The thought of it gripped my gut like a cold hand and at the same time strengthened my resolve. I hadn’t made a mistake. This is what I should be doing.
I opened my briefcase and handed him another small sketch pad. “Here. I figured you’d need another one of these. I’ve got good news. That sketch you made of Howard Krebbs really helped us.” I went on to tell him what we discovered about the man posing as Krebbs and what we were doing to find him. This revived his spirits.
“Howard, or whatever his name is, is a weird dude,” he said when I’d finished. “Pretty much kept to himself around the clinic. I always got a bad vibe from him, judgmental, you know, like he didn’t approve of my lifestyle.” Picasso laughed. “Shit, that would include half the people in Portland, come to think of it. But he was no stranger to the streets. He’d been around.”
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t know. He had an edge to him. I could sense it. The dude always wore long sleeve shirts. I figured nasty tats or needle marks, something he didn’t want people to see.”
“Did he ever say anything about his background, about being from Seattle or anything like that?”
“Nah, not to me.” He chuckled. “Seattle? I doubt it.”
I raised my eyebrows in a question.
“He came in one day out of the rain with an umbrella. Nobody in the Northwest uses an umbrella, man.”
I nodded and smiled. It was true, umbrellas were a sign of weakness around here. I’d learned that lesson not long after I arrived from sunny California. “Well, if he is who we think he is, then you’re probably right. He wouldn’t be telling anyone where he was really from. What about Milo? Did they have any interaction?”
“Yeah, Milo was about the only one he talked to at the clinic besides Doc. You think he killed Milo, too?”
“Yeah, that’s what I think happened. Let me ask you something. Doc found Milo’s calendar the other day. On June 26—that would be two days before Conyers’ murder—Milo had written down the initials HK and DND at 9:00 p.m. It looks like he was meeting Krebbs and someone with the initials DND that night. Any idea who that might be?”
Picasso looked up from the doodle on his sketch pad and considered the question. “DND? Doesn’t mean anything to me.”
I felt a stab of disappointment. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know many of Milo’s friends. You know, if you can find her you might ask Caitlin. There’s a guy named Fish in her family. He hung with Milo back when he was dealing smack. Maybe Fish knows who DND is.
“Is Fish his real name?”
“Nah, I don’t think so. I heard he came from the coast—Astoria, I think. He used to fish with his dad all the time, or some shit like that. Caitlin can find him.”
I left that day disappointed Picasso didn’t know anything about DND, but at least some energy had crept back in his voice, and I’d managed to extract a promise that he would eat more.
I drove back to Caffeine Central and picked up Archie, who did an excited little dance when he saw me. We walked over to the clinic and caught Anna in her office. “Got time for a walk?”
She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got forty-five minutes. What’s up?”
I told her about my meeting with Picasso while Archie led us down Burnside toward the bridge, our best guess as to where Caitlin might be. We took the stairs to the underside of the structure and walked over to Ankeny Square. A group of kids were lounging next to Skidmore Fountain among a jumble of backpacks, sleeping bags, and assorted trash. We saw a couple of familiar faces but not Caitlin or any of her family members. Finally, Anna spotted one of the kids who guarded Picasso’s mural, a thin boy with reddish dreadlocks and a baby face bearing wisps of an amber beard. He patted Arch on the head and said, “How’s Picasso?”
Anna said, “He’s doing fine, and he said to tell everyone guarding the mural that they rock.”
The boy nodded then looked at me. “You gonna get him off?”
“We’re working on it.”
He spit between his teeth. “Yeah, well, good luck with that.”
Anna said, “Have you seen Snuggles around?”
“She split, man. Took off with some old dude.”
“Where’d she go?” Anna persisted.
He spit again. “L.A., I heard.” He laughed with a coldness that belied his innocent looking features. “Thinks she’s ready for prime time, but she isn’t.”
Anna shot a look at me, her eyes filled with pain, then back at the boy. “Are you sure she’s gone?”
He laughed again. “Yep. Got herself a brand new pimp.”
Anna turned away, her eyes filling with tears. I said, “Is Fish around?” The news about Caitlin hit me hard, too, but I needed answers.
He nodded back toward the bridge. “He’s back there, man. Sleepin’ off a bad trip.”
We found the kid called Fish—at least he mumbled that was his name when I shook him awake. But I couldn’t get anything else out of him. Anna gave me a concerned look, and kneeling down beside him took his pulse and felt his brow. His cheeks were sunken, his complexion sallow—the kind of kid you knew had been on the streets too long. His eyes opened to slits, and he snarled, “Go away, goddamn it,” before turning his head away from us.
Anna got up, shaking her head. “Well, at least he hasn’t overdosed. He’s okay, but we’re wasting our time. We’ll have to come back.”
As we were leaving the kid with dreadlocks said, “Told you Fish was out of it.”
I turned to him. “We’re looking for a guy named DND. Do you know him?”
The kid scrunched his brow and shook his head. “Can’t help you.”
Anna said, “The initials D-N-D, do they mean anything to you?”
He scratched his ear and furrowed his forehead. “Uh, yeah, maybe. There’s a poker club over on the east side called the DND. I think it stands for the Down n’ Dirty, or something like that.” He chuckled. “Cards are just a sideline there. Drugs are the main business.”
Anna and I walked back to the clinic in silence. A part of me was excited that at least I had a lead to follow up. The Down n’ Dirty could be where Krebbs had met Milo that night. The deck of cards Krebbs left behind at the clinic lent some credence to that. Maybe somebody there would know him. At the same time, I was sick about Caitlin. Worse yet, I knew that the news devastated Anna. I tried to get her to talk about it on the way back, but she remained silent. I asked her to join me for dinner that night, and she told me she wanted to be alone.
My heart ached when I left the clinic that afternoon. This kind of stuff shouldn’t be happening to young kids, I told myself for the umpteenth time.
I ate in, an uninspired meal of a blackened salmon steak, roasted red potatoes, and a green salad. Over a second glass of wine, I thought about going to the cops with what I had. After all, it wouldn’t take them very long to discover what I already knew—that the name Howard Krebbs was a fake identity—and they had the resources to find the man behind the name and pull him in. But, on the other hand, I had no proof at all, and what’s more, I’d established no connection between this man and Larry Vincent. Going to the cops was premature to say the least.
A visit to the Down n’ Dirty Poker Club, on the other hand, struck me as a much better idea. I knew such an impulsive act entailed risk, but how else was I going to find this guy?
I decided to go there that night.
Chapter Thirty-eight
The Down n’ Dirty Poker Club was in southeast Portland, smack in the middle of Felony Flats, one of the few neighborhoods in the city where the bars and clubs outnumber the espresso joints. If you crave a grande, half caf, soy milk frappuccino, Felony Flats is not your neighborhood. I parked in front of a closed bakery that had a sign in the window that said, “I am the Bread of Life…John 6:35.” The poker club was directly across the str
eet, a low, brick structure with a freshly painted exterior trim and a sign on the roof that was blinking Texas Hold’em in red neon.
Two young guys in skinny jeans and hooded sweatshirts arrived at the club about the same time I did. I waited and fell in behind them for a bit of cover, just in case Krebbs was in the house. But this was a serious poker-playing crowd; hardly anyone looked up to see who was coming in. I counted ten card tables as I worked my way to the back of the club where a fully stocked bar, a couple of giant flat screens, and two pool tables were located. I took a seat at the corner of the bar, next to where the waiters picked up their drink orders. This allowed me to view the entire room without being obtrusive.
I ordered a Mirror Pond and scanned the crowd for Krebbs, my memory of his facial features reinforced by Picasso’s sketch. He had short-cropped black hair, a face that tapered to a sharp chin, and eyes made to look even paler by a beard so heavy it shadowed his face even after a close morning shave. I strained to remember the rest of him—a little shorter than me, stocky build, and, oh yeah, the tufts of black, wiry hair nested in his ears. I didn’t expect Krebbs to be there, and as far as I could tell, he wasn’t.
What now? The truth was, I really didn’t have a plan.
I turned my attention to the doings at the bar. The short-haired, tattoo-less bartender wore a single gold loop in his right ear, but otherwise looked more like a college kid than a Felony Flats homie. Two working girls sitting across the bar eyed me momentarily as I took my seat, then continued their animated conversation with each other. Business was slow. Sorely lacking the nubile qualities so sought after by Jessica Armandy, the girls were in little danger of being recruited by her.
Two waiters covered the poker tables, a gangly kid with spiky hair and tattoos on his arms like the flames of hell, and a tall woman with short, dirty blond hair and a face that had been pretty once but had hardened with age like petrified wood. The bartender was an outgoing type and seemed to know an awful lot of the customers. When he brought my beer, he said, “Waiting for a table to open up?”
I nodded. “First time. Just getting the feel of the place.” Then I added, “You seem to know a lot of people. Worked here long?”
“A year and a half. Saving up to go to college.”
“Where?”
“Portland State. It’s all I can afford. No college loans for me.”
I nodded. “Smart man,” then asked, “Is this mainly a local crowd?”
“Pretty much.” He chuckled. “Not many people from other neighborhoods come into the Flats at night. They think we’re a bunch of badasses, you know, urban rednecks.”
It took me most of a beer to decide whether to chance showing Picasso’s sketch of Krebbs to the bartender. I finally decided it was worth a try, and when business ebbed at the bar, I made my move. “I’m wondering if you could help me try to locate someone.”
He took a fresh look at me. “You’re not a cop, are you?”
I raised my hands, palms out, smiled, and shook my head. “No. I just want to talk to someone, a witness in a legal case. It’s important to me. I could, uh, donate to your college fund.”
His face brightened. “Okay, whataya got?”
I took the sketch of Krebbs from my coat pocket, unfolded it and slid it across the bar to him. He studied it for a few moments. I saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. He looked up at me with an expression that had turned wary, and then his eyes shifted to someone behind me. He turned the sketch face down and pushed it back to me. “Sorry, can’t help you,” he responded with finality.
The blond waitress with the hard face stepped up to the bar from behind me and said to the bartender, “Two vodka martinis and an IPA, hon.” I wondered if she’d seen the sketch. I couldn’t be sure. In any case, I was sure the young bartender recognized the person in the sketch and had decided to keep his mouth shut. The waitress stood next to me, drumming her fingers as she waited for her order. I folded the sketch up and put it back in my pocket.
I finished my beer, left a twenty dollar bill on the counter, and got the hell out of there. My gamble had backfired, and I felt pretty damn foolish. Had I been compromised? For sure, if the bartender tells Krebbs I was looking for him. What was the chance my generous tip would persuade him not to? Slim to none, I figured.
But instead of heading back to Caffeine Central I drove my car behind the club and parked in the far corner of the small lot. What the hell, I decided, it was worth taking another crack at the bartender in a more private setting. While I waited, I stewed about how much money I’d be willing to part with for Krebbs’ real name.
By 2:40 the parking lot was empty except for four cars and a Yamaha motorcycle that was tucked in against the building. At 2:50, it was down to one car and the motorcycle. The young bartender came out the back with the tall blond waitress. She got in the remaining car, and he got on the Yamaha. I followed him to a shabby apartment building off of Eighty-Second. He was locking up his motorcycle when I approached. It was pissing rain.
“It’s me again. I’m pretty sure you know the guy in the picture I showed you. I’m still anxious to help you go to college.”
He straightened up, peering at me though the half-pipe of a Blazers ball cap that was dripping rain water. “I told you, man, I don’t know the guy.”
“You sure? I could, uh, provide a scholarship, say two hundred dollars. All I need is a name.”
He smiled in exasperation, shook his head, and wagged an open palm at me. “I could use the money, man, but there’s no fucking way. What I can tell you is that you shouldn’t mess around with certain people, if you get my drift. Now, leave me the fuck alone.”
As he turned to leave, I said, “Do me a favor. Keep this to yourself.” It never hurts to ask.
I had to return to my office in Dundee the next morning to meet with a client and then make a court appearance on a divorce case that afternoon. I had just cleared the Terwilliger curves on the I-5 when Nando returned an earlier call of mine. He listened patiently while I described my foray into Felony Flats and the poker club. When I finished, he said, “Hmm, this is not good, Calvin. If Krebbs hears of this, he will go further underground.” There was another action he might take, of course, but Nando didn’t mention it, and neither did I.
“I realize that. What can I say? It was a gamble.”
“And you didn’t show the picture to anyone else?”
I thought about the blond waitress for a moment, but I didn’t think she saw anything. “Nah, just the bartender. I don’t think he’ll say anything, but who the hell knows? My guess is our guy came to Portland just to make the hit on Conyers. He hung out at the club for something to do at night. The word got around about him being a nasty dude.”
“And the bartender would not talk.”
“Right, not even for cold cash. Look, Nando, you think you could sniff around at the Down n’ Dirty? Someone else must remember this guy.”
“It is not a part of town that I have a great deal of contacts in. I will see what I can do. Meanwhile, you should exercise caution, Calvin. Perhaps you can stay at your Aerie for a while?”
“Nah, I’m not going to do that. I’m coming back to Portland tomorrow night. We’re close to nailing this guy, Nando. I can feel it.”
“You can?” was all he answered.
I had another reason for returning to Portland. I didn’t want Anna to be alone, worrying about the disappearance of Caitlin. It was a painful blow, and I wanted to be there to support her any way I could. In fact, I realized, I liked being with Anna no matter what the reason.
I took it as a positive sign when she told me she was attending a lecture the next evening at the Schnitzer Concert Hall—on nano solar technology, of all things. We agreed to meet after the talk and grab a bite at a little joint on the South Park blocks, a long swath of majestic elms, fountains, and statues running through the heart of do
wntown. It was a balmy night, and the blocks were teaming with people. While we walked from the Schnitzer to the restaurant, I told her about my misadventure at the poker club.
“Howard a hired murderer?” she said when I finished. “I still can’t get used to the idea. It gives me the creeps. What happens now?”
“We wait. Nando’s going to make some inquiries at the Down n’ Dirty.”
She was excited by the lecture, and during dinner she described how nano particles were going to reduce the cost of solar panels and save the world from frying in greenhouse gases. Afterwards, we walked back to Caffeine Central for a nightcap. It wasn’t until we were settled on the couch with glasses of wine that she broached the topic I’d stayed away from all night. “I found out the name of the man Caitlin left with,” she said.
“You did?”
“Yes. His name’s Derek Lewis, and he’s probably twenty-nine or thirty years old. A real bottom feeder.” She hesitated for a moment. “And I did something terrible.”
“What?”
“One of her friends told me his name. I told her I wouldn’t tell anybody, but I lied.”
I waited for her to continue.
“I went to the police with the information. If they pick them up, Lewis is going to be in a lot of trouble.” She looked at me, her eyes pleading. “I just want her back, Cal. I don’t care about my street cred.”
I held her eyes, thinking of the deception I used to get Armandy to meet with me. “I don’t know, but I suspect the truth doesn’t mind being sacrificed for the greater good once in a while, especially when kids are involved.”
She leaned her head on my shoulder and sighed heavily. “You’re such a pragmatist. Thanks. I needed that.” The room fell silent except for the sound of Archie breathing in the corner. A car passed by down on Couch and we could hear the thump, thump of a bass speaker.
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