Moving Targets

by Warren C Easley

  He shrugged. “Why not? There is money to be made.”

  “Where would those people go? Many are from your homeland.”

  He shrugged again and opened his hands. “Am I my brother’s keeper? In America, profit is king, Calvin.”

  But I didn’t come to discuss the morality of capitalism, so I said, “I know you’ll do the right thing, Nando,” then sat down across from him. “Now, what’ve you got?”

  “We have, ah, acquired some e-mail records of Ilya Boyarchenko’s lawyer, Brian Hofstetter.” He slid a single piece of paper across his desk to me. I picked it up, and he continued. “You will note, first of all, that Arrowhead Investments has been in contact with Hofstetter.”

  I read through a copy of an e-mail at the top of the page. It was dated January 8th.

  Dear Mr. Hofstetter,

  Confirming our telephone conversation, you have agreed to represent my client, Arrowhead Investments, in certain business dealings in the city of Portland. I have wired your retainer of $25,000 to the account you specified. We look forward to working with you.

  Sincerely,

  Costas Zertalis

  I looked up. “So Hofstetter represents Arrowhead here in the States?”

  “It appears so, yes. This is not too surprising. As you know, in addition to representing Boyarchenko and others in Portland, his firm has some international clients.”

  The next e-mail, dated January 29, was from Hofstetter to Melvin Turner and Brice Avery at Wingate Properties:

  Brice and Mel,

  Enjoyed our lunch. We’re impressed with Wingate Properties and the North Waterfront Project, and glad you are amenable to our offer. We’ll be in touch with specifics. Arrowhead is anxious to move forward on the proposal.

  Best,

  Brian

  I felt a tingle at the base of my skull. “Looks like the genesis of the offer to bankroll the project and buy Wingate Properties. This had to please Avery and Turner.”

  Nando nodded. “Precisely. I am wondering why Zertalis didn’t contact them directly? Why go through Hofstetter?”

  “That’s pretty standard for an international deal. He needs an American lawyer in his camp, and it insulates Arrowhead, too, since communications would be privileged. And by using Hofstetter, Arrowhead’s also connected to Boyarchenko, at least potentially. That might also play into this.”

  “I see. Whatever the reasons, they have been very cautious. No details are revealed in any of these e-mails.”

  I laughed at that. “That would make our job too easy.” The third e-mail copied on the sheet was from Hofstetter to Zertalis on February 16.

  Dear Mr. Zertalis,

  We have run into a major obstacle regarding Wingate. Please advise availability for a conference call involving your client soonest. We will accommodate to your schedule.

  Brian Hofstetter

  I looked up at Nando. “I bet I know what this is about. Margaret Wingate had just told Brice Avery that she’d changed her mind.” I chuckled. “Between the Women’s March and Angela’s urgings, she was balking on the North Waterfront Project, and, of course, no way she’s going to sell the company. And it was around mid-February that she let her feelings be known.

  “And this undoubtedly upset the people behind Arrowhead,” Nando added.

  “Right.” I read the fourth and final e-mail, which confirmed the timing of the proposed conference call, then looked up again. “Is this all?”

  “Yes. After that fourth note, communication between the principals by e-mail stopped completely.”

  “Hmm. Maybe the conversation took a conspiratorial turn, and they got nervous about leaving any kind of paper trail, no matter how innocuous.” Too excited to remain seated, I got up and started pacing. “Maybe this is when Hofstetter and Boyarchenko chimed in with a suggestion for taking care of the problem.”

  “The problem being Margaret Wingate,” Nando said.

  I nodded, kept pacing, then turned and looked at my friend. “It fits, Nando. It fits pretty damn well.”

  Nando’s expression turned even grimmer. “There’s more. After I took care of the anonymous call to the Portland Police you requested, I gave some thinking to the situation. If you are right about this hit man you described, then he made two murders look like accidents and one like a suicide. This is not the work of your average contract killer.”

  I sat back down. “Agreed. And according to Semyon Lebedev, Boyarchenko has no muscle on his payroll that fits the physical description I gave you, let alone the MO.”

  “Not surprising. No one in Portland has this set of skills. Since I had my computer consultant on the payroll—or your payroll, I should say—I had him go to the Dark Web to search for such a specialist.”

  My eyebrows bunched up. “Dark Web?” I’d heard the term but had no real understanding of what it stood for, aside from being a digital black market of some kind.

  “This is the part of the Internet that is completely anonymous, where criminal activities of all types can be arranged for and even paid for using Bitcoin. Need drugs, weapons, passports, contract killers? No problem on the Dark Web.”

  “How does it work?”

  He shrugged and rolled his eyes. “One must have specific software to log on and communicate anonymously, then other configurations or authorization protocols to navigate the spaces. This is all I understand about it. I consult the Dark Web from time to time, and when I do, my consultant does the strong lifting.”

  “What did you find?”

  He slid another piece of paper across the desk. “What do you think of this?”

  I read through what appeared to be a screenshot of a website:

  Nightshade Enterprises

  Fast, very efficient contract killings with a money-back guarantee if not in full satisfaction. We specialize in incidents that look like accidents or suicides to police and insurance. For low-ranking individuals, price starts at $50,000. For high-rank and political figures, price starts at $100,000. Inquiries will be answered within 24 hours with instructions on next steps. All proceeds in Bitcoin.

  A cold chill slithered down my back. What’s this world coming to? I thought. “Well, this is definitely the required skill set. Surely there’s more than one outfit like this out there.”

  “Not really. We found several killers for hire, but only one with a profile that promises to disguise the crime. This is highly specialized work that requires considerably more planning and expertise than an ordinary hit.”

  I nodded. “I see your point. I think you may have something here. I don’t suppose this outfit can be placed geographically?”

  “No. It is not possible.”

  I read through the screenshot again. “Judging from the weird English, I’d say whoever wrote this is definitely foreign. And ‘low ranking individuals’ sounds like he might come from a less-than-democratic country.”

  Nando nodded. “Do you think he is still in the area?”

  I massaged my forehead for a few moments. “Okay, let’s assume our guy is Nightshade. He started with a single hit on Margaret Wingate. He used Lenny the Fox as an accomplice and either decided he couldn’t trust him or didn’t want to leave a witness. Then I came along, and Helen Ferris became a problem.” I sighed and looked at my friend. “Now I’m a problem along with Angela. So, yeah, if we’re right about all this, he’s probably still out there.”

  “What do we do next?”

  I hesitated, because, despite the trove of new intelligence, the path forward wasn’t jumping out at me. “Well, first off, I want you to keep an eye on Hofstetter’s e-mail. A meeting’s coming up between Wingate Properties and Arrowhead. Maybe they’ll mention the time and place.” Nando nodded, and I added, “And if you haven’t checked in with your FBI source, do that. I still need to know who’s behind Arrowhead.”

  “I h
ave not heard anything from him, but I will make the call.”

  “And I need a favor. I need to borrow your car.”

  “My Mercedes?”

  “No. Your jeep.” I knew he didn’t drive his Mercedes to work because he didn’t like leaving his crown jewel parked on the street. “I’ve got something I need to do tonight, and I don’t want to use my Beemer.”

  Nando agreed, and we exchanged keys. I left his office feeling equal parts exhilaration and dread. On the one hand, I now had a possible handle on the contract killer and knew that Arrowhead Investments and the Russian mobster, Ilya Boyarchenko, were connected—albeit, indirectly—through Portland attorney Brian Hofstetter. Those were huge steps forward. On the other hand, I now knew that the killer was not just good but probably world-class.

  Was I out of my league and trying to punch above my weight? Probably. Did I have a choice? Nope.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  I drove Nando’s Grand Cherokee to Caffeine Central, parked it, and took Archie for a walk down to the river and back. Then I fed him and made myself a quick dinner of two sesame seed bagels slathered with cream cheese, pocked with capers, and filled with smoked salmon, avocado, and thinly sliced red onion. I washed them down with a Mirror Pond and was back on the road an hour later, leaving a disappointed dog behind.

  I parked a block down from Angela’s Honda, which sat directly in front of her rental house, and waited for her to come out. My plan was simply to shadow her on her last night of pot delivery, using Nando’s car since mine could have already been seen by the killer. I called earlier and told her what I was up to and instructed her not to acknowledge my presence in any way. I had my Glock with me, too. I’d finally given in to Nando and gotten my concealed-carry license several months ago, which allowed me to pack a loaded gun within Portland city limits.

  She came out at dusk and got into her Honda, and I followed her over to Clinton Street, where she parked down from the Bright Flower Buds marijuana shop, her place of employment. She came out twenty minutes later carrying a box full of what looked like sealed plastic envelopes and, instead of walking to her car, headed in the direction I was parked.

  She opened the back hatch of a black, unmarked Prius—of course, the company car—opened a lockbox with a key, stashed the envelopes, then locked it again and drove off. She made three quick deliveries to a new apartment complex on Division, an architecturally uninspired box thrown up in the rush to cash in on Portland’s yuppie explosion. Nothing like a little midweek partying, I figured.

  I followed her out Division to Cesar Chavez, where she made two deliveries to well-lit private homes. I began to relax and even felt a little foolish as she led me over to Holgate, headed east, then parked just before a narrow alley that ran between SE 65th and 66th. Twilight was almost gone, and there were no streetlights in this neighborhood, so I strained to follow her movements as she walked toward a dimly lit house on the corner of 66th. She vanished into the shadows of the front porch, and I breathed easier when she reappeared a couple of minutes later. She still carried the envelope. Nobody home.

  She was halfway back to her car when something moved in the darkened alley. I leaned forward, blinking rapidly, and saw a hooded man clad completely in black emerge from the shadows and fall in behind her. I got out of my car, and when the door clicked shut I caught the movement of his head as it swiveled in my direction. He stopped, and when I moved forward, he back-pedaled a couple of steps. I kept coming, and he spun around and was immediately swallowed up in the black maw of the alley.

  I knew better than to chase him, but all I can say is that a jolt of adrenaline and a flash of anger bordering on rage can really cloud one’s judgment. As I sped past Angela I yelled, “Get in your car, lock it, and call 911.” I turned into the alley at a full sprint and quickly realized I was flying blind, except for a dim patch of light ahead that was cast by a curtained, second-story window. I hesitated, then saw movement along the edge of that patch and started running again. I blew through the lighted area, but it wasn’t long before I realized that the hooded figure had disappeared into the shadows. I pulled up to listen. Nothing. Up ahead, the alley seemed to narrow and get even darker, so I turned around, discretion finally getting the better part of valor.

  I was almost back to the lighted area when he jumped me from above. To this day, I still don’t know how he managed to mount the low roof of a garden shed so quickly and silently. I caught a glimpse of movement to my right and moved just enough that his flying kick caught the side of my head.

  The kick hadn’t landed squarely, but it still packed a brutal punch. A shower of meteors ignited behind my eyes as I made an awkward pirouette, dropped the Glock without even knowing it, and sank to my knees. I heard a skittering sound, which must have been the gun as he kicked it away, and the next thing I knew my neck was locked in a stranglehold. He lifted me up, and I could feel his powerful forearm begin to crush my windpipe. I tried to pry his hands apart, but they were locked firmly in place. I reached back with my right hand to rake his face or poke an eye, but he simply ducked away. I flailed wildly, wasting precious energy, but he managed to stay behind me, methodically tightening his hold. The light dimmed, and a swarm of flying ants took wing in the field of my vision.

  I sucked a partial breath before my airway was completely blocked, and, using my larger frame as leverage, tried twisting out of his grasp. But he moved with me, maintaining his death grip. In desperation, I flailed at his leg with my left hand, and when my fingers caught his pocket, I clamped onto it and twisted my body again. This time he couldn’t move with me, and I was able to swing my left leg behind him. Then, using every ounce of strength I had left, I pushed off with my right leg.

  When he realized we were going down with me on top, he let go of my throat and scrambled out from under me. I crashed like a big tree but bounced to my feet, coughing, wheezing, and trying to clear my head. For a moment we faced each other, the reflected light showing the white teeth of a smile before he came at me again. I made the mistake of swinging at him, a poorly placed jab. He grabbed my hand, twisted my right arm violently, and using my forward momentum flipped me over his lowered body. I screamed out as my shoulder dislocated in a blinding flash of pain. He came around behind me for the kill, but when he leaned in for another stranglehold, I swung my left elbow back with everything I could muster. It caught him squarely on the nose, and I felt cartilage give way. He cried out and stumbled backwards. I turned around to face him again, my arm dangling at my side like a broken tree limb, but, just like that, he vanished into the darkness.

  That’s when I heard the sirens.

  I found my Glock and started out of the alley. Angela met me halfway. “Cal, are you okay? Is that a gun? What happened?”

  “I told you to stay in the car,” I hissed through gritted teeth.

  “I called the cops. They’re on the way. They told me to stay on the phone, but I was worried about you. What’s wrong with your arm?”

  “It’s my shoulder. Dislocated.” The city of Los Angeles made me attend a first aid training course back in the day, and I tried to remember what the hell to do. I pointed at my arm. “Take hold with both hands at the wrist.” She did, the movement sending out shockwaves of pain. “Now raise it and pull, slow but steady.” She hesitated. “Pull, damn it.” Angela was small, but strong. I leaned away from her, and she put her back into it. “Pull. Harder.”

  Pop. My humerus found its resting place in my shoulder joint again. “Ahhh,” I said, as the pain dropped by half. “Thank you, thank you.”

  We turned to get out of the alley and were suddenly bathed in a spotlight. “Stop right there, and keep your hands where we can see them,” a voice boomed out.

  “I’ve got a gun in my belt.” I pointed to the Glock.

  “Okay, raise your hands and don’t move, either one of you.” We did as we were told, and two uniformed officers approached with
guns drawn. After retrieving the Glock and patting us down, they began escorting us out of the alley. My arm was immobile, and the pain in my shoulder had settled into a deep, throbbing ache, and a raw welt the size of an egg had risen on the side of my head. But I declined an offer for an ambulance, saying instead, “The guy who attacked me can’t be that far away.” I motioned over my left shoulder with my thumb. “He went the other way.” I gave them a description, such as it was—a couple of inches shorter than me, medium build, Caucasian, wearing a black hoodie and black pants.

  The older officer called in the description, while the other, a young woman, said, “Don’t worry, Mr. Claxton, we have a unit at the other end of the alley. If he comes out, we’ll pick him up. Now, at least let us treat your head and elbow. You’re bleeding.”

  I glanced down at my arm. “That’s not my blood. I caught him in the nose with my elbow. You better swab it and keep it as evidence.”

  She gave me a gauze pad to hold against my head wound, and as she cleaned off my elbow, bagging the swabs, I told them what happed at the scene.

  When I finished, the other cop said, “How did you know this person was going to attack Ms. Wingate? Did he show a weapon or threaten her in any way?”

  “No. Like I said, he was sneaking up behind her. When I approached, he took off, and, like an idiot, I chased him.”

  He looked at Angela. “Do you think this man intended to hold you up for your marijuana?”

  Angela looked at me, then turned back to him. “I don’t know what he intended.”

  The officers exchanged glances, and the older one turned to me. “Why were you following her?”

  “I, uh, had reason to believe someone might be stalking her. Not a thief but a contract killer.”