Moving Targets

by Warren C Easley

  Both cops looked at me and said in near unison, “Contract killer?”

  I owed them an explanation, but I was in a lot of pain. I exhaled a breath. “It’s complicated, so bear with me.”

  We finished up forty-five minutes later. No police calls came through during that time, either. Nightshade had apparently made a clean getaway. Angela phoned her boss at Bright Flower Buds, and he agreed to cancel her remaining five deliveries. I followed her back to Clinton Street and waited with my right arm tucked against my chest while she returned the undelivered marijuana and said her goodbyes.

  Back at her car, she said, “My boss thinks it was an attempted robbery. I didn’t argue the point.” She locked her eyes on mine. They registered more excitement than fear. “Do you really think he was a hit man?”

  “Yes. I think he planned to kill you and make it look like a robbery. He matched the rough description I have, and the fact that he was trained in the martial arts seems to fit. Someone with similar skills probably killed Helen Ferris.” The excitement drained off, leaving only fear in her eyes. “I had an uneasy feeling about tonight,” I continued. “He could have seen that item on their website about it being your last night and figured he didn’t want to miss an opportunity.”

  She swallowed and blinked a couple of times. “I’m so glad you did that.” She moved to hug me, and when I stepped back to protect my shoulder, we both laughed. “Oh, my God, Cal. Thank you,” she said. “What do we do now?”

  “Find you a safe house.”

  “Like in spy movies?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Chances are he’ll get out of Dodge, but we can’t assume that.”

  “What about you? You can identify him.”

  “There’s that, but I didn’t get a very good look, and he knows it.”

  She spread her hands, palms up, and laughed again—the laugh that reminded me of Claire. “Well, you broke the sucker’s nose, and we have his DNA.”

  “We sure do.”

  That was the good news of the evening. That, and the fact that Angela Wingate was standing in front of me, unhurt and laughing.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  We stopped by Angela’s place, so she could put some toiletries and a change of clothes in her backpack. I’d been cautious on the road to insure we hadn’t been followed. I thought of Gertrude Johnson first, but stashing Angela clear out in the Dundee Hills made no sense at all. I called Nando, but he didn’t feel any of the women he was currently dating would be appropriate, and Esperanza had two kids and a husband.

  “Call Winona,” he suggested.

  “I can’t do that, Nando. We’re kaput.”

  Five minutes later my cell riffed. “Cal, it’s Winona. I understand from Nando that you need some help.” I bristled for a moment at my friend’s meddling but knew he was right. Winona was the best option. She was coolheaded, resourceful, and her second-story loft had good security. And although I was too stubborn to admit it, I knew deep down that, regardless of our romantic status, I could always count on her for help. I explained the situation, and she said, “Sure. Bring her over right away.”

  She greeted us warmly, and after examining my shoulder and abraded head, made me a makeshift sling. After rooting around in her medicine cabinet for some Neosporin, she turned to Angela. “This man doesn’t believe in hospitals.”

  “I noticed,” Angela said, looking at me. “What’s up with that?”

  I shrugged my good shoulder. “Just doing my part, you know, easing the burden on our fragile healthcare system.”

  Angela laughed at that, and Winona shook her head, and to her credit left it there. The truth was, although I considered myself a rational person, I had an aversion to hospitals I really couldn’t explain and was glad I didn’t have to.

  Winona made a pot of black tea next, and we huddled around the kitchen table to talk about the case and what had gone down that night. It was well past two in the morning when she finally showed Angela to the pull-out sofa bed in her living room alcove. I told Angela I’d be in touch in the morning and walked with Winona to the front door. I turned to face her, yearning to hold her. Wearing a thin cotton robe over silk pajamas, she looked up at me, her face unadorned, her big almond eyes dry but tinged with unmistakable sadness.

  “Thanks again,” I said. “Let her sleep in, and I’ll swing by to pick her up in the morning. The Portland Police are going to want to interview both of us.” I hesitated for a moment and met her eyes. Surely we could talk this out now. “Winona, I—”

  “You’re welcome, Cal,” she cut in, averting her eyes. Angela’s a great kid. She can stay as long as you need.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, glaring at her. Why won’t you talk to me? I know you’ve been through a heart-wrenching situation, but what about us, Winona?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry. I just don’t have any answers right now. Standing Rock turned my life upside down, Cal. How can I worry about us when I don’t know what to do about myself?” She laughed. It was laced with self-derision. “Here I am living in trendy Portland when the rights of my people are being trampled on.”

  I nodded. “I get that. Let me help you.”

  She took my good hand in both of hers. “You can’t help me. This is my work. It isn’t fair of me to—”

  “I’ll be the judge of what’s fair.”

  She squeezed my hand. “Look, Cal. I care for you deeply, but I’m depressed, emptied out. I’ve got nothing to give you. And I can’t promise anything in the future. Please. Do what you need to do.”

  We stood looking at each other for a long time. Finally, I nodded faintly. “Okay.” I pulled her to me and kissed her lightly on the lips. “It’s not what I want, but I’ll do it. I hope you find what you’re searching for.” With that, I turned and left with my heart weighing down my chest like a lead balloon.

  “Jesus Christ, Claxton, what the hell are you involved in now?” It was the next morning, and I was sitting with Captain Harmon Scott of the Portland Police. He and I first crossed paths in a case involving a street artist called Picasso. Scott and I weren’t buddy-buddy—he was a cop and I was an attorney, after all—but there was a wealth of mutual respect between us. His fog-gray eyes looked even more battle-worn through the thick lenses of his horn rims, and the lines in his forehead even deeper than the last time I’d seen him. I wondered how much he thought I’d aged. His smile was thin, almost undetectable. It was all you ever got. “I saw that report come in and decided to interview you myself.”

  “I’m honored,” I said. “I see you got a promotion. Congratulations, Captain.”

  When I finished going back over what happened the night before, Scott said, “So, this person you saw is either your guy, Nightshade, or some local punk intent on holding up the pot delivery girl.”

  “It’s the former,” I said, “and let me tell you why I think that.” I had no reason to hold back with Scott, although I couldn’t reveal everything I knew, namely what Semyon had told me regarding Lenny the Fox and the Lexus murder car, as well as the recent information Nando gleaned from hacking Brian Hofstetter’s e-mail.

  Scott peppered my lengthy tale with questions, and when I finished, he leaned back and flashed his almost-a-smile. “Oh, what a tangled web you weave,” he said. “Let me see if I got this straight—a Portland socialite, a legal secretary, and maybe a car thief from L.A., are murdered, a prominent lawyer and the CEO of the biggest development firm in the city are implicated, along with a shadowy group called Arrowhead Investments, who want to buy the company and build some gilded tower mega-complex on the North Waterfront. And the dirty work’s done by a Houdini-like contract killer from an outfit called Nightshade Enterprises, which is located on the Dark Web.” He’d made a face when mentioning the North Waterfront Project, tipping me that he disliked “mega-complexes.
” No surprise there. I knew Harmon Scott was a fifth-generation Oregonian who harbored a fierce love for the city he worked for.

  “That’s a fair summary,” I said, nodding and speaking in a voice that sounded firmer than I felt. Hearing my theory expressed in its entirety made it appear, well, more than a bit far-fetched, but I pushed down the doubts.

  Scott removed his glasses, cleaned them with his tie, and put them back on. “This is so fucking out there that I’m interested, but there’s no hard evidence for any of it.”

  “You have the DNA of the guy who attacked me,” I countered. “You can search the national register for a match and also cross-check it against anything found at Leonard Bateman’s and Helen Ferris’ crime scenes. You have the partial description of my attacker—”

  “Did you see enough for a composite sketch?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. It was dark. All I can tell you is he has nice teeth. But you can check the hospitals to see if someone showed up last night or today to get treatment for a broken nose.”

  “We’re doing that,” he snapped back.

  “Good. Also, two other people got a partial look at this guy at the Swanson Motel.” I gave Scott the names of the handyman and Spider-Man, adding, “They both said they wouldn’t cooperate with the police.” Scott nodded, and I went on, “There’s also the payments for Herb Ferris’ Alzheimer’s care. You can pressure Vancouver to subpoena the records to find out who’s paying the tab. And you can put the heat on Turner and Avery. They’re both dirtier than clean coal.”

  Harmon leaned in, his face tight. “Put the heat on them? What the hell does that mean? I don’t command a Gestapo unit.”

  “You can bring them in as part of Margaret Wingate’s hit-and-run case. Ask Turner about how Margaret’s will wound up so favorable to him and Avery. Ask Avery who’s behind Arrowhead Investments. You’ll see how cooperative they are. They tried to buy me and my client off, too.”

  The last statement raised Scott’s eyebrows. “How?”

  I took him through the whole confidentiality agreement saga and finished by saying, “They’re running scared, Harmon.”

  His look remained noncommittal. “What about Angela Wingate? What should I ask her?”

  “Ask her how her mother felt about the North Waterfront Project and selling the company. She’ll tell you Margaret Wingate wanted to go in a different direction. There’s your motive.”

  He leaned back and eyed me for a few moments. “Why do I get the impression you know more than you’re telling me?”

  I gave him the best blank look I could muster. “I’ve got a gut feeling about this, Harmon. We’re looking at three murders, one attempted murder, and a lot of dirty money searching for a laundromat. I know it. I just can’t prove it.”

  He breathed a sigh. “We’ll investigate last night’s incident as an attempted robbery, which will include running the DNA and seeing what we can dig up on Nightshade. I’ll reserve judgment on Turner and Avery until I talk to Ms. Wingate. I’ll also call Vancouver and talk to them about the Ferris death, see what their thinking is. That’s a start.” I nodded my agreement, and he gave me his almost-a-smile. But his gray eyes narrowed down behind his classes. “And, you better not be holding out on me, Claxton.”

  Harmon Scott interviewed Angela next, while I waited down in the lobby of the Portland Police Bureau’s East Precinct, a two-story brick building spanning half a block on SE 106th. As she went in, I told her to just stick to the facts as she knew them and not be drawn into what I’d told her about my theories of the suspected crimes. She was a bright kid, and I was confident she wouldn’t fan the flames of Scott’s suspicion that I wasn’t telling him everything.

  She came out an hour and a half later, looking none the worse for wear. “How’d it go?” I asked.

  “Okay, I think. He started out with questions about what happened last night, then he got heavy into Mom and Melvin and Brice.” She gave me that sly look of hers. “I think you got in his head, Cal. I think he’s wondering if they had anything to do with Mom’s death.”

  “Good. We can sure as hell use a friend in high places.” I chuckled. “I think he likes the idea of a high-end development on the North Waterfront about as much as you and I do.”

  We picked her car up, and I followed her back to her studio. She was anxious to get to work on her sculpture, and I wanted to take a closer look at security at the Bridgetown Artists’ Co-op building. Entry through the front was open when the gift shop was open, although access to the interior of the building and the second floor was controlled by the clerk working the retail space, who carried a key to the access door located behind one of the sales counters. Reasonably satisfied, I went around to the rear of the building. The back door was steel with a dead bolt activated by key or from within, electronically. Two rows of buttons were located below a speaker providing communications. Only two of the buttons for the second floor had names next to them: A. Wingate and D. Bentley. As a test, I buzzed D. Bentley, and the dead bolt immediately retracted. I let myself in to find a familiar young man standing on the second-floor landing, peering down at me. “Oh, hi,” he said, “I’m Darius. You must be Angela’s friend.”

  “Sorry. I hit your button by mistake.” As I passed him, I said, “You shouldn’t let anyone in you don’t know. There’ve been some robberies in this neighborhood.” I made up the last part so he’d get the message. He nodded, but I wasn’t sure my warning registered.

  As usual, the door to Angela’s studio was ajar. I entered and watched as she moved a fresh acetylene tank into place. “I see you got your handcart back,” I said.

  She’d already donned her leather apron, and her goggles were riding on her forehead. “Good thing,” she said with a teasing look. “You’re no use to me with that broken wing.”

  I laughed, then gave her a serious look. “I know you’re going to want to continue working here, so a couple of security items.” I told her she should tell the clerk downstairs not to give anyone access to the stairs unless she okayed it ahead of time, and she shouldn’t buzz anyone in she didn’t know. “And tell Darius not to, either,” I added. “He buzzed me in without a word.”

  I took a seat and watched as she began working on the piece I nicknamed Jogging Woman, at least to myself. It had grown since I’d last seen it, the framework of the lower body nearly in place, a second leg jutting out behind the runner. I could see that the frame she was fashioning, although a mere outline of what the final form would take, was astonishingly true to the grace and beauty of the drawing on the wall. As I watched, my eyes began to blur and my insides trembled as I admitted to myself for the first time how close a call last night had been. What if I’d ignored my hunch? What if Nightshade had decided to act a day earlier? I caught myself, sat up a little straighter, and swiped my eyes with a knuckle.

  My shoulder ached worse than my head, and I was tired from a poor night’s sleep, but when I thought of those glinting teeth set in that leering, disgusting grin, anger quickly swamped every other feeling.

  It wasn’t over between me and Nightshade. Not by a long shot.

  Chapter Thirty

  Angela would probably have sculpted through the night, but after I’d gone through every e-mail on my phone, returned a half-dozen calls, and read the New York Times from digital cover to digital cover, I convinced her to close up shop. I followed her over to her rental house and had her put the Honda into the rickety garage behind the place. She complained, of course, but I told her that until I got a better handle on the situation, she was going to be the beneficiary of an escort service provided by either me or an operative of Nando Mendoza, the private eye in her employ.

  “Wow, my own private eye,” she said, then her expression changed. “That sounds expensive. Why won’t the police protect me?”

  “There isn’t enough evidence that you’re in danger to compel the police. Don’t worry
. Nando’s not cheap, but you won’t need protection for long.” The last statement, was, of course, based more on hope than fact. Although Captain Scott was “interested,” I knew that, given the scope and political sensitivity of what I’d outlined, his inquiry would proceed slowly at best. Meanwhile, I felt all the urgency in the world but no clear idea of what the hell to do next.

  On the way over to Winona’s, we stopped off at the Pizzicato on SW 6th and picked up a large puttanesca pizza along with an arugula, pear, and walnut salad. After returning to the car hefting the boxes, Angela said, “Is Winona expecting this?”

  “Yeah, I texted her earlier.” I smiled with a trace of wistfulness. “She’s not very domestic. I figured this was a good idea.”

  “God, I feel like I’m imposing.”

  “No. She’s the most generous person you’ll ever meet. And I can tell she likes you.”

  I sensed Angela eyeing me as I negotiated the downtown traffic. Finally she said, “Are you eating with us?” When I shook my head, she added, “You two used to be a thing, and now you’re on the outs. That’s obvious.” I nodded, and she continued, “God, Cal, she’s so cool and so gorgeous. What happened?”

  I wanted to shout “Standing Rock happened, goddammit!” but shrugged my good shoulder instead. That would’ve required an explanation I wasn’t prepared to give. I settled for, “It’s complicated.”

  The next morning, after retrieving Angela and taking her back to her studio, I found Nando waiting for me when I returned to Caffeine Central. We went back over the recent events, and he agreed to put one of his best men, a Cuban American named Bembe Borgos, or BB, as everyone called him, at my disposal. “BB is one of my best investigators. He will take good care of the young sculptor.” I thanked Nando, and he said, “By the way, I called my FBI contact in Seattle since I hadn’t heard from him. He said that he could not help me with the identity of the Arrowhead ownership. He gave no reason, but I got the feeling it was sensitive, something he did not wish to touch.”