Blood for Wine

by Warren C Easley

  “Just four?”

  Missing my sarcasm, he said, “Well, maybe five, depending on the parking the city forces on me.”

  “Affordable rents, I hope.”

  He paused for a moment. “Well, for some, yes. They will be small units but very high end. That is where the money is.”

  I sighed my response, wondering where the evicted tenants of the “teardown” would go in this insane market, but eschewed any further comment on my friend’s business dealings. “Any progress on finding the tattooed lady or Isabel?”

  “I have a good man looking for Amanda Burke. Most tattoo artists post their images on the Internet. The first thing my investigator did was look for who is doing tattoos with a Chinese theme.”

  “The Internet, of course. I didn’t think of that.”

  “Yes. Everything is on the Internet in America. He found over a dozen shops with artists who do Chinese dragons of one form or another. No fu dogs. He will visit them next with the photo of the young woman. Let us hope that she paid with a credit card.”

  “Excellent, Nando. Time’s critical on this.”

  “I know, my friend. We also have a lead on Isabel Rufino. She is definitely undocumented, but the landlord she rented from told us a pastor at a church in Dundee gave her a reference.”

  “What’s the church?”

  “Iglesia Discipulos de Christo. The pastor’s name is Gerardo Holquin.”

  “Good. I’ll follow up on that.”

  “My thought, exactly.”

  After meeting with a client, who’d been arrested for her second DUI, and then taking Archie out for a stretch, I called the church and Pastor Holquin himself picked up. He said he was leaving for the day but agreed to meet with me the next afternoon, which worked out well since I could continue on from there to meet with the Mannings at Tilikum Capital Management.

  At a little past one that afternoon, I called Jim to brief him on the lead to Luis Delgado’s girlfriend, and then I reminded him that the grand jury would convene the next day to hear Berkowitz’s case against him.

  “So, if I’m indicted the press will pick it up, right?”

  “For sure. They covered your arrest and bail hearing, and this will be an even bigger deal. It probably won’t be good news, so brace yourself.”

  “I’ve got it. I’ll change the name of my wine to Jim’s Killer Wine. What do you think?”

  It was a play on Dave’s Killer Bread, a popular bread made in Portland by Dave Dahl, an ex-felon. I laughed, glad to hear the gallows humor. “By the way,” I said. “Have you received anything from a real estate outfit called Hanson?”

  “Yeah. A couple of days ago I got a letter saying they had a client who wanted to buy Truc.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  He laughed. “I chucked it. I get offers like that all the time.”

  “Can you find it?”

  “Doubt it. The trash has been picked up.”

  “Okay. Do you know if others in the Hills got letters like that recently?

  “No, haven’t heard anything, but I’ll keep my ear to the ground.”

  “Do that. Look, Jim, if the press calls for a statement don’t say one word more than ‘I’m innocent’ and refer them to me. Nothing else, no matter what they ask you.”

  I left the office that afternoon wondering about the Hanson letter, which was similar to the one McKnight had gotten. Was the person behind the McKnight blackmail making a play for Jim’s property as well? After all, one way for Jim to pay his legal bills would be to sell Le Petit Truc. Or, had the blackmailer blanketed the Hills with requests to cover the one to McKnight? There was a third, less likely possibility—it was a coincidence and the buyer was legit.

  As we climbed into the Hills, my thoughts turned back to Jim. Despite my optimistic words to him, my gut was in a knot. I still didn’t like our chances. He was short on cash, and I was racking up a lot of hours. The trial date wasn’t set yet, but added expenses loomed on the horizon—legal research, PI work, a blood spatter expert witness, and other experts I hadn’t even thought of yet. To top it off, my hope of solving rather than trying the case seemed to be blowing in the wind.

  That night I dreamed I squeezed through the gap the intruder had cut in the fence, which I had yet to repair. It was dark, but I blundered ahead, only to find myself pitching off a cliff and into the cold, putrid lake that lay at the bottom of the quarry. That plunge into the lake was a recurring dream that mirrored what actually happened to me eight years earlier. I sank like a stone and then clawed my way back to the surface and awoke gasping for air.

  I swung my feet out of bed and calmed my breathing. Archie dutifully came over to comfort me, laying his head on my lap. I scratched the fur on his broad forehead and exhaled a long breath. “Damn, Arch, we need a break in this case.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The next morning I was treated to a visit from an irate mother and her clearly unrepentant teenage daughter, who’d been arrested for trying to steal a two-hundred dollar pair of designer jeans in McMinnville. I needed more business like a hole in the head, but, on the other hand, I feared that Jim’s case might drive me into a deficit position. I took the job. Judging from the spoiled, defiant demeanor of the daughter, I had nothing but pity for the mother. She was heading into choppy water with that kid.

  I spent the rest of the morning searching for an expert witness on blood spatter. My first choice was a guy named Anthony Garrett in L.A. I’d gone up against him a couple of times in court down there and knew he was damn good. I left a message for him to call and continued searching. He called back an hour and a half later. He could squeeze me in. His fee was $750 an hour plus travel expenses if I had to fly him in to testify. I swallowed hard and hired him. The case hinged on this science. I needed the best.

  I was heading off to meet with Holquin that afternoon when my cell went off in my pocket. It was Hiram Pritchard, my veterinarian. After we exchanged greetings and I updated him on Arch and Winona, he said, “I got the tox screen back from Archie’s vomit. That hamburger he ingested was laced with Xanax, a lot of it. Someone ground up the pills, maybe a bottleful and mixed it into the meat. I’m glad you found him when you did. He would have never woken up.”

  A hot bubble of anger boiled up in my chest as the whole series of events replayed in my head. “I left that party early. If I hadn’t…”

  “Thank God for that. Xanax is a common anti-anxiety drug that’s being used and abused by millions in this country, so I don’t suppose this is very useful information.”

  I thanked Hiram and asked him to pass the information along to the Sheriff. I wasn’t so sure the information was useless.

  As I walked to my car, I could smell rain in the air and hear the traffic out on the highway. The sun sulked somewhere behind a cover of mottled clouds, and the wind gusted in from the south. With Arch sitting upright in the backseat, we joined the conga line of cars and trucks that had slowed to a crawl because of the work on the new 99W bypass at the south end of town. I didn’t complain. The bypass promised to alleviate some of the congestion. It couldn’t come soon enough.

  The Inglesia Discipulos de Cristo, an old, steep-roofed, single story structure with a three story belfry, had obviously been recently painted because it seemed to glow white in the low afternoon light. The rain had started, so I cracked the windows just a little for Arch, who was lobbying with his eyes to go with me. “I’ll be right back,” I told him, and he gave me that sure-you-will look.

  A woman arranging flowers in the vestibule directed me to Pastor Holquin’s office, which was located behind the pulpit. A musty smell suggested the roof leaked, the floors were rough-hewn fir, and the high, narrow windows on either side of the sanctuary were covered with colored plastic to simulate stained glass. A barrel-chested man with dark, liquid eyes and heavy brows, Holquin greeted me with
a smile somewhere between cordial and wary. I introduced myself and handed him a business card and a photograph. “I’m trying to locate one of your members, the young woman in the photo. Her name’s Isabel Rufino. I think she might be able to help me resolve a legal matter I’m involved in.”

  He maintained the smile, but his face stiffened. “Legal matter?”

  I told him about Lori Kavanaugh’s murder and concluded by saying, “I believe Isabel has information that could help my client, James Kavanaugh, prove his innocence. More importantly, I believe she’s in danger.”

  The smile faded, and his eyebrows dropped, kicking up a triplet of vertical creases in his smooth forehead. “Why is she in danger?”

  “I think she may know something about the murderer, and I think he knows this and is looking for her, too.”

  Holguin eyed me over steepled fingers for a few moments. “I know this young woman. She is not a formal member, and we haven’t seen her for a while. Her faith has, ah, strayed from the love and protection of Christ.” He sighed deeply, and his eyes grew sad. “Drugs are such an evil influence. The devil incarnate.”

  I nodded. “If I can talk to her I might be able to lead the police to this man before he catches up with her.”

  “How do I know you have her best interests at heart, Mr. Claxton? She is very vulnerable, you know, and does not wish to go back to Mexico.”

  I met his eyes and held them. “I have a daughter about her age, Pastor. I give you my word, I will do everything I can to protect her.”

  He dropped his eyes to my card and flicked it with a fingertip a couple of times before looking back at me. “I believe that you would, Mr. Claxton. The problem is we lost touch with Isabel when she began seeing this man, Delgado. But I will make some inquiries.”

  ***

  My next stop, Tilikum Capital Management, was headquartered in a four-story brick and mirrored glass building with an imposing arched and pillared portico. Located south of Portland in Lake Oswego, the building sat in the center of an exquisitely landscaped and water-featured corporate campus off Kruse Way. I parked down from the building, and when I let Arch out he made a dash for the nearest strip of grass and left a pile next to a lovely koi pond. A man exiting the building in a blue suit and red power tie was in too big a rush to notice my dog’s breach of etiquette. As he hurried to his car and drove off, I imagined him being sent out to buy up more student debt to fatten the portfolios of Tilikum’s wealthy investors.

  His uptight demeanor reminded me of my days down in L.A. when I used to suit up every morning, worrying about the tie going with the shirt, and rush off to work in an expensive car, puffed up with self-importance. That ego dance and all that came with it ended abruptly the afternoon I found my wife next to an empty bottle of pills. I was that person then, but not anymore.

  The lobby of the building was as imposing as the landscaping—an enclosed space that vaulted up four stories, an elegant reception desk in the middle, huge glass doors to the first floor offices on either side, and a glass-fronted elevator behind the desk. A young blonde, Barbie’s sister, only thinner, sat behind the desk. I introduced myself and was sent immediately to the fourth floor where, I was informed, Mr. Manning awaited me.

  Eddie greeted me with eye contact, a broad smile, and a firm handshake. He wore a finely tailored suit and understated paisley tie with highlights matching his lavender shirt. The diamond stud in his ear had been replaced with a smaller, more conservative silver disc. In harmony with the building, his office was richly appointed in leather, chrome, and stained hardwoods, with an array of the obligatory photos attesting to a man with important connections. I caught a glimpse of him and Jim posing in a vineyard at Le Petit Truc and a shot of him with Governor Kate Brown. Just a guess on my part, but I figured a blank spot on the wall had been a photo of Eddie with our previous Governor, who resigned in disgrace midway through his fourth term.

  “Impressive operation,” I said, and that prompted Eddie to give me a flyover of Tilikum Capital Management, a deft summary done with disarming modesty. “People trust us with their life savings, Cal,” he told me. “It’s a sacred obligation we take very seriously.” He didn’t mention that a good part of their income derived from buying and collecting debt. Seeing all this financial firepower aimed at vulnerable people was unsettling, but I let it slide.

  “We missed you at Amis’ gig,” I said when he finished. “Good wine was had by all.”

  He smiled, but his look turned serious. “How did Jim hold up?”

  “He showed, and that took courage. His reception was mixed.”

  Eddie’s face clouded over, and he shook his head. “This thing could be fatal to his business.”

  That was the opening I was looking for. “I can understand your concern. Jim tells me you own a piece of the action.”

  His eyes registered momentary surprise. “Oh, that. I’d almost forgotten. I’m more concerned about Jim. Le Petit Truc’s his whole life, that and Lori, and she’s gone now.”

  I locked on to his eyes. “What happens if he can’t pay your note?”

  He flashed his boyish smile without breaking eye contact. “No worries. I’ll carry him until he gets back on his feet.”

  “That’s admirable,” I replied and then changed the subject. “Jim told me Aaron Abernathy approached you about a loan for a cannabis shop. How did that go?”

  He laughed. “How do you think? You’ve seen him in action. He had zero-shit for a business plan. I told him it wasn’t the type of investment we were interested in, and that was that.”

  I got in a few more questions before his cell buzzed. He looked at the screen, then back at me. “I’ve got to take this, Cal. Sylvia’s down the hall to your left. She’s expecting you. Thanks, Buddy, and keep me in the loop.”

  Sylvia’s chestnut hair was pulled back and wrapped into a tight bun that accentuated her facial features, inquisitive gray eyes, a thin, slightly asymmetric nose, and a smile that never registered much wattage. But the smile was pleasant enough on that day and radiated a confidence I hadn’t seen before. Sylvia was in her element.

  “This is some building,” I said after we exchanged greetings, and I was seated next to her on a burgundy leather sofa in an office that revealed little of her personality save a propensity for modesty and understatement. Her desk and backbar were loaded with stacks of paper in contrast to Eddie’s pin-neat digs. A study in opposites, those two.

  “In this business, appearances are everything. I miss our original office in downtown Lake O. It was a smaller building and a lot cheaper.”

  “You missed a good party Friday night.”

  She laughed. “I’m sure the wine flowed generously. Actually, we wound up doing nothing that night. We had another invitation, but we were both so bushed we stayed home. Don’t let the fancy surroundings fool you. This is a tough business, Cal.” She laughed again and rolled her eyes. “Investors are a needy, demanding bunch.”

  I asked a series of questions about Lori, honing in on her activities during the year she was separated from Jim. Yes, Sylvia saw her off and on during that time, and no, other than the fact that she was adjusting to single life, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and no, Lori didn’t mention that she was seeing anyone or even that she was trying to reconcile with Jim.

  “You mentioned her adjusting,” I probed. “Did she mention any therapy or drugs she might have been taking?”

  Sylvia shook her head. “No, nothing at all. She didn’t talk about things like that with me.”

  I nodded and took another tack. “Eddie mentioned that if Jim’s business gets in trouble you would relax the demands of your note. How would you feel—”

  “Of course we would,” she cut in, her face registering no surprise at my question. “Jim’s family.”

  At the end of my questions I said, “I’m sure Lori’s murder came as quite a shock. Did Ji
m call you the night it happened?”

  She met my eyes and smiled, her face revealing a shrewdness I hadn’t seen before. “Are you asking if we have an alibi, Cal?”

  I smiled back a little sheepishly. “Nothing personal. It’s something I’m asking everyone.”

  “Eddie and I were at a Chopin concert at the Schnitzer with two other couples that night. You missed a great performance.”

  After she gave me the name of one of the couples, I thanked her for her time and, as I was leaving, turned at the door. “Uh, your company looks pretty interesting. I’ve got some cash moldering in an IRA. I’m wondering if I should roll it over into something more aggressive.”

  Her face brightened. “We’ve got a new fund in the medical field that’s just opened up. Pays six and a half percent. You can let your returns accrue or take quarterly interest payments.”

  “That’s a great return. Do you have a prospectus?”

  “I’ll call down and have Regina give you one on your way out.”

  “Would my money be safe?”

  She smiled. It was laced with confidence. “We’ve never missed a payment in twelve years. It’s a sacred trust with us, Cal. I’ll have Regina throw in the last two independent audits, too. Look them over and if you have any questions, call me.” She smiled again. “Why let your money molder?”

  Why indeed, when I could make a handsome return off the backs of people saddled with medical debt, I thought but didn’t say. But I quickly reined in my self-righteousness. After all, I didn’t know exactly what was in my meager investment portfolio—oil companies, weapons manufacturers, frackers? Probably all of the above, for all I knew.

  I picked up the prospectus and audit reports and read them over while the car idled with the heater on to take the chill off. It didn’t take an accountant to see that Tilikum Capital Management had a solid balance sheet, certified by Hicks, Davies, and Todd, a local independent auditor.