Blood for Wine

by Warren C Easley

  Ballard kept his fingers joined and puckered a cheek in a one-sided smile. “So, the afternoon that Amis is killed, McKnight’s with his lover, the woman who helped wreck his life. Man, this is weird.”

  I shrugged. “Not really. Once I confronted her, Maura Conisson was genuinely sorry for the role she played in this. I’m sure McKnight told you about her little boy. Now they’re both trying to get their lives back on track.”

  Ballard puffed a breath, then leaned forward and locked in on me. “Why did you withhold this information from us?”

  “I was compelled by client confidentiality. Yesterday the conversation turned on the footprints and the possible connection of Amis’ death with Lori Kavanaugh’s. Check your notes, Hal. The blackmail deal was finished, case closed. It wasn’t relevant, and I knew that McKnight and Conisson both had solid alibis.”

  Ballard laughed. “Yeah, they’re each other’s alibi. How convenient. Looks to me like either one or both of them had a pretty good motive to beat Amis to death.”

  I shook my head emphatically. “You’re not going to find anything, Hal. McKnight didn’t do it. Hell, he must wear a size twelve or thirteen shoe. And, do you think he would have left that thumb drive lying around? Come on, give them a break. Both he and Conisson are innocent bystanders in this murder.”

  If those blows landed, Ballard didn’t show it. “I’m no lawyer,” he said, “but I do know that attorney-client privilege is no excuse for suppressing evidence. I’m afraid Helen Berkowitz is going to take a dim view of your actions.”

  “I’m not worried,” I said with more conviction that I felt. “Last time I checked, I have an overarching responsibility to my clients.”

  After Ballard cut me loose, I waited out in the hall with McKnight. I figured Rodriquez was dispatched to pick up Maura Conisson, and sure enough, forty minutes later we saw them both come in and watched as Rodriquez hustled her into a side door. McKnight turned to me, concern clouding his eyes. “Will she be all right?”

  I shrugged. “Murder charges aside, she has another potential vulnerability—she participated in the blackmail scheme, although she also helped make it right. I’m not sure how they’ll look at that. In any case, she shouldn’t talk to them without a lawyer.”

  McKnight leaned into me. “Can we get word to her? I’ll pay for the attorney.”

  “No, she’ll have to make that call when they ask her whether she wants a lawyer present.”

  McKnight allowed himself a chuckle. “Good luck with that. I know her. She’ll want to get the truth out just like me.”

  We waited on a hard bench in that echoing, godforsaken hallway for Conisson to re-emerge. McKnight seemed reluctant to talk about his personal life, but I did learn that the break with his wife was final and that his church had appointed a search team to find his replacement. “What are you going to do now?” I asked.

  He shrugged and swept back his silver mane with both hands. “I’m not sure yet. God hasn’t revealed his plans for me.”

  Maura Conisson appeared an hour later looking shaken but resolute and decidedly beautiful. She nodded to me and took both of McKnight’s outstretched hands in hers as their eyes locked together. They didn’t hug. There were no surprises in her recap of the interview, which she prefaced by saying, “It was humiliating to have to replay all the disgusting things I did. My God, Sean, I can’t believe you’re still here.” McKnight, of course, reassured her.

  I drove them both to Stone Gate Farm so that he could take Conisson back to Portland. “It’s a good sign none of us are being held,” I told them in parting. “They might show up at your places with search warrants, although I don’t think they have enough to get a judge to sign them. If they do, call me right away and tell them to wait until I get there. I’m not your attorney on this matter, but I can advise you. If they can’t connect you to the crime scene with physical evidence, that’ll be the end of it.” For you, at least, I said to myself.

  “What about the thumb drive? What will become of it?” McKnight asked.

  “As long as you two are suspects, it’ll remain in the Sheriff’s custody. After that, well, it’s sort of in no man’s land.” They flinched in unison. I raised both hands in reassurance. “I promise I’ll try to get it back so that you can destroy it.”

  I left them silhouetted against the porch light at McKnight’s farmhouse. As I pulled away, I thought of McKnight’s comment that he was waiting to find out what God had in store for him. I laughed and shook my head. I was no prophet, but I was pretty sure that whatever God cooked up for the good Reverend was going to involve Maura Conisson.

  Chapter Forty-five

  That night at The Aerie I fed Arch, warmed up some leftovers for me, and then we both settled in front of the fire for a little quiet time. Like the echo from the Big Bang, the Amis murder resonated in my head. I suppose I should have been more concerned about the fates of McKnight and Conisson, but I just didn’t see that going anywhere. A more likely and immediate threat was me getting some sort of censure from the Oregon State Bar, but I couldn’t do anything about that at the moment, so I set it aside.

  What really got me wondering was how the brutal crime fit into the greater scheme of Lori Kavanaugh’s murder and the attempt to frame Jim Kavanaugh for the deed. There were two smoking guns. First, the fact that Lori Kavanaugh’s patient file was apparently missing. Had Amis been murdered for that file? Second, there was the bloody footprint potentially linking his death with the break-in at my place. I went into my study and pulled out the photos taken inside my fence line and compared them to the shots on my phone taken at Amis’ place. Pretty damn close, but a lot of shoe soles looked alike, I admitted.

  As for suspects, Blake Daniels’ whereabouts during the time of the murder was unaccounted for, and Aaron Abernathy’s alibi was shaky at best. Eddie and Sylvia Manning appeared to have solid alibis. All three men were of medium build, suggesting I couldn’t rule any of them out based on shoe size.

  I leaned back to the groaning chorus of my old roller chair and exhaled a long, slow breath. There was some kind of web holding this all together, but the tendrils were too fine to see. Fresh anger and frustration washed over me. It wasn’t just the lives of innocent people that were under attack here. It was as if my very home, the Dundee Hills, with its gently rolling slopes, breathtaking views, and miraculous soil, was under siege as well. Someone driven by greed and envy was loose on the land, and it looked like it was falling to me to put a stop to it.

  ***

  On Tuesday, around mid-morning, Ballard called to inform me that Helen Berkowitz had asked for a preliminary report regarding the initial Amis murder interview. “Go easy on me, Hal,” I told him, half-jokingly. “The attempted blackmail’s peripheral to Amis’ murder, you’ll see soon enough.”

  “I’ll give her the facts, Cal. It is what it is.”

  “Come on, Hal, it hardly ever is what it is, and you know it.”

  “Yeah, well, I just want you to know there’s nothing personal here.”

  I told him I knew that and hung up. At least Ballard was a straight shooter, I told myself. Helen Berkowitz, on the other hand, might be a different story.

  After taking Archie out for a stretch, we drove to the Brasserie where I left him sulking in the backseat. The sun had burst through after a brief shower. Clad in forest green shiplap siding and spewing a wisp of smoke from a brick chimney, my favorite eatery looked exceptionally inviting. I entered through the bar, and the first person I saw was Blake Daniels nursing a glass of Scotch and reading his ever-present Wall Street Journal. I sat down next to him, and when he looked up, I said, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Blake.”

  Sunlight from a side window illuminated a few flecks of gray along his part line, a flaw in the dye job. A corner of his mouth turned up slightly, but his eyes narrowed down. “Seems like you’re always finding me, Claxton.”
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  I flashed a smile I hoped would pass for amiable. “How was the crush?”

  “Not bad. Maybe our best.” He seemed to catch himself, and his face stiffened. “When’s Kavanaugh’s big day in court?”

  “A trial date hasn’t been set.”

  He shot me a look and started to respond just as Bettie James appeared from out of the kitchen. Daniels had her top up his Scotch, and I ordered the plat du jour, a salade Niçoise with ahi tuna and a glass of Sancerre. As Bettie poured my wine she said to both of us, “Did you hear about that shrink Amis over in Lafayette who was beaten to death in his own wine cellar? My God, what’s goin’ on in this world?”

  We both nodded, and I said, “Uh, it turns out I discovered the body.”

  Bettie said, “What?” I was watching Daniels, who had brought his glass of Scotch to his lips, causing me to miss the critical first read in his eyes. Also, he wore a long sleeve shirt buttoned at the wrists so I couldn’t see whether he had any defensive wounds to suggest he’d been involved in a life and death struggle. Damn.

  “Yeah,” I went on, “I was dropping by to pick up some wine he’d put aside for me. Found him in his cellar alright.” I shook my head. “It was terrible”

  I stayed vague on the details while they both pumped me for information. Finally, Bettie said, “Don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but I heard that man supplied a lot of benzos for the glitterati around these parts.”

  I nodded. “He’s the valley’s Dr. Feelgood.”

  She shook her head as a look of disgust spread across her face. “Right. But not the one in the Aretha Franklin song. She was singin’ about sex, not drugs.” That quip made both Daniels and me chuckle. Bettie looked at me. “You think that drug business got him killed?”

  I shrugged and felt Daniels’ eyes on the side of my face. I turned to him. “You ever hear anything about Amis pushing pills?”

  He averted my gaze, and a muscle rippled along his jawline. “Can’t say that I have, but there’s a lot of that going around, I hear.” He drained his drink, nodded to Bettie, and said, “Put it on my tab. Gotta run.” He turned his hawk eyes back on me, and they went predator cold. “I hope your client gets the death penalty.”

  When he cleared the back door, Bettie said, “Whoa, that was harsh. What’s up with him?”

  “He thinks Jim Kavanaugh killed Lori, or that’s what he wants me to think. I’m not sure which.”

  Bettie considered that for a moment. “How’s the case looking?”

  I groaned and massaged my forehead with my right hand. “We’re developing some good alternate theories of what happened, but, you know, it seems to be one step forward and two back.”

  “So, you found Amis’ body. I’m thinking there’s some tie-in here with Lori’s murder, right?”

  I nodded. No reason to hold back on Bettie, one of the sharpest knives in the drawer and a person I knew I could trust. “Yeah, I think so.”

  She wrung her hands on her apron and grimaced. This is the Hills, Calvin. Peaceful grape-growing country. Two murders?”

  I held up three fingers. Her brows shot up. “Three,” I said. “That guy they pulled out of Chehalem Creek with a bullet in his head—he’s involved, too.”

  Bettie put her hands on her hips and sucked a breath. “Good God almighty. You’d think this was Chicago or somethin’.”

  I finished lunch, and when I rejoined Arch in the car, I said, “Well, whataya know, Big Boy, we caught a break today. If I don’t miss my guess, Blake Daniels knows plenty about Dr. Feelgood.

  Just like that, I had a tendril connecting the two.

  ***

  On Wednesday morning, I checked in with Nando by phone. “I have the good news and the not-so-good news. Which would you like to hear first, my friend?” It wasn’t the greeting I was hoping for.

  I sighed into the phone. “The good news.”

  “We have the name of one of the men associated with Isabel Rufino. His name is Vicente Arias. He has a long rap sheet and is wanted on distribution charges at the moment.”

  “Good.” I waited for the bad news.

  “We thought he, Isabel and the other man would just relocate on the Springwater Corridor, which would make finding them not too difficult. However, it was announced today that the city will sweep the entire corridor of all homeless people and homeless camps. The sweep will begin tomorrow, and people are already scattering throughout the city to find new places to live. It is like Isabel just got put into a blender with hundreds of others.”

  I blew a breath out in frustration. “Surely having another name will help you.”

  “Perhaps. Do you wish us to continue?”

  “Yes, dammit. You’ve got to find her, Nando.”

  ***

  That afternoon, the mother of the young girl who had boosted the designer jeans showed up at my office unannounced. She carried a plastic bag in one hand and a worried look on her face. She took a seat and slid the bag across the desk to me. “I found this in Tiffany’s bedroom this morning.” She dropped her eyes and shook her head. “I never thought I’d be sneaking around in her room, but I just don’t trust her anymore.”

  I opened the bag and removed the contents, a handful of multi-colored pills. She looked at me anxiously as I examined them. They were pastel pink and blue with little hearts, stars, and butterflies on them. “These are probably Ecstasy, you know, the pills that are popular at raves. They can cause all kinds of mental and physiological responses, some of them bad. Of course, they could be something brand new I’ve never heard of.”

  She flinched and nodded. “I’m a single mom. She’s already in trouble. What should I do?”

  “Look, I’m no drug counselor. What I can tell you is that kids at this age can get way out ahead of where you think they are. Social media and the net have pretty much destroyed innocence.” I met her eyes. “Confront her without being accusatory. Try to find out how far this has gone.” I worked in what I hoped was a comforting smile. “Chances are she’s just acting out, and you can nip this in the bud. But if you sense she’s got a problem, get professional help right away.”

  She left my office standing a little straighter, perhaps. I shook my head at the irony. Me, the drug counselor. But I’d seen a lot in my one-man practice over the years, as the drugs got more and more destructive and began—as in the Jim Kavanaugh case—to spill over into the realm of prescribed, highly addictive medicines.

  The sun lingered that afternoon, so Arch and I closed up shop early, raced back to The Aerie, and took a fast jog up to the Pioneer Cemetery. The wind had quieted down, and as we stood there among the tombstones, gulping in the sweet Oregon air, my phone chirped. It was Candice returning my call. “Are you still on with Daniels tonight?” I asked after she greeted me.

  “Yes, a play in Portland, like I told you. Knowing the horny bastard, we’ll probably go to his place afterwards.”

  “Listen, Candice. I have reason to believe that Amis was Daniels’ drug supplier.”

  “Oh.”

  “I think you should have a headache tonight until I sort this out.”

  A long pause ensued. “We’re so close, Cal, and it’s more important than ever that I get something on him.”

  “No, Candice. This guy could be a brutal murderer.”

  “I’ll be okay, Cal. I know how to handle him. I’m not afraid.”

  “Candice, I—”

  “Tell you what, if I don’t find anything tonight, I’ll hang it up, okay?”

  It wasn’t okay, but I agreed because I knew it was the best deal I was going to get. “Keep me in the text loop,” I said as we signed off.

  Archie led me home, and he must have sensed my second wind, because he ran me hard. That night, after everything quieted down, and we had paid our respects to the great horned owl out by the gate, I lay in bed reading. After finishin
g Winter’s Bone, I’d been reading Silence by Shusaku Endo as a change of pace.

  As usual, I drifted off, and the ping of an incoming text caused me to jerk upright, catapulting the book off my bed. I rubbed my eyes hard and read the text with blurry eyes. It was two in the morning, and Candice Roberts, my intrepid undercover agent, was at it again.

  Chapter Forty-six

  More open with his drug use this time. Ground some Klonopin, snorted it, washed it down with Scotch. He’s in bed now, out. Stay tuned.

  I sat up on the edge of my bed and cleared my head. Watch your step, I texted back.

  Five agonizing minutes later this came back:

  Double checked med cabinets, kitchen drawers, nosed around bedroom. No prescription bottles. No sign of jogging shoes. Study next!

  It must have been between ten and fifteen minutes later that this came in:

  No drug bottles in study. Lots of notes and papers. Hold on.

  I waited, sitting on the edge of my bed, hardly allowing myself a breath. Archie picked up on the tension in the room and came over and laid his big muzzle on my thigh to comfort me.

  Ping.

  Hey! Found something. Holy shi

  I waited for the rest of the text to come through. Maybe her finger slipped, or she dropped her phone, or her battery crapped out. I rejected the last possibility. I couldn’t imagine a cool head like Candice letting her battery get low on a night like this. That made no sense. No, she had hit the send button without completing the sentence and now the line was stone cold dead. If she had dropped the phone, she would’ve picked it up and kept sending to reassure me. I was sure of that.

  No, goddammit, this felt like a worst-case scenario, like she was interrupted.

  I got dressed as fast as I could, stopped to grab a small flashlight and my coat, and dashed for the garage with Archie right beside me. I stopped at the pegboard that held most of my tools and threw a stout crowbar onto the front seat of the Beemer. I could have gone for the Glock up in my bedroom, but that would have taken longer, and I felt I didn’t have a second to lose.