Moving Targets

by Warren C Easley

  I called Nando, who was expecting my call, and read him the Fiat’s license plate number. “That’s right, his name, marital status, and anything else you can get me in ten minutes,” I reiterated. He called back nine minutes later and gave me what a source in the Portland Police Bureau was able to pull up for him. It pays to have connections.

  I got out, walked over to the Fiat, slouched on a gleaming fender, and waited, thinking about my chances. Another long shot. After all, Lenny Bateman’s death was six weeks ago, but I was hoping this guy had heard about the suicide, which might make the evening memorable. Chances were he hadn’t seen the small item in the paper, but maybe the woman he hooked up with mentioned it. In any case, I was sure the cops hadn’t gotten any of the prostitutes or Johns to talk about what they saw that night, and I knew I wouldn’t fare any better. Unless, of course, I had an inducement.

  Myron Hatcher came out of the motel room twenty-eight minutes later. Quickie, indeed. He looked at me through a pair of small, deep-set eyes and scowled. “Hey, dude, off the car. I just had it detailed.” I got up, and he flashed a conspiratorial smile. “You next?”

  “No.” I handed him a card and introduced myself. “Actually, I’m here to talk to you, Myron.”

  His smile melted, and his eyes grew instantly alert. “About what?”

  “What do you think?”

  He dropped his head and studied the cigarette-butt strewn walkway. “Fuck. How did Sharon find out, anyway?”

  Bingo. He thought I worked for his wife. I would go with that. “You’ve been a regular here on Tuesdays and Thursdays for a long time. What do you expect?” I gestured toward my Beemer. “Why don’t you get in so we can talk? Maybe we can work something out.” He followed me to my car and got in, looking distraught. I nodded toward room 335 in front of us. “Did you hear about the suicide that took place in that room on March 16?”

  His look turned puzzled. “I thought this was about Sharon?”

  I shrugged. “It could be. Depends on you. Did you hear about it?”

  “Yeah, I heard. So what?”

  “Did you happen to see the victim come in that night?”

  He put his hands up. “Hey, I’m not getting invol—”

  “Did you see him?” I cut in, putting more emphasis on the question.

  He lowered his hands and nodded. “Yeah, I saw him.”

  “Did you see the other man with him, the one driving?” When he nodded again, I said, “What did the other man look like?”

  He looked up at the headliner for a few moments, then released a breath. “The guy that offed himself was a little dude, pretty drunk. The other guy was bigger, well built, uh…short dark hair…

  “Caucasian? What else can you remember? Take your time.”

  “Yeah, Caucasian. Maybe five-nine or ten…”

  “Tats, facial hair, glasses?”

  “No. Just a regular dude, but in shape.”

  “How old?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe early-forties, give or take.”

  That’s all he was able to remember, despite several more prompts I threw at him. I skipped the sermon about his needing to contact the police with this information, knowing that, like the handyman, he’d refuse to cooperate. Johns are like that. I said, “Okay, Myron, thanks for your help. You have my card. If you think of anything else, call me immediately.”

  He looked at me, relief flooding across his face. “That’s it? You’re not going to say anything to my wife?”

  “Yeah, that’s it, although if I were you, I’d give some thought to what you’re up to. It seems obvious from your reaction tonight that you care about your wife. She’ll find out eventually, and then you’re both going to get hurt.”

  Myron slunk off to his little red sports car. I watched him drive away, and judging from the look on his face when he left, I figured the Swanson Motel just lost a good customer. I sat back for a moment and let the encounter sink in. Against pretty long odds I’d managed to get a description—admittedly, a sketchy one—of the mystery man I suspected of being behind the killings.

  Another piece in the puzzle.

  When I got back to Caffeine Central, Archie lobbied hard for a run, but it was late and I was bushed. After I fed him, he settled for a walk and sniff down Couch Street. It had begun to rain, and the light sprinkle irritated my dog, who was no pluviophile. But the gentle downpour seemed to quiet the city and soothe my nerves, and soon I found myself combing back through the case. I now had the vague outlines of a money-laundering scheme that could have driven a forgery, and two, maybe three, murders. I had a cast of suspects, too—a lawyer, a CEO, a Russian mobster, and, if I didn’t miss my guess, a hired assassin at the tip of the spear who looked like “a regular dude.” I didn’t know who was behind Arrowhead Investments yet, but felt they were at the other end of the spear.

  It was progress, but on the other hand, the whole construct was circumstantial. A wave of frustration drenched me. It was one thing to see the web of a conspiracy and quite another to prove it. I needed a lot more.

  The rain intensified, and I realized I was heading toward Winona’s neighborhood. I considered calling her or walking over to her loft but quickly thought better of it. The ball’s in her court, I told myself. Stay strong. Was it wisdom speaking, or was it anger and stubborn pride keeping me from contacting her? I wasn’t sure.

  I made a nondescript omelet for dinner and fell asleep reading The Snow Man while sitting in an overstuffed chair next to the window. I awoke from a dreamless sleep around two a.m. Archie lay curled against my bare feet, the warmth of his body a comfort. I reached down and stroked the fur along his ribs, and he looked up at me. I’m here, he seemed to say. Stop worrying.

  It was good advice, but I had good reason to worry.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  It was clear and crisp again the next morning, so I knew there would be no denying my dog. After feeding him, I sat down and began lacing up my jogging shoes while he did his happy dance. He spun and yelped halfway to Tom McCall Park, which was already packed with people—like plants seeking the sun. Taking the lead, with his ears up and stump of a tail down, he guided me expertly through the moving throng. By the time we got back, the black cloud that had descended on me lifted, and after finishing my first cappuccino, I had my mojo back.

  “Thanks, Big Boy,” I said, and as a token of my appreciation, gave him his weekly bone a day early.

  After showering, I went downstairs and opened up Caffeine Central, surprised to see that a queue had yet to form. I chalked it up to the fine weather. The first thing I did that morning was call Nando, describe what I’d learned from Spider-Man, and ask him to arrange an anonymous call to the Portland Police. “He won’t cooperate, but I want Portland to know Lenny the Fox wasn’t alone. I want them to have this other man’s description, however vague it is.”

  “I can do this,” Nando replied, “but it will probably not be enough to cause them to re-open the case.”

  “Yeah, I realize that, but I can’t just sit on the information.”

  I called Semyon next and caught him at home, where he felt free to talk. “Do you know who does the enforcing for Boyarchenko?” I asked. When he gave me three names—the Vasilev brothers and a guy named Andrei Mikhailev—I said, “Can you describe them?”

  “The Vasilev brothers are behemoths, well over six foot, three hundred pounds. They rough people up, break arms and kneecaps, that kind of thing. Mikhailev is the man Ilya uses when he wants someone dead. He’s short, heavyset. Keeps a low profile.”

  “How short?”

  “Five-six, five-eight.”

  Okay, I told myself after I rang off, Mystery Man doesn’t work directly for Boyarchenko. Check that box off.

  After the call I checked the waiting room, and finding it still empty said to Arch, “Come on, let’s take a ride.” He spra
ng to his feet and waited impatiently while I wrote out a sign that said, “Back this afternoon around 1:00 p.m.” and taped it to the front door.

  Thirty-five minutes later I parked down from Helen Ferris’ condo, got out, and leashed up my dog. Now armed with a description of sorts, I wanted to see if I could put Mystery Man at the scene of another suspicious death.

  I covered the houses on her block and the coffee shop at the corner, explaining I was an attorney representing someone involved in the case. No one could remember seeing a fortyish, Caucasian man with dark hair and a good build that night. Matter of fact, the persons willing to talk to me couldn’t remember seeing anyone on the street. Oh, well, I told myself, check off another box. It was something that had to be done.

  I was getting back in my car when I noticed a pizza joint a half block up on a side street—Anthony’s Pizzeria, the sign said in a swirling red cursive. A faint ping of recognition made me stop. Of course. I’d seen that logo on a pizza box in Ferris’ kitchen that night. I shrugged and started to get in the car when I realized something was slightly off about that—the box was crammed haphazardly into a wastebasket in a kitchen that was, in all other respects, neat and orderly, almost immaculate. I rolled the backseat windows down and told Arch to chill for a couple more minutes.

  People are conditioned to answer questions, so sometimes the best approach is to just ask outright, which is what I did to the young girl behind the counter at Anthony’s, after flashing a card and explaining I was an insurance investigator. “No,” she said, after scanning her computer screen with clear, intelligent eyes, “We didn’t deliver any pizza to that address on Wednesday, the second.”

  “Were you here that Tuesday and Wednesday night?” She nodded, and I went on, “Do you remember if an older woman with distinctly red hair picked up a pizza that evening or the evening before? She lives in the neighborhood.”

  She scrunched her brow down and smiled. “You mean dyed red hair?”

  I chuckled. “Yeah, I guess so. A russet color, no gray at all.”

  “Not a chance. I would have remembered someone like that. We don’t get many walk-ins, you know.”

  “Thanks,” I said, then pointed to the tee-shirts and caps on the wall. “Sell many of those?”

  She shrugged. “Not really. But Anthony thinks it’s cool to have them up there.”

  I nodded. “Any chance you remember selling a cap or a shirt or both to a white guy, a little shorter than me, dark hair, around forty years old?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, maybe two weeks ago. A guy sorta like that came in and bought a shirt and cap, no pizza, paid cash. I remember, because that was the first cap and shirt I ever sold, and he didn’t look the part, you know?”

  “How so?”

  “He wasn’t from the ’hood, unless he just moved in, and he had on a black wool cap and shades. No way that dude’s wearing one of our tees. I figured he was buying it for someone else.”

  I thanked her and left, and by the time I got back to the car had put it together—the killer appears at Helen Ferris’ door carrying an empty pizza box and wearing an Anthony’s shirt and cap. She opens the door to him, thinking he has the wrong address. Bingo. He’s in. Snaps her neck without leaving a mark. Easy enough for a pro. Carries her body up the stairs and tosses it back down. When I blunder on the scene, he goes out the back door, stuffing the box in the trash in the kitchen in his haste, leaving the back door open, and trampling the flowers.

  It wasn’t a bad theory. The presence of the pizza box was hard to explain otherwise. Ferris didn’t order pizza by phone, and she didn’t just happen into the pizzeria and pick one up, according to the young sales girl. Okay, no one saw the killer on the street that evening, but that wasn’t hard to explain—we all have our noses in our little screens most of the time these days, right?

  In any case, it wasn’t a theory I could share with Detective McWhirter. How could I explain having seen the pizza box when I already told him I hadn’t gone through the house? But it was another piece in the puzzle, giving me a better idea of how Mystery Man operated.

  I was hungry, so on the way back to Caffeine Central I stopped at the Fuego food cart on NW Hoyt and grabbed a bowl of grilled chicken with black beans, salsa, and sour cream to go, along with a side of guacamole and couple of made-that-morning flour tortillas. I ate the lunch at my desk, chasing it with a cold bottle of Mirror Pond. Before taking the sign off the front door, I called Gertie to tell her I was running late on last month’s billable hours. “What else is new?” she responded.

  “It’s slow here today, so I’ll be able to get it done,” I promised. “What’s happening in the quarry?”

  “Same old, same old. Five or six blasts a day, truck traffic’s building. Just like old times.” She grumbled a laugh. “I feel like going down there with a shotgun. I know my husband would have.”

  “As your attorney, I advise against that.” She laughed again, and I went on. “I’m on the agenda of the Land Use Appeal Board in June. I’m working this from several angles,” I fibbed, “so keep the faith.”

  A long pause ensued before she said, “Please. No happy talk, Cal. It’s well known that mining interests hold sway in this state.” She sighed into the phone. “Considering your location and Archie’s reaction to the blasting, maybe you better consider talking to a real estate agent.”

  Her suggestion felt like a knife twisting in my gut, although I knew it was just Gertie being brutally honest. “What? You trying to get rid of me?” I said, trying to make light of it.

  “Oh, God no, Cal. Surely you don’t think that. It’s just that, you know, being on the lip of the quarry and all, it’s going to be hell for you and Arch.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Maybe I should talk to someone.” But after I hung up, I lost whatever resolve I had in that direction. Not yet, I told myself. The operation down there’s illegal. Wait to see what Gus Pembroke has to say.

  Later that afternoon, Gus Pembroke returned my call. “McCallister,” he said, responding to my introduction. “That would be the only gravel mine in the Red Hills. Small, but damn productive for McMinnville Sand and Gravel in its day, as I recall.” I proceeded to ask about the trucking firms that had serviced the mine. “Don’t recall off the top. Why are you asking?”

  I hesitated, figuring I would get stonewalled again if I told the truth, but there was something in Pembroke’s voice that led me to chance it. “McMinnville started mining again without any warning, and I think they’ve passed the twelve-year limit, but I can’t prove it. I live on the lip of the quarry.”

  “My condolences. Never liked those bastards at McMinnville. Always paid late. Hooks in their pockets. I’ll ask around, see what I can find out, Mr. Claxton.”

  By mid-afternoon I finished up my accounting chores and e-mailed a file to Gertie. I’d just returned to my office after making a coffee upstairs when I heard someone enter the waiting room. My office door was partially closed, so I hollered, “I’m back here. Come on in.” Tracey Thomas swung the door open and smiled. I said, “I know. You were just in the neighborhood.”

  “Is this a bad time?”

  I got up and smiled back. “No, not at all. Come on in.” She wore jeans, ankle boots, and a black silk blouse cinched with a silver belt that matched a pair of dangly earrings. “Casual Friday?”

  “No,” she said with a laugh. “Where is it written a city councilwoman has to wear a pantsuit? I’m taking the afternoon off after my weekly meet-and-greet.” She sighed, swept a lock of auburn hair aside, and sat down. “I love talking to my constituents, but it gets old, you know? Nobody comes in without an ax to grind, and of course they all want their problems fixed right then and there, like I’m some kind of omnipotent god.” She chuckled and shook her head, her look turning sardonic. “Life was easier when I was an activist, on the other side of the fence.”

  I
laughed. “I don’t envy you. Portlanders are a troubled lot these days.”

  She rolled her eyes. “So true. There’s the usual stuff—potholes, aging bridges, taxes—but there’s also this collective anxiety that seems to overlay everything—that what’s so special about this city’s slipping away.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I’m seeing it at street level.”

  She sat up a little straighter and flipped her hair off her shoulder. “I didn’t come here to cry on your shoulder, Cal. I have some intelligence about Wingate Properties to pass on.”

  I leaned forward. “Me, too. You go first.”

  “You asked me about connections between Ilya Boyarchenko and Wingate. My source doesn’t know of any.” I nodded, and she continued, “But he just told me there’s some kind of important meeting coming up with Wingate’s top brass and some unnamed people. A lot of preparations are being made, so the rumor got out. My source thinks it could be the investor coming in for a tête-à-tête.”

  “When?”

  She shrugged. “He doesn’t know yet but guesses within the next two weeks. They’re looking for an off-site venue that affords a lot of privacy.”

  “That’s interesting. I’d like to know when and where.”

  “Sure. When he learns more, I’ll be in touch.” She smiled conspiratorially. “Will you bug the room or what?”

  I laughed. “That’s illegal and next to impossible, but I might be able to get some photographs or a video of them coming or going. I’d like to know who’s there and ID the investor, if he or she’s attending. Which brings me to my news—my PI has found that Arrowhead Investments is a shell registered in Cyprus. There’s no legal way to find out who’s actually behind it, but the attorney who handled the deal’s known to specialize in Russians interested in hiding or laundering money.”