Matters of Doubt

by Warren C Easley

  Back at my apartment still later that night, I called Anna again. “It’s me again. I know you’re busy, but are you sure it’s Krebbs with a double b? I’m not finding a Howard Krebbs spelled that way anywhere in Oregon. There’s a Millard Krebbs in La Grande, but he’s eighty-nine years old. There are a couple of Krebs with one b, but no Howards, and none in the Portland metropolitan area.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s how he spelled it,” she answered. “How about looking in Seattle? He said he’d moved down from there. Maybe he’s staying with a friend or relative now, so he hasn’t established an address yet.”

  “There’s a handful of Krebs with one b, but none with a double b in Seattle. I checked.”

  “That’s strange. Maybe your friend Nando can locate him. I imagine a PI like him has a better database than the computer white pages.”

  “Yeah, I can do that,” I answered. What I didn’t say was that Nando’s searches cost money. But after I hung up, I reluctantly called him and explained the situation.

  “So, here’s what we’ve got,” Nando said after I finished—“Howard K-r-e-b-b-s with no middle initial, white male, approximate age forty to forty-five, previous address, somewhere in Seattle, no phone number, no Social Security number, no known place of employment, no photograph, right?”

  “That’s it.” I exhaled a breath. “Here’s the thing, Nando. If this guy’s really a hit man hired by Vincent, then you can bet his name isn’t Howard Krebbs, and he doesn’t live in Gresham. So, who I really need to find is the guy who said he was Howard Krebbs when he worked at the clinic. How in the hell do I do that?”

  There was a long pause. “If he used the name, he probably knew it was reasonably safe to do so, and since he was volunteering to work, he would have had a Social Security number, just in case the doctor asked for one. Do you agree?”

  “Yeah, you’re right, although the Doc didn’t ask for his Social Security number.”

  “Did the police interview him after the murder?”

  “Yes, briefly, I think. There was no reason to suspect him of anything.”

  “Then I think this person purchased his identity from someone, an identity that would stand up to a certain amount of scrutiny. It is not difficult to buy such an identity in this town.”

  “Do you know who’s in the business?” I asked, my pulse quickening.

  Nando sighed like the weight of the world just landed on his shoulders. “Yes, I know these people, but they have the highest business ethics.”

  I suppressed a laugh. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning they do not divulge information about their clients.”

  “It’s nice to know there’s still honor among thieves. You can’t do anything?”

  He sighed again. “I do have a contact in the industry who owes me a favor. Perhaps I could prevail upon him, but it could be expensive.”

  My turn to sigh. “Can you just find out if we’re on the right track without breaking me?”

  “I will do my best, my friend. It would help if I had a picture of this man.”

  I paused for a moment. “You know, I think I can solve that problem. Give me a day to come up with something.”

  I called Alicia Cole next. She told me she was visiting Picasso the next morning to go over his account of the day of the murder one more time. I explained the situation surrounding Howard Krebbs and the fact that Anna didn’t have a photo of him. I told her Picasso could undoubtedly make an accurate sketch of the man from memory, and she agreed to ask him.

  I picked up the sketch around noon the next day. It looked dead-on to me, but I’d only seen the man a couple of times. I stopped by the clinic to show it to Anna. She laughed and said, “That looks more like Howard than Howard. What are you going to do with this?”

  “First, I’m going to borrow your scanner and shoot a copy to Nando. And there are other people I want to show it to, people connected to Larry Vincent.”

  It turned out that Xavier Bidarte—Nicole Baxter’s source for the Vincent exposé—happened to be in Portland that night visiting his new steady girlfriend, Cynthia Duncan. I stopped by her apartment and showed him Picasso’s sketch. Dead end there. He told me he’d never seen the man.

  The next day Archie and I drove over to see the retired KPOC station manager, Arnie Katz. I found him in his garage again, painting the trim on an intricate birdhouse that had a familiar profile. “Looks like 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue to me,” I said as I entered the garage.

  He looked up and smiled, but his expression changed abruptly when he recognized who I was. He said, “You’re the guy that found Vincent’s body. I saw your picture in the paper. You’re not a writer, you’re an attorney.” He spat the last word out like it was a bad clam or something. “What the hell do you want now?”

  I apologized for not being completely honest and tried to show him the sketch of Krebbs, but he told me to get the hell off his property. I tried to argue, but he was having none of it. As I was leaving, I set a copy of the sketch on his workbench along with one of my cards. “Please take a look at this sketch, Mr. Katz. If you recognize this man, contact me. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  I took the Ross Island Bridge back over to the west side of Portland, stopped at a market on Macadam and bought two bottles of water, a turkey sandwich, and a twelve ounce black coffee. Out in the parking lot I poured Archie some water in a dish I kept in the car, and he eagerly lapped it up before hopping in the back seat. I found a parking space on Macadam that afforded me a clear view of the KPOC parking lot across the street. I began eating the sandwich, but it was barely edible. I pulled the turkey from the second half of it and gave it to Archie. He loved it.

  Several people exited the station around noon, but not the person I was looking for. I groaned, thinking maybe she didn’t go out for lunch. One thing was certain. I wasn’t going to show my face inside the station for fear of another reaction like Katz’s. To my relief, Shelly—the receptionist with the very long legs—came out at 12:25 and got into a white Honda Civic. I followed her to a sub shop, and when she got out of her car I got close enough to call out to her. “Hi, Shelly. We meet again.”

  She looked puzzled for a moment before recognizing me. Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh, my God, you’re the writer, the guy they thought killed Larry. Then they found out some other person did it.”

  I nodded, relieved she apparently didn’t read the newspaper very carefully. “Yes, it was a terrible experience, and I’m sorry about the loss of your friend and colleague.”

  Her expression hardened like stone. “I don’t wish a dead man any ill will, but he was no friend of mine. Couldn’t keep his hands to himself, if you know what I mean.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I heard he was like that.” I pulled out the sketch, and showed it to her. “I’m wondering if Larry Vincent knew this man or if you ever saw him around the station?”

  She examined the sketch then looked back at me a little more skeptically. “Is this guy wanted for something?”

  I laughed. “No, I’m just trying to identify him for background purposes.”

  She scrunched up her nose, little girl fashion, “Well, sorry, I don’t know who he is.” Then she added, “If you want, I’ll put the sketch up on the bulletin board at the station for you. What’s his name?”

  “Uh, no thanks. I’d rather you keep this to yourself. You know, confidentiality and all that.”

  “We have photographs of all our former and current employees. I could look for him in the files, if you want.”

  I hesitated for a moment, but I had a feeling I could trust her. “Okay, I’d appreciate that, but please don’t show the sketch around, and don’t say anything about what you’re doing for me. This kind of research is highly confidential.”

  She nodded solemnly.

  I fished a card out of my wallet and jotted my cell phone number on the ba
ck. “If you find anything, give me a call.”

  She batted her mascara-laden eyelashes at me and smiled. Her eyes were a pretty periwinkle blue, and one was slightly larger than the other. “And what if I don’t find anything?”

  I gave her a puzzled look.

  “Can I still call you?”

  I chuckled and even might’ve blushed a little. “I’m very flattered, Shelly, but I’m, uh, sort of seeing someone.” It sounded a little strange when I said it, but, yeah, it was the truth. I was seeing someone. Sort of.

  Nando called just as I got back to Caffeine Central. “I had to twist someone’s arm very hard, but I believe I have made a bingo for you. The man in the sketch you sent me purchased the Howard Krebbs identity package.”

  “When?”

  “In June. I do not have an exact date.”

  I felt a rush of excitement. “That’s a bingo alright! Did you get a name?”

  “Unfortunately, no. The man paid in cash and did not give a name. They seldom do.”

  “Nando, you’re a Cuban miracle!”

  He chuckled, a deep baritone resonance. “I don’t think the person who gave me that information would necessarily agree with you, but I accept the compliment nonetheless.”

  I knew the answer to the next question, but I asked it anyway. “This is good enough to go to the cops with. I don’t suppose you have or could imagine getting any hard evidence to support the claim?”

  Nando’s tone turned brittle, almost hard. “Calvin, I already crossed the line here to save you money and will have to watch my back for some time. There is nothing more I can do.”

  “Okay. Understood. And thanks, Nando.”

  In the immortal words of Mark Knopfler—“Sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the bug.” Well, I was feeling like the windshield when I leashed up Archie and headed for the clinic. I was anxious to tell Anna what Nando had told me.

  We caught her in her office, and before I could say a word she said, “Cal, I’ve found something.”

  She handed me a small datebook. “I was cleaning out a cabinet in the records room when I found this. It was in a mangy old sweater that Milo used to wear. I know the datebook is his because I gave it to him. He kept screwing up his schedule. I thought it might help him.”

  I glanced down at the book but kept quiet, knowing she had more to tell me.

  “Look at this, she said, taking the book back and opening it to the month of June. She pointed to an entry on June 26. In a bold, legible hand, it read—9:00HK-DND.

  I smiled broadly. “Nice work. Looks like Milo was meeting with Howard Krebbs and someone else just two nights before the murder. Who’s DND?”

  Anna shrugged. “I don’t have a clue.”

  “You think Picasso might know?”

  “Maybe. It would be worth asking him.”

  “For sure,” I replied. We went back over everything we knew about Howard Krebbs one more time, but nothing else surfaced.

  That night Anna did cook dinner, which was a good thing, because I was tapped out. Actually, I supplied most of the directions, and she did the heavy lifting, all the while telling me cooking was not her forté. She had brought a couple of nice steaks, baking potatoes, fresh mushrooms, asparagus, and a bottle of reserve Carabella pinot noir.

  When she finished trimming the mushrooms, I said, “Make sure the butter’s nice and hot when you sauté those ‘rooms. It’ll sear the juices in. And if you want a dynamite sauce for the asparagus, try some Dijon, a little mayo, juice from half a lemon, and salt and pepper. Simple, but delicious.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “How did you learn to cook like this, anyway?”

  “It was either learn to cook or eat out all the time. I couldn’t afford the latter. Plus, there aren’t that many restaurants I want to eat at. Call me picky.”

  She chuckled as she put the mushrooms in the skillet and began stirring them. Without looking up, she said, “Picasso told me about your wife. I’m so sorry, Cal.”

  I squirmed in my chair. “Uh, thanks. I’m, uh, it was a long time ago.”

  She looked up then, her face almost pleading. “How did you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  She turned to face me. “How did you put it behind you?”

  I dropped my eyes and studied the pattern on the linoleum floor for a few moments, then looked up. “The truth is, you never put it behind you. Not completely. Time’s your best friend. You have to find a way to forgive yourself, Anna. That’s the key.”

  She nodded, and I watched helplessly as her eyes welled up. “Time’s no friend of mine,” she said in a thick voice. “It’s like everything happened yesterday, you know? Every time I get up in the morning, it’s there to greet me.”

  “You have to let it go. What happened to your brother was tragic and unfair and horrible, but it wasn’t your fault. Your brother would want you to move on.”

  I got up and took her in my arms, and she cried until my shirtsleeve was wet. She finally pulled her head up, laughed and said, “Shit, I burned the damn mushrooms.”

  The dinner was still delicious, and we ate in fine spirits thanks to Anna’s emotion-clearing cry. After dinner, she looked at me with wide, expectant eyes and asked, “How would you like to come to Norway with me?”

  It was close to the last thing in the world I expected her to say. “Norway?”

  Her eyes burned like a couple of blue flames. “Yes. I haven’t been back in a decade. I want to show you the fjords. The Geirangerfjord’s so beautiful, Cal. It’ll bring you to your knees.”

  I smiled at the thought. “You, uh, can get away?”

  “Yes, I think so. My contract covers a stand-in for two weeks a year, but I’ve never taken any time off.”

  I shuddered at what it would cost with the weak dollar and all, but there was no way I was turning that invitation down. “Sure. Wonderful.” Two weeks with Anna and no other distractions was almost more than I could imagine. I picked up my wine glass and said, “As soon as we get Picasso out of jail.” Our glasses met over the table with a soft clink of crystal.

  “And his mural is finished,” she added with a smile that lifted my heart.

  Was it the company, the wine? Suddenly everything seemed possible, a feeling I hadn’t experienced in a very long time. I was wondering if perhaps Anna felt the same way. But I also wondered how long it would last. After all, when things start to go well, that’s when I begin to worry.

  Anna stayed the night and was up early. Without lifting my slightly hungover head from the pillow, I said, “Where are you going?”

  “Home,” she said. “I have a busy day planned, and I want to get a jog in before work.”

  I groaned. “Wait, I’ll go with you.”

  “That’s not necessary,” she answered, predictably.

  I sat up and scratched my head with both hands. Anna was stubborn as hell, and sometimes it irked me. “Yes, it is,” I countered with some irritation in my voice. “It’s dark out there, and you walked over from the clinic last night, right?”

  She smiled and said, “Oh, come on, Cal. I walk around Old Town all the time when it’s dark.”

  “I know, but work with me here. I spent yesterday afternoon showing Howard Krebbs’ sketch around Portland. Word could have somehow gotten back to him.”

  She looked at me, her smile fading rapidly. “You think he might try to do something?”

  I shrugged. “I doubt it. He probably left town a long time ago. But I’ll drive you anyway.” I looked at Archie and said, “You up for a ride, big boy?”

  The parking lot adjacent to Anna’s condo was well lit and deserted. I parked and before I could get out, she moved her body against mine and kissed me. “Remind me,” she said with a teasing gleam in her eye, “Why did we get out of bed so fast?”

  I brushed a loc
k of hair from her eye and smiled. “I believe it was your idea. Something about the busy day you have planned.”

  “Oh, you’re right.” She kissed me again and pushed me away playfully. Then she added, “Tonight I want you to dream of fjords.”

  “What would Freud say about that?”

  She laughed as she got out of the car. “He would say you have repressed your libido long enough, that you need intense, one-on-one therapy with a trained professional.”

  We laughed together. “Oh, and who might this trained professional be?”

  “Me. Of course.”

  We joined hands and started off toward her condo. Birds in the maple trees along the path cheered the sunrise, and the thin cloud cover glowed in the east like lavender smoke.

  If I had to chose the happiest hour of my life that morning with Anna Eriksen would rank right up there.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Alicia Cole managed to get me in to see Picasso two days later. The overhead fluorescent light still flickered, and the air in the interview room still smelled of body odor. Picasso was brought in by a burly guard with thick forearms and a tiny island of dark whiskers below his lip. The coral snake tattooed on Picasso’s neck stood out in bold relief against his pale skin, and he looked like a scarecrow in his jump suit. “Are you okay? You look like you’re starving,” I blurted out.

  He rolled his eyes, which seemed to have retreated noticeably into their sockets. “It’s the institutional food,” he said, his voice lacking energy, “that’s code for it tastes like shit.”

  “Well, you have to eat,” I shot back. “Your body’s still on the mend, you know.”

  He slowly shook his head. “I don’t know, man. I’m not sure how long I can take it in this dump. The food’s not the worst part. There’s no color in here, and nothing’s growing. It’s just shades of fucking gray. That’s all there is.”

  His eyes were flat, his sense of defeat palpable. He was just a boy, after all, a boy on the cusp of manhood, and his optimism had been tempered, if not crushed, long ago. Life could be unremittingly cruel, he knew that, and he had no illusions about his chances of beating the crime he was accused of. He was hated and feared in a town that was supposedly proud of its tolerant nature. What would the prospect of indefinite incarceration do to him? Hell, how would I act, facing something like that?