Chapter Twenty-one
“Wow. You’re making great progress,” I said to Picasso, who was up on the scaffolding with a paint bucket in one hand and a brush in the other. It was nearly four, and I’d just gotten back to the clinic.
He nodded, grunted something unintelligible and dabbed some black paint on Bob Dylan’s 1970s afro. In the background, a fully rendered Mt. Hood stood in stark relief against a bluebird sky. Several other marchers had emerged, infused with life by the miracle of acrylic paint. A striking depiction of Anna Eriksen was nearly complete. She was caught in mid-stride, a lock of gold hair looped across her forehead. She had that resolute half-smile I’d come to know, and her eyes beckoned as if to say “step in, join us.” The image made me realize I’d missed her, a thought that caught me by surprise.
“Where’s my dog?”
“Try Doc’s office. He’s either there or out walking with Caitlin.”
I found Archie in Anna’s office, but Anna was busy in one of the examination rooms. I waited around for a while, then decided to head back to Caffeine Central. As I was leaving, I called out to Picasso, “Call me when you finish up.” He nodded and continued to paint.
I drove to Whole Foods and laid in some provisions for my stay. You can’t beat that grocery store for selection, but the people who call it “Whole Paycheck” have a point. I didn’t have enough cash, so I used a credit card. An hour and a half later, I was up in the apartment sipping a glass of pinot with my feet up when I heard someone knocking. Weiman may have been a likeable guy, but who knows? I went into the bedroom, took Nando’s Glock from my suitcase, and after releasing the safety, tucked it in my waistband at the small of my back.
I followed Arch down the narrow stairway to the first floor. “Who’s there?” I called out, standing at the front door.
“It’s Anna, Cal. Anna Eriksen.”
I opened the door. She smiled sheepishly and said, “Can Archie play?”
Framed in the doorway, she reminded me of a painting I couldn’t quite place. She wore jeans, a simple white blouse under a thin leather coat, no jewelry, and as usual, no makeup. Her hair was down, resting comfortably on the level plane of her shoulders, and although she continued to smile, there was no hiding her fatigue. I said, “Archie would love to play, but he hasn’t had his dinner yet. Have you?”
“No, but I—
I swung an arm in the direction of the stairs. “Great. Then join us.”
She shrugged and followed me upstairs, whereupon I poured her a glass of wine and began cooking dinner. With Archie settled in at her feet, she began telling me about the events of her week. There was a pending budget cut from her sponsoring foundation, a rash of emergencies from a bad batch of ecstasy that got loose on the street. Worst of all, she’d lost two staff members so far that week.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Well, Sherry, my best nurse, told me she was going to take some time off, then look for another job. I think the whole Picasso thing kind of freaked her out. Then my janitor, Howard, quit in a huff.”
“What’s his story?” I asked, peeling the skin from a piece of ginger.
She sighed and shook her head. “Oh, he didn’t beat around the bush. He told me I should get rid of Picasso, that he must’ve killed that restaurant owner.”
“Ouch. What’d you say?”
“I, uh, got pretty hot, I’m afraid. I told him Picasso was innocent, that he found that man dead in the swimming pool and pulled him out. He just sneered and said, ‘You’re a fool to trust that kid.’ Then he packed up his stuff and left. Hasn’t shown up since.”
“Maybe it’s just as well.”
She managed a laugh. “Yeah, except he was a volunteer, which was a big help to my budget. God, I hope nobody else leaves.” Then she leveled her pale blue eyes at me. They were full of concern. “I have this sense of impending doom, Cal. What do you think the police are going to do?”
I stopped mincing the ginger for a moment. “It’s hard to say. To be honest, I’m surprised they haven’t arrested Picasso by now. Apparently, they’re still searching for the murder weapon.”
While my rice cooked, I brought her up to speed on what I’d learned so far. By the time I served up dinner—a stir fry of chicken in hoisen sauce and garlic along with sautéed spinach with ginger and red pepper flakes—I had answered most of her questions. She said, “So, this accident-prone lobbyist, how do you propose to smoke him out?”
“I have a private detective investigating the so-called accident. Like I said, I think he got shot on the river but went to a hospital in Tualatin, near his home, to make it look like an accident. But, I’m not sure I’ll be able to show that. The trail’s very cold.”
“Why would he kill Conyers?”
I stroked my mustache with a thumb and forefinger. “That’s the fly in the ointment. I don’t know. I do know Conyers was blackmailing someone. Maybe it was him.” I said this, but didn’t really believe it. Something was missing, but I didn’t know what it was.
I left Anna sitting on the couch while I cleared off the table and straightened up the kitchen. When I returned, she was fast asleep. I sat down and watched her. Her breath was slow and measured, her eyelids down, fringed with blond lashes that gently curled against her cheek. The fatigue I’d seen in her face was gone, replaced with an almost childlike serenity. I couldn’t bring myself to wake her, so I read through the paper for a while, stealing glances now and then and wondering about the odd twists and turns that had resulted in this lovely woman sitting here beside me.
I woke Anna an hour later. She was embarrassed and only agreed to a ride when I told her I was going out anyway. I was telling the truth. I’d decided to have a drink at the Happy Angus to see what I could stir up. Jessica Armandy had to know more than she’d told me, which so far had been nothing.
I circumnavigated the restaurant several times but couldn’t find a parking spot on the street that night. Finally, I pulled into a dimly lighted lot, part of which was being resurfaced. I weaved my way through some lumber and rebar as I returned from the kiosk to put the parking receipt on my dash. A few late night diners were huddled in the first floor of the restaurant, and I could hear the Thursday night buzz in the bar above.
Armandy was at her usual table in the back of the bar. She saw me enter and followed me with her eyes as I worked my way across the crowded room. When I stopped in front of her table she smiled without mirth, “Well, if it isn’t the snake charmer. Is this a business call or are you looking for companionship?”
I returned the smile in kind. “Business. I—”
“Tell me, Claxton,” she interrupted, her voice ringing with frustration. “Why haven’t they arrested that little shit?”
I sat down across from her and rested my arms on the table. “They don’t have enough evidence, that’s why. Despite what Larry Vincent tells you, Danny Baxter didn’t do it.”
“Then who did?”
Before I could answer a man appeared next to Jessica. It took a moment in the bar light to realize it was Conyers’ stepbrother, Seth Foster. He was well dressed and younger than Armandy, with a shock of black hair and a shadowy three day growth. He glanced at me, then turned to her. “You okay, Jess?”
“Sure, hon.” She handed him her empty glass. “Would you be a dear and top me off?” She shot me a look and added, “And bring him whatever he’s drinking.”
I looked up at Foster. “A Mirror Pond. Thanks.” As he walked away, I said to Armandy, “You asked me who killed your friend. The answer is whoever the hell he was blackmailing.” I leaned forward and locked onto her eyes. “You know anything about that?”
She held my gaze, crossed her arms, and drew her mouth in tight. I could almost hear the wheels spinning in her head. “I don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about.”
“Conyers knew Hugo Weiman, didn’t he. He’s
the guy Conyers was squeezing, right?”
“There you go again. It’s always about someone else, not your little Snake Boy.”
I knew she was baiting me, so I let the comment ride. There was an uncomfortable silence until Foster returned. He stopped next to me and I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Color rose in his face. “You’re the douche bag trying to get Mitch’s killer off, aren’t you?” Before I could say a word he threw the glass of beer in my face and shoved me hard.
The chair and I went over, and I popped up ready to defend myself. Foster pointed at the staircase. “Get the fuck out of my restaurant.”
Wiping beer off my face with my handkerchief, I walked out with as much dignity as I could muster. On the way, it occurred to me that Foster’s use of the pronoun my was interesting. I was nearly to the parking lot when I heard footsteps rushing up behind me. I tensed and spun around.
“Cal, it’s me, Bambi. I saw what happened in there. Are you alright?”
“Sure. A little damp, is all. Uh, how have you been?” She was wearing a low cut wife beater, tight jeans, and massive platform shoes. When she drew closer I saw the bruises on the right side of her face, a mosaic of purples and yellows. I took her chin in my hand and gently turned her face for a better look. “Who did this to you?”
“They saw us driving off at the funeral. Don’t worry, it didn’t hurt.” She smiled, and I saw a glint of steel in her eyes. “They told me not to talk to you anymore.”
“I’m sorry, Bambi.”
“Not your fault.” Then she looked back anxiously toward the restaurant. “Can we get out of here? I thought of some more stuff to tell you.”
We were halfway through the parking lot when I heard the crunch of gravel underfoot behind us. We turned and saw the shadowy figure of a man approaching. He took several more steps and stopped in the dim pool of an overhead light. Bambi gasped.
It was Jessica Armandy’s driver, Semyon, and he was a lot bigger than I remembered him.
Chapter Twenty-two
There was a disquieting eagerness in Semyon’s eyes as a cold, reptilian smile spread across his face. He wore black jeans, thick soled shoes, and a tight fitting t-shirt that had “Bikes Babes & Brawls” inscribed in a circle around the words “Portland Cage Fights.” A swarm of intricate tattoos on his arms looked like so much smeared ink in the low light. He said, “Jessica’s looking for you, Bambi. You’d better get your ass back to the bar.”
Bambi said, “Fuck you, Semyon.” Not exactly the words I would have chosen under the circumstances.
“Watch your mouth,” he said as he came forward. We held our ground and he stopped in front of us. He looked me over and said, “Run along now. This doesn’t concern you, asshole.”
My saner half screamed for me to de-escalate the situation, but raw anger boiled up in my chest and rose to my head faster than I could contain it. I heard myself saying, “Are you the one who beat her up?”
He chuckled as if I’d cracked a joke. “What if I was?”
“Well, first off, it’s called assault and battery, and that’s a felony. Second, it makes you a goddamn coward.” Again, the words slipped out before I could stop them. To make matters worse, Bambi snorted loudly while trying to stifle a laugh. Maybe she knows something I don’t, like Semyon’s not as dangerous as he looks? I could only hope.
“Buzz off,” he said as he stepped forward and chucked me hard in the chest with the palms of his hands. There was brute power in his arms, and the blow sent me sprawling on the gravel. So much for hope.
Bambi backed up slowly. The color had gone out of her face, but she remained defiant. “Leave us alone, you dumb bastard. Go back to Russia where you belong,” she screamed.
Semyon made some guttural sounds, choice epithets in Russian, no doubt, and moved toward her. Scrambling to my feet, I shoved him hard. I might as well have shoved an oak tree, but my effort did get his attention. He spun around, pointed a thick, blunt finger at me and said, “I warned you, motherfucker.”
Ignoring Bambi, he clinched his fists and started to move within range of my jaw. I backed up slowly until I bumped into a car. His eyes grew large, telegraphing his first punch. I ducked under it and drove a hard right into his heart. He grunted and lunged for me, but I spun out of his grasp. He came at me again and threw the same punch. I ducked and countered with an uppercut that snapped his mouth shut. He stepped back, spit a mouthful of blood, and said something in Russian again, this time with more feeling.
He moved in a third time, throwing another right, but quicker and straighter this time. I bobbed to duck it and slipped on the gravel. His eyes enlarged again as he launched a left hook that caught me off balance and defenseless. The punch landed flush on the side of my face. Jupiter’s rings collided with the aurora borealis and hot, flaming shards rained down on my brain. A second blow, harder than the first, crushed my left ear and sent what was left of my brain crashing into the right side of my skull in the mother of all contrecoups.
I wobbled before dropping to my knees, and with my arms dangling at my sides, waited for the coup de grace. Instead of a final blow, however, I heard a loud crunch. I opened my eyes and saw Semyon kneeling in front of me. His eyes were open but they weren’t focused on anything. Then they closed and he slumped to the side like a rag doll. Bambi was standing behind him holding a stout chunk of two-by-four. She said, “I hope I killed the bastard.”
She helped me up, and when some of the fog lifted, I got back down on one knee and felt for Semyon’s pulse. It was strong and even. Then he groaned and moved an arm. “Well, you didn’t kill him,” I said. “His head’s way too hard for that. But you slowed him down pretty good. Thanks.”
I searched his pockets, found his cell phone and made an anonymous 911 call, just in case. Then we got in my car and got the hell out of there with Bambi driving.
Bambi alternated between giggling hysterically and moaning about how much trouble she was in. I was fighting back nausea from having the world twist and spin around me, while trying desperately to keep the blood from my ear off my upholstery. She said, “Do you need a doctor, Cal?”
“I’m not sure. I’m more concerned about you. Where do you live?”
“Oh, Jesus, I can’t go there. He’ll come looking for me.”
“It’s going to take Semyon a while to sort things out. We’d better go to your place and have you pack up fast.”
“Everything?”
“As much as you can.”
“Oh, shit. I’ve really done it now.”
Bambi lived in an apartment across the river in Westmoreland. I waited in the car after telling her she had five minutes to pack, a request that got me an incredulous look. My nausea and dizziness had morphed into a pounding headache, as if a wrecking ball was at work inside my head. I examined my ear in the rearview mirror. It looked like an overripe eggplant that had split open. The gash would need stitches, but the blood had slowed to a trickle. Fifteen minutes later Bambi came out with two bulging suitcases and a backpack. I popped the trunk latch and pointed over my shoulder with a thumb. She stashed her bags and hopped in the driver’s seat. “What now?”
“Take the Ross Island Bridge. I’m going to call a friend.” Anna picked up on the fourth ring. “Yes, Cal,” she said after I finished a cursory explanation of the situation. “Bring her here straight away.”
Anna’s condo was on the edge of Old Town on Northwest Flanders. She took one look at me and got an ice pack for my head and a gauze compress for my ear. While I sat in her darkened living room, she moved Bambi into her spare bedroom. When she returned I said, “How is she?”
“Fine. The adrenaline’s worn off, and she’s in bed. With luck, she’ll get some sleep. Now, let’s have a look at that ear.” She switched on the lamp, and I groaned, raising my hand to shield my eyes. With the lamp at the lowest setting, she removed the gauze and examined my
ear more carefully. “You’re going to need stitches, but I’m more concerned about your concussion.”
“Concussion?”
She raised her hand in front of my face. “How many fingers?”
“Two.”
“Good. Did you lose consciousness when he hit you?”
“Uh, yeah, but only momentarily.”
“Headache?”
“You could say that.”
She wanted to take me to the ER, but I said, “The clinic’s only five minutes away. Can’t we go there?” I’d made only one trip to the hospital in my life. That had been enough for me. Ten minutes later, I sat grimacing on a treatment table in the clinic while she cleaned the wound. “Have any bullets?” I asked.
“Sorry. We’re fresh out.”
When she placed a menacing looking curved needle along with thread, scissors, and bandages on a steel tray, I was beginning to reevaluate my decision to bypass the hospital. My ear was throbbing like a bass drum. “Let me guess,” I said. “You’re out of anesthetic, too.”
Opening a cabinet, she said over her shoulder, “Had to cut somewhere.” But when she returned with a syringe and small vial, I breathed a sigh of relief.
As she sutured my torn ear, I sat with my head down, listening to the cadence of her breathing and feeling her warm breath on the side of my face. When she finished, she stood in front of me smiling. Against the sterile white walls of the room, her eyes were bluer than I’d ever seen them. I took her head in my hands and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Thanks, Doc.”
Her eyes began to tease. “Are you like the proverbial bear after a thorn’s removed, or should I read more into this?”
I took her head in my hands again and started to kiss her on the lips, but when I closed my eyes the room took a nauseating half turn. I pulled back. “Whoa.”
Matters of Doubt Page 14