Matters of Doubt

by Warren C Easley

  “So, screwed again, huh?” Picasso said when I’d finished.

  “No, not at all. I remember most of the significant points out of the stuff you gave me,” I answered. “One thing, though. I read in one of the newspaper articles you gave me that your mother had a drink with a friend the night she disappeared. Do you remember her name? I’d like to talk to her.”

  “Her name’s Cynthia Duncan, my mom’s best friend. She came to the memorial. She works for one of the small newspapers in town. The Zenith, I think.”

  I called the Zenith and used their automated system to confirm she worked there and then ring her extension. She picked up on the third ring, and an hour later I was in her office sitting across from her. She wore her blond hair in a pixie cut, and her big, expressive brown eyes were in constant motion, like a hummingbird. Her body, too, was charged with a kind of kinetic energy even at rest, and although her handshake was firm, she looked disturbingly thin in a beaded chevron dress, black tights, and lace-up boots.

  She told me she had gone to the memorial service and witnessed the outburst between Picasso—Daniel, as she called him—and Conyers. She had lots of questions about Picasso, and I filled her in as best I could, trying to put a positive spin on a pretty desperate situation.

  When she asked about the kicking incident, I told her I’d witnessed it, and that he was provoked by the freelance reporter. She said, “I’m not surprised. I know that creep Ronnie Lutz. The reporters in this town are a tight-knit group.”

  “Maybe you could say something to him. I’m afraid he’s going to want a lot of money for that camera. That could be a big problem for Picasso.”

  She nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I began asking her what she remembered about Nicole Baxter’s disappearance but didn’t learn much until I said, “Do you remember anything about her state of mind around the time she disappeared?”

  Her answer surprised me. “Yes, I do. She was very excited, exhilarated, I would say.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for one thing, work was going really well for her. She was working on some big story. But that wasn’t all. She’d been seeing someone else for a while, and it was heating up.”

  “Who?”

  “Wouldn’t tell me.” She smiled for a moment. “Nicky was good at protecting her sources. The guy was married and, of course, she was still going with Mitch Conyers. But she’d finally realized what a loser he was,” she said, rolling her eyes. “This new guy told her he was going to leave his wife for her.”

  “Did Conyers know or suspect anything?”

  “I don’t really know.” She shook her head. “Conyers was such a contemptible bastard.”

  “Did you tell the police about the affair?”

  “Yes, I did. But I don’t think anything ever came of it. I mean, I don’t think they ever found out who her lover was.”

  “What about the story she was working on? Did she tell you anything about it?”

  “Like I said, Nicky was scrupulous about confidentiality. The only thing she told me was that someone big was going down, or something like that, meaning the story was going to hurt someone important.”

  “Any idea who that was?”

  “Not at the time, but after Nicky disappeared, I made this crazy connection.” She dropped her eyes and focused on something on the cluttered desk between us. “I’m not sure I should tell you. I’m probably way off base.”

  I slid to the edge of my chair. “I’m careful with my sources, too.”

  She held her eyes on the desk and drummed her fingers for several beats before saying, “Well, right after Nicky disappeared, this rumor popped up around here about a local celebrity who was involved in some kind of scandal. A really juicy one.”

  “Who was it?”

  “His name’s Vincent, Larry Vincent. He’s a radio personality, the darling of Portland’s far right wingnuts.”

  “Why did you connect the two events?”

  She laughed and looked back down at her desk again. “The timing, I guess, and the way Nicky talked about it. You know, she was relishing the thought of taking this person down, and she hated bigots with a passion. Then this rumor pops up about this blowhard right after she’s gone. It just seemed a little too coincidental, that’s all.”

  “Did you tell the police about this?”

  “Are you kidding? I didn’t have the nerve. It was pure conjecture on my part.”

  “What became of the rumor?”

  “The accusations never surfaced, although Vincent’s wife left him right after that. I never heard anything more about it.”

  I thought about Vincent’s appointment with Nicole Baxter, but she didn’t need to know about that. “Thanks. That’s something I can look into.”

  “Well, it’s just a theory, you know. I’d say it’s much more likely that Mitch Conyers found out she was going to leave him and killed her. I don’t care how good his alibi was.”

  I took her through several more questions, including who the hell X-Man might be, but nothing else important surfaced. I thanked her and wrote my cell number on a card for her in case something else came to mind. I sat in my car outside the Portland Zenith building thinking about what Cynthia Duncan had just told me. Nicole Baxter had a lover who was apparently never identified, and she may have been writing an exposé about Larry Vincent.

  The pot wasn’t boiling yet, but I could see some steam.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The only discount electronics shop I knew of in Portland was over in Southeast, on Eighty-Second, a tough area of Portland known as Felony Flats. The electronics shop was located between the headquarters of the Oregon Cannabis Foundation and Duke’s Gun Shop, which claimed to be “Portland’s Last Real Gun Store.” I hated to rush into a big decision like buying a new computer, but didn’t feel I had much choice. An hour later I had a new laptop with a four gigabyte RAM and a backup hard drive that I vowed to use religiously. I also bought a prepaid cell phone for Picasso in the hopes of stimulating better communications. As I wrote the check, I remembered that I still hadn’t talked to him about getting paid. That discussion, it seemed, kept being overtaken by events.

  I locked my new computer in the trunk of my car and crossed the street to a pharmacy, where I bought a green ball cap with Oregon written in yellow script across the front. I wouldn’t call it a disguise, but I hoped that with the cap, my dark glasses, and my fleece zipped and collared-up, I might go unrecognized if I kept to the fringe of Conyers’ funeral. I glanced at my watch. If I hurried, I could get there before the service ended.

  I managed to score a parking space a block and a half down from the Old Church, a nineteenth century Gothic gem that a group of citizens had rescued from the wrecking ball in the sixties. The buttressed belfry tower still jutted skyward emphatically, but it was missing a cross—a testament to the building’s secular use, I assumed. It was 11:25, about time for the building to disgorge Conyers’ mourners.

  I suddenly felt apprehensive. What if someone recognized me, like that reporter Picasso kicked, or worse, what if Scott and Jones showed up? And what the hell did I expect to learn anyway? I had no answer except that I knew funerals were a powerful draw, and I was curious to see who would show up.

  I put on the cap and glasses and joined a small group of onlookers who’d gathered next to a group of TV reporters and their technicians. People I didn’t recognize trickled out first, and it wasn’t until several minutes later that Conyers’ stepbrother, Seth Foster, emerged. He was younger than I judged from the news photo, broad through the chest with the florid complexion of someone with a taste for alcohol. His face was drawn up in a tight, controlled expression, and I thought his eyes betrayed genuine sadness. Jessica Armandy was next to him, dry eyed and grim-faced, her hand resting on his arm.

  The cameras were rolling, but out of respect none of
the reporters approached Foster. Then Larry Vincent emerged, and I heard a murmur from the onlookers. He went straight to a reporter he seemed to know, said something I couldn’t hear, and then up popped her microphone. She said, “Mr. Vincent, would you like to comment on Mitchell Conyers’ memorial service?”

  “Yes, I would, Casey. It was a beautiful service to commemorate the tragic loss of an outstanding citizen of Portland. Mitch Conyers will be sorely missed. This is a wakeup call, a stark reminder of what the city’s permissive policies toward the homeless can result in. I hope and pray the police bureau will bring Mitch Conyers’ killer to justice and do it soon. And I call on the mayor and the city council to crack down on these unwanted and potentially dangerous people. Thank you.”

  Vincent stepped away, a self-satisfied look staining his face. The woman behind him looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her. She wore a tight black dress that accentuated an eye-popping body and thick mane of honey blond hair. Most of her eye makeup was on her cheeks, which were red like her nose. She was the only one I’d seen crying in the whole crowd. Then it came to me—she was one of the women sitting next to Jessica Armandy the night I met her. I fell in step with her and offered my handkerchief. “I’m sorry for your loss. Mitch must have been a good friend.”

  She waved off my handkerchief and shot me a sideways look. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Cal Claxton. I’m trying to figure out who killed your friend.”

  She looked at me again. “You don’t look like a cop.”

  I laughed. “Thanks, I’m not. I’m an attorney. I was, uh, wondering if I could talk to you about Mitch Conyers.”

  She stopped and faced me. She was tall with the skin and hair of vibrant youth. Her big, doe eyes were as green as the sea, and her mouth wide with lips that were naturally round and full. She reached up and took my cap off, the stones in her tennis bracelet glittering with authenticity. “You’re the guy at the bar the other night who was talking to Jessica. You represent that snake kid, right?”

  I smiled hesitantly, half expecting to get shut down. “Uh, yeah. I represent Danny Baxter.”

  She nodded, then sniffed, and I offered my handkerchief again. She took it this time, dabbed her eyes and looking down on it, said, “Shit. There goes the makeup.” Then she looked up, studying me for a few moments. “I’m not going to the cemetery. What I could use is a stiff drink. My name’s Bambi.”

  “I could use a drink, too.” I pointed up the street. “My car’s on the next block.” As we started walking, I glanced back toward the church and saw the imposing figure of Jessica’s driver, Semyon, getting into her Lexus. I was pretty sure he hadn’t seen us, but I couldn’t say the same for the passengers behind the heavily tinted windows of the sleek, black car.

  We drove over to a tiny watering hole Bambi knew that was located in a turn of the century flatiron building across from Powell’s Books. A clutch of homeless kids were lounging in the sun near where we parked and one—a pudgy girl with bad teeth—asked if we could spare some change. I hadn’t bought any of the meal vouchers Anna had suggested yet, so I reached into my pocket so as not to look cheap in front of Bambi. Before I got my hand out, Bambi fished a five dollar bill out of a small purse she was carrying and placed it in the girl’s outstretched hand. “Damn spangers,” she muttered as we walked away.

  “Spangers?” I asked. I hadn’t heard the term.

  She looked at me in disbelief. “Spare change artists. You’d be surprised how much money they can make.”

  “Why do you give her money then?”

  She shrugged. “I usually don’t. It was the girl. I felt sorry for her.”

  When we were seated at the back of the bar, I asked her about her name. She laughed. “My real name’s Stephanie, but Jessica wanted me to be called Bambi. She said older clients would really dig it. I used to hate the name, but I got used to it.”

  Jessica was probably right about the name, although given Bambi’s physical attributes “Ralph” would have worked just as well. As we waited for our drinks, I said, “How did you meet Jessica?”

  She had repaired her makeup in the restroom, and her eyes seemed less innocent now. “Actually, she discovered me.”

  “How so?”

  A smile brightened her face. “I was hanging out one day in Pioneer Square, seven years ago, I guess. I was seventeen, living on the street. Got kicked out of my house in Boise. Anyway, Jessica walks up to me, introduces herself and asks if I want a job.”

  “What kind of job?”

  She shot me a look, like I was some sort of idiot. “Escorting, what-a-ya think? She told me I had real potential.”

  Potential must mean being beautiful and looking five years younger than your age, I thought to myself. “Was Mitch Conyers one of your clients?”

  Our drinks had arrived. She took a pull on her whiskey sour as her face clouded over and her eyes began to tear again. “Yeah, but it was more than that. I was his special girl. He always told me that.” She raised her wrist to show me the bracelet. “He gave me this.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  She dabbed her eyes carefully with a napkin and laughed with a bitterness that saddened me. “He told me he was going to get me out of the life, you know. Now he’s dead.”

  I nodded in a show of understanding. “It must still be possible to get out, Bambi.”

  “Yeah, well, it would be nice, but it’s not as easy as you think. I make a good living, you know. I have bills to pay, too.”

  I had a feeling there were more formidable barriers to her leaving but set them aside for the time being. “Do you have any idea who killed Mitch?”

  She lowered her napkin and met my eyes. There was a steely resolve in her face I hadn’t seen before. “It wasn’t your snake boy, that’s for sure.”

  I set my beer down. “Why do you say that?”

  “Right after they found that woman’s bones, Mitch started acting kind of nervous. Even had trouble getting it up one night.” She allowed another smile, wistful this time. “That wasn’t like him at all. I asked him what the problem was, you know? He didn’t want to talk at first, but after a couple of drinks, he tells me he’s worried.”

  “About what?” I coaxed.

  “I’m not sure, exactly. But it wasn’t your boy. He wasn’t scared of some homeless kid. He said he’d been squeezing someone and maybe they’d had enough.”

  “Squeezing someone?”

  “You know, he was being paid to keep quiet about something. Blackmail.”

  “Did he say who he was blackmailing?”

  “No. Anyway, then he says, ‘Bambi, I’m going to give you an envelope. If anything happens to me, give it to the cops.’ You know, like right out of the movies.”

  “Do you have the envelope?”

  She shook her head. “No, he never gave me anything. He got killed two days later.”

  I dropped my head and sighed. “Have you told the cops about this?” I asked the question, but I already knew the answer.

  “I don’t talk to cops. Jessica would kill me.”

  “Would you talk to them if I came with you?”

  She shook her head emphatically. “No way. And if you tell the cops, I’ll lie,” she said defiantly.

  “Then why are you telling me this?”

  She rattled the cubes in her drink. “Looks to me like you’re the only one trying to find Mitch’s real killer. Maybe this’ll help. Besides, I feel sorry for that homeless kid. I’ve been there. I know what it’s like.”

  I nursed my beer and bought her a second whiskey sour, which made her a little tipsy. She told me Seth Foster’s mother was Mitch Conyers’ dad’s second wife, and that Foster had been active in Conyers’ restaurant business, but she didn’t know any details. She did add, however, that Foster had a real thing about Jessica Armandy, although she apparently didn’t feel
the same way about him. When I asked whether she knew Hugo Weiman, the owner of the Deschutes property, she told me his name sounded vaguely familiar, but didn’t know anything about him.

  After I ran out of questions, I drove her back to her car. As she was getting out, I handed her a card and said, “If you think of anything else, give me a call. And, if you decide to change jobs, let me know. Maybe I can help.”

  When I got back to the clinic, I noticed a plastic tarp was hanging from the eaves of the building, partially covering Picasso’s mural. I walked over to the side of the building for a closer look. The offending words were already painted over, and I could see where Picasso had started resketching.

  As I started into the clinic a tall man in a blazer crossed the street and headed me off. An obese man with a full beard waddled like a duck behind him. The beard had a camera.

  The blazer said, “Mr. Claxton, I’m Arnie Simms from The Oregonian. I understand you’re representing Daniel Baxter. Is that right?”

  “Not for the murder of Mitchell Conyers, I’m not. Mr. Baxter hasn’t been charged with anything.” It had clouded over. The camera flashed twice.

  “That’s true. But I just came from a press briefing at the Portland Police Bureau. They announced that Mr. Baxter is now considered a person of interest in the murder of Conyers. Would you care to comment on that?”

  The camera flashed again. I felt the blood rise in my neck. The term “person of interest” pissed me off. “Well, I’m not sure what that term really means. Is this an attempt to placate certain interests in this city who seem bent on rushing to judgment? The fact is, Daniel Baxter hasn’t been charged with anything, so he should be considered a person of innocence. I’d advise the police to broaden their search. There’s a vicious killer out there, and it’s not Danny Baxter.” At that point, I caught myself. “That’s all I have to say.”