Moving Targets

by Warren C Easley

  “And the fact that he’s foreign does, too,” I said. “The site doesn’t seem to have an American origin.”

  Scott allowed the thinnest of smiles. “I think I’m warming to your conspiracy theory. I can’t see this scumbag suddenly deciding to do a two-bit marijuana heist in Portland. That doesn’t fit. Anyway, the details are in the envelope along with a mug shot. Needless to say, if this gets out we’re both screwed.”

  “Roger that.” I reached for the envelope, thanked him, and said, holding back a smile, “You’re assuming I’m going to follow up on this.”

  He stood and drained his beer, set the mug down, and said over his shoulder as he was walking out, “I know you will. Win one for the good guys, Claxton.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  I took the Ross Island Bridge across the river and headed straight for Nando’s office. On the way I called Angela, who’d been dog-sitting Archie since early that morning. When I asked about my dog, she said, “He’s fine, but I’m afraid he likes me better than you now.”

  I laughed. “That’s called alienation of affection, you know.” I explained I was running late and asked if she could continue watching Arch. “I’ll have BB pick you two up if that’s okay.”

  “Sure. I’m having a good sculpting day, and I’m always glad to see BB.”

  I had no sooner tapped off when a text pinged in from Claire. She had found a motel outside New Iberia and was enjoying a spate of fine weather. I breathed a little easier.

  With the envelope in hand, I walked into the Sharp Eye and told Esperanza I needed to see her boss right away. “Go on in,” she said. “He’s on the phone.” Wearing a royal purple silk shirt, Nando had his broad back to me, talking in rapid-fire Spanish. I took a seat in front of his desk and looked around. A huge, brightly colored relief map of the island of Cuba dominated one wall, and pictures of his home country, his family there, and more contemporary photos, dotted the other wall. My eyes were always drawn to the picture of him snapped by a U.S. Coast Guardsman. Thin, with a thick, four-day growth and a brilliant smile on his thirty-year-old face, Nando stood in a makeshift raft, clinging to a buoy off the Keys. It was his triumphant arrival in America, and it was easy to see the passion for his new country burning in his eyes.

  “Aye yai yai,” he said, turning to me after he finished his call, “always the problems.” But when he saw the look on my face, he added, “You have something.” I opened the envelope, pushed the contents over to him, and described what Scott had told me while he gazed at Grabar’s mug shot. He tapped the photo with an index finger when I finished. “He has the dead eyes. These are the men to watch out for. We need to find this cabrón.”

  “Any ideas on how to do that? All we have is a photograph. He’s sure as hell not using his real name, assuming he’s still in the area.”

  “The motel where you think he hung the car thief, remind me where it is.”

  “The Swanson. It’s on SE 111th, off Foster.”

  “He wouldn’t stay at this motel, but maybe he is staying somewhere in the vicinity,” Nando responded. “We could start by showing his picture around the bars, restaurants, and shops in the area. It is mainly industrial, so this would be a manageable task. If we get a hit, we could stake the place out in case he returns.”

  I nodded but thought of another possibility. “This guy’s holed up somewhere alone, right? Suppose he gets horny and starts using one of the women working at the Swanson? After all, he probably knows what goes on there.” Nando raised his eyebrows and nodded back. “I could go back there and ask around,” I added.

  He shook his head. “An excellent place to start, but it should not be you who does this.”

  “Who, then?”

  He smiled knowingly. “BB. All the women love him, and he has experience with the working girls. If one of them knows this man, BB will find out for us.”

  “I thought all the women loved you.”

  He flashed a smile that lit the room. “It is a Cuban thing, Calvin.”

  I chuckled. “Okay, BB’s our man. Of course, Grabar’s a pro, so it’s unlikely he’d confide in a prostitute, but it’s worth a shot. If BB strikes out, we can try the broader canvassing you suggested.”

  We settled on it.

  Since I’d rattled Melvin Turner’s cage and been pretty open about it, I figured I might as well do the same for his business partner, Brice Avery. My hunch was Avery was more deeply enmeshed in the North Waterfront scheme, but of course I had scant evidence of this. I was particularly interested in learning if Turner had talked to Avery about my recent visit. If I was right about Avery, and about Turner being squeezed into compliance by Boyarchenko, then I would expect the lawyer to keep his silence while he mulled over what I’d told him. On the other hand, Avery might be under threat from Boyarchenko, as well.

  In any case, I was way past sitting back and waiting for something to happen. Despite the risks, stirring the pot seemed a much better option, and a frontal assault seemed the best approach.

  “Hello, Brittany.” I greeted Avery’s secretary bright and early the next morning. She looked up at me and smiled, her eyes as blue as I remembered them. “I’m wondering if I could pop in to see your boss for a couple of minutes.”

  She glanced at her screen, then back at me, the smile still intact. “He isn’t expecting you, but let’s see if I can sneak you in, Mr. Claxton.” Impressed with her memory for names, I followed her to his door and waited as she tapped lightly and announced my presence. I chuckled internally but hoped she wouldn’t get fired for this. Clearly, she hadn’t gotten the memo that I was radioactive, that my alleged defamatory statements threatened the very existence of Wingate Properties.

  Avery stood up at his desk, leaned forward propped on both arms, and regarded me. His sleeves were rolled, his striped tie loosened, and his perpetual three-day growth neatly sheared—the picture of a take-charge CEO. He didn’t say a word when Brittany announced me, but after she clicked the door shut, he growled, “What the fuck do you want, Claxton?”

  I sat down and crossed my legs. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Brice,” I said, cheerily. “I thought we should discuss your pending lawsuit.”

  He cracked a skeptical smile. “Why? You want to make a full retraction?”

  “Nah, not really. I—”

  “Then I’ve got nothing to say to you beyond what’s written in the complaint.” He sat back down, his eyes narrowed to a couple of slits. “You need to leave this building. Now.”

  I smiled at him, but I’m sure my eyes conveyed a different message. “Funny. That’s the same response I got from Melvin when I had a little chat with him yesterday.” I watched his face, and it registered pure surprise before he reined the expression in. Turner hadn’t said a word to him. “If you think that bullshit lawsuit will intimidate me, you’re wrong,” I went on. “And having Ilya Boyarchenko threaten my daughter won’t work, either. I —”

  He cut me off again and pointed at the door. “Out. Now. I don’t want to hear your asinine conspiracy theories. You’re out of control, Claxton. We’re going to bury you and your two-bit law practice.”

  I got up, walked to the door, then turned to face him. “What I’m wondering about with you, Brice, is how deeply you’re involved in this. Was it just to save your job and direct the biggest project Portland’s ever seen, or are you complicit in murder? Either way you’re going down. Have a nice day.”

  I thanked Brittany on the way out and was waiting for the down elevator when a hefty guy appeared from a side door down the hall. He had a shaved head, a pronounced unibrow, and wore a white shirt with some sort of insignia sewn on one of its shoulders. When he joined me, he said with rehearsed civility, “Mr. Claxton, I’m security, and I’m here to escort you out of the building.”

  I looked at him and said, “Tell Mr. Avery thanks, but I’m on my way and don’t need an esco
rt.” Sent by the big boss to do a job and focused on the mission, he clamped my right arm at the bicep in a meaty hand. I said, “Get your hands off me,” and pulled out of his grip. He grabbed my arm again, and when I resisted, yanked it hard. My still-healing right shoulder screamed out in pain, and so did I. Mistaking my scream for a battle cry, he tried to pin my arm behind me, which probably would have re-dislocated it if I didn’t react.

  My response was pure reflex. I swung my left elbow and caught him in the ribs. He grunted, and I felt something give. But instead of letting go, he wrenched my arm even harder. I screamed again, and in desperation balled my left fist and swung a backhand blow that caught him flush on the cheek. Whack!

  He let go of my arm and dropped to his knees. The elevator pinged and the doors opened, but instead of getting in, I said to him, “I’m sorry, but that was my injured arm you yanked. Are you okay?”

  He gingerly felt his cheek, grimaced, and said through clenched teeth, “Fuck you, man. You’re gonna pay for this.”

  Convinced he wasn’t too badly hurt, I apologized again, got on the elevator, and left him there with a dazed look on his face.

  My arm was still aching two hours later when two uniformed Portland Police Officers showed up at Caffeine Central and arrested me for assault. I knew one of the cops, and he let me call Angela to have her swing by with BB to pick up Archie. I was too embarrassed to tell her what happened.

  To paraphrase Johnny Cash, I’ve had tougher weeks, but I really can’t remember when….

  Chapter Forty

  The bed was hard as a rock, and my shoulder ached from getting wrenched by Unibrow, so that night in jail was long and torturous. I went back over what happened several times and finally decided I wouldn’t have done anything differently. I was pretty sure there was a security camera on that floor that would bolster my side of the story and made a mental note to request a copy the next day as part of my discovery. It was self-defense, but adding another case on top of the defamation lawsuit was unsettling, to say the least.

  There was one consolation. As a result of my visit to Brice Avery, I was now fairly confident he was knowingly involved, not only in the money-laundering, but the murders, as well. Why else would Melvin Turner not have told his partner about the revelations I laid out at the Oregon Golf Club? Because he was afraid, that’s why. Okay, this wasn’t proof, but it made a lot of sense. And, by suggesting an out to Turner, maybe I’d succeeded in driving a wedge between them. I hoped that wasn’t wishful thinking.

  At my arraignment in Municipal Court that morning, I was expecting to be charged with assault four, a misdemeanor, since I hadn’t used a weapon. However, I learned that I’d cracked one of the security guard’s ribs and broken his cheekbone, so the county prosecutor saw fit to bump it to assault three, a felony, which for a lawyer was a one-way ticket to disbarment. The news was like a well-placed kick to the groin.

  I pleaded not guilty, and since the judge knew me, I was released on my own recognizance. Afterwards, I called Angela to check on my dog. “He’s fine,” she told me. Always the perceptive one, she added, “Are you okay? “You sound a little down.”

  I ignored her question. “I’ll pick Arch up as soon as I get my car. It’s pouring outside, so it may take a while to get there. I’m at the courthouse and my car’s at Caffeine Central.”

  “Hang on a sec.” I heard muffled voices, then “Winona’s here checking out Jogging Woman. We’ll come pick you up.” I tried to object, but she insisted.

  I stood in the courthouse entryway, and when Winona’s Prius C pulled up, I dashed to the street and hopped in, much to the delight of Archie. I wasn’t anxious to explain the situation, but I saw no way to avoid it. When I finished, Angela said, “So Brice sends a security guard out to rough you up. What a douche move.” She tried to suppress a laugh but couldn’t. “Boy, did that dude get a surprise.”

  Winona glanced at me in the rearview mirror with a less sanguine expression. “If you’re convicted, you’ll lose your license, right?” I nodded. “What about the guard? Could he sue you for the assault?”

  “Theoretically. He could claim damages of some kind in civil court, where the burden of proof’s less. I can beat the felony charge, but civil suits are a crapshoot.”

  She glanced back again. “And Angela told me you’re being sued by Wingate Properties, too. Jesus, Cal, is this as bad as it looks?”

  “Nah,” I said, mainly for Angela’s benefit. She looked like she was going to cry, and I couldn’t handle that at the moment. “There’s a clear path through this whole morass.” I chuckled to lighten the mood. “But maybe I should consult my horoscope to see how many planets are lined up in opposition to me.”

  Angela smiled at that, but the reflected look Winona shot me was pure skepticism.

  Angela insisted on being dropped off at the Co-op first, which I suspected was her playing Cupid with Winona and me. She didn’t know the little cherub had already blunted his arrows on our romance.

  “I want you to know how much I appreciate you putting Angela up,” I told Winona as we skimmed over the Willamette River on the Broadway Bridge. “We know the name of her attacker now, so I’m hoping we’ll get a break and take him out asap”

  “I hope you get the bastard, but don’t worry about the timing. I’ve grown very fond of Angela, and she needs a woman she can confide in right now.” She shook her head. “Thank God she made it through. A lot of rebellious kids don’t these days. So many ways to go wrong. She’s still mad at the world—what rational person isn’t? But she’s using the anger to drive her creativity now. She’s a talented sculptor, Cal.”

  “I know. I’m fond of her, too. She reminds me a lot of Claire.”

  We drove in silence for a while, and when Winona finally pulled up in front of Caffeine Central, she turned to me. Her eyes were more hazel than green in the overcast light, and she smiled just enough that the tiny whirlpools of her dimples appeared on either cheek. “You look well,” I said. “How have you been?”

  She shrugged and sighed. “Better, I guess. I’m sorry to hear about all the trouble you’re dealing with. Is there really a light at the end of this tunnel?”

  “That remains to be seen, but one thing’s for sure—the only way out is going to be through.” She smiled knowingly. I weakened. “Look, why don’t you come up? I can fix us both a late breakfast. I’ll make your favorite, blueberry pancakes.”

  She averted her eyes and shook her head. “I can’t, Cal. I’m driving out to Warm Springs today for a meeting. I’m looking at a job there. The Tribal Council wants someone to put a comprehensive ecological plan together and lead it. They asked me to apply.”

  “Oh.” My heart knew better, but it sank just the same. “They’d be lucky to get you. You’d move out to the Rez?”

  “If I take the job, yeah.” She sighed again. “After what I witnessed at Standing Rock, I know I need to do more. You’re standing up for Angela, and I’d like to do the same for my people.” She swung her eyes to me and forced a smile. “I’ve made a little bit of progress, at least.”

  “You’ve made a lot of progress. Uh, good luck with the job interview. That’s exciting.”

  Archie and I got out of her car, and after she pulled away I looked down at my dog. “I’ll be damned, Big Boy, it turns out rock-bottom has a basement.”

  At close to two the next morning my cell phone dragged me out of a deep sleep. It lay on the kitchen table, and I stumbled down the hall, catching it on the eighth or ninth ring. “We have found him.”

  My mind cleared in an instant. “Grabar?”

  “Yes,” Nando said. “A woman named Blaise out at the Swanson Motel recognized the photo. She said she’s been to his place twice. Grabar sent Uber to pick her up because he had an accident.”

  “Let me guess—he broke his nose.”

  Nando laughed. “Precisely. He did not wish to b
e seen in public, but the sex urge was not to be denied, just as you thought. BB is there now, watching the place. It’s a rental house off Stark on SE 215th. The lights are out.”

  “He’s being cautious, right? Grabar’s no one to mess with.”

  “Of course.”

  I chuckled. “You were right about BB.”

  “Yes.” I could hear a tinge of pride in his voice. “The young man is top notch. I suggest we join him. That way, when Grabar goes out in the morning, BB can follow him, and we can search his place.”

  I wasn’t keen on breaking and entering. On the other hand, I was reluctant to involve Harmon Scott and the Portland Police. Scott could be compromised, and, besides, all they could charge Grabar with is assault, and that was a stretch because he didn’t lay a hand on Angela and could claim that I attacked him. Let it play out a little more, I decided. “Okay,” I told Nando, “Grabar got a look at your Jeep, so I’ll swing by and pick you up.”

  Twenty minutes later, we crossed the Ross Island Bridge and headed east. According to BB, Grabar was staying in a one-story ranch set back from the street on a long driveway lined with trees and shrubs, probably a short-term furnished rental. The street was unlit. We parked about a block south of the driveway. “BB’s a block north.” He punched in a text announcing our arrival. When BB didn’t answer, he said, “Mierda. I told him to keep his phone on.”

  When BB didn’t answer the second text, I said, “Stay here. I’ll go wake him up.” I said it half in jest, but the hairs on my arms had risen. When Nando asked if I had my Glock, I opened my coat to show it tucked in my belt.

  “Good. He’s in a black Camry.”