Bleeding Blue

by Don Weston

  “Officer McGraw?” he said. “Take them down to Central.”

  The Central Precinct is located inside the Justice Center, a concrete 18-story monolith, with a few eye-pleasing architectural shapes and stain-glass art in the main entrance to make up for the otherwise dreary grey color and unimaginative design. Once they got me into the building I might never get out, since five floors are dedicated as a maximum-security home to nearly 700 inmates.

  “Okay, I promise. I’ll let you guys handle the investigation. But you gotta keep me informed about what’s going on.”

  Steve was silent for a minute. He knew I was lying about staying out of his way, but maybe he was hoping I might be a good girl. The dope. I heard his sigh over the radio.

  “Take her home,” he said. “Stay with her until I get there. It’ll probably take me about three to four hours to get things taken care of here. Under no circumstances do you leave before I get there.”

  “Affirmative,” McGraw said.

  We crossed the Burnside Bridge, only a short ride to the Central Precinct, as he finished talking to Steve. I told him to keep going up Burnside and to take a right on Northwest 23rd. He nodded and a few minutes later, we turned off Burnside and traveled past three Starbucks and a dozen yuppie restaurants and stores.

  At Lovejoy Street, McGraw turned left and we pulled into the drive of a brown Victorian house with purple trim situated next to a bookstore. The house had been left to me a few years back by my uncle, and it was only a hundred feet from Northwest Twenty-Third Avenue, the hub of Yuppyville.

  Not the place I might pick to live, but it was free, except taxes, so I lived in it and ran my business from the main floor. A purple, badge-shaped sign adorned with a scrolled wrought-iron frame hung on a pillar. It read, Billie Bly, Private Investigations. I wanted it to say P.I., but Angel said Private Investigations sounded more professional.

  I didn’t feel like climbing the stairs in the two-level Victorian, so we congregated in the lobby area on a sofa and loveseat normally reserved for my clients. I think someone sat there once two years ago. Angel’s desk is across from the furniture and when clients come to visit me, it’s always an emergency. No time to sit down. Must see her right now.

  At the moment, I felt the same urgency but my side hurt, and I was drained emotionally and physically. I lowered myself gingerly to the loveseat. McGraw remained standing where he could watch the street through the windows.

  Angel went upstairs and brought me another pair of blue jeans and a matching blouse. I took them into the bathroom and changed clothes after washing the blood from my hands and face. The bathroom has a rather large window and I considered it for a minute or two, wondering if I could squeeze through.

  When I finished plotting, I steered toward Angel’s desk and slid into her chair. I wanted to do anything but think about Darrin. “What’s been happening since I’ve been in the hospital?”

  “You can’t talk about work,” Angel said. “Your brother has just been killed.”

  I felt myself shudder. “I need to keep busy and until we find Darrin’s murderer, I can’t grieve.”

  “Can’t or won’t,” Angel said.

  “What’s the difference? I won’t rest until I find out who is trying to kill me and who killed Darrin. There must be something in one of the cases I’m working that ties in with all of this.”

  “The case files are on your desk,” Angel said.

  The Lieutenant is not going to like hearing this,” McGraw said.

  “So, don’t tell him!” I snapped.

  Angel got up and went through a mahogany door into my office. I heard frantic rustling of papers and used the time to measure my chances of squeezing through that bathroom window. Angel returned and caught me staring toward the bathroom. She handed me the files.

  “Oh crap,” I said. “Mrs. Fleming’s lost husband.”

  This was the case that had caused me so much anguish and lost sleep just prior to the day The Jet ambushed me in the warehouse. It involved a Mrs. Fleming from Pocatello, Idaho. Her husband, Art, left for a business trip in Portland three months prior and she hadn’t seen him since. He disappeared while in town for an insurance convention.

  “She’s called me six times while you were in the hospital,” Angel said. “She wants me to keep her updated and didn’t want to hire another P.I. because she says you worked so hard. She cries a lot.”

  “That’s why I dodged her calls,” I said. “The only solid lead I’ve turned up was he had a pal at City Hall he was going to see.” I sighed. “I couldn’t find anyone down there who knew him.”

  “Hey that’s a coincidence,” Angel said. “Chris The Creep’s friend saw that Jet guy who shot you walking into the city councilor’s offices.”

  “You made the connection too, huh? I don’t believe . . .”

  “In coincidences?” She nodded. “But you had another case with connections to City Hall.”

  “The child custody case,” I said. “I talked to some of the employees in the records section who used to work with Jack Jenkins before the city let him go. He’s got one of those Daddies’ Rights’ lawyers and was trying to get custody of Martha’s two kids, Jacob and Eliza. The guy’s a rat. I already got statements from six of his former co-workers to that effect.”

  “You have two cases with links to the city,” Angel said. “Another coincidence?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “On that case, I was mostly in and out of the records and archives offices, and they’ve been moved to a new location at Portland State University on Sixth Street. I didn’t spend any time at City Hall on that one.”

  “You never know,” Angel said. “Jenkins might have friends there. I’ll bet someone told him you were snooping around and talking to people about him. Maybe he has connections at City Hall.”

  “People who might be in a position of putting a hit on me?” I said. “That’s not likely. Who’s going to go to the city to hire a killer?”

  “I spent a couple years detailed at City Hall,” McGraw said, from the window. “You’d be surprised some of the people that go in and out of those clerks’ offices to file restraining orders or pay fines, get married, or file for divorce. You even get junkies and dealers wandering in and out.”

  I nodded, taking it all in. I knew what McGraw was talking about. As a former cop I saw the dregs of humanity and they’re not all blue-collar criminals or nasty appearing people. Some of them wear business suits and include women as well as men.

  “What about this other case?” Angel asked. “Any ties to the city?”

  “The corporate fraud case? Nah. I was brought in as a part-time auditor supposedly to work on minor aspects of the company’s accounting system. Another insurance company scam. Someone’s been siphoning off millions. They want it solved before the federal regulators get wind of it. Also, they don’t want the publicity.”

  Angel scowled. “They got another investigator, Billie. But they said when and if you get healthy to check in with them. They liked what you had turned up before you got shot.”

  I wiped a tear from my face with a Kleenex. I didn’t really care about losing a client. I was thinking of Darrin again. I had been ever since he was gunned down.

  “I think I’d better use the ladies room again,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” she said.

  We’ve played this game before, but she still appeared surprised. Officer McGraw was mildly interested too.

  “Oh dear, yes,” I said. “I’m not feeling too well. I might not make it upstairs.”

  “I can help you,” McGraw said.

  “I’ll be okay. I’m a little queasy, that’s all.”

  I picked up my purse and walked to the bathroom door, opened it a crack, and offered a demur smile. McGraw nodded and scrutinized the street for any unannounced assassins. I closed the bathroom door, opened another door as he turned his head toward the window, and closed it behind me.

  It was a risky move. McGraw could easily have
turned back and seen me stepping out the back door. But I couldn’t see myself climbing through the bathroom window without moaning and grunting loud enough to stir his attention. As I walked down the back steps, I wondered if I could start my car and get by the not so sharp-eyed McGraw without his hearing.

  I checked my purse for my Glock and realized I left it with the Crime Scene Investigators. I went to the side door to my garage to get a backup piece from my car.

  The door stuck, like it always does, and I twisted the knob and heaved my weight against it. A pain spasm hit me in the chest like a heart attack. I clung to the door handle until the pain subsided and then used my back side against it.

  A few minutes later, with my Colt semi-automatic tucked in my jeans and half a box of shells in my purse, I stood on the corner of Northwest 23rd Street and Marshall, waiting for a streetcar to take me to City Hall. I glanced nervously over my shoulder expecting McGraw to pounce on me. Finally, a blue trolley rounded the corner a block away, and not a moment too soon.

  I spotted McGraw, a block down the sidewalk, searching earnestly in all directions. The only reason he didn’t see me was because I was in the middle of a small crowd attempting to climb onto the trolley. I crouched and managed to get inside, sat behind a portly gentleman, and prayed McGraw wouldn’t come aboard.

  An eternity later, the car jerked forward like a roller coaster catching on the uphill track to start the ride. I peered out the window. No McGraw. It wasn’t until the streetcar turned east I spotted him through the rear window. His flushed face turned toward the trolley for an instant before he ran into a nearby cafe searching for me.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and rubbed my breastbone where it throbbed from my battle with the garage door. I grabbed a couple of pain pills from a bottle in my purse and gulped them down without water and wondered if they would ever make a pill to soothe my aching heart. Then I let myself cry.

  Chapter 6

  As the snub-nosed trolley rolled down Lovejoy Street, I measured my chances of beating the cops to my brother’s killer. The tram stopped abruptly and some hip young people got on and off. I’m probably the same age, but don’t go in for the ‘being seen at the right restaurant scene’ which seems to be the mantra of some of the people who live in my area. By contrast, a street person tried to get on at Broadway and a Max ticket checker turned him away.

  I thought about Darrin and figured by now every cop in Portland would be chasing after his killer because they take it personally when one of their own is killed. I squinted at the blurred image of my watch through tears and made a vow not to let my emotions deter me until I found Darrin’s murderer.

  The MAX streetcar turned up Fifth Avenue and middle-class workers on their lunch hour joined the young hip passengers. It was twelve-thirty when we stopped at Fifth and Main Street, and I scampered off with five other riders. I walked the two blocks to City Hall and entered from the picturesque side on Fourth Street, featuring Italian Renaissance architecture and a portico supported by granite columns.

  Inside, I passed through a makeshift security station manned by a smiling gentleman in uniform with a shock of white hair and dentures. He waved me through and across the yellow marble squares where I mounted a circular marble stairway to the city offices. Each step I took aggravated the tightness in my chest. After reaching the third floor, I searched for the office Chris The Creep said he saw The Jet enter.

  Beveled lead-glass doors led into the commissioners’ offices and an intimidating mahogany counter inside with a sign announcing the offices were closed until one o’clock. I ignored the sign and passed by the imposing front desk into a more relaxed reception area fronted by a 50’s oak counter. In a corner in the back of the room, a clerk tapped away at a keyboard behind an oversized computer screen.

  “Hello?” I said. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  A lady with frizzy graying hair and bifocals perched on the tip of her nose seemed to shrink further behind the computer screen. I repeated my greeting a bit louder.

  She continued to ignore me, probably hoping I’d go away. The end of the counter had one of those swinging doors that latch from the opposite side. I reached over and unhooked it. The frizzy-haired lady grimaced, got up, and walked over to me.

  “Please close the gate. You’re not supposed to be in here. How did you get in anyway?”

  “Just walked in,” I said.

  “They’re supposed to lock the door on the way out to lunch,” she said. “Half the time they don’t, though. What can I do for you?”

  I flashed my P.I.’s license at her. “I’m working on a murder case. The suspect in the case was in here yesterday. He’s Asian, very short, slim.”

  She displayed a bland air of indifference.

  “He looks like a child almost. He came in about this time of day.”

  “Sorry, Hon, we’re closed between noon and one. The commissioners are in their offices sometimes, but I doubt they’d be meeting anyone like that.”

  “The little guy could have crawled under the gate.” I said.

  She shrugged. “You’ve seen for yourself the door is not always locked. Anyone could come in here, but I doubt they’d get very far without being noticed. There’s always someone in here at lunch and we got a security camera that records everyone who comes in the office.”

  “Has anything been stolen or gone missing from any of the offices here in the last couple days?” I asked.

  “If there was, we would have checked the tape,” she said. “The support staff here doesn’t make enough for anyone to bother to steal anything. A couple of years ago someone zipped in and made off with a purse. Guards found it in the trash can downstairs with the thirty-seven cents still in it. Nothing’s happened since. Word must be out on the streets that there’s nothing worth taking in here.”

  “Were any of the commissioners in the office during lunch yesterday?” I asked.

  She hesitated. I figured she was thinking of a way to get rid of me.

  “Listen, a cop was killed a couple hours ago,” I said. “We think this guy might have pulled the trigger. If anyone here saw him, it might help us find him.”

  Her eyes flashed a look of sadness, but her demeanor held firm. “I thought you were a private cop. Why are you involved in a cop killing?” Her eyes peered over the top of her bifocals at me. “Shouldn’t be involved in an active police case, should you? Especially if it’s a cop killing case.”

  “I was on the force up ‘til a couple years ago,” I said. “The cop who was killed was my baby brother. Please?” I don’t like begging. Heck, I don’t even like asking for help. I wondered how many more times I was going to have to do both.

  “Who was killed?” she asked.

  “His name was Darrin. Darrin Bly.”

  “Oh my, one of the Blys. My God I know a couple of them. Darrin? I don’t think I’ve met him. You must be the sister. What’s your name again?”

  “Billie.”

  “Billie Bly? Oh, you’re the one that jammed the guy’s head in the revolving door?”

  “Guilty,” I said.

  “Gee, you’re some kind of folk hero around here. Not with the commissioners and Mayor. They pretty much wish they never heard of you. But the rest of us think you’re great. What do you want to know?”

  I was relieved to finally have an ally in the city government. “Well, if there’s any way I can get hold of yesterday’s security tape . . .”

  “I really shouldn’t.” She glanced over her shoulder. “It’s probably down in the security office. I’d have to wait until four when Larry starts his shift.” She removed her bifocals and her face lit up with a conspiratorial smile. Her placid blue eyes came alive and sparkled. “Larry will do anything for me. It might not happen until tomorrow. Is there a number where I can reach you?”

  I handed her my business card. “Call me as soon as you get it. I’ll pick it up any time, day or night.”

  She eyeballed the card and smiled at the cute litt
le image of a woman in a trench coat. “I’m Eileen Richford,” she said. “Is there anything else I can do to help you find your brother’s killer?”

  “It would help me to locate anyone who might have seen this guy or might know anything about him. Can you tell me who was in the office yesterday?”

  Eileen stroked a finger across her chin. “Not a lot of people. Election campaigns are in full swing for the Mayor and a couple of the commissioners. And we had that terrorist training exercise that’s kept some of our office staff away. Yesterday, I think it was at the convention center.”

  I retrieved a small notebook from my purse and scrounged a pen that was chained to the counter. “Think hard. I need to know anyone who came into the office. Even if only for a few minutes.”

  “Well, there was Mayor Clemons. He was leaving when I got back from lunch. Said he stopped in to check his messages. None of the commissioners came into the office that day. Except Commissioner Tuttle. He popped in at four o’clock and left with me at five. He claimed he was hitting the campaign trail again.”

  “What do you mean claimed?”

  She made a tipping motion with her fingers to her mouth.

  “You mean he likes to drink?”

  “I never see him drinking during the day, but it’s common gossip that he makes up for it in the evenings. Chases the women too. Still, he’s pretty much of a straight arrow during campaign season. That’s why I was a bit surprised.”

  “At what?”

  “I could smell him across the office. He’d been hitting the bottle pretty good, I’d say. He was slurring his words and he staggered ever so slightly when he walked. I figured he was heading to the bar to finish what he started.”

  Eileen paused for a moment and became anxious. “Billie, please don’t tell anyone you got this tidbit from me. I shouldn’t have said anything. I could lose my job.”

  “I’ll treat it confidentially,” I said, scrutinizing the camera above. “What about that?”