Moving Targets

by Warren C Easley

  I rolled off Archie, sat on the sidewalk, and hugged him until my breathing and pulse came back to normal. “Sorry, Big Boy. That was my fault.” I chuckled with nervous energy. “I’ve always known you’d take a bullet for me, and now you know I’d do the same for you.” He licked my cheek a couple of times as if he understood completely. He probably did.

  I pulled out my cell phone and called the first number on my favorites list. When she didn’t answer, I left a message: “Hi Claire, it’s Dad. Call me as soon as you get this. I don’t care how late it is. This is urgent.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  A good, hard jog usually guaranteed a night of decent sleep but not that night. I was dead tired but couldn’t turn off the encounter with Boyarchenko and his brute of a chauffeur, and it didn’t help a bit that Claire hadn’t returned my call or answered the texts I’d sent her subsequently. I’d started a Walter Mosley novel, Cinnamon Kiss, a couple of nights earlier, but the trouble Easy Rawlins found himself in just made me more anxious. I finally got up, poured a couple of fingers of Rémy Martin and put on Norah Jones’ Come Away with Me, my go-to album when sleep seemed impossible. I sat sipping and letting the music soak in like a warm bath.

  The music worked, although when Claire’s call woke me at one-thirty the next morning, I discovered I’d spilled the remnants of the Rémy in my lap. “Hi, Dad,” she said, her voice filled with concern, “What’s going on?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at my apartment in Cambridge. What is it?”

  “When are you going back to the Gulf Coast?”

  “Next week. Why? What’s wrong, Dad?”

  “Listen, Claire. I want you to go today. Just go to the airport, buy a ticket, and go. I’ll cover the expenses. Tell your professor you need a vacation. Can you do that?”

  The line went quiet. “Does this have anything to do with the creep who came up to me this morning?”

  My gut tightened a full turn. “What creep?”

  “I was coming home after an all-nighter at the lab, and this guy steps out of the shadows right next to my stairwell and says, ‘Are you Claire Claxton?’ I nodded, and he said, ‘Tell your old man in Portland that Ila, or some name like that, says hi.’ He looked like he stepped out of a Godfather movie. I almost jumped out of my skin.”

  “Was the name Ilya?” I spelled it out after pronouncing it.

  “Yeah, that sounds about right. That’s all he said, then he walked away, but he got in my personal space, Dad. I could smell his cigarette breath. Who’s Ilya, Dad?”

  “Some local hood who’s got a beef with me. What’d this guy look like?”

  “He was white, my height, stocky. A thick gold chain and a really bad comb-over.”

  I relaxed a half-notch. At least it wasn’t Nightshade. “Okay. The case I’m working on has gotten a little hairy. This is just a bluff to frighten us, but I don’t want to take any chances. Can you leave today?”

  “Come on, Dad—”

  “I know. It’s a terrible thing to ask you.” I paused as a tsunami of doubts washed over me. “Look, Claire, maybe I’m being selfish here. Maybe I should stop this whole—”

  But she cut me off. “Who’s threatening us?” I sketched in the situation for her, and when I finished she said with an edge to her voice, “Screw the FBI and that Russian gangster. You can’t back down, Dad. That’s exactly what they want you to do. That young woman deserves to know who killed her mother, and those asshole developers need to be stopped. There’s an afternoon flight to New Orleans. I’ll take it. I could use a break, and the weather should be nice down there.”

  After we said our goodbyes, I lay back and contemplated the situation. I felt a sense of deep pride that Claire backed me with no hesitation. There was no quit in that daughter of mine. At the same time I knew that, like Angela, Claire tended to be cavalier about her personal safety, especially when she felt her ideals were at issue. Okay, that probably had something to do with me—the example I set—but as a worrisome parent, it wasn’t a trait I wanted her to emulate. I also knew that I could never, ever, put her in harm’s way. Had I done the right thing? Would she be safe on the Gulf Coast? For now, certainly, but I couldn’t keep her down there for long, just like I couldn’t keep Angela at Winona’s and BB as her bodyguard for much longer.

  The pressure was on.

  I spent a busy day in my Dundee office, trying to keep my law practice, if not in the black, at least at break-even. Early that afternoon, I got one of those calls that makes it all worthwhile. It was from the young attorney I was sparring with over the wrongful termination case, and her tone from the get-go was decidedly friendly. It turned out that the delivery company had reviewed the situation and decided to do the right thing—instead of firing my client, they would fire my client’s supervisor, the one who had ordered my client to text while driving. “So,” she said in summary, “we’d like to meet with you and your client to apologize and explore the possibility of a rehire.”

  Miracles never cease.

  A call came in as I was heading into Portland that afternoon. “Cal, it’s Angela. I’m at my studio. Something weird’s going on.”

  I tensed up immediately. “What?”

  “A car has been parked across from the Co-op most of the afternoon. Some guy’s just sitting there. I’m looking at him right now through my window. It seems like he’s watching the place.”

  “Okay.” I kept my voice calm. “Keep the door to your studio locked, and tell your idiot neighbor not to let anyone in. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. What’s the car look like?”

  “A dark blue Honda Accord. It’s sitting between the main entrance and the entry to the back parking lot, on the other side of North Williams.”

  The traffic cooperated for once, and I got there in ten minutes. The Honda was still parked where Angela said it was, and I could see someone sitting in the driver’s seat as I pulled in behind it. Clearly a nonthreatening situation, I got out, walked over to the car, and knocked on the window. The driver, a young man with head and facial hair the color of rusty iron, looked at me, smiled, and rolled the window down. I said, “Can I help you?”

  His smile widened. “I think you just did. Are you Calvin Claxton?” When I nodded warily he held up a legal-size envelope and cleared his throat. “These are legal papers I’m handing you, Mr. Claxton. Consider yourself served. Have a nice day.”

  He drove off, and I stood there looking at the envelope, which had a Multnomah County Circuit Court return address on it. I had a pretty good idea what was inside, and it wasn’t going to be pretty. And I didn’t like the fact that he expected me to show up at the Co-op. That meant somebody knew my routine. I glanced up and saw Angela looking down from her window, so I fetched Archie and joined her with the envelope in hand, still unopened.

  “Who was that guy?” she said when she let me in. “I saw you send him on his way.”

  “Just a young man doing a job. He gave me this.” I tore the envelope open. There were two legal documents in it, a summons and a complaint. The summons was from the Circuit Court of the State of Oregon for the County of Multnomah, informing me that a lawsuit had been filed against me by Wingate Properties for defamation, and that I had thirty days to file a written response. When I saw the amount, I felt like I was in an elevator whose cable had just snapped. I looked up at Angela. “I’m being sued for fifty million bucks by Wingate Properties. I figured they might sue me after the seeing the newspaper article, and here it is.”

  “Fifty million? They can’t do that, can they?”

  I shrugged. “We’re among the most litigious countries in the world. You can sue anybody for just about anything.”

  “What are they suing you for?”

  I skimmed the complaint, then looked up again. “They’re claiming I defamed them by telling the reporter who wrote the story in The Oregonian that you
r mom didn’t want to proceed with North Waterfront, and this caused them to be treated as suspects in her hit-and-run. They’re saying this negative publicity caused irreparable harm to their reputations and to their ability to attract and conduct business.”

  Angela was beside herself. “That’s such bullshit! I told Cynthia Duncan that.”

  “And I confirmed it with her. But someone in the Portland Police Bureau leaked the bit about them being persons of interest in your mom’s murder.”

  “That’s such bullshit. They should be suing me and that leaker, not you.”

  I nodded. “The absolute defense against defamation is the truth, but this isn’t about the merits, it’s about intimidating me. My confirmation to Duncan gave them just enough to go after me. This is a SLAPP suit—that stands for strategic lawsuit against public participation—and it’s used by people with lots of money and legal resources to shut down someone like me. They probably have five lawyers working on this right now. They plan to put me on the legal rack until I go broke or say uncle.”

  Angela’s eyes flooded with tears. “Those rat bastards. This sucks beyond recognition.” She swiped tears from her cheeks with the heels of her hands and sniffed. “I’m so sorry, Cal, I—”

  “Hey. It’s okay. I don’t plan to fold.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Oregon has a strong anti-SLAPP statute. I’ll file a motion to have the suit dismissed.” What I didn’t say was that Turner and Avery would, in response, claim it wasn’t a SLAPP suit. If they prevailed, I’d be facing a regular civil action for defamation. This would allow them to file a mountain of discovery demands and a truckload of motions, each of which I would have to respond to—the legal rack, in other words.

  Angela eyed me appraisingly, and it was clear she saw through my attempt to play down the situation. She was young but mature beyond her years with a firm grasp on reality. She shook her head. “The fucking universe seems to be lining up against you, Cal. Maybe you should get out. For your sake.”

  I met her eyes and held them. “I don’t choose to do that, Angela. Your mother deserves better, and so do you.”

  She teared up again, stepped forward, and hugged me. “I’m not sure I deserve it,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, “but Mom sure does.”

  Did I mention the pressure was on?

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  The next morning, when Melvin Turner came out on his front porch to get the paper, I was surprised to see him wearing khakis and a knit shirt instead of a suit and tie. Parked down from his house, I felt like the stalker I was. I decided to follow him into work and try to catch him between the parking garage and his office. A bit unorthodox, I admit, but I wanted some facetime and didn’t want our discussion to be in his office, on his turf. Better to catch him a little off balance. Why talk to him? A fair question. With no other obvious actions to take, I’d decided to yank the weakest link in the chain again. That would be Turner, if I didn’t miss my guess.

  He backed his pearl-white Lexus SUV out forty-five minutes later, and a woman, most likely his wife, had joined him. That complicated matters, but I decided to see where they were headed. Turner worked his way over to the I-5, drove south to the 205, and exited at Stafford Road. When he made a left onto Mountain Road, I was pretty sure I knew his destination, and when he turned onto Pete’s Mountain Road, I was certain. The entrance to the venerable, highly exclusive Oregon Golf Club was marked by a graceful iron gate that stood open between stone pillars, and off to the right, a turreted guard house looked like something designed by a Hobbit. Thankfully, it was unattended when I passed through. The long, winding drive into the club descended through conifers and deciduous trees, the view conjuring up a pastoral English countryside, except for the snow-clad volcano on the horizon. I parked a safe distance from Turner and his wife, the rambling, multi-gabled clubhouse rising up behind them. As they removed their clubs from the back of the Lexus, I sat there trying to decide what to do. It wasn’t the meeting place I’d envisioned, but the parking lot was deserted. I’d come this far, and I was sure to catch him unawares. “What the hell,” I muttered to myself as I got out of my car.

  “Good morning,” I greeted them as I walked up. “Beautiful day for a round of golf.” Turner turned to look at me, and the smile he’d formed broke like a pane of glass. Rearranging her clubs, his wife looked up at me and smiled pleasantly.

  “What do you want, Claxton?” he asked. “And how did you get in here?”

  Ignoring the question, I said, “I got your love letter yesterday, Melvin. I thought we could discuss it.”

  He turned to his wife. “Why don’t you go on in, Dorothy? I’ll be right there.” His face was grim, and his neck showed some color, but he managed to impart a soothing tone to his voice. Dorothy nodded and gave me a careful look, her eyes telegraphing concern and something else I couldn’t read. It made me wonder what she knew or suspected. When she was out of earshot, Turner swung his eyes back to mine and smirked. “All I’ve got to say is, see you in court.”

  I nodded. “Your SLAPP’s a joke. I’m filing to have it dismissed. Of course, you know that.”

  Turner smiled, although his blood had risen, giving his cheeks a pinkish hue. I wondered about the man’s blood pressure. “Good luck with that,” he said. “If you don’t know that we have considerable influence in the Multnomah County Court system, you’re going to find out soon enough.”

  I shook my head, and I’m sure my face registered disgust. “I lied about wanting to discuss your baseless lawsuit, Melvin.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Did you know that there was an attempt on Angela’s life?”

  He held the self-righteous look, but his eyes flared, a tell I’d come to expect. “I’m shocked to hear that, but what’s it have to do with me?”

  I shook my head again. “If you don’t know, you should. Let me spell it out for you. Margaret Wingate was struck by a car, Helen Ferris fell down her stairs, and just last week, Angela narrowly escaped what was intended to look like a robbery gone bad. If I hadn’t been there, she’d probably be dead now.”

  The self-righteous look faded, and he seemed to be listening intently.

  “Look, Melvin,” I continued, “I think you and Helen Ferris altered Margaret Wingate’s will to allow the sale of Wingate Properties after she was killed. The original will must have threatened the sale and left you and Avery without job security, so I can understand why you were tempted to do it. And maybe you didn’t realize at the outset that the sale and the financing of North Waterfront would launder a lot of filthy, offshore money.” I paused and met his eyes. “But I’m having a hard time believing you’d go along with cold-blooded murder.” He started to speak, but I raised a hand to silence him. “These murders are being carried out by a contract killer. A man who specializes in making the deaths look like something other than premeditated murder. I think you may be—”

  “Excuse me,” Dorothy Turner broke in. An attractive woman with a no-nonsense demeanor, she had approached without either one of us noticing. “Melvin, I’ve changed our tee time to nine forty-five.” Instead of leaving, she stepped up next to her husband and looked at me, making it clear she was interested in what was being said.

  “Thank you, dear,” Turner said. “Mr. Claxton was just leaving.”

  I looked at Turner. “Think carefully about what I just told you. It’s not too late. There may be a way a way to extricate yourself, Melvin. Call me if you want to discuss it. I know a lot more than you think I do.”

  Turner laughed bitterly. “Leave now, Claxton, or I’ll call security.”

  I turned and had taken a couple of steps when I thought of the picture of his wife and three kids that I’d seen on Turner’s desk. Of course. I whirled around. “Ilya Boyarchenko threatened my daughter two days ago. Is that what’s going on with you, Melvin? Have they threatened your family? That’s it, isn’t it?”
<
br />   A vein bulged in his neck, and his face took on more color. “Get out of here.”

  I left the man and his wife standing there in the parking lot of the Oregon Golf Club, framed by the iconic clubhouse and beyond that, a majestic Mt. Hood. It would have made a nice Christmas card, except for the fact that Melvin’s crimson face was contorted in a mixture of fear and anger, and Dorothy’s held a look of utter confusion.

  Later that afternoon, I got a call from Captain Harmon Scott. After a brusque greeting, he said, “Is the FBI watching you?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “We need to talk. Can you meet me at Kells at four?” I told him I’d be there, and he added, “Don’t bring a tail.”

  The turn-of-the-last-century cast-iron building that housed the original Kells Irish Pub looked like it had been picked up and moved from the historic section of Dublin. I got there at quarter past four and found Scott slouched at a small table in the back with a pint in front of him. I stopped a waiter, ordered an Irish Red, and when I joined Scott he almost smiled. “Behaving yourself, are you?”

  I took a seat across from him. “Always. You?”

  He sighed and drank some beer. “I’m a cop, I have to behave, but sometimes it wears a little thin, to tell you the truth. Sometimes I think the bad guys are gaining the upper hand.”

  “That’s the second time I’ve heard that this week.”

  “It’s going around.” He unlatched a briefcase sitting next to his chair, produced a large, unmarked envelope, and placed it on the table between us. “I, ah, have a friend in the forensics lab, so I didn’t pull that DNA sample after all. We got lucky. Your attacker’s a guy named Karlo Grabar, a Croatian national who came over here on a Green Card after the Bosnian thing. A high-tech outfit in Chicago wanted him for his computer skills, but he got involved in a white supremacist group, got charged with felony assault, and skipped bail. That was four years ago, and he hasn’t been seen since. I also had one of our techs take a quick look at the Nightshade site on the Dark Web. It’s been up about three years, so the timing fits, more or less.”