Moving Targets

by Warren C Easley

  “They told you that?”

  I nodded. “Off the record, of course, but listen, there’s more. Before we got busted, we watched Ilya Boyarchenko go into the restaurant, and just before him, Fred Poindexter.”

  “Poindexter? That bastard! You were right about him.”

  “Well, he didn’t break any laws,” I answered, playing the devil’s advocate this time. “From his perspective, it could have looked like a meeting of the principals to demonstrate commitment to the project.”

  “With Boyarchenko?” she shot back.

  “Boyarchenko’s trying to go legit, you know. He’s got money to invest. And Poindexter’s job is to spur development.”

  She considered that for a moment, then shook her head. “No. Fred’s job is to spur healthy development, and he’s never said one negative word about North Waterfront. Not one. He didn’t need a demonstration of commitment. He’s on the take, Cal.”

  Our food arrived, and we ate while sifting back through everything we both knew. Finally, echoing the question I’d asked myself earlier that day, she said, “So where does this leave us? Are we just supposed to sit back now and hope the FBI solves the murders and stops a load of filthy money coming into Portland to build an obscene monument to greed and corruption?” Her face had flushed a little, and her nutmeg eyes had a fire burning behind them. “I want justice for Margaret Wingate and the other victims, but I have an obligation to this city.” She narrowed her eyes and pointed her fork at me. “If I go public about Arrowhead being a shell investor from Cyprus, I can rally support against the development.”

  I nodded. “You might win a battle but maybe not the war. And if you out Arrowhead right now, the FBI will know the leak came from me. I gave the Portland Police everything I had.”

  “So, what then?”

  “Give me a couple more weeks. I’ve got a few leads I want to chase down.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re going to keep going?”

  I nodded again. “Yeah, but under the radar.”

  She smiled with a warmth that felt like a caress. “One month then. And you better hurry, because the press is on this thing, too. Cynthia Duncan called again for another statement. She said they’re planning to run a series of articles on North Waterfront.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ve been expecting that. What did you tell her?”

  “No worries. I just gave her my standard pitch again and told her this was coming up for a vote at City Council in June.” She frowned and shook her head. “I wish I’d known about Poindexter. I would have been even more cutting in my criticism of his competency and the direction he’s taking the Planning Commission.”

  I laughed. “Maybe that’s just as well. We don’t want to tip Poindexter that we might know about his collusion with Wingate and Boyarchenko.”

  Tracey glanced at her watch, jumped up, and hurried off to a meeting, but not before kissing me on the cheek. I stayed at the table nursing a cup of coffee and thinking about what just happened. I’d come in not knowing what the hell I was going to do and then suggested to Tracey that I had a plan.

  Now I just needed to figure out what the hell it was.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  When I opened the doors at Caffeine Central that Friday morning, the line was four-deep. One of the clients was a young girl, no more than eighteen, with buzz cut bleached-blond hair, sleeve tattoos on both arms, and toting a guitar. “I got rousted from under the Morrison Bridge,” she explained when her turn came around, “and when I was packing up my stuff, my Ruger LC9 fell out. It was loaded, so the cops cited me and confiscated my gun. I’m from Wyoming. I thought Oregon was an open carry state, too.”

  “It is, but in the city of Portland, you can’t carry a loaded gun in a public place without a concealed carry license.”

  “I know that now,” she snapped back. “I want my gun back, Mr. Claxton. My daddy gave it to me.” Her eyes were clear, bright, and blue as robin’s eggs, and they held an unmistakable resolve. Most homeless kids had tragic reasons for their situation—abusive parents, drug use, and the like—but some were out there because of wanderlust and a true sense of adventure. Travelers, they called themselves. This young woman fell into that category, I was willing to bet.

  I had her take me through the details, made some notes, and when she finished, I said, “Okay, meet me here at nine the morning of your hearing, and I’ll argue the case. I personally don’t like guns, but don’t worry, we’ll get yours back.”

  It slowed down after lunch, and my office was empty when Cynthia Duncan called. After we exchanged pleasantries, she said, “We’re doing a series on the proposed North Waterfront Project, and I’d like to get a statement from you before we go to press.”

  I laughed. “Well, that won’t take long.”

  “You’re Angela Wingate’s attorney, right? When I answered yes, she said, “Why did she hire you?” I explained I was handling the legal affairs associated with her deceased mother’s estate, and she countered, “Did she tell you that her mother, Margaret, was against the project?”

  I didn’t like the question, but since Angela was already on the record, I felt a need to clarify. “My client’s mother wanted the project redirected toward more public space and affordable housing.” Like a hound who’d caught a scent, Cynthia followed that with a barrage of questions designed to get at exactly what Margaret Wingate told her daughter and the implications. I didn’t answer any of them.

  Out of frustration, she said, “Do you have reason to believe that foul play was involved in the deaths of Margaret Wingate and Helen Ferris?” No comment again. We sparred some more, and finally she said, “Damn it, Cal, give me something to work with here. I know you’re involved in this thing, and it has a decidedly foul odor.”

  I wanted to give her a lot more, but I knew better. I could have asked her to shield my identity, but a leak would have my fingerprints all over it, which would put me sideways with Aldous Jones and the FBI. I figured she could be of use down the road, if all else failed, but there was nothing I could say at that moment. “I’m sorry, Cynthia, but I can’t comment any further on this case, either on or off the record.” I paused, and when she didn’t respond, said, “When are you going to run the article?”

  “Soon,” was all she said before she ended the call in a huff. I drummed my fingers on the desk and mulled the conversation over. From her questions it appeared Duncan was focused on only part of the puzzle—the possibility of foul play—and hadn’t sniffed out the offshore financing and the ring of collusion. I thought about Turner and Avery. They had no idea a cruise missile named Cynthia Duncan was homing in on them. On the other hand, I knew damn well they wouldn’t let any claims go unchallenged.

  The battle was about to be joined sooner than I would have chosen, and I was right in the middle of it.

  I closed up Caffeine Central at three-thirty because I wanted to get a jump on the Friday southbound traffic, but no such luck. My GPS showed a solid red line on the I-5 all the way down to the bridge at Wilsonville, so I took Highway 43, which paralleled the river into Lake Oswego. From there I worked my way over to the four-car Canby Ferry and crossed the river in style, a short distance from the clogged I-5 Bridge. I was headed to the Aurora Airport, a small, regional operation, only a couple of miles south of Langsted’s Restaurant, where Nando and I had the misfortune of colliding with the FBI two days before. It occurred to me the restaurant might have been chosen because of its proximity to the airport. If high-rollers were in that second limo, maybe they had their own jet, flew in, had dinner and a discussion, and flew out to keep the profile low. It couldn’t hurt to ask a few questions at the airport, could it?

  I parked in the lot next to the flat-roofed administration building, rolled the windows down, and told Arch to chill. A brisk wind was busy polishing the air, and Mt. Hood stood in eye-popping domination on the unobstructed eastern horizon.
“Can I help you?” The attendant was a tall, gangly young man with an enlarged Adam’s apple and a lopsided smile.

  I knew very little about how private aviation worked, but I had done enough research to know that the tower at Aurora Airport opened at seven a.m. and closed at seven p.m., and that air traffic did continue even in the absence of guidance from the tower. I also knew that the owner of a private plane could be traced on Google from the airplane’s tail number, a six-digit, alpha-numeric code. If the code began with the letter N, the owner had to be an American citizen or American company.

  Armed with that trace amount of knowledge, I introduced myself and blundered ahead. “I’m involved in a legal case, and I’m wondering about the air traffic coming in here last Wednesday, the seventeenth.” Keep it vague and as close to the truth as possible, I told myself.

  He didn’t react when I said the date, suggesting the FBI hadn’t already been there. “Well, we don’t keep any records here, but you can go online and access the tower transcripts.” He turned to a female colleague scowling at a computer screen. “What’s the address of the air traffic website, Hannah?”

  “It’s liveatc dot net,” she answered. “You can view the last thirty days of inbound and outbound traffic there.”

  I nodded. “Great. Uh, what about after hours? How does that work?”

  The attendant deferred to Hannah, who said, “Well, if they need something like gas or transportation, then we’d have a record, otherwise, not.”

  “Do you have anything for the seventeenth?” I asked, knowing I was edging out on thin ice.

  She met my gaze. “We don’t give out information like that. Our customers have a right to their privacy.”

  I nodded. “Fair enough, Hannah. Forget the names. Could you just tell me whether anyone arranged for services that night? That would be of great help to me.” I held her gaze, figuring that my lack of a suit and a tie might work to my advantage out here in the valley.

  But she didn’t waiver. “Sorry. We just don’t share that information. Company policy.”

  I thanked them both, and on my way out was followed by a man about my age who had just helped himself to the free coffee in the lobby. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” he said after we were both outside. He laughed. “Hannah’s a tough nut. Everything’s by the book with her.”

  I stopped and said, “I imagine that’s an asset in this business.”

  “Oh, for sure,” he said with a broad smile. “She’s invaluable around here.” Wearing grease-stained coveralls, clogs, and a neatly trimmed beard, he offered his hand. “I’m Shawn Eastman. Couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I, ah, was here last Wednesday night working on my Piper Cub and watched a Gulfstream come in after hours.”

  “You did?” I tried to tamp down my enthusiasm. “What did you see, exactly?”

  He blew on his coffee and took a sip, making me wish I’d gotten a cup. “It was a little after nine o’clock. I’d just stepped outside when the MIRLs came on—that’s the runway lighting that can be activated by an incoming aircraft. So, I go in and turn on my radio, you know, to hear how he announces himself.” He smiled. “I’m a hangar jock, I admit it. Anyway, I’m listening, but nothing comes up, and then I hear a jet approaching from the west. I go back outside and watch this sweet Gulfstream G150 land, but not before I turned off the lights in my hangar. I figured this could be a drug drop-off, and no way I wanted them to see me.”

  “A plane can just land here without using its radio?”

  “Sure. After hours, they’d be monitored by Portland ATC, but if they disabled their ADS-B and were squawking 1200 on their transponder, they’d leave a radar signature but without any information on the aircraft.”

  “What happened after they landed?” I was anxious to hear the rest of it.

  “One of the pilots gets out and opens the gate for a black Caddy SUV, which drives up to the plane. Three guys deplane, hustle into the limo, and drive away. No drugs. I left not long after that.” He laughed. “I was disappointed. Never seen a drug drop.”

  “Can you describe the men?”

  “They were in that Caddy in a hurry. Two big bruisers came out first and kind of looked around. I took them to be bodyguards. Then a tall, thin guy got out. He had a kind of regal bearing about him. The big boss, I figured.”

  “White?”

  “Yeah. He had a severely receding hairline and a dark mustache and goatee. I had the impression he was foreign, but I can’t explain why.”

  “Notice anything else?”

  He paused and stroked his beard absently. “Nah, that’s about it. I lost interest. Rich people come through this airport all the time.”

  My heart sank a little, because my next question was the most important. “Did you happen to notice the tail number of the Gulfstream?”

  His face lit up. “I did. November13Bravo64,” he said without the slightest hesitation.

  I took out a pen and jotted down the code—N13B64—on the back of a card. “You’re sure of that?”

  He laughed. “Yeah. That tail number jumped out at me. My birthday’s November thirteenth.”

  I silently thanked the fates, but at the same time the skeptical side of my brain kicked in. I looked at him. “Do you mind if I ask why you shared this information with me?”

  “No, not at all. I guess it’s because at the time I thought the landing seemed a little hinky, but I didn’t have any reason to mention it to anyone. When I overheard you asking questions, it brought it back, so I decided, what the hell.” He smiled. “And you look like a good guy.”

  Satisfied I wasn’t being played, I thanked him again and gave him a card. If you think of anything else,” I said, “call me at this number.”

  He looked at the card, then back at me with increased scrutiny. “I’m not going to have to testify in court or something, am I?”

  “No, no, nothing like that.” I paused, wondering if I should tell him the FBI might come around asking similar questions. I decided against it. Mentioning that would raise more questions than I wanted to answer. “But what you just told me might help me get justice for a very deserving client of mine.” I left it at that.

  Back at the car, I took Arch for a short walk, and once we were on the road, called Nando and told him what I’d been up to. “Well,” he commented, “it did not take you long to get into mischief. You are not worried our friends at the FBI will discover you’ve been snooping around?”

  “No, not too much. If they were going to check out the Aurora Airport, they would have done it by now. If they haven’t, it’s because they know way more than we do.”

  When I told him the car Eastman saw that night was a Cadillac SUV, he said, “¡Olé! The car that came behind Boyarchenko was a Cadillac Escalade.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn’t know my luxury cars like Nando, so this tidbit was welcome. “That confirms it, as far as I’m concerned—that Gulfstream brought in one of the players in this deal.” I read off the tail number and pointed out that it began with N. “If it’s not a company plane, it probably belongs to the tall, dark-haired guy Shawn Eastman saw.”

  “It could be leased,” he replied.

  “If it is, there must be a way to find the name on the lease.”

  “That should be possible,” he said, then added, “How do you do it, my friend?”

  “Do what?”

  “Get so much information from people without paying for it. It is impressive.”

  I laughed. “I’m a good guy, Nando. And people open up to good guys.”

  I clicked off, and as Arch and I sped north on the I-5 the buzz faded. Just because I’d taken a step forward didn’t mean things were going to get any easier. I was still surrounded by uncertainty, but one thing I was sure about—my luck needed to hold if I was going to see this through.

  Chapter Th
irty-five

  I had just passed under the Portland Aerial Tram on the I-5 when Nando called back. “Nothing is simple in life.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The plane was not leased, but its owner is a Panamanian shell called Global Mandate.”

  “A foreign shell company? They can’t own a plane in this country.”

  “One would think so, but the company entered into a trust agreement with the Bank of Utah. Apparently, the bank, as trustee, is allowed to sign the FAA registration on behalf of the company. This loophole is used to shield foreign ownership, I have learned.”

  “Let me guess. You can’t find who owns Global Mandate.”

  “Not as of yet.”

  “So, foreigners can fly around the U.S. in their own private jets anonymously. Are you kidding me? Did the FAA ever hear of 9-11? Why would the Bank of Utah provide such a service, anyway?”

  “Money. It is a profitable business for them. An article in the Wall Street Journal stated they have thousands of such trusts.”

  “In the heartland, no less. What next? Can you dig into Global Mandate’s ownership?”

  “Yes, but it will take some time.”

  As I exited onto the 405 beltway the skies opened up, but the tightly spaced traffic didn’t slow. This was Portland, after all. “So, another anonymous shell company rears its ugly head.”

  Nando chuckled. “Global Mandate could be owned by Arrowhead Investments. It is not uncommon for people to use multiple shell companies to hide all manner of mischief.”

  “What about your Cuban FBI contact in Seattle? I realize he passed on Arrowhead, but could he help here?

  Nando paused. “It is touchy. I do not wish to compromise my friend or us. But since you have already defied Aldous Jones, I will risk the call.”

  I was on my second cappuccino the next morning when I heard someone rapping on the front door. “Top of the morning,” I said to Tracey Thomas as I hung out the window. “I’ll be right down.”