“Not really,” I responded but didn’t press it. “Why are you so anxious to have us drop the probe?”
Turner started to reply, but Avery cut him off. “That’s the right question, Claxton, and the answer’s simple. We’re in delicate negotiations right now to sell the company, which was Margaret’s stated desire. Lawyers are crawling all over this deal. The slightest hint that there’s someone contesting the will would kill the sale in a New York minute.”
“Of course, we also want to do right by Angela,” Turner chimed in.
“Of course.” I leaned back and regarded them both. “What kind of monetary payment did you have in mind?”
Avery turned to Turner, relinquishing the floor. “We’re prepared to offer Angela a one-time payment of two-hundred-fifty thousand dollars, and for your services, a payment of fifty-thousand dollars.” I held the neutral expression on my face and didn’t respond. Turner glanced at Avery again before going on. “There is, ah, some flexibility in these numbers.”
“I’m listening.”
“We could go to two-hundred-seventy-five thousand for Angela.”
“Tell you what. Make it three-hundred for Angela, and I’ll take the offer to her. Otherwise, forget it.”
Turner’s face flushed as he started to speak, but Avery cut him off. “Fine. But that’s our final offer.” He nodded at the attaché case sitting on the floor next to Turner. “Give him the non-disclosure agreement, Mel.” Then he swung his eyes back to me. “If you and Angela find the agreement acceptable, simply sign it, and we’ll make the payments forthwith.”
I got up, struggling not to show my contempt. I felt like I needed a shower. “Thank you, gentlemen. That’s very generous of you. I’ll discuss your offer with my client. We’ll be back to you, uh, forthwith.”
As I was showing them out, I said, “So, who’s the lucky buyer?”
Turner laughed. “Oh, you know how hush-hush these deals are.”
Avery cut me a look and smiled with one side of his mouth. “If we told you that, we’d have to kill you, Claxton.”
Chapter Eighteen
The full-size drawing of the jogger on the wall in Angela’s studio was nearly complete. It was an hour after my meeting with Turner and Avery, and I stood in front of it, admiring the way she had brought the image to life and captured a sense of movement. I had seen a couple of pictures of Margaret Wingate and could see more than a hint of resemblance in the strong nose and the high, prominent cheekbones of the woman in the sketch, all rendered in a crosshatch of intricate lines that would eventually become threads of steel. It was uncanny.
Angela was brewing a cup of tea, and Archie was monitoring the proceedings from what had become a favorite corner, according to his host. When she finished, I took her through what just transpired at Caffeine Central. “Oh, my God,” she said, her eyes huge, a hand to her mouth, when I got to the amount of the offer. “Are they serious?” I nodded, and her eyes narrowed down and her face grew rigid. “You know I don’t want their money, Cal. They’re trying to buy me off.”
“I know that, but as your attorney I’m obligated to bring the offer to your attention. It’s a lot of money, Angela.”
Her eyes shot daggers. “What? You think I should take it?”
“I didn’t say that. But I want you to think it through. If you take the money, you’ll have to sign an agreement stating you will not challenge the will.”
“But that’s not what we’re doing, right?”
I smiled. “That’s right. We’re investigating your mom’s death, but they think we’re focused on the will to get more of the estate.”
She laughed, then furrowed her brow. “So, we could take the money, sign the agreement, and still keep investigating?”
I frowned. “You could do that, I suppose, but it would expose both of us to a potential lawsuit. In any case, I won’t take any money from them under any circumstances.”
Her eyes brightened. “Whew! For a moment there, I wasn’t sure where you were going with this. I don’t want a cent of their filthy money, either. Fuck ’em. That’s what I say.”
I nodded. “Okay, I’ll tell them we’re not interested in their deal.” At this point I admit to a couple of fleeting thoughts about how nice it would have been to put a new roof on my Dundee office and pay off a chunk of my mortgage. I leveled my gaze at her. “It’s possible that what motivated the offer is what they said—that they don’t want their buyer to get cold feet. But there’s another possibility, Angela. If the will was forged and they’re somehow involved in your mom’s death, then turning their offer down signals that we’re going to keep digging. This could put you in danger.”
She held my gaze. “You, too.” I nodded. “I understand that, Cal, but no way I’m backing off. If they hurt Mom, they’re going to pay big-time.”
I left Angela that day not the least bit surprised at the outcome of our discussion. She was young and brash, after all, and intent on finding out what happened to her mother. And money meant nothing to her. Young and brash, but innocent, too, about just how malevolent some people are. The outcome was as it should have been, but at the same time, I felt a new monkey crawl onto my back. It looked like she and I were openly squaring off against some heavy hitters, and it would fall to me to keep her safe.
I made it to my office in Dundee that afternoon just in time for a meeting with a new client. The man, in his late fifties, explained that he’d been fired from his delivery job for refusing to text while he was driving his truck. “That’s right,” he explained. “My boss expected an instant reply, even if I was behind the wheel. He kept chewing me out, and when I finally complained up the line, he fired me.” The man’s jaw quivered. “I’ve got twenty years with the company, Mr. Claxton. I need this job.”
I had him take me through the details, took some notes, and summed up the meeting: “You can’t be fired in Oregon for refusing to break the law. That’s called wrongful termination. I’ll contact the company and inform them of our intent to sue unless they reinstate you. If they stonewall us, we’ll talk about next steps and costs.” The man left looking visibly relieved, and I had a letter drafted fifteen minutes later.
I’d call that a good start to my workday.
I called Melvin Turner’s office next, was put through to his voicemail by his secretary, and left a message: “Hello, Melvin. I have discussed your offer with my client, Angela Wingate, and she stated unequivocally that she is not interested in accepting money in any amount in exchange for dropping the probe on Margaret Wingate’s will. Neither am I. Good luck with the sale.” I hung up and composed a letter summarizing the meeting with Turner and Avery and restating Angela’s and my decision. I printed out three copies, signed them, and put them in envelopes addressed to Melvin Turner, Brice Avery, and Angela Wingate. This was evidence of a cover-up, and I wanted it in writing.
The die was cast.
Around three-thirty, I closed up shop, loaded Arch in my old Beemer, and drove to H and S Landscape and Construction Supply, just off the 99W in Newberg. A woman in the office told me I could find the boss, Dudley Cahill, out in the yard. “He told me to send you on out when you got here.” She sounded a bit apologetic. “He’s probably at the chipper, so follow the noise. He’s a big guy wearing a plaid shirt. Can’t miss him.”
On my way out, I noticed a handsomely framed aerial view of the property showing the layout of the property and where the various building materials were located and stored. At the time, I had no way of knowing how important that picture would turn out to be.
Cahill was huddled with two other men next to a piece of equipment that reminded me a lot of the portable rock crusher behind the Aerie, except that instead of being fed rocks, this behemoth was eating thick tree branches and spitting out compostable material at the other end. A big man with a weightlifter’s build and a ball cap facing backwards, Cahill broke off his convers
ation as I approached. “Mr. Claxton?” he asked, the greeting a bit frosty.
I introduced myself and explained the reason for my visit, although I was pretty sure he already knew why I was there. When I finished, he said, “Well, all I can tell you is that I sent copies of our sales records to the county, like McMinnville requested. I can’t help it if it spells bad news for you.” He flashed a patronizing smile. “You know, Mr. Claxton, we need aggregate to build roads, just like we need trees to build homes and make your toilet paper.” I started to respond, but he cut me off. “I’ll bet the folks you bought your farmhouse from didn’t complain about living next to an active mine. Comes with the territory in Oregon, you know.”
Heat rose up from my neck, but I didn’t take the bait. It was a familiar argument between those who wanted unrestrained access to the state’s resources and those who didn’t. The answer lay somewhere in the middle, but I didn’t want to pick that scab with this guy. “I’m just making sure the law’s being followed here. You’re certain the sales records you submitted to the county are completely accurate?” He nodded. “What about supporting evidence, like receipts for the delivery of the gravel. Do you have those?”
He laughed. “That was twelve years ago. We were lucky to find the sales records.” He fixed me with narrowed eyes. “Face it, Mr. Claxton, McCallister’s back in business. Welcome to Oregon.”
I swallowed a sarcastic comeback and left without saying another word. Probably just as well. I wasn’t keen to get fed to the chipper.
On the way out, I passed a row of cavernous, four-sided bins where H and S stored its inventory of gravel. The bins were empty, and a sign posted next to them read: “Temporarily out of stock. Enquire at office for allocation details.”
The aggregate was on back-order? No wonder McCallister was being pressed back into service. Demand was high, and there was money to be made. And no question, Dudley Cahill had been prepped by someone for my visit. The air reeked more of collusion than compost that day, and I wasn’t sure what the hell I could do about it.
Chapter Nineteen
That afternoon I stopped in the Pearl District for a quick grocery shopping tour. I was missing Winona and flummoxed about the situation at the Aerie and figured a good meal might boost my spirits. Mid-season Dungeness crabs were on sale. They looked so good I bought two big ones, figuring I could freeze one. I added a baguette of sourdough bread, a head of cabbage, a bag of carrots, and a bottle of Moulin de Vries Sancerre to the basket. The meal was shaping up.
Back at Caffeine Central, I fed Arch, poured myself a glass of wine, and had just off-loaded the groceries when a text pinged in:
Hi Cal, I’m in the neighborhood. Free to talk? Tracey.
I texted her back and turned off the burner as my stomach rumbled. When I heard her knock downstairs, I leaned out the window. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
Wearing her jogging attire, she looked up and laughed. “I know. It’s my fault, but I run right by here.”
Sure you do, I said to myself as I took the stairs down to the first floor. I let her in and showed her into my office, but before she could sit down, I had another hunger pang. I said, “Look, Tracey, I was just fixing dinner. I’ve got an extra crab. Why don’t you join me?”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” she said, then added with a slightly inflected eyebrow, “An extra crab?”
“Yeah, I just picked up two nice Dungeness.”
She gave me a faux pained look. “That’s unfair. How did you know I have a weakness for Dungeness crabs?”
I chuckled. “Just a hunch. Come on up. We can talk while I cook.”
Archie greeted her at the top of the stairs, and after I poured her a glass of Sancerre, she settled in a chair at the small kitchen table.
“I’ve got a good PI working on finding out who’s behind Arrowhead Investments,” I said while I put on a large steamer pot of water for the crabs. “He hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”
She nodded with a look that landed somewhere between disgust and resignation. “Well, I won’t hold my breath. Judging from the national scene, if it’s a front for offshore money, it’ll be next to impossible to trace.” She raised her eyes to mine. “I need some ammunition, Cal. The North Waterfront Project looks unstoppable right now. Poindexter’s pushing for an early hearing, and I think I may be the only City Council member against it.”
“Is there a timeline?”
“Not yet.”
“What about the mayor?”
“Still noncommittal.”
While she went on about the City Council, I finished grating the cabbage and started on the carrots, and when she tilted another eyebrow, I said, “Coleslaw. Trust me, you’ll love it.”
“The man cooks, as well,” she said with a sly grin. “What other hidden talents do you have?”
I shrugged. “Fly fishing?”
She laughed. “Just living the Oregon dream, huh?”
“When time permits. What about your source? Anything?”
“No. As a matter of fact, he said that the security around the project has tightened up. Brice Avery sent out a memo stating all information regarding North Waterfront should not be shared with anyone outside the company, and leaks are a firing offense.”
“Is that unusual for a big project like this?”
“Well, he said the firing threat was a little over the top.”
The water was boiling, so I took the crabs out of the refrigerator, one in each hand, my fingers stretching to grasp the heart-shaped shells, the big claws dangling like pairs of industrial tin snips. Tracey sucked a breath. “Oh, those are beautiful!”
I eased the crabs into the steamer basket, put the lid on the pot, and set to work melting butter and toasting some sesame seeds for the slaw dressing. I pointed to the pan with the sesame seeds. “Your job is to make sure I don’t burn those. I do it practically every time.”
She laughed and nodded, watching as I mixed the dressing—sesame oil, rice vinegar, sugar, salt, and peanuts—and, after tasting it, set it aside. “You don’t measure anything, do you?”
“Not if I can help it.” After putting plates, silverware, and a crab cracker on the table, I said, “Is your source still willing to help you?”
“Yes, I think so, but he’s a little unnerved by the firing threat.”
I hesitated for a moment, then decided to risk it. “I’m wondering if he could tell us if there’s any connection between Wingate Properties and a man named Ilya Boyarchenko?”
Tracey’s eyes enlarged. “The guy who’s rumored to be the Russian Mafia czar?”
“Yeah, that Boyarchenko. I’m looking for anything, no matter how slight, that might connect him to the company, to Brice Avery, or to Melvin Turner.”
“My God, the Russian Mafia? What’s going on?”
I shrugged a shoulder. “Probably nothing, but if there’s a connection, it would join a couple of dots I’ve been wondering about.”
She leaned back, crossed her arms, and eyed me. “There you go again, keeping me in the dark. I thought this was quid pro quo?”
I smiled. “Bring me something on Boyarchenko and we’ll talk.”
Her eyes flashed daggers. “Cal, you know—”
Ping. The timer on the stove announced the crabs were ready. Saved by the bell, at least temporarily. I removed the crabs, assembled the slaw, poured the melted butter in a dish, and sliced the bread. After putting everything on the table, I sat down across from her. “Bon appétit.”
Tracey must have been as hungry as me, because we both attacked our crabs in silence for a few minutes, dipping each bite in the butter, and passing the cracker back and forth. Like me, she started with one claw then the other, the legs next, and finally, after popping the shell off, the cache of flaky white meat in the creature’s body. I was charmed by the look of sheer enjoyment on her face as she ate.
I topped up our glasses, and after we passed the cracker back and forth several more times, our fingers inadvertently touched for an instant. I averted my eyes, but something passed between us, not unlike an electric current. Whoa, I said to myself. No more wine for you. I was sure she felt it too, but when I glanced back at her, she was tasting the slaw. “Umm,” she said again. This goes perfectly with the crab. Where did you learn to cook like this?”
The question caught me off guard, triggering a surge of memories of my wife, then, unexpectedly, thoughts of Winona, whom I cooked for a great deal. I forced a smile and topped up her wine again as a distraction from looking at her nutmeg eyes or the hint of cleavage below her slender neck. “The school of culinary hard knocks.”
She laughed. “No. Seriously. I’m curious.”
“Well, I, uh, after my wife died, it was learn to cook or live my life eating crappy packaged foods.”
I figured the mention of my wife’s death would blunt her foray into my personal life, and I was right. After expressing her condolences, she drew her face into a serious look. “So, you won’t give me the complete picture of what’s going on at Wingate Properties. Why?”
“I can’t, Tracey. It’s premature, and there are client confidentiality issues. But I can tell you this. I’m working on a theory that could stop the North Waterfront Project dead in its tracks.”
She drank some wine and ran a finger along the edge of the scarred tabletop before looking up. “Okay. I want to stop a development Portland doesn’t need. What you’re working on is obviously much bigger. I can live with that. Just remember that time’s running out at City Council.”
I thought about my visit from Turner and Avery and chuckled without mirth. “Don’t worry. I have a sense of urgency.”
She offered to help me clean up the kitchen, but I demurred. Frankly, I wanted her out of my apartment—there was too much going on between us. I walked her down the stairs, relieved that she was on foot, since she seemed a little tipsy. There was still plenty of light, and when we stepped out on the sidewalk, she turned, offered her hand, and when I took it, pulled me to her and kissed me full on the lips. “Thanks for the wonderful meal, Cal Claxton.”
Moving Targets Page 12