Moving Targets

by Warren C Easley

  “Gentlemen,” a deep, gravelly voice said in a hushed but authoritative tone, “I’m with the FBI. Stop filming, stand up, and put your hands where we can see them. And keep your fucking mouths shut.”

  Well, shit.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Nando and I got up and turned to face the voice as we raised our hands. In the shadows, I had an impression of width and height, and when he took another step forward, there was no mistaking the gun leveled at us. Another, smaller, man came from behind him, patted us down, confiscating my binoculars and Nando’s camera, along with the Sig Sauer from Nando’s shoulder holster, before snapping plastic cuffs on both of us. “Now,” the bigger man said, “we’re going to walk out of here quietly, am I clear? Not a fucking sound.”

  When we reached the road, where an unmarked car idled at the ready, the voice opened a badge and shined a light from his cell phone on it. “I’m FBI Special Agent in Charge Aldous Jones. You are going to be transported to our office in Portland for questioning.” I was tempted to challenge their right to detain us but figured it would be futile. Jones hustled us both into the backseat of the car and nodded to the smaller man, who was now at the wheel looking back at us through a wire mesh security screen. “Now get them the hell out of here, Harvey.”

  We took off as FBI agent Jones disappeared back into the woods.

  Our chauffeur, Special Agent Harvey Something-or-other, wasn’t interested in anything except our names, where we lived, and what we did for a living. Nando and I knew enough to keep it at that, so the trip was long and silent. Only a few office lights burned at FBI headquarters, an uninspired, three-story brick box of recent construction located out by the Portland Airport. Harvey drove us around to the back of the building, where another agent awaited. We were marched into adjacent but separate interview rooms. After my uncomfortable cuffs were removed, I was offered a seat before the self-locking door clicked shut. A pitcher of water and a single glass sat on the table, attesting to our host’s hospitality.

  I drank some water and took stock. Whatever it was, the FBI sure as hell wanted us out of there in a hurry. Had we broken any laws? Nothing we can’t argue, I decided. It’s against the law to film someone in a private setting without their permission, but the restaurant’s a public place. We weren’t trespassing, either.

  What should I tell them? That was a trickier question since it had better match up with what Nando had to say. I thought about that and scanned back over the events leading up to this. Like me, he’d tell the truth wherever he could, and, like me, he’d be vague or obfuscate on the sensitive areas. Would our statements be consistent? I was reasonably sure they would be, but there was no way to tell for sure.

  I wondered about the FBI’s presence at Langsted’s. It was pretty damn obvious they were watching the same people we were. Would we learn anything from them? That thought made me chuckle. No way they were going to share any information about an ongoing investigation. This was going to be a one-way pipeline.

  I mulled this over and went back through everything a couple more times, hoping Nando was doing the same. Two-and-a-half hours later Aldous Jones came into the room and took a seat across from me. Harvey, whose last name was Branson, I learned, followed Jones and took a seat to his right, and after fiddling with a console built into the table, announced the meeting was being recorded. At least six-three with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and hair cropped on top with the sides shaved, Special Agent Jones looked like he just stepped off the gridiron. His demeanor was open, almost friendly, but there was intensity in his eyes and a set to his jaw that the observant could not fail to notice.

  “So, Mr. Claxton,” Jones began, “let’s get right down to it. Why you were you and Mr. Mendoza at Langsted’s tonight with night vision and video equipment?”

  I cleared my throat. “The same reason as you?” I watched Jones carefully, but the only thing he telegraphed was annoyance.

  “Please. It’s been a long day. Answer my question.”

  “We were there to identify the attendees of a meeting involving the sale of Wingate Properties, a major development company in Portland, and the financing of a mega-development called the North Waterfront Project. We have reason to believe these people are colluding to launder over five hundred million dollars in cash from an offshore company called Arrowhead Investments. Before you interrupted us, we filmed Fredrick Poindexter, chairman of the Portland Development Commission, Ilya Boyarchenko, the reputed boss of the Russian Mafia in Portland, and his lawyer, Byron Hofstetter, as they entered the restaurant. We believe that the CEO of Wingate Properties and its chief legal counsel are also in on the deal, and expected to see them tonight, as well as whoever’s behind Arrowhead.”

  Jones held a poker face, but when I mentioned money laundering, his eyes flared for an instant. “Money laundering? What the hell do you know about money laundering?”

  I smiled. “Not much. We know Arrowhead’s a shell that was incorporated in Cyprus by an attorney named Costas Zertalis, who’s the darling of Russian oligarchs. Boyarchenko’s a Russian with a lot of spare cash.” I shrugged. “We put two and two together.”

  “How did you know about this alleged meeting?”

  “From a confidential source.”

  “Name?”

  “Deep Throat?”

  Jones didn’t even smile. “Don’t get cute, please.”

  “Even if I knew the source, and I don’t, I couldn’t reveal it.”

  Jones’ eyes flashed for an instant, but he let my evasion slide. “Do you have any hard evidence linking this company, Arrowhead Investments, to Boyarchenko?”

  “Not yet,” I said, which was the first sensitive area. I knew that Boyarchenko’s lawyer, Byron Hofstetter, was Arrowhead’s representative in the North Waterfront deal, but I couldn’t divulge that without exposing Nando’s electronic filching.

  Jones glanced at Harvey, then back at me and scowled. “That’s all you got?”

  “We’re not that interested in the money-laundering, per se,” I countered. “We think it’s the motive for two, maybe three, recent brutal murders in the Portland area, including that of my client’s mother.” I went on to explain that Nando and I worked for Angela Wingate and began taking them through what we had uncovered regarding the murders and the suspected forgery of Margaret Wingate’s will.

  When I finished describing the hit-and-run and Mystery Man, seen by the handyman and Spider-Man at the motel, Jones said, “This is all very interesting, but how does it relate to Ilya Boyarchenko?” The Russian again. Jones seemed to key on him.

  “We think he set up the hit, or at the very least facilitated getting rid of the car through one of his chop shops. He controls all the chop shops in Portland.”

  Jones raised his brows. “Evidence for the setup?”

  I wanted to reveal what Semyon told me about the timing of the Lexus being dropped off, and Lenny the Fox being the driver, but I couldn’t without compromising my friend and his source. I shrugged again. “Working on it.”

  Jones shook his head. “What else you got?”

  I finished by describing what we’d found regarding Helen Ferris’ death and the attempt on Angela’s life, then summed up: “So we believe that individuals behind the North Waterfront Project—we’re not sure which individuals—resorted to forgery and murder to move it forward. We also think the three deaths associated with this case were murders perpetrated by the mystery man we described.”

  “Any idea who this guy is?”

  “We think he’s a contract killer who operates out of a dark website called Nightshade Enterprises. According to his site, he specializes in making murders look like accidents or suicides, which is the exact MO we see here.”

  Jones’ facial expression remained unchanged, and the room fell silent. Finally he said, “Anything else to add?” I shook my head, and Jones leaned back in his chair and f
olded his arms across his chest. “Thank you for filling us in, Mr. Claxton. This is all very interesting, although I didn’t hear much hard evidence.” He paused here, and I reflexively girded myself. “I’m sorry for the loss your client suffered, but I’m afraid your investigation needs to stop right now, and you and your private investigator need to button your lips about what you think you know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are in way over your heads, and your continued involvement might jeopardize an important federal investigation.”

  I figured I was going to lose this argument but didn’t want to go down without a fight. “Are we violating some federal statute I don’t know about?”

  Branson barked a laugh, his first contribution to the discussion. “The lawyer speaks.”

  Jones, whose mouth had drawn itself into a thin, straight line, waved him off. “Look, I’m not going to debate this with you. That’s the way it is. Stop mucking around in this.”

  “What do I tell my client?” I said. “Can you at least give us some idea why you’re making this request?”

  “It isn’t a request, and the answer is no, I can’t tell you anything.”

  I felt heat rising in my neck. I think it was the flat refusal that got my back up. We were deserving of some professional courtesy here. “Last time I checked, this was a free country.”

  Jones turned, swept his hand like a blade in front of his neck, and waited until Branson flipped a switch killing the recording. Turning back to me, he said, “Look, Claxton, you and your investigator are nice enough guys, but you either cool it or we’ll make your lives miserable.” He swung his eyes back to me. “You don’t want to get on our shit list, believe me.”

  “It’s called an Enemy’s List,” I corrected. “J. Edgar Hoover coined the phrase, and Nixon embellished it.”

  Jones leveled his eyes at me, and neither one of us blinked. Finally he smirked, the closest thing to a smile he’d allowed himself. “We’ll see who gets the last word, Claxton.”

  I waited another forty minutes while they questioned Nando in the room next door. After that, Branson was kind enough to drive us back to Nando’s Jeep. When he let us off at the road into the nursery, he said, “No hard feelings, fellas. When this gets cleared up, we’ll be in touch.”

  Sure you will, I thought. And by then, the case will be cold as a glacier.

  When we were finally back in the Jeep and headed toward Wilsonville, Nando said, “Well, Calvin, that certainly went well.”

  I laughed, in spite of myself. “Yeah. So much for our interests dovetailing with the FBI. What the hell was I thinking?”

  We compared notes and were relieved that are stories jibed. At one point Nando said, “I noticed Jones showed little interest in Nightshade but great interest in the Russian and his connections to Arrowhead. How about you?”

  “Same thing. I think they’re focused on the money laundering, for sure. That’s a federal offense, what they get paid to investigate. But, you know, I have a hunch there’s something else here, something a hell of a lot bigger.”

  “Like what?” I shrugged, and we drove in silence until the Wilsonville turn-off, where Nando asked the question I knew was coming, “So, what do you want to do now, Calvin?”

  I puffed a breath in disgust. “I don’t have the slightest idea.”

  And that was the truth.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Angela and Archie were waiting for me on Winona’s loading dock the next morning. When they piled into my car, Archie leaned in from the backseat and gave me a couple of slobbery kisses between excited squeals. Wearing her pirate head scarf, dangly earrings, and a faded black tee, Angela said, “Late night, huh?”

  “Yeah, like I said in my text, I got tied up. Sorry.”

  “Hey, no problem. Winona, Arch, and I just hung out last night. We got to talking about art, so we went over to my studio, and I showed her what I’m doing.”

  I didn’t like the breech in security but didn’t say anything. Knowing Winona, who didn’t fear a thing on this planet, it was probably her idea. “What did she think of Jogging Woman?”

  “She loved it, wants me to do something for her. She’s got a ton of room in her loft. We kicked around a couple of ideas but haven’t settled on anything. I’m really flattered.”

  I nodded. “You should be. She’s got great taste.”

  “I know. I love the art she’s collected. She’s got a couple of Emmi Whitehorse paintings I’d kill for.”

  “Maybe you can work a trade.”

  “Wouldn’t that be cool.” I could sense her gaze intensify as I pulled into traffic. “So, how was your night?”

  I had decided to hold off telling her about the FBI until I had time to think it through, but I hadn’t thought of an alternate story, which was a mistake in dealing with Angela. “Oh, you know, I was with Nando.”

  “Winona told me he’s quite the player,” she said, teasingly. “Just the two of you?”

  I glanced over and caught her skeptical look. “Of course,” I said, with more emphasis than intended. Putting me on the defensive—it was uncanny how much she reminded me of Claire.

  I had no meetings scheduled in Dundee that day, so I worked from my office at Caffeine Central. Sometime after eleven that morning I was upstairs making coffee when a call came in from Captain Scott. “What’s up, Harmon?” I said in response to his greeting.

  “Just calling to let you know I haven’t been sitting on my hands, Cal. We brought those two potential witnesses in from the Swanson Motel. You were right. Neither one of them would cooperate. They admitted talking to you but said they didn’t tell you squat.”

  “So much for an involved citizenry.”

  “Yeah, so nothing on your mystery man and the Bateman suicide. We also questioned Turner and Avery about the Wingate hit-and-run and the will. We’d already interviewed them briefly around the time of the accident, but this time the questions were more pointed. They acted insulted but answered our questions. It didn’t go anywhere, but you were right about Turner. He was as nervous as a pig in a bacon factory. Strange behavior for an attorney.”

  I chuckled. “It’s different when you’re on the receiving end of the questions, I guess. He’s either the most high-strung attorney in Oregon, or he’s hiding something.”

  “I wanted to haul Boyarchenko’s ass in, too,” Scott continued, “but he would’ve just brought his lawyer and clammed up. Didn’t have the grounds for it, anyway. Even so, I gotta admit my cop sense says there’s something to this crazy conspiracy theory of yours. But we have a problem….”

  I felt my stomach drop. “What’s that?”

  “O’Hearn came in about an hour ago and told me to drop the entire investigation as it relates to Turner, Avery, Wingate Properties, Boyarchenko, the whole shooting match. Apparently our esteemed colleagues at the FBI have demanded it, in no uncertain terms.”

  “Shit. I was afraid that might happen.” I told Scott what happened to Nando and me the night before, and when I finished said, “Did O’Hearn explain why?”

  “Nope. He didn’t tell me anything except that failure to comply would constitute a career-ending incident.”

  “What about the DNA of Angela Wingate’s attacker? What if you get a hit?”

  “O’Hearn said stop everything. I value my job. Sorry.” He paused for a moment. “Listen, Cal, I know you like to play the cowboy from time to time, but take my advice—stay out of this. I have never seen O’Hearn more serious. Whatever the hell this is, it’s fucking big.”

  I don’t remember what I said to Scott after that. I hope I thanked him for what he’d done before the ax fell. After the call, I sat gazing at the wall in front of me for a long time. Archie sensed my funk, came across the room, and rested his head on my thigh. I rubbed behind his ears absently and considered the situation. I could see the outlines of
the conspiracy as clearly as footprints in the snow, but I couldn’t prove a damn thing. I’d hoped that at least the Portland Police could continue the investigation now that I was sidelined, but that avenue was closed off, too.

  What the hell was the FBI’s focus? I wasn’t sure, but it didn’t seem like the murders were at the top of their list. They were probably chasing the money laundering and didn’t want local law enforcement or some small-town lawyer like me getting in the way, or God forbid, stealing their glory. Yes, the FBI was like every other law enforcement body on the planet—they had a vested interest in making sure they closed their cases, and sometimes this meant other people and other causes got stiff-armed.

  Where did this leave me? I wasn’t sure, but one thing I had no doubt about. I didn’t look forward to telling Angela Wingate that the effort to catch her mother’s killer and the people behind it had just crashed and burned.

  At half past noon, I said goodbye to Archie, drove over to the Bijou Café on SW 3rd, and was lucky enough to score a table toward the back, which afforded plenty of privacy. The best breakfast joint in town, it also served up a great lunch. I ordered a glass of sauvignon blanc and ten minutes later, Tracey Thomas joined me. She wore boots, dark slacks, and a thin leather jacket over a white oxford button-down. Dress on the West Coast was casual, and Portland was at the leading edge of that trend. She sat down, swept the hair off her shoulders, and scowled at me. “You didn’t call me last night like you promised. What happened?”

  “Order a drink first,” I answered. “You’re going to need it.” I flagged down the waitress, and after Tracey ordered what I was having, I started unpacking the story.

  She didn’t take the news well. “The FBI can’t do that, can they?” she said at one point, her eyes blazing, her face filled with righteous indignation.

  “They, uh, made it clear that if Nando and I didn’t back off, they would retaliate.”