I walked over to the center window and spread the blinds to take in the view down on Couch. “This’ll do nicely. Thanks.”
He handed me a set of keys. “Use it in peace, my friend. I won’t start working on it until later this year, God willing.”
We had lunch at the Lemongrass, a little Thai joint on the other side of the river. Nando liked Thai almost as much as Cuban food, and the Lemongrass fare was as good as it was authentic. After railing about the state of the country, during which time he’d polished off a platter of roasted duck and vegetables in a smoldering hot curry sauce, he opened the business conversation. “Any word from Mr. Stout?”
I shook my head as I wrapped a last bite of larb in a lettuce leaf. “No news is probably good news.”
“Would it help save my license if the man Ramon beat up dropped the charges?”
“Wouldn’t hurt, but how’re you going to arrange that?” I asked, fearing the answer.
Nando dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and smiled broadly. “Well, after all, I have photos of this man with another woman. I’m sure some—”
“Don’t even think about it,” I said. “You’ll make matters worse with a stunt like that. I think Stout will come around in terms of your license, but Ramon will have to take his chances. Maybe we can get his charges reduced to a misdemeanor.”
“Okay. Okay. It was just a thought. We will take the high street, then.”
“Good. You won’t regret it. Now let’s talk about this case I’m working on.” I went on to fill him in on what I’d learned from Picasso’s information. When I’d finished I said, “So, there’re a bunch of open questions. I’m on a tight budget here, so all I’d like you to do right now is see if you can look into the background of Larry Vincent. See if there’s any way to tie him to Nicole Baxter.”
Nando nodded. “What else?”
“Well, you might take a quick look at the woman Conyers was with the night Baxter disappeared.”
“Jessica Armandy?”
“Right. I’m interested in her background as well.”
That’s how I left it with Nando. Picasso and I had agreed to meet at four that afternoon at the medical clinic. When I arrived, I didn’t see him working on his mural. I walked over to the wall to see how it was coming. He hadn’t started painting yet, but a few of the blocked-in figures I’d seen earlier were now drawn with more detail. It looked like some kind of parade or procession. A life-sized, yet small, lithe figure was sketched in at the front of the parade. I was pretty sure it was Mahatma Ghandi. He was walking ahead of a man in boots and a hard hat. Behind him was a tall figure in flowing robes and sandals. Jesus Christ? He was arm in arm with a woman in tennis shoes. Others were sketched in less detail, although there was a rough sketch of a tall woman with a stethoscope around her neck who looked suspiciously like Anna Eriksen.
Picasso had told me the mural will make a statement about health care. Just how, I wasn’t sure.
I went into the clinic, slipped by the guy with the stretched earlobes, and peeked through the swinging doors. Anna Eriksen was reading at her desk. “Hi, Anna. I see you’re being immortalized in Picasso’s mural.”
She put her glasses down, smiled, then wrinkled her brow. “What?”
“There’s a tall woman sketched in out there that looks a lot like you.”
She brushed a lock of hair from across her eye and smiled, crinkling the corners of her pale blue eyes. “He didn’t.”
I returned the smile. “Might be your twin.”
“We talked about that. He promised.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“You just missed him. He said to tell you he went to meet with someone named Mitchell Conyers. He’ll be back as soon as he can. I’m glad you two were able to work it out.”
“Conyers?” I said, ignoring her last sentence. “How did that happen?”
“I have no idea. Is something wrong?”
“The last time those two got together, they wound up in a fist fight. Picasso’s convinced Conyers killed his mother.”
Anna put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, God. I thought that name sounded familiar. They had a fight at the memorial service, didn’t they?”
“Right. Do you know where they’re meeting?”
“No.” She paused for a moment before adding, “But I think he used his computer to get directions.”
“Where’s his computer?”
Anna got up and I followed her to a storage room at the back of the clinic. Picasso’s battered laptop was charging there. The screen was up, but dark. I hit the enter key and held my breath. An address on Westover Road and directions to get there popped up.
“Are you going to go over there?” She had more than a little concern in her eyes.
I nodded. “Yeah, I probably should.”
“He’s on his bike, so you’re not that far behind him.”
I took Burnside to 23rd and hung a right, then a quick left onto Westover, which started to climb into the West Hills, Portland’s primo neighborhood. The street number on Picasso’s computer corresponded to a three story Tudor, white with dark, half-timbering detail like something from Stratford on Avon. Artisan stone steps led up a steep, ivy covered bank to the house. I parked and took the steps two at a time. Picasso’s bike was propped next to the front porch.
I started to ring the doorbell, when I heard the rattle of a gate to my left, then a muffled voice. I turned toward the gate and heard the next utterance with crystal clarity. “Oh, Jesus Christ.” The hair on the back of my neck straightened out. It was Picasso’s voice.
The gate burst open and Picasso came into view. He was soaking wet and there was no question about it, his hands and arms were covered in blood.
Chapter Eight
I came off the steps and rushed over to him. “What the hell’s going on?”
He looked at me as if I’d just materialized out of thin air, his eyes huge, strangely unfocused. He turned his head, looked back through the gate and pointed. “He’s dead. Conyers is dead.”
“What?” I said, pushing past him. The backyard looked like something out of the tropics—lush grass, big leafed plants in massive pots, and a profusion of flowers in beds and hanging baskets. A kidney-shaped swimming pool edged in jade green tile and surrounded with a stamped concrete deck sat toward the back of the yard, which was fenced and gated. The body of a man was lying at the shallow end of the pool, legs dangling in the water, arms outstretched, as if he were trying to pull himself out. His head was haloed in blood, the water in the pool a hazy, telltale pink.
I dropped to one knee next to him. His eyes were cocked open in a blank, dead-man’s stare, his mouth agape, a look of utter surprise frozen on his face. From the newspaper photos I’d seen, it looked like Conyers. His head had a sizeable hole punched in it—a crater of splintered bone, oozing blood, and gray matter just above the right ear. I jerked my head away and heard myself say, “Shit.”
I got up and returned to Picasso, who’d remained standing at the open gate. I gripped him by the shoulders and shook him. “What have you done, son? What the hell have you done?”
He twisted out of my grip and met my eyes. “I didn’t do anything, man. He was floating in the pool when I got here. I jumped in to pull him out. He hit his head or something. Some kind of accident.”
“Accident?” I went over to the diving board, a short fiberglass plank bolted to a low, round pedestal. It was as clean as a whistle. The tiles edging the pool were bullnosed, which seemed to eliminate the possibility that Conyers had somehow hit his head on them. At the deep end, around the corner from the diving board, I saw a distinct line of spattered blood. It was nearly dry on the warm cement. I backed away so as not to step on it.
Picasso remained standing at the gate, watching me intently.
I said, “He’s been murdered. Someone either shot him or stabbed him
with the mother of all ice picks.” I pointed down. “I can see the blood spray. He was probably dead before he hit the water.” I forced myself to take another look. “I’m guessing the ice pick. Doesn’t look like a gun shot wound to me.” I glanced around, looking for the murder weapon. “See anything lying around here?”
“No. I just found him floating there in the water.”
I met his eyes and said, “Are you sure? Did you get angry and hit him with something?”
“No. I didn’t. Please believe me.”
“Why did you come here, anyway?”
“I got a message from Conyers. He said he had some important information about my mom and wanted to meet with me. Said there were no hard feelings.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Here’s the message. Milo said a bike messenger brought it for me.”
“Who’s Milo?”
“The guy who works the desk at the clinic,” he answered, handing me the note. “Careful, it got wet.”
I opened it gingerly, looked up and shook my head. “I can’t read this. The ink’s all over the page.”
A car passed by on Westover. Picasso looked down at the street then back at me. “Shit, man, I’m getting the hell out of here.”
“That would be the worst thing you could do. Tell me again, did you get angry and hit him?”
“No, I didn’t do anything,” he said. “He was face down in the pool.” Picasso expelled a breath and shook his head. “I should’ve taken off, but I couldn’t just leave him there. I thought he might still be alive.”
He locked onto my eyes and didn’t flinch. His appearance would scream guilty to the police—the coiled snake, the facial rings glinting in the sun, his hands stained with blood. But his eyes said something else to me. With that look and in that instant, something clicked into place, and I decided to believe him; at least most of me did. A small corner of my brain—call it the L.A. prosecutor piece—remained skeptical. Be careful, it warned.
He spun around and started out the gate. I caught up to him and grabbed his arm. “Don’t do this, Picasso. Running’s an admission of guilt. I believe you. I believe you didn’t kill him.”
My statement must’ve struck a chord. He stopped and gripped his head in his big hands and stood there with his back to me for what seemed an eternity. Then he turned around and folded his arms across his chest, “Okay, so I don’t run. What the fuck happens now?”
“I’ve got to call 911. But before I do, tell me exactly what happened. Start when you arrived at the clinic this morning.”
Picasso went back over the events. He hadn’t seen the bike messenger arrive or leave. He was busy sketching. He didn’t know much about Milo either, except that he was a recovering heroin addict. And no, he didn’t think anyone had seen him leave for Conyers’ place on his bike, and he sure as hell hadn’t taken any murder weapons with him.
When he finished, he asked, “What’s going to happen when they come, the cops?”
“They’ll take preliminary statements here from both of us, then we’ll go downtown to make it official. They’ll take you in a squad car. They’ll probably let me drive down.”
“What about my bike?”
I started to tell him not to worry about it, but caught myself, realizing his bike was a major possession. “They’ll probably impound it as evidence. If not, I’ll put it in my trunk. In either case, you’ll get it back. Now listen, Picasso, tell them exactly what happened, just like you told me. I’ll join you as soon as I can. If they ask you something you’re unsure of, do not speculate, and if they start asking you about anything other than what happened this morning, don’t answer. Tell them you’d rather discuss it first with me. Got that?”
He nodded. “Are you still my lawyer?”
I almost said not for long, but opted to stay optimistic. “Good question. I am unless they charge you with something. If that happens, I’ll have to bow out since I’m a witness. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” I looked around the yard and added, “I’m going to take a quick look for the murder weapon. Stay here, you’re still dripping.”
I didn’t see anything that could have been used to kill Conyers, and that bothered me. But, I went ahead and placed the 911 call. When I snapped my cell shut, Picasso looked down at his hands as if he were seeing the blood for the first time. He said, “Should I wash this shit off?”
“No. You can explain why the blood’s there. You had to pull him out of the pool. You couldn’t hide it anyway.”
He shook his head and clenched his jaw. For a young homeless man like Picasso, the cops were to be feared even in the best of times. And this wasn’t the best of times. He said, “I’m totally screwed. The cops are gonna be all over me.” He held his hands in front of his face. “Shit, look at me!”
“If you didn’t kill him, you have nothing to worry about,” I shot back, but I didn’t believe that for a moment. Picasso had a strong motive that was public knowledge, and with Conyers’ blood literally on his hands, I knew his chances as well as he did, maybe even better. The criminal justice system was genetically programmed to rush to judgment in open and shut cases, and taking a menacing homeless man off the street rated bonus points.
But running was no answer, either. Hell, people back at the clinic knew he’d come here. That’s when it hit me—this was all too convenient. I began to smell a frame-up. Not your garden variety frame, either. Someone had planned this with considerable care.
We heard the first whoop whoop of sirens in the distance. Picasso shook his head, looked at me and said, “I’m so screwed.”
The sirens grew louder. I searched his eyes, a final gut check. They were a mix of fear and accusation. Flight to him probably seemed like his only chance, and I’d talked him out of it.
I said, “You’re innocent, Picasso. When the cops get here, act like it.” Then I heard myself add, “And don’t worry, I’ll get you out of this.”
Who was I kidding?
Chapter Nine
A patrol car screeched to a halt down in the street, followed by an ambulance. The uniformed officers quickly sent the ambulance back and called in homicide and the ME. Lieutenant Harmon Scott was still puffing from the climb up the stone steps when he introduced himself. Scott had thinning brown hair, narrow eyes that squinted at me from behind thick glasses, and a belly that hung unapologetically over his belt. He looked more like a used car salesman than a cop, except for his eyes. They were the color of fog and had that glaze of practiced indifference that cops everywhere eventually adopt.
His partner, Detective Aldus Jones, was younger, trimmer, and still looked like he enjoyed his job. Smooth ebony skin accentuated a mouth full of perfect, white teeth, which he periodically flashed in a brilliant smile, even at a murder scene.
Scott and Jones looked the situation over, then separated us like I predicted. Jones took Picasso, Scott took me. We sat down at the table on the patio. Jones and Picasso had grabbed a couple of chairs and were face to face over by the gate. The uniforms were putting crime tape in place, and two medical techs and a young female photographer, who had just arrived, were setting up shop next to Conyers’ body.
Scott pulled a spiral notebook from his shirt pocket and armed a ball point pen with thick, stubby fingers. “So, Mr. Claxton, I need your address and what you do for a living before we start.”
I complied, adding, “Before I moved to Oregon, I was a deputy DA for the city of Los Angeles for twenty-two years. I worked closely with Pete Stout down there. Major Crimes.” It was a shameless plug, but I wanted to get it in. It would add weight to my statement, and we needed all the help we could get.
Scott raised a single eyebrow and grunted but didn’t write anything down. “Are you Mr. Baxter’s attorney?”
“I am, but on a different matter.”
“I see. What different matter?”
“I’
m afraid that’s privileged.”
He nodded and jotted something down. “Start when you arrived here, and tell me exactly what happened.” After I took him through the events and answered several questions, he said, “Why did you come to Mr. Conyers’ house in the first place?”
“I was going to sit in on a meeting with him and Danny Baxter.”
“What kind of meeting?”
“As far as I know, they were going to discuss some aspect of the disappearance of Danny’s mother, Nicole Baxter.” I told him about the message Danny had received but didn’t explain what had happened to it. Picasso would cover that. The less said about our discussion before I called 911, the better. “She’s been missing for eight years,” I continued. “They found her remains over on the Deschutes River recently. I’m sure you heard about it.”
Scott’s eyes came up from his notebook and narrowed down to slits. “Right. Know the case. Were you invited to this, uh, meeting?”
“Not directly. Danny left word where he’d be and left it up to me as to whether I’d attend.” That was close to the truth, and I saw no gain in implying I’d just barged in on the scene.
“What was Mr. Conyers’ relationship to Mr. Baxter’s mother?” I was pretty sure that was a question to which Scott already knew the answer.
“I believe he was Mrs. Baxter’s boyfriend at the time she disappeared.”
“I see.” The eyes narrowed again. He was circling for the kill. “And how would you characterize the relationship between Mr. Baxter and Mr. Conyers?”
“I have no direct knowledge of that. I’ve only known Danny for a week or so.”
“What about indirect knowledge?”
“I couldn’t say.”
A brief smile flickered across Scott’s face, but he kept his eyes down as he jotted something in his notebook. Then he looked up. “Did you, uh, happen to see anything lying around here that could have been used to kill Mr. Conyers?”
“No, I didn’t. But I really wasn’t looking.”
Scott closed his notebook and clipped his ballpoint in his shirt pocket. “Okay, Mr. Claxton, we’re done for now. I’m going to need you to come downtown today for a formal statement.” He handed me a card then glanced over at Picsasso and Detective Jones, who were heading out the gate. Picasso’s shoulders were slumped, his face ashen. “You know we have to take Mr. Baxter in for further processing.”
Matters of Doubt Page 5