“Good God,” Tracey said, her eyes registering something between surprise and delight. “Boyarchenko?”
“It’s possible.”
She leaned back, tapped her lips with a finger, and smiled. “If I could say that Ilya Boyarchenko’s money is behind the North Waterfront Project, that would help my case immensely.”
I put up both hands. “Whoa, Tracey. I don’t know that. And if word of any of this gets out, all bets are off for ever getting to the bottom of it.”
She placed both palms on the edge of my desk and narrowed her eyes. “I’m not going to say anything, but I just gave you some valuable information. I know there must be a hell of a lot more to this than just a forged will. You owe me the whole story. Quid pro quo, remember?”
Sure, she kept showing up at Caffeine Central, flirting, wanting to partner, and anxious to gain information. I was a little suspicious, but I had to admit I was taken by her forthrightness, to say nothing of her charms. And my gut still said I could trust her. Now, with her revelation of the upcoming meeting, she was right. I owed her an explanation, so I laid out what I had, excluding what I’d just learned about Mystery Man.
When I finished, she had a sober look on her face. “My God, Cal, Margaret Wingate and two others murdered by people who want to launder money and gain control of Wingate Properties and the North Waterfront Project? That’s horrifying.”
“That’s what it looks like, but all I have is circumstantial evidence, and events are working against my ever being able to prove it. Margaret Wingate’s hit-and-run case is going cold, Lenny the Fox’s death was ruled a suicide, and the Vancouver Police are leaning toward declaring Helen Ferris’ death accidental.”
“What about the forged will? Can you challenge it?”
I shrugged. “Maybe, but proving a document’s forged is an uphill slog. All you need for a good forgery is a light table. And it doesn’t get me where I want to go, anyway.”
“What about Avery and Turner? They’re obviously dirty. At the very least, Turner must have been in on the forgery.”
“It would appear so, but they’ve covered their tracks carefully. I need a way into this thing. Maybe the upcoming meeting will give me something to work with.”
The room went silent, except for a wailing siren in the distance. Tracey said, finally, “Meanwhile, the skids are greased for the North Waterfront Project. Looks like it will come up for a vote in June if not sooner.” Her expression turned bitter. “Poindexter’s pushing this like some ass-kissing K Street lobbyist. It’s disgusting.”
“Maybe he’s on the take. Is that possible?” I went on to tell her about seeing Poindexter talking to Boyarchenko at the ground-breaking ceremony for the Russian Cultural Center.
Her look turned thoughtful. “Fred talks to a lot of people in this town, so I’d hate to impugn his motives based on that, but yeah, I wouldn’t rule it out based on the way he’s behaving now.”
We kicked that around for a while, and Tracey agreed to do some digging on Portland Planning Commission Chairman Fred Poindexter. When the conversation finally hit a lull, Tracey eyed me. “How are things with Winona?”
I shook my head. “Not good. We’ve basically broken up, I guess. I think she’s sort of re-evaluating her life right now. I don’t know where she’s going to come out.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that Cal. How do you feel about it?”
“Not good.”
An awkward pause ensued before Tracey got up and walked to the door. She turned to me, placed a hand on my wrist, and said, “If you want to talk about it, call me, Cal. Anytime.” Her hand was warm, her nutmeg eyes with their little pots of gold soft and inviting, and I could smell lavender in her hair.
When I didn’t respond, she turned and left.
Chapter Twenty-six
Helen Ferris’ obituary appeared in the Sunday Oregonian. Survived by her husband, a daughter, and a brother, she worked for Turner, Ross, and Steinman for twenty-four years, I noted. A loyal employee, no doubt. It wasn’t hard for me to imagine her being turned. After all, the forged will basically left the proceeds of the sale of Wingate Properties to charity. Who could argue with that? And as a small token of appreciation, she was able to move her husband out of a flea trap and into a fine assisted-care facility.
The obit also stated that she died from “an accidental fall in her home” and would be buried the following Tuesday. On Monday morning, I called Detective McWhirter to confirm that the Vancouver Police had declared her death an accident. “No,” he told me, “we haven’t closed her case just yet, but we saw no reason to discourage the family from using that explanation.”
“You mean you’re still investigating it as a suspicious death?”
He chuckled. “Technically, it’s open, but I don’t think it will be for too much longer. Turner and Avery both have airtight alibis for that night, and Turner’s offered to open up his books regarding Margaret Wingate’s will. Meanwhile, the ME confirmed there were no suspicious marks on Ferris’ body. Not much to go on, I’m afraid.”
“What about her husband’s medical expenses? Who’s paying that?”
“That’s a loose end we’re checking, but I doubt we’ll get a judge to sign off on a warrant. Look, Mr. Claxton, I’ve already told you more than I should. There just isn’t any blood in this stone.”
It was no use arguing. I thanked him and punched off. I’d figured I couldn’t count on the Vancouver P.D., and I was right. For a few agonizing moments, doubts crept in. Unlocked doors, a crumpled pizza box, and crushed flowers were flimsy pieces of evidence at best, and maybe Helen put her husband in upscale Windsor Terrace as a gesture of love, knowing he wouldn’t live much longer.
But I caught myself. Nah, she was murdered by Mystery Man.
On Tuesday morning, I worked from my Caffeine Central office, dressed in gray slacks, a blazer, and a dark tie that I fished out of my closet at the Aerie the night before. Helen Ferris’ funeral was that afternoon in Portland, and I planned to pay my respects. I had another motive as well—I wanted to take a shot at Melvin Turner, the weakest link in the conspiracy chain I’d forged. Admittedly a gut feel, I sensed Turner was conflicted by something, and whatever it was, his business partner, Brice Avery, didn’t appear to share it. I had no script for the encounter and wasn’t even sure the opportunity would present itself, but like Hippocrates said, desperate times require desperate measures.
Clouds rolled in off the Pacific, scaled the Coast Range, and by Tuesday afternoon were shedding a light, steady patter of rain on the city. Out on the street, Portlanders picked up their pace, but I didn’t see many umbrellas. In this town, umbrellas were for wimps, tourists, and new arrivals from California. I parked on SW Alder, fed the meter, and headed toward the historic First Presbyterian Church, a stately Victorian gothic with a gabled, copper clad roof, arched stained-glass windows, and a towering, needlepoint spire. Helen Ferris was a Portland native who’d gone to Lincoln High School and Portland State, just a mile from the church. She must have had a lot of friends and relatives, because I saw a long line of somberly clad people waiting to file into the sanctuary.
I hung back across the street and a half block down until they’d all gone in, then started to cross over when I saw someone vaguely familiar approaching on the other side. He was scurrying, pushing his heavy frame along in a near duck waddle. Melvin Turner. I stopped and watched him enter the church, pleased he arrived without his wife and kids, a potential stroke of good luck. I waited a couple of minutes, then entered the sanctuary and took a seat in an empty row at the back.
A funeral can leave people emotionally vulnerable, which gave me a great opportunity to confront Turner. What I forgot to factor in was that it would do the same for me, and when the massive pipe organ kicked in with a godawful dirge, I was swept back to that black day we buried my wife, Nancy, in L.A. Those memories triggered all-too-familiar pang
s of guilt and self-doubt, which I fought through as the minister droned on about hope and everlasting life. Finally, brighter thoughts of Nancy emerged. Sure, she’d given up on life, but that was because of her depression, not because she was a quitter. She was passionate about helping the vulnerable—whether it was a stray dog or a homeless person, it didn’t matter. I smiled as a fragment of a memory crept in from back before the darkness struck her. We were on our way to the beach with the top down in the old Camaro we owned before Claire was born. Nancy was singing along with Joan Baez to There But For Fortune at the top of her lungs. That song pretty much summed up her philosophy. She tolerated my long hours and missed vacations but was often skeptical of my role as a prosecutor. “Why are so many of your defendants the marginalized and persons of color?” she would ask. “When are you going to go after someone wearing a tie?” I was too busy climbing the ladder to respond to her questions in any substantive way. After all, prosecutors were the good guys, weren’t they?
But that all changed after her death, when I was forced to examine my life with brutal honesty….
I snapped back to the present as the minister brought Helen Ferris’ mourners out of deep prayer. I took a breath, let it out slowly, and felt my moorings reattach. Was I sticking my neck out too far this time? Hell, no, I told myself. Nancy would have expected nothing less.
I slipped out of the sanctuary ahead of the crowd, went in the direction I’d seen Turner come from, and stepped into an alcove at a side entrance to the church to wait for him. A good fifteen minutes passed, during which the rain abated somewhat. I’d almost given up when he walked by the alcove without noticing me. I fell in behind him, and when he tripped the locks on his Mercedes with his key fob, I said, “How was the service, Melvin?”
He spun around and looked at me, his dark, liquid eyes wide with surprise behind the wire rims. “What the hell are you doing here, Claxton?”
“Same thing as you—paying my respects. I found her body, you know.”
He stiffened, and his pinkish forehead grew four evenly spaced furrows. “And you suggested to the Vancouver Police that Brice and I might have had something to do with her death, didn’t you? What have you been smoking, Claxton?”
I chuckled. “Hey, all I told them was that I had questions about the will you and Helen produced. They were just doing their cop thing. But since you brought it up…” I kept the smile but fixed him with my eyes. “Did you have anything to do with her death?” I hadn’t meant to go that far, but saw a chance to get a good read.
His cherub cheeks flushed red, and I half expected the droplets of rain on his bald spot to boil off. He held my gaze, though. “Of course not, you slanderous bastard. Helen was a loyal employee and a good friend.”
“Loyal enough that she helped you alter Margaret Wingate’s will?”
He took a step toward me, his eyes nearly filling the rims of his glasses. “That’s laughable. You have no proof of that. You should have taken the money, you idiot.”
“You’re right, I probably should have. And now Helen’s dead. How convenient.”
He raised his arm and pointed a chubby finger at me. “If you think for a moment that I—”
“Is there a problem here, Mel?” We both turned to the street to see Brice Avery, who had pulled to a stop in his forest green Jaguar. He put the car in park, said something to the attractive woman next to him, who I assumed was his wife, and got out. “What the hell are you up to now, Claxton?” he said as he approached. “You chase funerals as well as ambulances, I see.”
I shrugged. “Just having a little chat with Melvin here. You’re, uh, double parked.”
Turner grumbled something close to a laugh and looked at Avery. “He’s suggesting Helen’s death wasn’t an accident.”
Avery, who had positioned himself between us, looked at me first and then turned his head toward Turner. “Of course he is. He’ll say anything to keep his fake game alive.” He turned back to me, his gray eyes narrowing down, hard as gunmetal. “Listen, asshole, you were made a generous offer to drop this witch hunt, but you were too stupid to take it. And, of course, you were professionally negligent in advising your client not to take an even better deal. You’ve been warned.” He glanced back at Turner before continuing. “If you go public with any of this nonsense, we’re going to take you down piece by piece, and your liability insurance won’t even pay the bar bill.”
Turner laughed. It sounded like relief. “Yeah, you’ll be defending against lawsuits till you go broke and then some.”
I felt heat rise from the soles of my feet. I nodded and swung my eyes from Turner to Avery. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do. If you did nothing wrong, you have nothing to worry about.” With that, I spun around and walked away.
I made the message clear—I was not backing off—and I knew there would be consequences. These guys weren’t bluffing. Then, again, neither was I.
That night, as I was cooking dinner in the galley kitchen, Angela called. “Hey,” she said, “just checking in to let you know everything’s cool.”
“How’s the jogger coming along?”
“Slow, but I’ve got to get the framework just right or the piece won’t work.”
“Have you talked to the pot shop?”
“Yeah, they said I’m a star employee, and they’ll take me back any time.” She laughed. “They’re pretty chill. Smoke a lot of their own shit.”
I laughed. “When’s your last night?”
“Tomorrow.” She laughed again. “They even put a note on their website saying goodbye to me.”
“Good. No sketchy deliveries tonight, right?”
“Don’t worry, I got this.”
“I know you do.”
I’m not the psychic type at all, but something told me not to leave that last delivery night to chance.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I got a call the next morning from a lawyer representing the delivery company who’d fired my client for refusing to text while driving. “We can’t take him back, Mr. Claxton,” she told me, “but in view of his length of service we’re willing to offer him a severance package.”
“What sort of package?”
“Pay for unused vacation of two weeks plus an extra five hundred dollars.
I laughed. “I’m not even going to take that insulting offer to him. Do we really have to do this dance?”
“What dance?” She said, trying to insert some indignation into her voice without success.
I could tell she was inexperienced and felt bad about being rude, but I was in no mood to be patient. I sighed into the phone. “The dance that starts with you making a ridiculously lowball offer as a negotiating strategy. My client’s not interested in negotiating. He wants his job back, pure and simple. If he doesn’t get it, we’ll see you in court. Tell your client that, please, and spare me the charade.”
She said she’d relay the message and hung up, glad, I’m sure, to be rid of such a grouch. I looked over at Arch and said, “Lawyers. Spare me.” He looked up, as if fully aware of the irony of my statement.
Later that morning, Gus Pembroke called me back. “I found the two outfits that trucked gravel for McMinnville back then,” he explained. “Barker Brothers and Tomkins. Called ’em both just to confirm.” He paused for a moment. “The news isn’t good, Mr. Claxton—they both told me they didn’t have records for that period. It was like they were expecting my call.”
“You think McMinnville got to them?”
“Yep. I’m sure that’s what happened. They’re not going to bite the hand that fed them.”
I thanked Gus for the help and slumped back in my chair. I had to admit it. I was flat out of ideas. At that point, I did the unthinkable—I tapped “Real estate agents, Newberg, Dundee, McMinnville” into my search engine, jotted down a couple of phone numbers that popped up, and arranged t
o meet two agents at the Aerie the next week for a walk-through and estimate of market value. It wasn’t going to be pretty. A house sitting on the edge of an active mining operation is not in what you’d call a plum location. And you know what they say about real estate—location, location, location.
I left my Dundee office for Portland around three that day, hoping to beat the traffic, but by the time I reached the I-5 from the 99W, things were moving like a conga line of banana slugs. Just like my old stomping grounds, L.A., the concept of a rush hour was losing its meaning. All hours were becoming rush hours. An hour later I parked down from Nando’s Sharp Eye Detective Agency. He had called earlier to say he had some new information for me.
“Hi, gorgeous,” I greeted his secretary, Esperanza, who, like her boss, was always at the leading edge of the sartorial curve.
She flashed a brilliant smile framed by heart-red lipstick. “Go on in, Cal. He’s expecting you.” I walked ahead, but Archie parked at Esperanza’s desk for the treat he knew was coming. “He can stay out here with me,” she said, offering him a Milk-Bone. “We need to catch up.”
“I know, my friend,” Nando was saying on the telephone, “it is a sad story you are telling me, but I still need the rent by the end of the month.” With that, he clicked off, looked up at me, and shook his head. “Being a landlord is not easy. Always the long stories and the short payments.”
My capitalist friend owned a sizable assortment of low-rent bungalows and apartments off Division near the 205, which were coming into the crosshairs of developers as gentrification oozed eastward in Portland. He was softhearted, but he loved money, too, and I wondered if he would sell out for what would be a very handsome profit. “You’re not thinking of selling your southeast holdings, are you?”
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