Blood for Wine Page 18

  At 12:05, the bell on the door at the entry jingled. I went into the deserted waiting room and ushered Maura Conisson into my office. Her chestnut hair was up in a careless bun, a strand looping down across her forehead, and although her eyes looked tired, there was an element of resoluteness in them.

  “I’m glad you showed up,” I told her as I shut the door and motioned for her to sit. “Have you had any contact with Amis?”

  A hurt look spread across her face. “Of course not,” she answered, her chin trembling slightly.

  “Good. You get one chance to square this,” I reminded her. I didn’t like playing the asshole, but I felt it was necessary. She might eventually feel the heat from Amis, and I wanted to scare her into being ready.

  Her expression morphed into annoyance. “You made that abundantly clear. Look, Mr. Claxton, I’m here to make this as right as I can. Can we move on?”

  I nodded. “Okay, let’s go over what’s going to happen next.”

  I took her through my plan, such as it was, and answered a string of questions. When we finished, she leaned back in her chair and sighed. Her eyes softened, and as she relaxed her extraordinary beauty seemed to bloom in front of me, a beauty she wore without vanity or self-consciousness. “How’s Sean?”

  “Shattered. He didn’t deserve this.”

  Her eyes welled up, and tears began streaming down her cheeks. “I’m…I’m so sorry. Will he ever forgive me?”

  I handed her a tissue. “Maybe you would know better than me?” Looking at my watch, I added, “You better leave now. And remember, Maura, you get one chance. Don’t blow it.” She dabbed her eyes, got up, and found her way out, her shoulders stooped, her steps a little hesitant. I watched her go, feeling like she got the message, but not feeling very proud of the messenger.

  I called Sean McKnight next and filled him in. The first thing he said when I finished was, “She’s not in any danger is she? I mean, Amis wouldn’t threaten her or harm her, would he?” I assured him she would be safe, and when I clicked off, shook my head again. He seemed more worried about her than getting the damn pictures back.

  I was beginning to feel more like a couple’s counselor than a lawyer.

  Around three thirty that afternoon, I took Archie out for a walk and then put him in the back of the BMW. At my request, Jim had found out where Lori’s mother, Irene Halstead, was staying. Northwest Hospice and Palliative Care was out on Powell Boulevard. “You going to question her?” he asked, a little surprised.

  “I’m not sure, but I’d like to know if she’s up to it. Aaron Abernathy told me to stay away from her, but she’s his alibi. Maybe she’ll talk to me.”

  The hospice was set back from the street, a two-story brick Georgian affair with two white columns propping up a flat-roofed, drive-through entry. I parked in the adjoining lot and cracked a back window for Arch, who was snoozing in the backseat, and zipped my coat up against a brisk, moisture-laden wind that swirled in from the east. It was 3:50 and visiting hours began at four. My plan was to get in and out fast to avoid running into Aaron Abernathy.

  The lobby was empty. So far, so good.

  “I’m here to visit Irene Halstead,” I told the young woman at the desk.

  She glanced at her watch and gave me a sympathetic, if practiced, look. “You’re family or a close friend?”

  I responded with my best smile, the one that says trust me. “Yes.”

  She looked mildly puzzled, started to say something, but let it pass, and after tapping something into her computer, said, “You’re a bit early, but just a moment, I’ll have Logan show you to Mrs. Halstead’s room.” Logan, a twenty-something with heavy ink on both forearms, materialized and led me down a narrow corridor with an antiseptic smell and a worn carpet. I felt sleazy about my deception, but it faded in a hurry when I reminded myself that Jim Kavanaugh’s life was on the line.

  Logan knocked softly at number 135, waited for a moment, and entered. “It’s Cal Claxton, Mrs. Halstead. He’s come to visit you.”

  Irene Halstead had lost an appalling amount of ground since I saw her at Lori’s funeral. Her face was drawn, the pale skin seemingly stretched over bone, her eyes deep in discolored sockets, her forearms thin as sticks. But as I drew nearer I saw that her eyes burned with a kind of primal fierceness I’d seen in the eyes of the dying before. I suddenly had second thoughts about being there, but it was too late to turn back. I cleared my throat after Logan quietly let himself out. “Hello, Mrs. Halstead. I met you at the funeral. I’m Jim Kavanaugh’s attorney.” Better to be up front, I decided.

  Propped at a forty-five-degree angle in her bed, she looked blank for a moment. “Oh, I remember you. What do you want? I already gave a statement to the police.”

  There were two chairs next to her bed, but I remained standing. “I’m sorry to disturb you, and I know you talked to the police, but I wondered if you would be willing to answer a couple more questions. I won’t take up much of your time.”

  She pointed a bony finger at one of the chairs. “Sit.” When I did she wheezed a sigh. “I’m not sure I care anymore who killed Lori. She’s gone.” She swung her eyes to me and smiled thinly. The fierceness had turned to profound resignation. “Justice. Revenge. They lose their meaning when you’re dying, Mr. Claxton.”

  I nodded, holding her gaze. “I can understand how you feel, but an innocent man’s life is in the balance, a man who loved your daughter very much.”

  Her look turned bitter, and I wished I could have had the last phrase back. “The only thing Jim Kavanaugh ever loved was grapes and winemaking.”

  “He’s grieving now, Mrs. Halstead, believe me.”

  The fierceness returned to her eyes. “What are your questions?”

  I leaned in a little. “After Lori and Jim split up, when she was living in Portland, did she start seeing someone else, you know, a boyfriend?”

  She looked away from me. “Oh, I think so, yes, Mr. Claxton. Lori was a dear. She told me everything.”

  “Did she mention a name to you?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, wheezed another sigh, and coughed. “I can’t remember anymore.”

  “That’s okay, Mrs. Halstead. You’re doing great. Uh, that horrible night Lori was killed, do you remember if Aaron was with—”

  The door clicked open, and we both looked up. I should have known. Never base a plan on luck, because it will invariably be of the bad variety. She said, “Hello, Aaron, I was—”

  “What the hell are you doing here, Claxton?” Aaron Abernathy stood in the doorway, his face a study in disbelief, his fists clenched at his sides.

  “I’m doing my job. I’m a lawyer.”

  His stepmother said, “It’s okay, dear, I—”

  His glare swung to her. “Shut up, Irene. I’ll handle this.” Then to me he said, “Get out of here now, you ambulance-chasing bastard.”

  I nodded, thanked his mother-in-law, and eased by him, half-expecting to get hit. At the same time, I marveled at how ridiculously ugly his sagging earlobes were. As I moved down the hall he fell in behind me, and when I got to the lobby he went up to the young woman at the desk and pointed at me. “He’s not family or a friend. He’s a fucking lawyer. Did you let him in here? If you did, I’ll have your job, you bitch.”

  Everyone in the lobby froze as he whirled around and started back down the hallway. I went back to the woman, who had tears in her eyes. “It wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry I misled you.” I handed her a card. “If your job’s threatened or he harasses you in any way, call me. I’ll represent you without any charge.”

  When I got to the car I just sat for a while, decompressing. Archie, sensing I was upset, came up between the seats and licked my face. Abernathy’s timing was impeccable, so I still didn’t know if he had an alibi for that night or not. His sensitivity to my talking to Irene was suspicious, but, on the othe
r hand, he had every right to be angry with me. More interesting, I thought, was that she seemed lucid enough to be interviewed as a witness. Maybe under questioning she would recall the boyfriend’s name. It was worth a shot.

  I was going to take Archie out for a stretch, but the sky opened up. He put his ears down and made it clear he wasn’t getting out of the car. My dog didn’t like rain one bit unless it was clear we were going for a jog. I laughed and pulled out, cranking the wipers to full tilt to see where I was going. It was murky ahead and difficult to see, not unlike the situation I faced.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Saturday morning broke with more than the usual fanfare for early November. Half-hearted wisps of fog gave way to rich sunlight that flooded my bedroom like warm honey. The radiator dutifully clunked on, and Archie was out of his bed in the corner the moment I sat up. He placed his front legs out and lowered his head and shoulders in a luxurious stretch. I got dressed and padded down the backstairs to brew coffee. Out my kitchen window I could see clouds building to the south. Not the dark, threatening kind but things of beauty, thick and luminous in the early light. As I sipped my coffee, a pileated woodpecker swooped in, clamped himself on the trunk of a Doug fir down on the fence line, and began to forage, his red-fringe bobbing like a tiny jackhammer.

  Arch and I took advantage of the window of good weather by taking a jog up to the pioneer cemetery and back. The bruises on my left arm had changed from deep purple to a Rorschach of grayish yellow, and I even managed twenty pushups at the end of the run. I’d be ready for the rest of those oak rounds in no time. After a shower, I was out on the side porch talking to Jim on my cell. “I need you to invite Richard Amis to Truc this afternoon, say around three. Just tell him you want him to taste the vintage you’ll be bottling soon, you know, because you want his opinion. Wild horses won’t keep him away.”

  “I sure as hell don’t need his opinion, but I’ll do it. What’s this all about, anyway?” Jim answered. All I told him was that I needed Amis to be there and that Sean McKnight and another woman would be coming with me. He must have picked up on something in my voice, because he added, “Sounds ominous. Does this have anything to do with my situation?”

  “I don’t know yet. It’s possible that it could. Are you okay with that?”

  “Ah, yeah, sure. I’m trusting you on this, Cal.”

  “Okay. Tell Amis to go to the wine tasting room, and let me know as soon as it’s set. And, Jim, don’t tell anyone about this.”

  Next, I called Sean McKnight and asked him to come over and was waiting for him when Winona called. She was out on the Snake River again. “We’re trying to correlate fish counts at Lower Granite Dam with water temperature and flows,” she explained. “Damn, it’s cold up here. Why some steelhead pick the winter to migrate is a mystery to me.” I brought her up to date, including the latest on the party I was planning for Amis, and after wishing me luck she said, “Did you see the digital edition of The Oregonian today?

  “No, did you?”

  “Yes. I read it on my phone this morning while I was still in my sleeping bag. There’s an article in the business section on Eddie and Sylvia’s company, Tilikum Capital Management. Some attorney named Arnold Bivens from Seattle is going after them in federal court, a major lawsuit.”

  “What’s his beef?”

  “He’s claiming they cheated him out of commissions for some accounts he brought to them.”

  “Any response from Tilikum?”

  “Just a quote from Eddie Manning saying he wouldn’t comment on pending litigation. Anyway, I just thought I’d pass that little tidbit on.”

  After we said our goodbyes I went online, pulled up the article, and just finished reading it when Archie announced McKnight’s arrival. His silver hair was pulled into a tight ponytail that hung down past the collar of his Pendleton shirt. He was clean-shaven and looked more rested than last time I saw him, although his eyes still had vestiges of sadness and resignation. He dropped to a knee to greet Arch, then looked up at me. “He called this morning. He wants the fifty thousand in cash tomorrow, said he’d give me instructions for the drop in the morning.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “What you told me to say—that I would have the cash and that I decided to take the offer for Stone Gate so that I can get this behind me.”

  “Good. Come on in. Let’s talk about what we’re going to do today.”

  After McKnight got his instructions and left, I made myself a double cappuccino, and because the day remained clear, took it out on the porch. The woodpecker was still at work, although he had moved up the tree a good thirty feet. I sipped my coffee and thought about Richard Amis, a man who used his medical training and experience to seek out two vulnerable people and manipulate them into committing acts they would have never done on their own. Equal parts disgust and anger welled up in me like steam in a hot boiler. Amis would walk away this afternoon, free to continue practicing medicine and doling out pills, but I made a promise to myself—if he stayed in Oregon I would find a way to strip his license and send him to jail if it was the last thing I ever did.

  I wasn’t going to get mad, just even.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “Oh, so you’re in on the tasting as well,” Richard Amis said to me when I opened the door to the wine tasting room at Le Petit Truc at 3:05 p.m.. His thick-lidded eyes betrayed disappointment, because, let’s face it, he didn’t consider me a worthy judge of a truly fine wine. I didn’t have command of the jargon, and I sure as hell didn’t have a wine cellar with five thousand bottles in it. He wore a light blue cashmere sweater and a pair of Sperry topsiders below sharply creased khakis, his version of dressing down, no doubt. After all, he might have to root around amongst those messy wine casks.

  I gave him a Chamber of Commerce smile and invited him in. He followed me, took the seat at the tasting bar, and looked around. “Where’s Jim?”

  “He’s tied up right now.” I sat down across from him, dropped the smile, and looked him square in the eye. “Actually, I’m the one who wants to talk to you.” His eyes widened a bit, and his look became instantly wary. “I know that you’re blackmailing Sean McKnight, and I want it to stop immediately.” There’s nothing like getting right to the point.

  He didn’t flinch as a half-smile, half incredulous look spread across his face. “This is a joke, right? What in the world are you talking about, Claxton?” The man was calm under fire. I’ll give him that.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about, and if you don’t give back every copy of the pictures and videos my client is going to the police to file charges. You’ll face felony extortion, loss of your license, and hard jail time. That’s a certainty.”

  The color left his face like someone pulled a plug, but he managed a look of righteous indignation as he stood up. “You have no evi—”

  “Yes, I do.” I stood to face him. “We know about your whole, disgusting scheme. Sean, come out.”

  Sean McKnight came out from the adjoining office, all six-four of him. “He’s right, Richard. If you give me the pictures and videos this is as far as it will go. I give you my word.”

  “What pictures? What videos?” He started for the door. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but this is absurd.”

  McKnight stepped in front of the door, and I said, “We have proof, Richard. Maura, come out.”

  Maura Conisson stepped out of the office. Amis stopped in mid-step and faced her. “Hello, Richard. If you don’t do what they ask, I will testify against you.”

  He forced down a look of astonishment and managed a laugh. “And, and incriminate yourself?”

  She glanced at Sean before looking back at him. “I don’t care what the costs are to me personally. I’ll tell the police everything. I’m sorry I ever got mixed up in this.”

  “If she cooperates, she won’t be charged,” I chimed
in. “They’ll cut her a deal. It’s over, Richard.”

  Standing in the center of us, Richard Amis put his hands on his hips and looked around, trying hard to maintain his composure. The only sound was the distant whine of a forklift out in the warehouse. Finally, he sighed and dropped his hands and his head simultaneously. Checkmate.

  I motioned with a nod for Sean and Maura to leave. As they let themselves out, I said in a softer tone, “Sit back down, Richard. Let’s talk about this.” When we were facing each other again, I went on. “We want everything, hard copies, digital copies, negatives, and we want them by eight o’clock tonight.” It was short notice, but I wanted to keep the heat on him. “If you hold back anything, or if any of the images or videos surface publicly, we will go directly to the police. If you speak to Maura Conisson or Sean McKnight or have any contact whatsoever with either of them, we will go directly to the police. Am I clear?”

  His head was down, his shoulders slumped, and one hand fidgeted with the other on the bar. He nodded without looking up.

  “There’s one other thing. I want you to tell me what you know about Lori Kavanaugh, who she was seeing after she left Jim and before she was killed, and anything else that might be relevant to the murder case.”

  His head came up, his eyes flared, and for a brief instant I thought I saw fear in them. “I know nothing about her love life or anything else that could help you defend Jim Kavanaugh. I was just, ah, supplying her with anti-anxiety medication. She shared very little with me.”

  I held his gaze, and again he didn’t flinch. I wasn’t sure whether he really didn’t know anything or just wasn’t going to tell me. In any event, my bluff fizzled. Amis was smart. He knew the only leverage I had was to threaten to expose his blackmail plot to the police, and that was counter to Sean McKnight’s interests. We sat there for a long time just looking at each other. Finally, I said, “I’ll be at my office tonight. Bring the images there. I’ll expect to see you by eight o’clock.” He nodded and got up to leave. I asked, “Tell me, Richard, why the hell did you try this?”