“Now, Mr. Cahill,” I went on, “I’d like you to examine and comment on this photo, please.” I handed him another print, and right on cue a sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. “What’s the status of the gravel bins?”
“Uh, they appear to be empty.”
“They are empty. What’s the date?”
“It looks like March 15, 2006.”
“That’s correct.” Turning back to the board, I said, “That is the capture date for that shot, meaning, again, this was the day that Google decided to update their data about thirteen months later. And, behold, the bins are empty now. I handed Cahill a copy of the H and S sales record for that day. “How much gravel did you sell that day, according to these records you submitted?”
The sheen on his forehead had become drops of sweat. He glanced over at Goodings, then back at me, avoiding eye contact. “Uh, it says here we sold twelve truckloads.”
“Twelve truckloads? That’s impossible. The bins were empty.” At this point, the hearing room had gone completely silent, and the panel members were leaning forward in their seats. I stepped closer to his chair. “Come on, Mr. Cahill, you stopped selling gravel from McCallister Quarry on March sixteenth of that year, if not sooner, and you know it. You simply ran out. But you faked these sales records to help out your buddies at McMinnville Sand and Gravel and allow you to start selling again.”
He shook his head. “No, that isn’t—”
I cut him off. “I don’t need your admission.” I turned to the panel again. “I obtained this information from Google Satellite. The photographic evidence is conclusive, ladies and gentlemen. At the latest, H and S ran out of gravel on March sixteenth, which is only five months and some change after the quarry shutdown. You can do the math. This proves the quarry was idle for more than twelve years. I ask you to examine these photographs yourselves and then rule against the resumption of mining at McCallister. Thank you.”
McMinnville Sand and Gravel’s attorneys tried to object and tossed out several alternative theories, but there was simply no way to argue against the photographic evidence and Cahill’s admissions. We were asked to leave the room, and forty-five minutes later were called back and told that the vote had been four to one to deny the right to any further mining in the quarry. “If you wish to mine at the site, you’ll have to apply for a new permit,” the chairwoman informed the mining company. And everyone in the room knew that permit application would be dead on arrival.
A cheer went up from the gallery, and that set Archie off barking. Angela had smuggled him into the hearing, claiming he was a service dog. We filed out of the hearing room, and I was surrounded by well-wishers and grateful neighbors for a while. Gertie patted me on the back and said, “Cal, I was feeling pretty uncertain there until you put that liar, Cahill, back on the stand.” She laughed. “I guess I’ll have to change my opinion of all that technology we have these days. Google really saved our butts. Who would’ve believed it?”
The Board of Appeals gave McMinnville two weeks to affect an orderly shutdown, but the blasting was ordered stopped the next day. We swung by the Aerie on our way back to Portland, so Angela could see the place. On the way, she said, “Those satellite photos were so cool. What made you think of that?”
I laughed. “Believe it or not, it was an aerial map of H and S I saw hanging on their wall the only time I was there. I was holding my breath by the time I figured out how to find the capture dates. Turns out, Google doesn’t update with any set pattern, but that update in 2006 came at just the right time.”
I stopped at the gate to the Aerie, and Angela and Archie jumped out and did a laughing, barking dance across the field. I sat there and watched, my vision suddenly blurred.
It was damn good to be home.
Epilogue
That Fall
I sat on my favorite bench listening to the soft sifting of the wind through the Douglas firs. Archie lay snoozing next to me with his chin on his paws. We were taking a well-deserved break after cleaning the gutters and raking the leaves under the maple trees on the east side of the house. My dog supervised while I did the heavy lifting. The air had a sharp nip to it, and across the glittering thread of the Willamette River, muted patches of vermillion, ochre, and yellows unfurled between the Coast Range and the Cascades, like a comfortable old family quilt.
My thoughts drifted back to the events that followed the FBI bust at the Aurora Airport and Grabar’s attempt to murder Angela, Darius, and me. After two major surgeries, the Nightshade assassin had pulled through, although I heard from Harmon Scott that he now talked in a harsh, barely audible whisper, a remnant of Jogging Woman’s revenge. Now that the entire scheme was unmasked, the FBI wanted to establish a link between him and Anapolsky, so they could charge the oligarch with murder, in addition to money-laundering and drug-trafficking. But there was a problem—Grabar could only be charged with counts of attempted murder—the attempt on Angela followed by the attempt on the three of us in Angela’s studio. Apparently, his lawyers liked his chances because they were advising him not to cooperate with the Feds.
That’s when I thought of something I’d asked my friend, Semyon Lebedev, at the beginning of this case. I called him immediately. “Remember when I asked if your friend could put aside the cube of the Lexus that was the hit-and-run murder car?” I asked him. “Did he?”
Semyon told me he would check and called me back an hour later to say that yes, it was there, tucked away in a small shed. And access to the yard would be easy, he explained, because Boyarchenko’s organization collapsed after his arrest. I called Aldous Jones with the news that I had located the weapon used to murder Margaret Wingate, and he graciously invited me to watch as an FBI team spent a day sawing and prying their way into the cube. On the passenger door handle they lifted perfect thumb and index prints, and on a small section of the front bumper they found tissue and dried blood.
Two weeks later, Karlo Grabar was charged with Margaret Wingate’s murder, and a week after that, he agreed to cooperate with the Feds to avoid the death penalty. My hunch that Ilya Boyarchenko had set up the Nightshade contracts was correct. The contract for Margaret Wingate was done anonymously on the Dark Web, but it turned out that Grabar and Boyarchenko had met face-to-face in Portland to discuss the Ferris murder and the attempt on Angela’s life. This break in Dark Web protocol allowed Grabar to implicate Boyarchenko and led to the Feds charging the Russian mobster with murder in addition to the money-laundering charges already in place.
Not surprisingly, it didn’t take long for him to turn on his Russian countryman, Stanislav Anapolsky, who had supplied Boyarchenko with the software and protocols for the original Dark Web contact.
As Aldous Jones put it to me: “It was like mad dogs turning on each other.”
From what I read in the paper and what Jones shared, the arrest of Stanislav Anapolsky caused quite a stir at the Kremlin, particularly after he was charged with murder here in the U.S. Just last week, Aldous told me that the oligarch had been accused of tax evasion in Russia, and Putin was asking for his extradition back to the motherland. It was a move designed to rescue his friend and political ally.
“Surely we won’t extradite the bastard?” I asked Jones in utter disbelief.
“Without the murder charge, it could have happened. You know, Putin might offer up someone we want, like Edward Snowden, in exchange. The politics get tricky at that altitude. But no way he’s getting extradited when he’s charged with first-degree murder. I’m damn glad you had that Lexus cube set aside, Claxton.”
“Me, too,” I told him.
My thoughts turned to happier topics. Just last week I attended an unveiling of Jogging Woman at the Portland Art Museum, which had purchased the statue and placed it in the commons between their two main buildings in downtown Portland. The event drew a sizable crowd, and Angela gave a moving talk about her mom and what an inspiration she was t
o her.
“Mom wanted Wingate Properties redirected toward more socially responsible development,” she said at one point, “and, as the new owner, that’s exactly what I intend to do.” Her first action, she explained, was to begin a search for a new CEO who would transform the development company into a nonprofit. At my suggestion, Tracey Thomas was chairing the search committee. “I’ve also put the North Waterfront Project on hold, pending a complete redesign,” she added. “That ugly tower, the yacht harbor, and the golf course are out, and a block of affordable housing and a large-scale complex for artists, featuring studios and a retail space, are in. My dream is that this new artists’ cooperative will be a mecca for creative people across the country.”
That last line received a burst of applause from the audience, which caused the speaker to blush and tears to form in her big chocolate eyes.
Nando attended the ceremony. He had become a fan of Angela and her work and commissioned her to do a sculpture to be placed outside the Sharp Eye Detective Agency. They’re collaborating on a design that will honor Bembe Borgos. She offered to donate the piece, but Nando would have none of it. “You caught BB’s killer and saved my best friend’s life,” he told her. “I can never repay you for that.”
Winona also attended the ceremony. We were on opposite sides of the crowd and when our eyes met, I thought I saw the flicker of something in hers—longing perhaps? But when it was over, she slipped out before I had a chance to talk to her. She had taken the job at the Warm Springs Reservation, and from what I hear from her cousin, Philip Lone Deer, she’s a lot happier. She certainly deserves it. With the perspective of time, it seems to me our breakup had more to do with the state of this country than anything either of us did or intended to do. Affection for her still smolders in my heart, and that’s not apt to change any time soon.
As for me, I’m just taking it a day at a time, which will include a lot of steelhead fishing this fall. The felony assault charge against me for roughing up that security guard was dropped some time ago. He decided not to press charges. It might have had something to do with the fact that he now worked for Angela Wingate, not Brice Avery, but I can’t say for sure. Tracey and I continue to see each other, although neither one of us is sure where the relationship is heading. She’s focused on city politics, and I’m trying to pump some new life into my law practice in Dundee and do what I can at Caffeine Central.
Best of all, I’m back at the Aerie with my dog.
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Moving Targets Page 29