Moving Targets

by Warren C Easley

Clouds masked a thin sliver of moon, so I moved in near total darkness along the tree-lined road. The Camry was where it was supposed to be—a block past Grabar’s driveway on the other side of the street —but BB wasn’t in it, and it was unlocked. I looked around, wishing I had the eyes of an owl. Nothing moved in the shadows on either side of the street. That’s when I heard a faint ping, the unmistakable sound signature of an incoming text. I smiled, figuring it was my impatient friend sending another text to BB, who must’ve gotten out of his car for a pee. The sound came from further up the road, a section that lay in even deeper shadow. But the hair on my arms was still standing, so I reached for my Glock, took a deep breath to center myself, and moved toward the ping’s location.

  As I drew near, I stumbled on something lying across the pathway and went sprawling. Miraculously, the Glock didn’t go off. I got to my knees and reached back to find what had tripped me. It was a couple of jogging shoes attached to a pair of legs. I gasped, took out my cell phone, and activated the flashlight.

  Bembe Borgos stared back at me in the garish light, his cell phone visible in a shirt pocket. A perfectly round, half-inch hole lay directly between his blank eyes, and a thin thread of blood had seeped from the wound, tracing a path down his nose and across his cheek like a bloody tear.

  I rocked back on my heels. “No, goddamn it, no.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  The rest of that early morning is a swirl of bad memories soaked in guilt. I texted Nando to join me, warning him to be careful, that Grabar might be lurking somewhere on the street. I went back part of the way to intercept my friend, and when he loomed out of the shadows, I grabbed his arm and pulled him behind a tree. There was no gentle way to say this. “It’s BB. He’s been shot. He’s dead,” I whispered.

  Nando ripped his arm from my grasp. “No. That can’t be. Where is he?” He tried to whisper, but his voice carried in the stillness. I led him to the body, and after recoiling from the shock he knelt next to his friend and colleague and said something softly in Spanish I didn’t catch. When he got back up, I pulled him behind a swath of large rhodedendrons that at least provided us some cover from the street. He clamped his hands on my shoulders, holding me at arm’s length. “This is my fault, Calvin,” he said in a thick, quavering whisper. “If I hadn’t sent him to the stakeout alone he would still be alive.”

  “We’re both to blame,” I answered, feeling like the weight of Nando’s hands would buckle my knees. “I should have realized the danger and given BB more warning about who he was dealing with.”

  Nando stabbed a finger in the direction of the rental house and said through clenched teeth, “If he’s not on the street, that hijo de puta could still be in there. You watch the front. I’m going to bust in through the back.”

  I shook my head. “You can’t do that, Nando. This is touchy. We weren’t supposed to have that picture of Grabar or his name. We can watch the place until the cops get here, and let them break in. Grabar’s almost certainly long gone anyway.”

  “What are we going to tell the cops?” His voice shook with anger.

  I paused before answering. “We tell them BB was working off the general description I gave him, not a photograph. That way, Scott doesn’t have to lie if he gets questioned by his boss.”

  “What about Blaise, the woman who recognized the photograph?”

  “We say BB didn’t tell us who he talked to at the Swanson. Blaise is unlikely to contradict us, because she won’t want to talk to the cops. Everything else is exactly as it happened. If Scott wants to admit he knows Grabar’s name and came up with a photo, that’s his call.” I shook my head. “I don’t like it, but I can’t see any other way to handle this without compromising Scott.”

  “And the FBI?”

  I shrugged. “Good question. If they’re pulled into this, I’m not sure they’ll care that much about us pursuing Grabar. Remember, they seemed to disbelieve our theory of the murders.”

  “I do not give a shit, anyway.” Nando’s voice was low and menacing. “Grabar is going to pay for this.” He started striding toward the rental house. “Now, let’s call in the cops,” he said, over his shoulder as he drew his gun.

  Before the cops arrived, I called Harmon Scott on his cell to give him a head’s-up, explaining what had happened and what Nando and I planned to say about it.

  “I’m damn sorry to hear about your friend, Cal,” he responded, “and thanks. I owe you big-time for this. I need my pension to retire.”

  “We’re even,” I told him. He went on to say he would arrange to meet us at the eastside precinct later that night to complete the formal interviews. He gave me no clue as to how he planned to handle the fact that he knew Grabar’s name and had a mug shot of him. As it turned out, that conundrum was overtaken by events.

  The crime scene investigation passed in agonizing slow-motion. As I expected, Grabar had cleared out of the rental house, leaving it “antiseptically clean,” as one of the techs put it. I wondered how the killer knew he was being watched by BB. After our preliminary interrogation and while the techs were scouring the house, I strolled down to the end of the drive and examined a dogwood standing at the edge of the property. A wide-angle surveillance camera strategically placed in the tree would have provided a clear view of the street. Either that, or somebody at the Swanson tipped Grabar. There was no question about how he’d surprised BB. The victim’s pants were unzipped, and he had fallen next to a patch of his own urine.

  When we finished up at the eastside precinct, I went with Nando to tell BB’s mother what had happened. It was one of the worst experiences of my life, conjuring up dark memories of the death of my wife in L.A. all those years earlier. Afterwards, we went our separate ways, both of us needing to be alone to come to grips with what happened.

  Back at Caffeine Central, I fed Archie, then called Claire. I just needed to hear her voice. “I’m fine,” she told me. “I’m actually getting some work done, but I’m going to need to get back to Boston at the end of next week.”

  Not to alarm her, I said we were making progress on the case but left the details vague. When I tapped off, I sat back and looked at Arch. “Progress? Are you kidding me? Grabar’s in the wind and tipped that we’re on to him, and I can’t prove that forgery and murder were committed in a money-laundering conspiracy, even though I know most of the principals involved. What a joke, huh?” My dog looked back at me, and I swear there was compassion in his eyes.

  I needed that.

  I called Angela next, picked her up at Winona’s, and took her to the Co-op. She took the news about BB especially hard. It was no secret she was very fond of him, and I had the impression he was beginning to reciprocate. I held her for a long time while she cried and then she abruptly broke away and began sculpting. Diving into her work was her way to cope. Archie took up his spot in the corner, and I sat down on the floor next to him and watched her work, trying to divert myself from the sadness, guilt, and anxiety racking me.

  Jogging Woman’s frame was nearly complete, and Angela had begun the detail work that would bring the figure to life. I marveled at how she cut and bent finer pieces of wire and welded them in place, the cross-hatching like a painter using fine brush strokes to add detail and dimension. She was concentrating on the face, and I could see that the shape of the nose and the bone structure of the cheeks and around the eyes were beginning to bare an uncanny resemblance to her mother. I was moved by that, in spite of my dark mood. Curiously, both of Jogging Woman’s hands were still straight strands of ridged steel wire. When I asked about this, she said, “The hands are critically important and the toughest to flesh out. I’m saving them for last.”

  There’s something to the idea that it’s darkest before the dawn, because when my cell phone riffed that afternoon, I was as low as I’ve ever been, and that’s pretty damn low. “Hello, Mr. Claxton, this is Mel Turner’s wife, Dorothy,” the call began. “
I, um, I was wondering if we could meet this afternoon? I have some questions I’d like to ask you.” I told her sure, and we agreed to meet at Caffeine Central in an hour.

  Well, whaddaya know?

  Dorothy Turner had a pleasing round face with soft eyes marked with crow’s feet and double parentheses on either side of her mouth, suggesting she smiled early and often. But she wasn’t smiling as she entered my office, and her eyes looked deeply troubled. After greeting Archie like a person who knew and loved dogs, she took a seat across from me. “If Mel knew I was here, he’d pitch a fit,” she began, “but I have to talk to someone.” Her eyes filled, so I got up and handed her a tissue. She dabbed them and looked at me. “I don’t know who to turn to. You seem like someone I can trust. Can I trust you, Mr. Claxton?”

  I met her eyes. “Yes, you can,” I said. “If you confide in me I’ll do everything in my power to help you and your husband. I think he’s in a situation he doesn’t know how to get out of.”

  She held my eyes for a long time, taking my measure. Finally, she said, “You asked Mel if someone was threatening our family. Why did you say that?”

  “Because someone your husband is involved with—a man named Ilya Boyarchenko—threatened my daughter if I didn’t stop an investigation into his real estate dealings. I think he may be threatening your husband the same way to keep him in line.”

  “Is this about the North Waterfront Project? Is there something illegal going on?”

  “Yes. And I think your husband wants out but is afraid for you and your kids.”

  She straightened a little and fixed me with her gaze. “Whatever Mel did, it had nothing to do with the deaths of Margaret Wingate and Helen Ferris.”

  “I believe that,” I said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be talking to you.” I sensed that’s as far into the conspiracy as she wished to go, which was fine with me.

  Her chin trembled, and she lowered her eyes. “That must be it, then,” she said, almost to herself. “He’s so troubled. He’s not sleeping or eating much. He’s continually on edge. I’ve never seen him like this.” She brought her eyes back up. They were wide with fear and anxiety. “What should I do, Mr. Claxton?”

  I leaned in and opened my hands. “You have to get him to come forward, Mrs. Turner. He doesn’t want to go to the police because he’s made some mistakes, and I think he’s ashamed. But he’s a good man, I sense that. That’s why I showed up at the golf club. Tell him to come to me so that we can work together to resolve this. He holds the key to stopping them.”

  “Will this endanger the children?”

  “Not if he uses discretion, and I know he will. Tell him there’s a way out without putting you and the kids at risk. And, as for you, don’t say a word of this to anyone, especially Brice Avery.”

  Her eyes narrowed down. “Brice’s part of the threat, isn’t he?” I nodded, and she stared at the marred surface of my desk for a long time before looking up again. “Mel’s a proud and stubborn man, Mr. Claxton. I’ll tell him exactly what you said, but I don’t know how he’ll react.” Then she shifted in her seat. “He’s been getting more and more nervous and agitated. It feels like something’s about to happen? Is it?”

  “A lot has already happened that I can’t share, but I agree there’s more to come.” I wasn’t just saying that. It felt like something major had finally broken loose.

  I showed Dorothy Turner to the door, and before she strode off down Couch Street, she turned and did something that totally surprised me. Her hug was firm and unselfconscious. “Thank you, Mr. Claxton. I feel a little better. I’ll be in touch one way or the other.”

  I watched her walk away, more secure in the knowledge that my hunch about Melvin Turner was right. He may have been caught up in an ugly mess and was suing me for defamation, but I was convinced that at core he was a decent guy. Otherwise, he could have never attracted someone with the character of Dorothy Turner.

  The question now was could she get him to come forward?

  Chapter Forty-two

  That Sunday in late May was cloudless, although I awoke in the shadow of BB’s ghost with issues and obligations stacked squarely on my shoulders like so many sandbags. I just finished a double cappuccino when my cell went off. “Hey,” a cheerful voice said, “it’s Tracey. Do you and Arch want to go for a run?”

  Thirty minutes later, the three of us were pounding down one of the ramps on the Eastbank Esplanade after having crossed the Steel Bridge. With Archie leading the way, we passed the Hawthorne and crossed at the Tilikum Crossing—the cable-stayed bridge that accommodated pedestrians and the MAX Light Rail—and stopped at Elephant’s Deli, where we ordered coffee and croissants and found an outside table. I was feeling a lot better, but by the time I brought Tracey up to date regarding the lawsuit, the Boyarchenko threat, my arrest for assault, and BB’s death, I felt overwhelmed again.

  I wasn’t looking for sympathy, and when I finished, Tracey didn’t give me any. Instead, she reached across the table and squeezed my hand, her eyes lit with determination. “We’re going to get through this, Cal. You told me the other day you found meaning in the struggle, right?” She paused, smiling with a hint of wryness. “Well…?”

  I laughed at that. “Yeah, I’ve had about all the meaning I can stand right now.” She returned the laugh, and I said, “I hope the news is better at your end.”

  She sipped her coffee and eyed me over the rim of the cup. “The council’s split on North Waterfront, two leaning for and two against. The mayor can break the tie, but he’s been non-committal so far. Poindexter’s going to give a final report and a set of recommendations in two weeks. He’s all in, of course, and his glowing report might tip the balance. The Oregon Industries Association and the Metro Business Alliance are both leaning toward support. The final vote will come in June.” She paused. “I know I promised you a month, Cal, but the timing’s tightened. I can’t wait much longer to tip Cynthia Duncan about Arrowhead. She’ll need time to dig in, then get an article published.”

  “You think that will be enough? All we know is that Arrowhead was incorporated in Cyprus. We still don’t know for sure whose money’s behind it.”

  She shrugged and made a face. “It’s all I got, except for some vague accusations about Brice Avery, Melvin Turner, and Ilya Boyarchenko that sound like a conspiracy theory.”

  “I’ve got another iron in the fire.” I told her about my visit from Dorothy Turner.

  When I finished, Tracey’s eyes brightened with hope. “You think Turner will come forward?”

  “If Dorothy Turner has anything to say about it, he will.”

  Her look turned conspiratorial. “I’ve got an iron in the fire, too. Fred Poindexter’s secretary, a woman named Mia Cantrell, came to me yesterday and said he’s been making unwanted advances and saying inappropriate things to her. He’s married, too, the slimeball. I told her to file a formal complaint, but she doesn’t think it’ll stick. It’s just ‘he said-she said,’ at this point. Anyway, I recruited her.”

  “Recruited her?”

  “Yeah,” Tracey said, looking proud of herself, “I told her I suspected him of other improprieties and would be very interested in hearing about anything unusual going on in his office—communications with strangers, unexpected or hastily called meetings, anything that looks unusual or outside the normal routine to her. I gave her a list of names and key words to look out for, too: Arrowhead Investments, Ilya Boyarchenko, Byron Hofstetter, Costas Zertalis, Cyprus.”

  “How did she react?”

  “She jumped on it.”

  “Can you trust her?”

  “Absolutely. She hates the bastard, and she’s a straight-shooter.”

  “Nice work. You’re good at this stuff.”

  Her eyes turned to pure flirtation, and she smiled at me across the table. “I have a good teacher.”

  The weather held as we walke
d back along the river through Tom McCall Park. The park was a riot of happy Portlanders engaged in all manner of spring activities, reminding me that the dark, smash-and-grab forces I was up against—the “new normal,” as some were calling it—hadn’t touched everyone. Not yet, at least. It was as if the scene was a mirage, something out of the nostalgic past that could never be reclaimed. I hoped like hell that wasn’t the case. A couple of times, Tracey took my hand and squeezed it, and I sensed the same thoughts were going through her mind, although neither one of us spoke.

  We crossed Burnside at 3rd and when we reached Couch Street, Arch and I took a left, while she continued toward her condo on Hoyt. But before parting, Tracey sealed it with a kiss on my cheek and a hug for my dog. It was unspoken, but firm, that whatever was going on between us was on hold until this mess got sorted out one way or the other.

  That Monday morning, back at my Dundee office, I still felt the weight of the world on my shoulders, but at the same time, a vague feeling lingered that things were finally moving. I spent my first working hour talking to the owner of one of the larger wineries in the Dundee Hills about his upcoming divorce hearing. It was the usual, joy-numbing story—two people, once in love, were now locked in a struggle over the material things they once freely shared. If I didn’t need the money, I wouldn’t have taken the case, but there you go.

  I tackled the response to the charges in the Wingate defamation lawsuit next. It wasn’t due for twenty-four days, but I had an itch to get it off my to-do list. Halfway through the first draft, a call came in from the real estate agent, Valerie Thatcher. After we exchanged greetings she said, “What’s the latest on the mining at the Aerie?” When I answered that nothing had changed, she said, “That screenwriter I told you about is still interested. Would you mind if I showed him the property?”

  I paused while my gut did a flip and looked over at Arch. “Uh, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to see how he reacts.” I glanced at my calendar. “The hearing at the Land Use Board isn’t for another three weeks, but I haven’t uncovered anything to stop them from mining. There’s a house key hanging on a nail on the side of the front steps, second step from the bottom on the right.” She thanked me and went on her way. I knew she was just doing her job, but her cheerful demeanor annoyed the hell out of me, and the thought of some stranger walking around in my place, let alone buying it, was almost more than I could stomach.