I got up to leave, paused at the door, and turned back to him. “I hear you, Detective, but it’s also not very likely Helen Ferris trampled her own goddamn flowers, is it?” With that I turned and left.
Half the day was shot, so I decided to spend the rest of it in Portland rather than Dundee. I had just parked on NE Glisan when Nando’s immaculate black Mercedes-Benz S-Class sedan pulled up and parked two slots ahead of me, which reminded me to get my car washed. He called earlier, and we agreed to meet for lunch at Pambiche, our favorite Cuban restaurant. My friend got out of his car with a Gucci man-purse slung over his shoulder. He wore cream-colored slacks, white suspenders, and a black linen shirt that matched the band in his Panama hat. I looked him over admiringly. “You look like you just arrived from Havana.”
He flashed a brilliant smile. “I am Cuban. We are sharp dressers.”
It was a splendid May morning, so we took one of the small outside tables. “Where is Archie?” he asked as we sat down. “Surely, he is not shut up somewhere on such a beautiful morning.”
“He’s with his new best friend, Angela Wingate,” I answered. “I dropped him by this morning on my way over to Vancouver. They enjoy each other’s company.”
He nodded. “Have you submitted a bill to this young client of yours?” I told him I hadn’t yet, and he fetched a sheet of paper out of his purse and handed it to me. “My expenses for last month.” I looked at it and whistled. He smiled. “Quality investigative work is expensive, my friend.”
I laid the bill down and proceeded to describe Helen Ferris’ death and my fear that the Vancouver Police would view it as an accident. When I finished, he raised an eyebrow. “A hit-and-run that looks accidental, a drunken suicide, and now a fall down the stairs that breaks a neck. This killer is the clever one.”
I nodded. “Someone’s working hard to disguise these murders. They must have a lot to hide.”
“What about your young client? Is she the next one in line?”
I winced inwardly. It was a question I’d been asking myself. “It’s possible, although the events so far can be viewed as unrelated. And if they aren’t, harming her would make the conspiracy obvious.” I went on to describe the three-hundred-thousand-dollar offer tendered by Turner and Avery to Angela and her unambiguous response. “They offered me fifty-thousand, to boot,” I added.
Nando rolled his eyes in disbelief. “The price of integrity is very high, indeed.” He leveled his eyes back at me. “You may be in even greater danger, Calvin.”
I nodded but had more pressing things on my mind. I pointed to the bill he’d given me. “So what am I getting for all this cost?” Before he could answer, our waitress arrived. We both ordered Cuban beer, and I asked for my usual—the fillet of red snapper sautéed in coconut pepper sauce. When Nando ordered the Plato Comunista—a dish made with yucca in a garlic mojo sauce—I did a double take. “You’re getting a vegetarian dish?”
He smiled almost apologetically and patted his ample stomach. “I am watching the figure.”
“So that fancy workout suit you had on the other day’s for real?”
“I have lost five pounds, Calvin,” he replied, looking hurt. “This is serious. My grace on the salsa dance floor is at risk.”
I laughed. “Of course. I see your point.” My Cuban friend went on about his latest salsa dancing exploits until our waiter brought our beers, at which point we got down to it. “So, what have you got?” I repeated.
“The reason you could find nothing on Arrowhead Investments LLC is that the company is listed only in the Cyprus corporate registry.”
“Cyprus?”
“Yes, Cyprus, where there are nearly as many corporations registered as people. It is a very desirable venue for people who wish to hide money or launder it.”
“Now that you know the origin, can you find out who’s behind the shell?”
Nando drank some beer and shrugged. “It is very difficult. Cyprus does not require companies to disclose the identity of officers or directors. They can be from anywhere in the world. I did learn that the incorporation was handled by a man named Costas Zertalis, an attorney living in Nicosia. He’s a Cypriot who specializes in setting up offshore accounts for wealthy Russians, I have learned.”
I set my beer down and leaned forward. “Russians?”
He nodded. “Yes, Putin-connected oligarchs have long preferred using Cyprus as a place to park the money they have stolen from the Russian people. We are talking about big money here, Calvin, and very nasty people.”
“So, Russians are behind Arrowhead?”
Another shrug. “It is impossible to tell. Zertalis does not deal exclusively with Russians.” Our waitress arrived, and after she set the plates down and left, Nando continued, but not before he gazed longingly at my sautéed snapper. “The only hope of finding anything more is through the FBI.”
I laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”
Nando smiled slyly. “Not completely. I have a friend in the Bureau up in Seattle. He is Cuban. He helps me from time to time, small favors. It is not a lot to ask for the names and nationalities of the people who own a corporation. This should be public information, should it not?”
I laughed again. “What did your friend say?”
Nando took an unenthusiastic bite of yucca. “He did not say no.”
I shook my head. The contacts my friend cultivated never ceased to amaze me. “So, what we may be looking at,” I said with a forkful of snapper in my hand, “is that someone’s using the purchase of Wingate Properties to launder a big chunk of dirty money?”
“Yes, that is a strong possibility. Or the purchaser is simply someone wishing to remain anonymous. People with large amounts of money often act in very strange ways.”
I chewed some fish and considered that for a moment. “Would Boyarchenko have that kind of money? We’re talking something in the neighborhood of five-hundred-million dollars, right?”
Nando washed some yucca down with a swig of beer. “It is a lot of money and more than he would be able to launder through his legitimate businesses in Portland.”
I nodded. “Good point. So he needs something big, like Wingate Properties. Still, that seems like a lot of money to wring out of Portland. Have you found anything tying him or his lawyer, Byron Hofstetter, to Wingate?”
“No, not yet.” The sly smile again. “But we have made certain inroads into the lawyer’s office. It is a work in progress.” That was code for “we have hacked his e-mail, stay tuned” so I let it go without comment. When we finished lunch, Nando picked up the tab in appreciation for the work I’d given him. We walked across Glisan together and stopped at my car. He swiped a finger across the door, held it up, and made a face. “This situation is troubling, Calvin. You may be crossing swords with very powerful adversaries. At the very least you should consider protection for the young woman.”
I nodded. “I’m going to see her right now. I’ll let you know.”
Chapter Twenty-three
The storefront at the Bridgetown Artists’ Co-op was closed, so I rang Angela’s studio from the back entry, spoke into the speaker, and a moment later she buzzed me in. I took the back stairs, my eyes adjusting to the dim interior lights just in time to see a silhouetted figure at the top of the stairs. It was Darius, the photographer, and he nodded as he passed me on the way down.
Archie greeted me in the hallway, and I found the door open. My eyes were drawn to the image taped to the wall, which was now complete, the figure seeming to move off the paper with power and a kind of elan I associated with gazelles loping through the veld. Angela was busy on a framework that was the beginning of the right leg in the drawing. Resting on a wooden platform in the center of the room, it rose off the wire outline of a foot, followed the shape of a calf and knee, and ended about mid-thigh, the sharp wire struts pointing at the ceiling. She worked quickly, expertly fe
eding a length of welding rod into the white-hot junction formed by her torch. I had no sooner sat down when her torch sputtered and went out.
She pushed her goggles up and looked at me. “Damn, ran out of gas. Can you give me a hand? Someone borrowed my handcart and hasn’t returned it.” I helped her move the empty tank out and put a fresh tank in place. “I’m old school,” she said. “A lot of sculptors use arc welding, but I like the effects I can get with oxy-acetylene. It’s more work but worth it.”
“How faithfully will you follow the drawing?”
She laughed. “Sculpting’s very intuitive for me. I have to lay in one piece of steel before I know where the next piece goes.” She nodded toward the drawing on the wall. “That figure looks detailed, but it’s really just a guide.” She flipped her goggles back down, ignited her torch with a hand-held sparker, and after adjusting the flame at the tip of her torch, welded in another piece of long, sharp wire. “I’m making the frame now. The detail work will come after I get the shape and proportions the way I want them.”
“How long to finish?”
She shrugged, but the look she shot me was a long way from indifferent. “As long as it takes.”
When she took a break to brew some tea, I said, “There have been some developments.” She took her tea, sat down on the floor next to Arch, and slung an arm over him. I moved my stool over next to the two of them and began bringing her up to date.
“Helen Ferris is dead?” she gasped when I got to that point. “What happened?”
I described what I’d found and told her the Vancouver Police were investigating. We were well past any sugarcoating, so I added, “I think she was murdered to keep her quiet, but the Vancouver Police seem to be leaning toward an accident.”
Her mouth dropped open, and her chocolate eyes stood out against skin gone pale. “You mean you think Melvin and Brice killed her?”
“I don’t know, Angela. But I think the Vancouver Police will at least check to see if they have alibis for last night, based on what I told them about the will. But if I’m right—if she was murdered—then it was probably hired out by whoever’s behind this.”
She focused on something past me for a moment. “First Mom, now Helen.” She swung her eyes to me. They had welled up and were draining tears. Archie drew closer and licked her cheek.
“I don’t have a speck of evidence for any of this, Angela, but I do believe it’s bigger than just Turner and Avery.” Her face grew expectant, but I stopped there, not wishing to divulge the Arrowhead connection. “Meanwhile, I’m concerned about your safety. How important is your marijuana delivery job?”
Her face tightened. “You think I’m next?”
“I don’t want to alarm you, but it’s something we’ve got to consider. Any way you could take a vacation or leave of absence until this gets cleared up?”
“I could just quit now that I have some money in the bank, but it’s the perfect job for an artist, you know? Three, four hours a night, great tips. And I like my life right now. I’m not anxious to make any big changes.” She exhaled a breath in frustration and shook her head. “But I’ve been feeling a little freaked out the last week or so, to tell you the truth.”
“Did you see something?” I asked, growing anxious.
“No, nothing like that. It’s just that some deliveries are in pretty sketch neighborhoods.” She exhaled again. I’ll have to give my boss a couple of days’ notice.”
“Good. Let me know. Meanwhile, can you skip the deliveries to questionable neighborhoods?”
“Yeah. I can do that.”
“What about your bike? Can you put it up for a while, use the Honda during the day?”
She rolled her eyes. “Jeez. Okay.”
Angela went back to sculpting, and I watched her work for a while. Then, after extracting another promise from her to stay in daily contact, I gathered up my dog to leave. At the door, she said with a face full of concern, “What about Herb? What will happen to him?”
“Who’s Herb?”
“Helen’s husband. I met him a couple of times before he got Alzheimer’s. Nice guy. She had to put him in a home last year. Mom said it was a dump, that Helen hated it.”
“The police have notified her next of kin by now. He’ll be taken care of, but I’ll check on him if you want.”
“Would you?”
My phone rang just after we arrived back at Caffeine Central. It was Marnie Stinson. “Hey, Cal, just wanted to let you know you’re on the Land Use Board of Appeals agenda for June 22.”
“Whoa, that’s a short fuse.”
“Sorry, but don’t shoot the messenger. The board’s busy as hell, and I had to pull some strings to slot you in.” I apologized, and she went on, “I did a little digging on your behalf, Cal. If you want to find who hauled the gravel for McMinnville, you might try a guy named Gus Pembroke. He’s retired now, but he ran a big trucking company in the valley for years and knows everyone in the biz.”
I jotted down his name and a phone number she had. “Thanks again, Marnie. Your next divorce and restraining order are on the house.” She laughed at that, but when I hung up I felt no levity. A hearing in a month and a half? I had nothing to go on at the moment except a gut feel that McMinnville Sand and Gravel and H and S were ripping me, my dog, and my neighbors off. On the other hand, a short fuse meant Arch and I could go home soon if I could figure out a way to stop them. If.
I called Gus Pembroke, got his voicemail, and left him a message to call me. Hope springs eternal.
My energy was flagging, so I went upstairs, brewed a double cappuccino and brought it back down to my office. Savoring the almost bitter taste of the coffee tempered by the foamed milk, my thoughts turned back to Angela. She had lost her mother and been warned that her life might also be in danger, but she seemed as concerned about Herb Ferris’ welfare as her own. I was beginning to see that Angela Wingate had a heart that matched her courage.
I promised her I’d follow up on Herb, and I was curious about something related to him as well. She said Helen committed him the year before, yet the letter I saw at the scene suggested he’d recently moved to another facility. Why? I tried to remember the name of the place—Windsor something or other. After a couple of minutes on Google, I found it—Windsor Terrace Memory Care. Located on the northeast edge of Vancouver, the website promised a “warm, elegant care environment” that was “gated to ensure the safety of your loved one,” and provided pictures of the building and the surrounding acres of manicured parkland that looked more like a country club than a care facility. I called, told the receptionist I had important information regarding the family of one of their patients, and was immediately put through to the facility manager, a woman named Harriet Balfour, possessor of a very soothing voice.
“Thank you for that information, Mr. Claxton,” she said when I explained the reason for my call. “The police have already contacted us regarding Mrs. Wingate’s unfortunate accident, and we’re taking the appropriate steps with Herbert.”
Accident? “That’s a relief,” I said, then added, “uh, I just happen to be shopping for a home for my Uncle Charles. Would you mind if I asked a few questions about Windsor Terrace?” She said of course she wouldn’t mind. After listening to a description of their care philosophy, their compassionate, highly trained staff, and their incomparable amenities, I said, “What would it cost me to place my uncle with you?”
“Well,” she said, our single rooms start at six-thousand dollars, our luxury suites at seventy-five hundred, not including the cost of medications and non-routine medical care.”
“A month?” I blurted.
“Of course,” she said, her voice having suddenly acquired a harder edge. I half expected her to say, ‘If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.’
I thanked her, hung up, and sat there thinking. Angela said Helen disliked the first facility
she’d placed Herbert in, then she moves him to a luxury facility right after Margaret Wingate is killed. Unless she had incredible insurance, no way she could afford seventy-two-thousand dollars a year to keep him there. I looked at Arch. “Looks like a payoff to me. What do you think, Big Boy?” His ears came up in obvious agreement.
I made two phone calls after signing off with Harriet Balfour. First, I called Detective McWhirter, who listened politely as I recounted what I just learned. Judging from some of the details he repeated back to me, at least he took notes, although his tone was decidedly skeptical. “Thanks for the input, Mr. Claxton. We’ll be in touch if we have any further questions.” I asked how the investigation was going, to which he replied, “The usual, waiting for the ME’s report.” That’s all he would tell me.
I called Nando next. “I know that the Vancouver Police can go for a warrant to look at the medical payment records,” I told him after he balked at my request, “but we both know that will be tough and take forever. And, besides, they might not even bother. They’re still leaning toward accident.”
He sighed heavily into the phone. “Why is it that the jobs you give me are so difficult, Calvin?”
“Because you’re the best PI in the Northwest?”
He boomed his baritone laugh. “Ah, the inevitable flattery. You know it is my weakness.”
Chapter Twenty-four
That evening I left Archie behind at Caffeine Central, fought the traffic out SE Foster to the Swanson Motel, and parked across the street from the only entrance at six-forty. True to the handyman’s word, a low-slung, cherry red Fiat Spider swung off the highway and into the motel parking lot at 6:58, “like clockwork.” I followed at a respectable distance and watched the driver park. Tall and thin with dark, receding hair, a hawk nose, and thoroughly inked-up sleeves, Spider-Man got out, knocked at room 328, and was let in. I caught a glimpse of short shorts and spike heels at the door. I parked in front of room 335, feeling, if not optimistic, at least hopeful. Lenny the Fox had died in room 335, and the timing and location of Spider-Man’s visit was about right for him to have seen something.
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