“What are you doing up so early?”
He chuckled. “It is not of my doing, believe me, Calvin. It is necessary to meet with a plumber this morning. The man is an insanely early riser.”
“I’ve got some new leads on the Conyers’ murder,” I answered, “but you go first. I’m sure you didn’t call just to wish me good morning.”
“You asked me about Hugo Weiman, the lobbyist. He divides his time between Portland and Salem. This is his Portland week. However, my contact tells me he’s harder to get in to see than God.”
“So, any suggestions?”
“Well, I’m told he has lunch every day between one and two at the bar in the Heathman. A liquid lunch. I suppose a man with big cajones might go there and wait for an opportunity to present itself.”
I had to chuckle. “I’m flattered. What else do you have?”
“I managed to dig something up on the radio man, Larry Vincent.”
“He’s got some dirty laundry,” I shot back.
“Impressive, my friend. How did you know this?”
“Nicole Baxter’s best friend’s a reporter at the Zenith. She told me. Did you get any specifics?”
“It’s very strange. I could find out very little, and I shook the tree hard. All I know is that it involved sexual misconduct of some sort.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Nobody is talking.”
“Keep digging. There could be something to this.” The last bit of news Nando had was that the street was not suspicious about Milo Hartung’s death. It was generally conceded he died of a simple overdose. I filled him in on what I’d just learned. He wanted to see the photo of Nicole Baxter and her lover, and we agreed to cover that when I got back to Portland. He agreed to take a look at Conyers’ stepbrother, Seth Foster. I was particularly interested to know what he stood to gain from Conyers’ death, a question I hoped Scott and Jones were looking at as well.
I spent the day at my office in Dundee. It was not a good day. One of the clients whose files had been stolen fired me, and a prospective client with an insurance issue called and abruptly cancelled her meeting without any explanation. To top things off, there were three threatening phone calls waiting for me on my answering machine. As far as I could tell, they were from separate callers. Couched in colorful language, they invited me to perform an impossible biological act and assured me they knew where I lived.
After dinner, I googled Hugo Weiman. I needed to acquaint myself with his appearance since I was planning to join him for lunch. His dossier was extensive and impressive. His consulting firm, Weiman and Associates, was active in issues that spanned the Oregon political spectrum—from salmon restoration and logging to the silicon forest, Portland’s nickname for its high-tech industry. The genius of Hugo Weiman, as one columnist put it, “…is that he has managed to stay above the backbiting political partisanship in Salem, thereby opening up his shop to do business with both sides of the aisle.”
But nearly overshadowing his lobbying exploits was his charitable work. An item covering a high-end cancer fundraiser in The Oregonian included the line, “Since the tragic death of Eleanor Weiman from breast cancer four years ago, her husband, Hugo Weiman, has probably done more than anyone in this state to advocate for a cure.” Another article announced he had received the governor’s top award for volunteer work. An accompanying photo showed Weiman standing between the mayor of Portland and the governor at the award ceremony. He was taller than both men, with silver hair swept back from a high forehead, horn rim glasses and a full mustache. He’d be easy enough to spot at the Heathman.
Out of curiosity, I went back to the year 2005, getting better than a dozen hits. Two items caught my eye. The first appeared in The Oregonian on May 18, reporting that Weiman accidentally shot himself in the hand while cleaning his gun at his home in Lake Oswego. He was expected to make a complete recovery from the self-inflicted wound. The second was a brief article in the Statesman Journal, accompanied by a photo, with the headline “Hugo Weiman to speak on gun safety.” The article, dated August 21, stated that Weiman, a gun enthusiast, was planning to talk at a Salem gun club about the lessons learned from his recent gun accident. The article went on to mention he was injured while cleaning his twenty-two caliber target pistol.
I looked at the date of the first article again, pushed myself away from the computer and sat there frozen, as it sunk in. May 18. That was the day Nicole Baxter disappeared. I pulled up the later article and looked hard at the photograph of Weiman. His hair was darker, and there was more of it. His upper lip was clean shaven. I fetched the photo Harry Winthrop had given me and compared the two. I couldn’t say it was a match, but then again, I couldn’t say it wasn’t, either. Then another fact clicked in—he was shot with the same caliber weapon as Baxter, a twenty-two.
I grabbed my phone and speed-dialed Nando. “Listen, Weiman got shot in the hand on the exact day Nicole Baxter disappeared. I want you to drop everything else you’re doing for me and concentrate on this. I want to know the time it happened, where he went for medical attention, everything. It was supposedly an accident, self-inflicted. Is there any way to verify that? Did anyone witness it? I don’t know, a friend or neighbor or something? Not his wife. She’s dead. I need a name.”
We kicked around the theory that Weiman was Baxter’s lover and the shooter for a while. There were lots of nagging questions, like if he was the shooter, how did he wind up getting shot? And, where was Weiman when Mitch Conyers was killed? We agreed to touch base when I got back to Portland, which I decided was going to be the next day. Before he hung up, Nando said, “I hate to bring up money, Calvin, but you are into me for better than fifteen hundred already.”
“But all I’ve asked for so far is information, Nando. No stakeouts or anything that takes a lot of manpower.”
“True. But information also costs money, my friend.”
“Okay, okay. I’m good for it. Pull out all the stops on this. This could be the break I’ve been looking for.”
Chapter Twenty
While driving into Portland the next morning I called to arrange a meeting with Cynthia Duncan. She agreed to meet at a little espresso shop near her building, and while she waited in an overstuffed chair I got our drinks—a double cap for me and a bottle of raspberry-flavored water for her. I threw in an almond croissant, and when I offered her half she told me she was dieting. Dieting? I could encircle her bicep with my thumb and index finger.
I sat down and she said, “I talked to Ronnie Lutz about the broken camera. I told him Daniel was homeless and couldn’t afford to replace it. Oh, and that he was very sorry. Lutz was noncommittal, though. I think I could have changed his mind, but I wasn’t going there.” She rolled her brown eyes, which sparkled with flecks of gold in the overhead lights. I must have looked puzzled, because she added, “You know, he wanted me to sleep with him.”
I chuckled and might’ve even blushed. “Oh. That would’ve been beyond the call of duty.”
“For sure. Anyway, one of my coworkers told me the camera’s insured, so the whole thing is bullshit anyway.”
“Good to know.” I then pulled the photo of Nicole Baxter and the man out of my shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Do you know who this man is?”
She raised a hand to her mouth and her eyes filled. “When was this taken?”
“Shortly before Nicole disappeared. At a bed and breakfast out in the wine country.”
She looked at the picture for several moments before saying, “Oh, Nicky, I miss you.”
“The man, Cynthia, do you recognize him?”
She sniffed and dabbed her eyes with a napkin. “No. I have no idea who that could be.” She continued to study the picture, though, noting the Rolex and pointing out that the blazer he was wearing looked hand tailored. “Looks like he has money,” she remarked. “That would be like Nicky.”
&
nbsp; “Did Nicole ever mention the name Hugo Weiman?”
“The lobbyist? No, I don’t remember her ever mentioning him.” She looked back at the photo. “Are you saying that’s him?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a possibility.” Then I added, “Look, Cynthia, this is sensitive stuff. I’m trusting you to keep this confidential.”
Her eyes flashed at me. “I get it, okay? You can trust me.” Then the corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly. “I would like to ask you for a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“When you get this figured out, I want to be the one to break the story.”
“You got it,” I said, then added, “You know, I’ve got my hands full right now, but I’m still intrigued by your theory that Larry Vincent could be the focus of Nicole’s story. I haven’t come up with anything more than what you told me about the scandal. Any chance you could come up with a name, or something else that might shed more light on what happened?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”
I went from there to Caffeine Central to stash my gear and give Archie a quick walk before dropping him at the clinic. Picasso had agreed to keep an eye on him. At 12:45, I was sitting at a small table near the entrance to the bar at the Heathman Hotel. My leather coat didn’t help me blend in with the affluent clientele, who were sipping nine dollar “signature cocktails” and speaking in low tones. I ordered a Mirror Pond and waited.
At 1:05, three men entered the bar wearing dark suits and power ties and were immediately shown to a corner table. Weiman was one of the three, and I could have touched him as he strode past my table.
Three vodka martinis later, he got up and headed toward the gents. I followed and standing next to him at the urinals, stole a quick glance at his face. I caught it at just the right angle. The heavy brow, the line of his cheek bone, the swept-back hair—grayer now, but no matter—they all fit. He reached his left hand up to the flush lever and there it was, the Rolex and, of course, the jagged scar left by a bullet wound he sustained a week after the photo was taken. It was him. I was sure of it.
Or was I? By the time I got back to my table, I was second guessing myself. Maybe I just wanted it too much. A lot of affluent men wear Rolexes, I told myself.
The three men left the bar at a little past two, and I fell in behind them with absolutely no idea what I was going to do next. One of Weiman’s companions headed toward the Schnitzer Concert Hall, and the other walked north with him for a block before crossing Broadway at Salmon Street. Suddenly it was just Weiman and me. I followed him into the lobby of the Fox Tower, and when he used his security pass to enter the elevator I stepped into the otherwise empty car with him. He gave me a sharp look, and I raised my hands and said, “Sorry, forgot my pass.”
He turned back to the control panel and punched the top button for the 35th floor. When I didn’t follow suit with a lower floor, he turned to face me. The doors closed, and the car started moving. “Do you have business on thirty five?”
I smiled affably. “I hope so. I’m Cal Claxton, Mr. Weiman. I’m an attorney looking into the murder of Nicole Baxter on behalf of her son, Daniel. I’m wondering if you could spare me a few moments out of your busy schedule.” I extended a business card.
He left my hand hanging there between us, and with eyes narrowed took the measure of me. “I don’t appreciate being ambushed.”
“I understand that and apologize. I just have a few questions. It won’t take long at all.” I smiled again. “And it’ll probably save you a deposition.” What the hell, I figured. Threatening a deposition might work on him, too.
He took the card, looked down at it, then back at me. I was glad I wasn’t wearing a suit and tie. Better the chance he might underestimate me. His eyes were a little shiny, but otherwise the vodka martinis seemed to have had no effect on him. The elevator lurched to a stop, a bell dinged and the doors opened. “Okay, Claxton, let’s get this over with.”
I followed him down a corridor and through a set of imposing glass doors. A bronzed plaque on the right announced we had entered the domain of Weiman and Associates. We filed past an elegantly furnished seating area facing an attractive receptionist behind a mahogany desk, then through another set of glass doors into a suite of offices. Weiman stopped at an alcove in front of the corner office and told a male assistant named Charles that he was going to meet with me for thirty minutes and to hold his calls.
Weiman’s office wasn’t what I expected. Instead of the obligatory pictures attesting to his lofty station in the halls of Oregon power and influence, the walls were covered with photographs, prints, and paintings taken in and around the Deschutes River. I knew this because of the countless hours I’d spent fishing there. I was drawn to one particularly exquisite print of a large trout breaking for a salmon fly. The artist had drawn it from the point of view of the fish, which was looking up at the insect floating on the surface of the water. The curve of the trout’s thick body captured the coiled-spring power of the animal, and filtered sunlight illuminated its iridescent red side.
I stood admiring the print. “Mykiss Iridus, my favorite fish.”
Weiman raised an eyebrow and smiled. “I agree. There’s nothing like taking a redside with a dry fly,” he replied, using the nickname for the species of trout found only in the Deschutes River.
I nodded toward a photograph of a low building with a flat roof and a porch facing the river. “I took a twenty-two incher right in front of your cabin last year.”
He laughed heartily this time. “No wonder I can’t catch any fish in front of my place.” He walked behind his desk and motioned for me to take a seat. “There’s a grassy bank two hundred yards downriver from the cabin. Maybe the best stretch on the river.”
My turn to laugh. “I thought that was my secret place.” I let the conversation drift in this vein for a while, which was easy because I loved to talk fly fishing as much as he did. Finally, I explained I’d forgotten my briefcase and asked to borrow a pad of paper to make notes. By this time, I was pretty sure I represented no threat to him. Eat your heart out, Columbo.
I started off by chucking him a couple of softball questions about the disappearance of Nicole Baxter and the discovery of her bones in the reservoir on Weiman’s property and got no surprises back. I asked him if anyone else had access to the cabin—friends or business associates, for example. The answer was no. He had never allowed unescorted guests at the cabin, although there was often evidence—trash and other detritus—of trespassing fishermen, rafters, and the like. After several more questions along those lines he glanced at his watch and reminded me he’d gone all through this with the police. I said, “Okay, let’s move to the present tense. I’m sure you’re aware that Nicole Baxter’s boyfriend at the time she disappeared, a man named Mitchell Conyers, was recently murdered.”
He met my eyes and looked faintly amused. “Did your client do it?”
The question shouldn’t have surprised me. A man like Weiman reads the newspapers. “No. He did not.”
He shook his head slowly but not, as I thought initially, to refute my statement. “A homeless kid makes a tempting target. It makes me sick to see someone tried in the media like this. You’ve got your hands full, I’m sure.”
Surprised again, I had to chuckle. “It’s been interesting.” Then I shifted in my seat. “Did you know Conyers?”
“Never met the man.”
I nodded and smiled. “I see. I just thought you might’ve met him through Eros’ Dreams. He was a regular customer, and I understand you are as well.”
Weiman looked at me for a moment, then laughed with what seemed genuine amusement. “Nice try, Claxton. Like I said, I didn’t know him. Hell, I’m not involved with that escort service personally. I use them for business purposes now and then. You know politicians—they crave companionship.” He laughed again, winked
at me and added, “Eros’ Dreams is on the up and up, you know. Says so right on their website.”
I didn’t get the rise I was looking for from that question. Weiman seemed completely at ease, and despite his cavalier attitude toward the exploitation of young women, it was hard to completely dislike the guy. We talked a few minutes longer, and then I got up to leave. At the door, I turned and fired my last round. “Oh, one more thing. I was sorry to read about your gun accident. Did you realize you shot yourself in the hand on the same day Nicole Baxter disappeared?”
He launched a cover smile, but the mirth in his eyes cooled and the skin of his face tightened ever so slightly. “How extraordinary. I didn’t realize that.” He shook his head and slid his eyes off of me, focusing instead on something over my shoulder. “If it hadn’t been for my wife, Eleanor, you know, I might’ve lost my hand. She found me and drove me to Meridian Park Hospital.” Then he chuckled and added, “I’m still embarrassed about that accident.”
“Well, we all make mistakes. Thanks again for the chat.” With that, I closed his door and left. As I walked back to my car, I mulled over what had just transpired. I wanted to learn as much as I could without tipping my hold card—that I suspected he was Baxter’s lover. I felt like I’d succeeded. His “accident” was somehow related to Baxter’s disappearance. I was pretty sure of that now. Did he know or have contact with Mitchell Conyers? I was less certain of the answer to that question. If he didn’t know him, then my assumption that Baxter’s and Conyers’ murders were related might be wrong. That seemed improbable.
Finally, he made sure I understood his wife had taken him to a local hospital after his accident. That gave him a strong alibi. After all, Baxter was apparently shot better than a hundred miles from Weiman’s house in Lake Oswego, the alleged site of the accident.
At the same time, I had to admit my suspicions didn’t mesh completely with my sense of the man. There was something disarming about him, his modesty, I suppose, his sympathetic take on Picasso’s situation, and of course, his love of fly fishing. These factors militated against him being Baxter’s killer in my mind, although as an ex-prosecutor, I knew that jealousy and passion could darken the heart of any man.
Matters of Doubt Page 13