A dish of fried clams should leave your brow dripping with sweat. Unfortunately, Jake's will not have this effect.”

I chuckled. “I'll suffer through.” Then I filled him in quickly on the police interviews.

“I'm not surprised the police think you might have helped the young artist,” he said when I'd finished. “I warned you about getting involved, my friend.”

“I knew that was coming,” I said, barely masking the irritation in my voice. “They were just trying to get a rise out of us, and you know it. To his credit, the kid held up pretty well.”

“What makes you think he didn't kill this man and hide the weapon before you arrived on the scene?”

I struggled for an even voice. “We've been through this already.”

“They will surely find the weapon. What if they accuse you of helping him hide it?”

They already have
, I said to myself. I'd left that part out. “Not likely,” I shot back. Leave it to my friend to show me the downside to my behavior. Anxious to change the subject, I asked, “You got anything for me?”

“We have confirmed that none of the messenger services were used to bring Picasso a message,” Nando answered. “So, it looks like Hartung was lying.”

“The cops will check this, too. Trouble is, they'll think Picasso was lying, not Milo. You got anything else?”

“No. What are you planning to do next?”

I took a sip of wine. “I've been thinking about that half the afternoon. I might as well jump in and start talking to people. See if I can shake something loose.”

“Who did you have in mind?”

“Larry Vincent, Hugo Weiman, and Jessica Armandy, not necessarily in that order. Any way you could set me up?”

“I can probably help you with Armandy and perhaps Weiman. But I have no contacts in the world of radio.”

“Do what you can,” I responded.

My dinner arrived just as Nando and I finished up. The razor clams were exquisite.

Later that night in the apartment above Caffeine Central I worked at my computer while streaming jazz from the local twenty-four-hour station. I was trying to ignore the floral print wallpaper that swirled biliously on the walls of the alcove where I was sitting. During a really good Clifford Brown track, Archie's ears popped up, and he began growling. I turned the volume down and heard someone knocking on the front door of the building. I slipped on my shoes, followed Archie downstairs, and switched on the lights. I started to open the door but thought better of it. “What is it?” I called out.

“I'm looking for Calvin Claxton. I was told he stays here.” The voice was deep, accented.

“What do you want him for?”

“I'm Jessica Armandy's driver. I've been sent to pick him up.”

As usual, Nando hadn't wasted any time. I opened the door. A tall, athletically built man faced me with his arms crossed. He was backlit by a streetlight and all I could make out was a protruding brow, a hawk nose, and a chin like a cinder block. Archie made a low, guttural sound from behind me, signaling his distinct disapproval of the situation.

“Hang on,” I said. “I'll get my coat.”

Chapter Fifteen

I rode in style to the meeting place in a black Lexus with tinted windows next to a sullen, taciturn Russian. I did manage to get his first name—Semyon— and the fact that he'd emigrated from the city of Kursk. His blond hair was cut high and tight, military style and he had a discontinuous, vertical scar on his right cheek that resembled an exclamation point. He was tall and lean and even though he wore a black blazer, I sensed he had a rock-hard upper body. I was surprised when he stopped in front of Mitch Conyers' steak house and said, “She's in the bar, corner table.” I was to learn later that Jessica Armandy held court at this table every night.

I wasn't a high-end steak fancier, so I hadn't eaten at the Happy Angus. The dining room was a traditional affair with tables clad in white cloth and set with silver and crystal in a surround of dark hardwoods, brass fixtures, and somewhat garish art. A wide spiral staircase in the back led to a bar on the second floor that was jammed with a crowd that, from the sound of it, didn't seem too concerned about the passing of Conyers or the approaching work week.

I spotted a corner table with three women seated at it, and as I approached, the older woman in the middle dismissed the other two with a nod of her head in the direction of the bar. Young and attractive, the two women slunk away, drinks in hand, but not before eyeing me with brazen interest. The remaining woman appraised me coolly. “Mr. Claxton. I recognize you from the picture in the paper. I'm Jessica Armandy.” She pointed to a chair across from her with an open hand. “Please join me.” A waitress appeared and I ordered a Mirror Pond. Armandy ordered another Courvoisier with ice.

I could see she was probably in her midforties, but flawlessly applied makeup took a decade off, at least from a distance. She was a striking woman with finely sculpted cheek bones, quick, intelligent eyes, and a wide, sensual mouth. Even seated it was clear her body was sculpted as finely as her face. She wore a richly brocaded silver blouse, black pants, and a lot of jewelry that didn't just
look
expensive.

“Nando Mendoza tells me you want to talk about Mitch Conyers,” she said after the drinks were ordered.

“I understand he was a friend of yours, so first let me offer my condolences.” She acknowledged my statement with a nod. “I'm looking into the murder of Nicole Baxter and wanted to ask you some questions.”

She arched her eyebrows theatrically. “I thought you were the lawyer for that tattooed bastard that killed Mitch.”

“You mean Danny Baxter, Nicole Baxter's son. Actually, he's a witness in the Conyers' case. Despite what you've read, he hasn't been charged with anything. I'm trying to help Mr. Baxter find out who killed his mother.”

Her eyes flared in anger for a moment, and I thought she might lash out at me. But instead she said calmly, “Well, if you think Mitch killed that woman, you're wasting your time.”

“I don't know who killed Nicole Baxter, and Mitch Conyers had a solid alibi thanks to you.”

“That's right. It's all in the police record. They must've questioned me a half dozen times.”

“Was being with him a regular occurrence?”

She rattled the ice cubes in her drink and stared down at them as if deciding whether or not she was going to answer any questions at all. A few moments passed. “He was my mentor. I was just starting out in business, and he gave me lots of good advice.”

“While you were with him, did he ever mention a newspaper story Nicole Baxter was working on when she disappeared, an important story?”

She shook her head. “We never talked about that woman. The only thing I knew about her was that she was some kind of reporter for
The Oregonian
.”

“Did Conyers love her?”

She smiled and looked down at her drink again. “She was a cute little thing, no doubt about it. But the only thing Mitch ever really
loved was money.”

“How about somebody nicknamed X-Man? Does that mean anything to you?”

She wrinkled her brow and smiled. “You're pulling my leg, right?”

I didn't answer.

She took a pull on her drink and shook her head again. “Isn't that some damn superhero movie? Last time I checked, Portland's fresh out of superheroes.”

When I asked about Larry Vincent, the conservative talk show host, she told me she knew of no connection between him and Conyers, and that she didn't know him personally. However, she did admit to being a loyal listener of his show. At that point, she said, “I admire the man. He stands for the second amendment, and he's tough on crime.”

Fortunately, I was between mouthfuls of beer, or I might have sprayed the table. The madam of a high end prostitution ring a law and order type? You've got to be kidding me.

I saved my best shot for last. “I understand Hugo Weiman's a good customer of yours. Did you know he's the owner of the property where Nicole Baxter's remains were found?”

Her eyes widened, then flared anger again as she forced her collagen-laden lips into a tight line. “My customers are
none
of your business, Mr. Claxton,” she said before glancing over at the bar, where Semyon had taken a seat without my noticing.

“Did Conyers and Weiman know each other?”

She wagged a finger at Semyon, and a moment later he was standing next to my chair. She said, “Mitch Conyers was a damn good man. He's not even cold in the grave, and you come around trying to cook up some excuse for the kid who killed him. Well, I can tell you, people in this town won't appreciate that. If you know what's good for you, you'll go back to that hick town in the valley. You're in over your head, Claxton.” With that, she turned to Semyon. “Take him back to Couch Street.”

I stood up. “Thanks for the chat, Ms. Armandy, and thanks for the offer of a ride, but I'll manage on my own.” Then I fished a ten out of my wallet and tossed it on the table. “That's for the beer.”

Cabs don't roam around Portland looking for fares; you have to call them. I didn't feel like doing that, so I decided to walk the six or eight blocks back to Caffeine Central, despite the light mist I encountered out on the street. By the time I crossed Burnside a stiff breeze had kicked up, and rain was dripping from the chins of the twin lions guarding the ornate gate leading to Chinatown. But I didn't feel so cold and damp after passing people bedded down for the night in doorways and alcoves.

I'd decided my chat with Jessica Armandy hadn't been a total bust. After all, I was pretty sure she knew more than she was telling me, particularly about how Hugo Weiman played into this, and her reference to Nicole Baxter as a “cute little thing” was interesting. Did I detect a note of jealousy? Finally, her threats didn't strike me as idle. I made a mental note to watch my back.

I got up early the next morning and walked with Archie over to Whole Foods in the Pearl and stocked up on food. Around nine I clicked on KPOC.com and began streaming their radio broadcast while I worked on a legal brief and made some phone calls. I drifted in and out of listening, catching the beginning of the Larry Vincent show. A resonant voice clicked through an introduction that included phrases like “a voice of sanity and reason in the maelstrom of our political discourse,” and “a gun toting, God fearing, pro-life warrior.”

Ten minutes into the program, which featured frenetic commercials for gold coins and mortgage refinancing made easy, Vincent said, “We're shocked and sickened at the murder of Mitchell Conyers, a leading business figure in Portland.” I snapped to attention. “You probably saw this in the paper, folks. Mitchell Conyers was stabbed to death in his own backyard. A young homeless punk was found at the scene with blood all over him. He has a snake tattooed on his neck. Real wholesome type. He claims he got there
after
Conyers was killed.
Sure he did
. We've talked many times on this program about the dangers these homeless people present to the community. They usually kill each other over drugs or booze, but this time it was an upstanding Portland citizen who got killed. Here's the thing, folks—it's been
four days
, and that homeless dirt bag is still on the streets. My question for the Portland police is, ‘What's taking so long to lock up
snake boy
?' Believe me, folks, we're gonna follow this story until justice is done.”

That unleashed a fusillade of angry phone calls lasting the next forty minutes—“hobo teens” were a criminal threat, panhandling was chasing tourists and shoppers out of downtown, tougher laws or outright eviction from the city were needed. At one point a caller said, “Yeah, Larry, show me a homeless criminal who's free on the street, and I'll show you some bleeding heart liberal with a law degree who's working pro bono to keep him out of jail. Those are the people that ought to be run out of town.”

Shaking my head, I clicked off the web site. Archie looked up at me expectantly. “Well, at least I'm not working pro bono,” I said to him. And that reminded me—I needed to talk to Picasso about my fee.

I called KPOC to see if I could get Larry Vincent to meet with me. The receptionist told me he handled his own appointments, and since he was still on the air, gave me his voice mail. I left a message. I figured the chance of him calling back was low, so I looked up the address and drove over to the studio, a small building on Macadam, south of St. John's Landing. I figured he'd be looking for lunch when he finished, so I parked in the lot and waited. At one end of the Staff Only section I noticed a new, cherry red BMW M3 with a cloth top and a vanity plate that read IMRIGHT. I figured that was Vincent's car.

At twelve eighteen, a man came out of the station and headed for the BMW. He was of medium height with a high forehead and thinning, brownish hair. Nearly pear-shaped, his torso widened below narrow shoulders and a thin chest. I recognized him from the picture on the KPOC website. “Mr. Vincent,” I said as I approached, “can I have a word with you about Nicole Baxter?”

He turned and gave me a pained look. “Who?”

“Nicole Baxter. She's the woman whose body was found recently on the Deschutes River. She'd been missing eight years. ”

“What about her?”

“My name's Cal Claxton.” I handed him a card. “I'm an attorney looking into the case for her son, Daniel Baxter.”

His eyes narrowed as he looked me over more carefully. “You mean you represent that kid who killed Mitchell Conyers?”

“Last time I checked Danny Baxter hasn't been accused of anything.”

He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and spun around. “Get lost, asshole.”

“I'd like to know why you had an appointment scheduled with Nicole Baxter for the week after she disappeared,” I shot back.

“I don't remember that,” he answered with his back to me.

“Yes you do. You handle your own appointments. There's no way you wouldn't have made the connection, considering what happened to her. We can either discuss this now or later at your deposition.” Using the d-word is often a good bluff. I had no grounds for deposing
anyone
about Baxter's disappearance, but I was hoping Vincent didn't know that.

The driver's side door lock released with a solid click, but instead of getting in, Vincent turned to face me. His narrow-set eyes were sepia colored, evasive. He had a thick, crooked nose and a chin that fell away too abruptly below thin, bloodless lips.

“She called one day and made an appointment. Said she wanted to interview me for a story she was doing. She didn't show, and then I realized she was the missing woman I'd heard about. That's it. That's all I know.”

I took him through the rest of my questions and got nowhere. So much for shaking anything loose, I said to myself as he drove off in his shiny new M3. However, there was one thing that caught my attention. By the time we stopped talking, a couple of beads of sweat had formed on his brow, and it was a cool Oregon morning.

I went back to Caffeine Central and spent the afternoon on the phone with clients who thought they were going to meet with me in Dundee. Needless to say, they weren't particularly pleased to be talking to me on the phone rather than in person. By the time I'd finished up and fixed something to eat it was getting dark, but both Archie and I needed some exercise. I leashed him up and we headed for the river. From the Burnside, we jogged past the Hawthorne Bridge, then turned around and came back. The night was clear with a soft wind, and the city lights shimmered on the dark mirror of the river.

I let us back into the building through the front door. The moment I closed it behind me I knew something was wrong without knowing why. Archie halted beside me and we stood silently in the dark, listening. There wasn't a sound. Then it hit me—I was feeling a cool breeze wafting in from the rear of the building, which could only mean the back door, the one I'd left bolted, was open.