“Check this out,” she said as she thrust a copy of The Oregonian in my hand when I opened the door. Her eyes were bright with excitement. “Cynthia Duncan’s first installment on North Waterfront. I could hug that woman.”
The article she referred to was in the left-hand column of the front page, just below a panoramic photograph taken from the river of the warehouses and other industrial sites along the North Waterfront. The headline read: “Proposed North Waterfront Development Stirs Controversy.”
“Wow,” I said, “they gave her the front page.”
Tracey greeted Archie, then followed me into my office and took a seat while I sat on the edge of my desk and read the article. I skimmed the first several paragraphs, which described details of the project, casting it as the largest potential real estate development in the history of Portland, a plan hailed as “audacious” and “visionary” by its supporters. In Brice Avery’s words, “This project will transform the moribund North Waterfront into upscale residential, office, and retail space, a small golf course, a private marina, and the capstone, a world-class 200-room luxury hotel, to be called Tower North.” Further down, Planning Commission Chairman Fred Poindexter effused, “In addition to revitalizing a key section of our waterfront, the project will provide jobs and deliver significant tax revenues for the benefit of the entire city.”
I looked up at Tracey. “Poindexter’s selling hard. Why am I not surprised?”
She smirked at that. “Tell me about it.”
The state of the opposition was detailed in the next paragraphs, which led with: “But the high-flying project has run into stiff headwinds at City Council and with several neighborhood and grass-roots organizations across the city.” Cynthia Duncan put a quote from Tracey front and center: “Rampant, unplanned development is transforming the city we all know and love into something that is, frankly, unrecognizable. The proposed North Waterfront development is emblematic of this madness. We don’t need to transform our waterfront into a playground for the super-rich; we need to provide affordable housing for the average Portlander, who is being priced out of this city. I stand ready to work with the Planning Commission and Wingate Properties to move this project in that direction.”
I glanced up at Tracey. “Nice quote, and they spelled your name right. What about the mayor? I don’t see anything from him.”
“He hasn’t shown his cards yet. It’s hard for an ambitious politician to turn down multimillion dollar projects, but I’m hoping he’ll come around.” She nodded. “Keep reading. It gets better.”
The last four paragraphs caught me by surprise.
“Damn it,” I said. “I was afraid this might happen. A veiled accusation like this is going to make Turner and Avery even more cautious, and it’s going to royally piss them off, too.”
Tracey groaned. “Could Angela have leaked what she said in that interview?”
“No. I don’t think so. I think Duncan must really have a source within the Police Bureau. Probably someone who doesn’t like what Wingate Properties is up to in their city. But I can guarantee you that Turner and Avery will think I was the source.”
“Will that be a problem?”
I shrugged. “We’ll see how they react. This puts them in the public spotlight. They’ll hate that, and they’ll need a scapegoat.”
“Do you think Duncan has anything else?”
“Hard to say. She’s cagey.” I looked at Tracey appraisingly. “I’m sure she’s digging into who the buyer is. She would love to hear about Arrowhead Investments, a source of shady-looking, foreign financing.”
Tracey showed a sly smile. “It’s my trump card to stop North Waterfront, but I’m keeping my promise, Cal.”
“Good. Right now, they don’t know we know, and that’s about the only edge we’ve got.”
“I won’t leak anything.” She sprang from her chair and added, “It’s a beautiful morning. Let’s take Archie for a walk on the river.”
Hearing his name, Archie got up from his mat in the corner and started wagging his tail and barking, the doggie equivalent of “That’s a great idea.” Tracey looked at him, then back at me with an incredulous smile. “Does he understand English?”
I laughed. “You bet, especially the word ‘walk.’”
It was, indeed, a gorgeous spring day, and I couldn’t help but notice that sunshine was Tracey’s friend, enhancing the caramel highlights in her auburn hair and revealing the tiny constellations of gold flecks in her eyes. We took the stairs at the Burnside Bridge and waded into the milling throng at the Saturday Market, an arts-and-crafts bazaar that popped up every weekend and stretched in colorful profusion from Ankeny Plaza down to the river. Three women stopped Tracey on the way to pump her hand and offer words of encouragement. One of the women said, “Thanks for taking a stand against that waterfront abomination, Tracey. Tell the mayor to man up.” A young bearded man wheeling a bicycle high-fived her and said, “Keep Portland weird, Tracey.” The battle cry of the natives.
“Wow,” I said, “you’re a rock star.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, and I don’t feel any pressure at all.”
We stopped at the river, where breeze-stirred ripples were darting here and there like schools of fish playing tag on the surface of the water. As we stood at the railing, I told her about my visit to the Aurora Airport and the tall, dark-haired man that flew in on a Gulfstream jet owned by a Panamanian shell company to attend the Wingate meeting. “So,” I said, “I think we know all the players in this deal now—Turner and Avery, Poindexter, Boyarchenko, his lawyer, Hofstetter, and our man from Panama.”
“What about Arrowhead Investments? Is it owned by Mr. Panama?”
“Good question. Nando tells me shell companies can be interconnected, but we just don’t know yet.”
“You’ve left someone out.”
I nodded. “I know. Nightshade. But he’s peripheral, a hired hand.”
Tracey visibly shuddered. “That’s a quaint way to describe a cold-blooded killer.” She sighed, turned, and looked at me. Her eyes had lost their luster. “It feels like the bad guys are winning, Cal. Not just here. Everywhere. Dirty money, mountains of it, shell companies to obscure identities and motives, people willing to do anything, bend any rule, break any law, as long as they’re paid for it—this seems to be the way the world works now. The new normal.” She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them they glistened in the sunlight. “Sometimes I wonder if there’s hope for the good guys.”
I followed a line of ripples as it danced across the water and disappeared. “Yeah, I get the same feeling. But in reality there’s hardly been a time when the barbarians haven’t been at the gates. It’s a struggle to bend the arc. Always has been.” More ripples sprang up, and I paused to watch them. “For me, it’s the struggle that counts, where I find meaning.” I chuckled. “Beats sitting around waiting for calamity to strike.”
She reached out and put her hand on mine, which was resting on the railing. We both watched the river for a long time without saying anything, comforted by the silent, inexorable flow. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.
Chapter Thirty-six
“We are crazy people.”
“What is it now?” It was midmorning the following Monday at my Dundee office when Nando called and announced himself in characteristic fashion.
“I called my FBI contact in Seattle, and when I mentioned Global Mandate, he said, ‘Nando, I don’t know what sort of investigation you’re conducting, but my advice is to drop it immediately. You are out of your league.’ Then he hung up on me.”
“So? We already knew we were out of our league, right?”
“We could let the FBI handle this, you know.”
“Come on, Nando. We don’t know what their angle is. You know as well as I do that Jones showed no interest in the murders. We’re going to move cauti
ously, stay below the radar.”
He laughed, a single, derisive note. “I knew you would say that. I spent the morning researching Global Mandate. They were created by a company in the Isle of Man, but I lost the trail there.” He expelled a breath in frustration. “Domain ownership, IP addresses, physical addresses of directors—tracing these shells and their owners takes more time, patience, and expertise than I possess. I suggest we put my young cyber expert on it.”
“The hacker.”
“Don’t call him that,” Nando snapped. “He is a professional. Expensive, too.”
“Okay. We’re desperate here. We need the name of our man from Panama. We know he’s important enough to come in on a private jet with two burly bodyguards. Maybe he’s the one with the dirty money to wash, not Boyarchenko. Maybe he ordered the hits.”
“We get his name. What then?”
It was a good question, and I didn’t have the answer.
After lunch that day, the real estate agent, Valerie Thatcher called. “Hello, Cal,” she greeted me. “I’ve got a possible buyer for your property. Would you mind if I gave him a walk-through?”
“Who is it?” I managed to say in a normal voice, despite a bubble of red-hot anger that welled up inside me.
“He’s a screenwriter moving up from Burbank, who’s looking for a hideaway in the wine country. I told him about the mining, but it didn’t seem to faze him.” She chuckled. “Said he was used to earthquakes. When I showed him a picture of your view, he got pretty excited.”
“Let’s, uh, hold up on that for a while. I’m still thinking things through.”
“Okay, Cal,” she said, her voice tinged with a warning tone. It’s spring, and the market’s jumping. Don’t wait too long.”
I punched off and sat there deep in thought, my gaze resting on Archie, who lay casually napping in the corner. His eyes were closed, his nose rested between snow-white paws, and his broad chest rose and fell in rhythmical breathing. It was as if he were saying to me “I’m not worried. I know you’ll do the right thing.” Was I postponing the inevitable? Probably, I told myself and started to call Thatcher back. But I didn’t complete the call. I couldn’t. Not yet, at least.
On my way into Portland that evening, I swung by Angela’s studio to pick her up. On a whim I buzzed Darius Bentley to see what would happen, and he let me in without a word spoken. When he appeared on the landing, I let the frustration show in my voice, “Darius, you gotta cut this out. Make sure you know who the hell you’re letting in.”
He opened his hands. “Sorry, man. What’s the deal? I notice Angela’s jumpy as a cat. Is she in some kind of danger? I read that newspaper article in The Oregonian.”
A little honesty was in order. “There have been some threats. We don’t know the origin, but they’re credible. Look, Darius, all I’m asking is that you use common sense when it comes to security on this floor, okay?” He nodded and stepped aside as I passed, the look on his face suggesting I’d gotten through this time.
The frame of Jogging Woman’s torso was now finished, and she bore the beginnings of two arms. The left arm was thrust back, complete to the elbow, and the right arm extended forward. The sharp, parallel wires that would form the hand reminded me of a flight of arrows. Angela was brewing tea, and when she looked up, I said, “I love it. You’re making great progress.”
“Thanks. I feel pretty good about where I am. Can’t wait to finish the frame so I can start the detail work. That’s the most challenging.”
When she and Archie finished fawning over each other, I said, “You made the front page of The Oregonian the other day.”
Her big, chocolate eyes expanded. “I don’t read that paper. I told you what I said to the reporter. Was it too much?”
“No, you weren’t the problem. Somebody in the Portland Police Bureau leaked inside information about the interrogations of Turner and Avery.” I summarized the piece for her, then said, “I’m sure they’re furious about now. That was not what you’d call favorable publicity for developers pursuing a controversial, multimillion-dollar project. Cynthia Duncan’s planning more articles. She’s going to contact you again, I guarantee it. Remember, just tell her you have nothing to add.”
She nodded and tried unsuccessfully to suppress a giggle. “Sorry, but the thought of those two feeling the heat makes me giddy. I’d like to hang a medal on that leaker.”
I smiled but didn’t share her glee, because I figured the leak would spell trouble down the line. “Uh, there’ve been some other developments, too.”
When I finished telling her about the FBI bust and how I found our man from Panama, she said, “Why doesn’t the FBI give a shit about what happened to Mom and Helen?”
“I can’t be sure what their interests are, but it seems they’re after bigger fish.”
“What could be bigger than murder?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, Angela. But we’re going to keep the flame burning.”
I was ready to leave, but she pleaded for more time, so I watched as she welded some of the wire in place and worked on Jogging Woman’s left forearm. When she was finally satisfied with the shape, she valved off her oxygen and acetylene tanks, doffed her heavy apron, gloves, and goggles, and followed Arch and me out the door. On the way to the Pearl District I said, “How’s Winona doing?”
Angela frowned. “I don’t honestly know. She seems depressed, but you know, she puts on a brave front. I think she misses you, Cal. You should reach out to her.”
My heart swelled for a moment before my ego intervened. “The ball’s in her court, Angela.”
After I dropped Angela off, I changed into my sweats and took my dancing, yelping dog on a jog along the river. An hour later we were back on Couch Street approaching Caffeine Central when I saw a metallic silver Mercedes with heavily tinted windows coming the other way. It looked familiar as it passed, then swung a U-turn and cruised up next to us. The back window rolled down, allowing cigarette smoke to billow out, and a smoldering butt bounced on the sidewalk to the left of me. Without thinking, I crushed the butt under the toe of my shoe, and when I looked up, realized I was face-to-face with Ilya Boyarchenko.
He smiled without showing any teeth, the effort contorting his angular face and beard-shadowed cheeks. “Hello, Mr. Claxton. Do you know who I am?” I nodded. “I think you and I have something in common.” When I didn’t respond, he said, “We both love this city of ours.”
Archie, who was straining at his leash to get home to dinner, came back, sat down next to me, and cocked his head.
“What do you want?”
The oily smile again. “Portland can be a great city, a leader on the West Coast, but only with investment and development, don’t you agree?”
I knew what he was getting at but surprised he was being so direct. What the hell, I thought. Might as well follow suit. “Is this about North Waterfront?”
He held my gaze. His eyes were slightly bulged and had the blue tinge of glacial ice. “I’m speaking as a concerned citizen. It is a fine project that will put Portland on the map. Why are you and that young client of yours trying to derail it? What possible harm could come from making our waterfront a showplace and a magnet for people of means?”
“You sound like more than a concerned citizen, to me. Are you an investor in the project?”
He waved an arm dismissively. “That is of no concern to you. I ask again, what is the harm? This is America.”
“If you don’t know, I couldn’t explain it.”
He nodded slowly. “I see. This is very disappointing, Mr. Claxton.” He brought his eyes up to mine. They were unblinking and held menace. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll back off. You are becoming a problem for this city.”
“For the city or for you and Wingate Properties?”
His face grew hard, like porcelain. “You’re a family man,
Mr. Claxton. You need to think about that lovely daughter of yours at Harvard.”
I had started to turn away, stopped, and whirled around to face him. “What did you say?”
The oily smile returned. “You heard me.”
No excuses, but I think it was the events of the last week that tipped the balance and caused me to completely and unequivocally lose it. I leaned forward and put an index finger in his face. “If you touch a hair on her head, I’ll rip your eyes out, you son of a bitch.” Then I stepped back and looked at his car. “And get this piece of shit off my street.” With that, I brought my foot up and slammed it into the car door, leaving a surprisingly large crater. They just don’t build cars—even Mercedes—like they used to.
My violent act set Archie off in a fit of high-pitched barking as the driver’s side door flew open, and a man came out…and out…and out. He’s was the biggest man I’ve ever seen, at least it seemed that way at the time. He came at me fast and threw a punch that would have easily taken my head off if Archie hadn’t launched himself between us and deflected the blow. The man cried out in pain and jerked back.
Boryarchenko yelled, “Dimitri, it’s okay. Back in the car.”
Dimitri looked at the blood dripping from the bite on his wrist and then at Archie, who was standing in front of me with his blood-stained teeth bared and a low, menacing growl gurgling in his throat.
The bloodied chauffer drew a pistol from a shoulder holster and leveled it at my dog. I screamed, “No,” and jumped on Archie, covering him with my body. He struggled to free himself, but I held on with everything I had.
“Dimitri! Back in the car!” Boyarchenko said again. Dimitri stood there, pointing the weapon at Archie’s human shield—me. “Now,” his boss commanded. Reluctantly, the mountain of a man holstered his weapon, got in the car, and the dented Mercedes slunk away like a dog that just lost a fight.
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