“Yeah, and we stomped out of there. That can’t be good.”
“Not if we left because we were unjustly accused, right?”
He chewed his lip and nodded. “I’m sorry I got you mixed up in this.”
I chuckled. “Don’t worry, my skin’s plenty thick. But, look, why do I get the feeling you’re waiting for another shoe to drop? Are you sure you’ve told me everything?”
“Jesus, Cal, how many damn times are you going to ask me that? I told you, man, you know everything I do.”
Archie raised his head to look at Picasso, and I raised my hands. “Okay. Just so we’re clear on that.”
We sat in silence as the sun broke free again, dappling the river in silver light. Finally, Picasso said, “So, what happens now?”
“They don’t have enough to hold you, so we’ve got some time. We need to figure out who wanted Conyers dead and who was smart enough to come up with this elaborate frame.”
“How in the hell are we going to do that?”
“I’m not sure yet, but my hunch is the whole thing’s related to the discovery of your mom’s remains.”
“You mean whoever killed Conyers killed my mother?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
Chapter Fourteen
The light was good that afternoon, so Picasso went back to the clinic to work on his mural. He was unsettled by the interview, but I knew by now he didn’t allow much to stand in the way of his art. It provided a tight focus for his life, and I admired him for that. He used a key Anna had given him—a demonstration of her trust—to open the back door of the clinic. I went down the hall to Anna’s office with Arch on his leash. She was typing away on her computer with her back to the door. I knocked softly so I wouldn’t startle her.
“We’re back.”
She swiveled around, swept a lock of hair off her forehead and smiled. Our eyes met, and just for an instant I got caught up in the pale blueness of hers. I broke eye contact. “How did it go, Cal? I’ve been worried.”
“About as well as it could have. Picasso’s back at work now.” Her eyes dropped down and took in Archie.
“Is he okay in here?”
“Sure. Just not in the treatment rooms. He’s an Aussie, right?”
I nodded. “A tricolor. Name’s Archie. Why don’t you join us for a walk, and I’ll fill you in. It’s Sunday. You deserve a break.”
Anna wanted to go down to the river, and Archie and I didn’t mind a second trip. We walked over to Burnside and at the bridge took the stairs back down to Tom McCall Park. The clouds had blown to the north, and the park was filling with sun-starved Portlanders anxious to cure their vitamin D deficiencies. The sun made us squint, and the brisk, shifting breeze had polished the day to a diamond brilliance. As we walked, I filled her in on the day’s events and where the case stood. I left out the part about Scott and Jones accusing me of tampering with the crime scene. I had a feeling that would only worry her needlessly. By this time, Anna had Archie’s leash, which seemed to please them both.
When I got to my theory about the killer being right handed, Anna whirled to face me, her eyes enlarged, excited. “Picasso’s left handed, Cal.”
I smiled. “I know. Just like da Vinci and Escher.” Then I went on to tell her about the position of the wound, the blood spatter I’d seen and how I’d watched the crime scene techs re-enacting the death blow.
Relief flooded her face. “Then you’ve proved he’s innocent!”
I shook my head. “It’s not that simple. It’s an argument that can be made, but it’s not ironclad by any means. It could have been a backhanded blow, but I don’t believe that’s the case.”
She nodded slowly and turned to face the river. The afternoon light had dulled somewhat, like silver to pewter, and the air off the water smelled fresh and clean. Across the river, cars spilled silently down the I-5 ramp from the Marquam Bridge like lemmings. “I see,” she said. “Well, it’s a start.” She put a hand over mine and looked at me. “Cal, you have no idea what your support means to Picasso. He’s never had any kind of male role model in his life.”
I nodded, feeling a tinge of discomfort. I wondered just how much she expected from me. But I shrugged the thought off. After all, the sun on my skin felt good, and her hand felt even better. We stood there looking out at the river while I finished talking about the interviews. A cruise ship passed by, heading upriver. Tourists in sunglasses and shirt sleeves were lined up on both decks. It seemed they were all gawking at us—a handsome dog, a beautiful woman, and a lucky man.
I said, “Tell me about yourself, Anna. What brought you to the clinic and a seven day work week?”
She hugged herself, as if suddenly chilled. “I grew up in lower Manhattan, Tribeca. I would’ve probably stayed back east, but after my brother died, I wanted to get away, far away. I came out here to do my residency at OHSU. A local nonprofit was looking for someone to run a clinic for the homeless just about the time I finished up. It was my dream job, and it didn’t hurt that I’d fallen in love with Portland and the Northwest by then. So I applied, and here I am.”
“Sorry about your brother.”
“Thanks. It happened over seven years ago.” She hugged herself again and smiled wistfully. “I still miss him like crazy.”
“I’m sure you do.” I waited, sensing she had more to say.
“Peter was my little brother. There were just two of us. He was the screwup, the poor student, and I was little miss straight-A perfect. At least that’s how my parents saw it. Actually, Peter was brilliant. Too brilliant. School bored him to tears.”
“There’s nothing worse for a bright kid.”
“That’s right. Anyway, he started acting out, using drugs, and wound up on the streets. He died in some kind of fight over a sleeping bag. Stabbed to death.”
“Oh, that’s terrible.”
She gazed out on the river and nodded her head slowly. The wind twirled a lock of her hair. “It was terrible. My parents essentially disowned him when he started using drugs.” She turned to face me, her eyes suddenly shiny with moisture. “Of course, I was too busy at medical school. I didn’t have time for his problems.” She dropped her eyes and raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, God, there I go. I’m getting morose.”
“No, no, it’s okay. I understand.”
She glanced at her watch. “I need to go.”
With Archie between us, we headed back. At the Burnside Bridge stairs a young man sitting on the sidewalk asked us for change. Despite the warm day, he wore the hood of his sweatshirt up. He had a cherub face roughened by a sparse, uneven beard and a large, raw scab on his lip. I started to reach for my wallet, but Anna waived me off with her eyes. She said, “Are you new in town?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Hungry?”
He cast his eyes down and nodded, as if ashamed to admit it.
“The best and cheapest food is at the Sisters of the Road Café. It’s at Sixth and Davis. If you can’t pay they’ll let you work it off.” Then she added, “You need to have that sore on your lip examined.”
He raised a finger to his lip and touched the sore gingerly. I had the impression he hadn’t seen his reflection in a mirror in a long time.
Anna handed him a card. “The clinic at this address is free. Drop by and I’ll treat it for you.”
He thanked her and as we walked away, I said, “I liked the way you handled that. I never know what to say or what to give these kids.”
Anna laughed. “Yeah, I know. I used to be like an ATM, but I’m older and wiser now. You can buy meal tickets at the Café and give them away when you’re stopped. That way you know your money’s not going for drugs.”
Picasso was still hard at work when we got back to the clinic. There were six or eight kids in their teens or early twenties lounging on sleeping bags and propped against bac
kpacks there on the field behind him. The mood was festive, enhanced, no doubt, by the joint that was being passed around. Anna said, “They’ve heard about Picasso’s problem. This must be a show of support.”
Up near the front, right below the scaffolding, I noticed Caitlin, the young girl I’d seen that first day. She was leaning back on her arms, watching Picasso sketch. She wore a pink sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, jeans, and hiking boots. Her oval face and bright amber eyes were framed in dark, stringy hair that cried out for shampoo. She had a delicate nose and a wide, full mouth that seemed to smile, even at rest. The angry red blotches of acne on her cheeks did little to detract from her soft beauty. A tall young man sat next to her wearing grubby black jeans and a studded leather jacket. He stood up, stretched, and ran his fingers through shoulder-length blond hair. Anna said, “Uh oh.”
I looked at her. “What?”
She nodded at the young man and said under her breath, “I think that guy’s a member of the family Caitlin used to belong to.”
“Family?”
“You know, they hung out together, five or six of them, for safety. They were into petty theft and survival sex. She promised to stay away from them.”
“What’s survival sex?”
“Sex for food and money. Some of these kids are forced into it.” She averted her eyes. “Caitlin’s seen her share of that.”
I cringed inwardly, thinking of my own daughter, a graduate student at UC Berkeley. I felt a surge of anger bordering on nausea for all the so-called adult males who would stoop to such behavior.
We stood in silence for a while. The rough sketch of the mural was coming together, one square in the grid at a time; each square a proportional representation of a corresponding image in Picasso’s sketch book. A stream of humanity spilled from the flanks of Mt. Hood west to the river and across into the center of the city. Ordinary people arm in arm with folk heroes, spiritual leaders, and cultural icons as Picasso saw them. I chuckled and said to Anna, “Look, you’re still in there. Who’s that next to you?”
Anna laughed. “That’s Bono, I think. That’s the price I extracted for being in the mural. See the guy on the other side, the one with the beard? I think he’s Alan Ginsberg.”
I looked again. “Or Karl Marx.”
We both laughed. “No, it’s Ginsberg, for sure,” she said.
When I left the clinic that afternoon, Picasso had finished up for the day. He was standing with his bike on the sidewalk talking to Caitlin. A full head taller than she, he was bent over, listening intently. Her hair jounced as she gestured and talked. Just two young kids hanging out.
Anna went back to work, I dropped my gear off at Caffeine Central, and after feeding Archie, walked over to Jake’s Famous Crawfish for dinner. Since I was living rent free, I decided to treat myself to what might be the best seafood restaurant anywhere. I ordered dinner and a glass of Argyle reserve chardonnay, and while I waited for my food, called Nando. I planned to spend at least two days here in Portland, and I needed to get my ducks in a row.
Of course he was appalled I was dining alone. No self-respecting Cuban would ever do such a thing. “At least you are eating well,” he commented, “although some of Jake’s dishes are a bit on the bland side for my taste.”
“I’m having the razor clams.”
“A case in point,” he said. “A dish of fried clams should leave your brow dripping with sweat. Unfortunately, Jake’s will not have this effect.”
I chuckled. “I’ll suffer through.” Then I filled him in quickly on the police interviews.
“I’m not surprised the police think you might have helped the young artist,” he said when I’d finished. “I warned you about getting involved, my friend.”
“I knew that was coming,” I said, barely masking the irritation in my voice. “They were just trying to get a rise out of us, and you know it. To his credit, the kid held up pretty well.”
“What makes you think he didn’t kill this man and hide the weapon before you arrived on the scene?”
I struggled for an even voice. “We’ve been through this already.”
“They will surely find the weapon. What if they accuse you of helping him hide it?”
They already have, I said to myself. I’d left that part out. “Not likely,” I shot back. Leave it to my friend to show me the downside to my behavior. Anxious to change the subject, I asked, “You got anything for me?”
“We have confirmed that none of the messenger services were used to bring Picasso a message,” Nando answered. “So, it looks like Hartung was lying.”
“The cops will check this, too. Trouble is, they’ll think Picasso was lying, not Milo. You got anything else?”
“No. What are you planning to do next?”
I took a sip of wine. “I’ve been thinking about that half the afternoon. I might as well jump in and start talking to people. See if I can shake something loose.”
“Who did you have in mind?”
“Larry Vincent, Hugo Weiman, and Jessica Armandy, not necessarily in that order. Any way you could set me up?”
“I can probably help you with Armandy and perhaps Weiman. But I have no contacts in the world of radio.”
“Do what you can,” I responded.
My dinner arrived just as Nando and I finished up. The razor clams were exquisite.
Later that night in the apartment above Caffeine Central I worked at my computer while streaming jazz from the local twenty-four-hour station. I was trying to ignore the floral print wallpaper that swirled biliously on the walls of the alcove where I was sitting. During a really good Clifford Brown track, Archie’s ears popped up, and he began growling. I turned the volume down and heard someone knocking on the front door of the building. I slipped on my shoes, followed Archie downstairs, and switched on the lights. I started to open the door but thought better of it. “What is it?” I called out.
“I’m looking for Calvin Claxton. I was told he stays here.” The voice was deep, accented.
“What do you want him for?”
“I’m Jessica Armandy’s driver. I’ve been sent to pick him up.”
As usual, Nando hadn’t wasted any time. I opened the door. A tall, athletically built man faced me with his arms crossed. He was backlit by a streetlight and all I could make out was a protruding brow, a hawk nose, and a chin like a cinder block. Archie made a low, guttural sound from behind me, signaling his distinct disapproval of the situation.
“Hang on,” I said. “I’ll get my coat.”
Chapter Fifteen
I rode in style to the meeting place in a black Lexus with tinted windows next to a sullen, taciturn Russian. I did manage to get his first name—Semyon— and the fact that he’d emigrated from the city of Kursk. His blond hair was cut high and tight, military style and he had a discontinuous, vertical scar on his right cheek that resembled an exclamation point. He was tall and lean and even though he wore a black blazer, I sensed he had a rock-hard upper body. I was surprised when he stopped in front of Mitch Conyers’ steak house and said, “She’s in the bar, corner table.” I was to learn later that Jessica Armandy held court at this table every night.
I wasn’t a high-end steak fancier, so I hadn’t eaten at the Happy Angus. The dining room was a traditional affair with tables clad in white cloth and set with silver and crystal in a surround of dark hardwoods, brass fixtures, and somewhat garish art. A wide spiral staircase in the back led to a bar on the second floor that was jammed with a crowd that, from the sound of it, didn’t seem too concerned about the passing of Conyers or the approaching work week.
I spotted a corner table with three women seated at it, and as I approached, the older woman in the middle dismissed the other two with a nod of her head in the direction of the bar. Young and attractive, the two women slunk away, drinks in hand, but not before eyeing me with brazen interest.
The remaining woman appraised me coolly. “Mr. Claxton. I recognize you from the picture in the paper. I’m Jessica Armandy.” She pointed to a chair across from her with an open hand. “Please join me.” A waitress appeared and I ordered a Mirror Pond. Armandy ordered another Courvoisier with ice.
I could see she was probably in her midforties, but flawlessly applied makeup took a decade off, at least from a distance. She was a striking woman with finely sculpted cheek bones, quick, intelligent eyes, and a wide, sensual mouth. Even seated it was clear her body was sculpted as finely as her face. She wore a richly brocaded silver blouse, black pants, and a lot of jewelry that didn’t just look expensive.
“Nando Mendoza tells me you want to talk about Mitch Conyers,” she said after the drinks were ordered.
“I understand he was a friend of yours, so first let me offer my condolences.” She acknowledged my statement with a nod. “I’m looking into the murder of Nicole Baxter and wanted to ask you some questions.”
She arched her eyebrows theatrically. “I thought you were the lawyer for that tattooed bastard that killed Mitch.”
“You mean Danny Baxter, Nicole Baxter’s son. Actually, he’s a witness in the Conyers’ case. Despite what you’ve read, he hasn’t been charged with anything. I’m trying to help Mr. Baxter find out who killed his mother.”
Her eyes flared in anger for a moment, and I thought she might lash out at me. But instead she said calmly, “Well, if you think Mitch killed that woman, you’re wasting your time.”
“I don’t know who killed Nicole Baxter, and Mitch Conyers had a solid alibi thanks to you.”
“That’s right. It’s all in the police record. They must’ve questioned me a half dozen times.”
“Was being with him a regular occurrence?”
She rattled the ice cubes in her drink and stared down at them as if deciding whether or not she was going to answer any questions at all. A few moments passed. “He was my mentor. I was just starting out in business, and he gave me lots of good advice.”
Matters of Doubt Page 9