Black Mark, page 18
“Thanks for meeting me,” I said.
“I almost didn’t come.” He tapped his index finger on the table. “You told me you’re investigating who killed Malik. But I did some research. The police have already arrested someone. So tell me why I shouldn’t leave right now.”
“They’ve arrested someone, but not the guy who did it. The man they arrested, Elliott Russell, is innocent. He’s being framed and I’m part of his defense team. That’s why I’m trying to find out who really killed Malik Betts.”
Burke’s eyebrows shot up. “Framed? That sounds like a bad movie.”
“Believe me, I wish it was. But it isn’t, and I need your help to prevent an innocent man going to jail for the rest of his life.”
“Okay, good enough. Let me get a beer and we can talk.” He gestured at my empty glass. “You want another?”
“Sure. Pale ale.”
Burke headed for the bar and returned a couple of minutes later with our beers.
“So how can I help?” he said.
I took a sip of my drink. “Tell me about Malik. Did you know him before you bought the condo?”
“No, I only came to Portland seven months ago. I moved here from Denver, because I got a job at Nike headquarters. I looked around online for a realtor, and Malik had a couple of listings in the neighborhoods I was interested in, so I called him. Long story short, he found me this condo in Northeast Portland that looked good. Crappy commute from there to Nike, but it’s a cool area and the price was right.”
“How was he as a realtor?”
“Fine, I guess. It was a pretty simple transaction. Cash purchase, so he didn’t have to do much.”
“And personally, what did you think of him?”
Burke paused to take a drink, then answered. “A bit flashy for my taste, to be honest. He wore shiny suits and gold jewelry. I’m more of a jeans and tee guy. And when we went to look at properties, he’d insist on picking me up. He had this brand new Porsche SUV, a Cayenne S, I think. And he liked showing it off.”
“A Porsche? Not a Bentley?”
“Definitely a Porsche. I know the difference.”
“I’m sure you do. I’m just surprised because I was under the impression he drove a Bentley.”
“Maybe he had both. I hear there’s a lot of money in real estate.”
“There must be. Speaking of which, you mentioned the price. He got you a good deal?”
Burke nodded vigorously. “Oh yeah. The condo was brand new. Never been lived in before, and the price was ten grand less than a couple of other new units in the same complex.”
“Wow. Do you remember who the seller was?”
“Some property investment company, I think. I can’t remember their name.” He laughed. “I guess my place wasn’t a very good investment for them.”
“I guess not.” I took another drink. “And did you see Mr. Betts again after the purchase?”
“Yeah, glad you asked. It’s a crazy story.” Burke ran a hand through his hair. “When the condo sale closed, Malik invited me to a Trail Blazers game to celebrate. I thought we’d just be in regular seats, you know? But it turns out he had one of those fancy luxury suites. He’d invited a few other customers too and he had everything laid on: real French champagne, great food, the works. He had this sweet sound system in there and he even had the Blazers dancers come through the box at halftime and put on a show! It got pretty wild. To be honest, I don’t even remember who the Blazers played.”
“Sounds like quite the night,” I said.
Burke leaned forward, warming to his subject. “That’s not even the best bit! We pissed off the mayor!”
“What?”
“Yeah, the guys in the suite next to ours weren’t happy about the racket we were making. Bunch of old dudes in suits. A couple of them came over to our suite and got into it with Malik, and it turns out one of them was the mayor.”
“Okay, now I’m interested. Tell me exactly how it went down.”
“Well, I remember someone banging on the door to our suite. We could barely hear them over the music. Anyway, Malik answered the door and there were two guys in suits standing there. They obviously knew Malik and they were pretty pissed. This one guy, I’m guessing he owned the suite next door, because he did most of the talking. He was pissed. He kept saying something about how he’d warned Malik before about attracting so much attention. Eventually, Malik agreed to tone it down a bit and the guys left. The next day I saw a picture of the mayor on the cover of The Oregonian, and it was the other dude who’d been at the door, the one who didn’t say much. It was kind of funny. Here I am, new in town, and already I’m on the mayor’s shit list!” He laughed again and shook his head.
“Tell me more about the guy who was arguing with Malik. Can you describe him?”
“Sort of. White guy. Tall, thin, gray hair, gray suit. Oh, and his name was Charles.”
“How do you know that?”
“When they were leaving, the mayor said something like, ‘Come on, Charles, let’s go.’”
“Interesting. Did Malik say anything to you or the other guests about what happened?”
“I don’t think so. But I was pretty loaded at that point, so I can’t be sure.”
“Did you see Malik again, after that night?”
“No. He never called me again and I had no reason to contact him.” Burke drained his pint and looked at me expectantly. I smiled and nodded.
“Be right back,” I said. “What are you having?”
“Pale ale, same as you.”
I went to the bar and ordered our drinks. I thought about what Burke had told me while I waited for the beers to be poured. Something occurred to me about the incident he’d described. I did a quick search on my phone and found what I was looking for.
Back at our table, I put our beers down, took out my phone and showed a picture to Burke. “That guy Charles who was with the mayor. Is this him?”
Burke peered at the screen. “I can’t be a hundred percent sure, but that sure looks like him.”
I put my phone away and we talked for a while longer. Burke kept pressing me for information about my investigation, but I made excuses about how it was too early to know anything meaningful. When we finished our beers, he offered to get me another, but I declined. I had work to do. Specifically, research about the man whose picture I’d shown to Burke. The same man who’d threatened Elliott at the City Council meeting right before his arrest.
Charles Sinclair.
THIRTY-ONE
BACK TO SCHOOL
I was excited to see Casey at the office on Monday, but I knew I’d have to be careful about the Sinclair revelation. So I made sure we went through the draft motion for a release hearing before I mentioned anything about him. I walked Casey through my reasoning and she made notes on her copy as we went. When we were done, she sat back and waved the memo at me.
“It’s a shame you blew up your legal career. This is good work.”
“Gee, thanks. I think.”
“Seriously, it’s good. I’m going to make a couple of minor tweaks and then file it pretty much as-is. I think we’ve got a good shot at getting bail for Elliott.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said. Casey appreciating my work felt good. Maybe I still had some lawyer chops after all. But it meant nothing if Elliott was still locked up when we were done.
Casey started to stand, but I held up a hand. “Wait. I have something else to tell you about.”
“What?”
“After I got done with the motion, I met with that guy I told you about. Betts’s former client.”
“Mick–”
“No, listen. This is important.”
Casey rolled her eyes. “This better be good.”
I told her Burke’s story about the incident at the Blazers game.
“Okay, so the mayor and some developer dude were pissed at Betts. So what?”
“A couple of things. First, Sinclair was pissed because he didn’t want Betts attracting attention. Attention to what? And second, do you remember that City Council meeting I told you about? Right before Elliott got shot? They were debating a new ordinance that would effectively shut down condo developments in established neighborhoods inside the city limits. I did some digging last night and it looks like Sinclair has about half a dozen planned developments in the works.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Things got pretty heated at the debate. Sinclair was seriously pissed at Elliott. At one point he said something like, ‘You’ve interfered where you’re not wanted for the last time.’ It sounded weird at the time, but I had no idea what he meant. Think about it now. What if he and Betts were involved in some way and the deal went bad? Wouldn’t killing Betts and framing Elliott for the crime be perfect for him?”
Casey’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow, that’s a big leap from an argument at a basketball game.”
“Maybe. Or maybe we’ve finally found someone with a motive to want both Betts and Elliott out of the way.”
“You’re killing me, Mick. You come in here with the best damn legal reasoning I’ve read in a while and now you want to go off and chase down some left-field theory about Charles Sinclair, a pillar of the Portland community, being a murderer.” She pointed at the motion I’d drafted. “What I need—no, what Elliott needs—is more of this.”
“I know. And don’t worry; you’ll get it. Elliott’s defense is my top priority, guaranteed. But I want to poke at this Sinclair connection some more too. You said it yourself; we need a credible theory, if we’re going to get the shooting video admitted as evidence. If there was some kind of questionable deal between Sinclair and Betts, it might lead us to our connection.”
Casey gave me a wry smile. “If I told you not to waste time on this, you’d do it anyway, wouldn’t you?”
“You know I would.”
“Okay. So what’s your next play?”
“Good question. I want to talk to Sinclair, confront him with some of this information, and see how he reacts. But I’m guessing he’s not going to take my calls.”
Casey smiled again. “You crack me up, Mick. You came in here today with some great legal analysis and now you’ve forgotten lawyering 101. What does an attorney do when they want to talk to a witness?”
I groaned. “I’m an idiot. We subpoena him. I’ll draw it up now, so you can sign it and get it served.”
“Attaboy! You do that and I’ll get the motion filed. We’re making progress. Good progress.”
I was back at my desk later that morning when Casey shouted at me from her office.
“Hey, Mick, you might want to come and see this.”
I squeezed past the copy machine and went into Casey’s office. She was making her way to the conference table, laptop in hand.
“I just got an email from Nicole with Kavanagh’s disciplinary record. Let’s see what they didn’t want us to know.”
We sat at the table and read the document Nicole Astert had provided. Kavanagh’s file started with a summary of his performance at the Academy. He’d graduated towards the bottom of his class. Apparently, he had the aptitude and aced the physical tests, but he hadn’t shown much motivation to learn the principles of actual police work.
Kavanagh’s first disciplinary note came about a month after he joined the force. He and his partner had responded to a disturbance outside a liquor store. The store’s proprietor had called to say there was a guy harassing customers in the parking lot. When they arrived, they found a drunk homeless guy trying to get customers to buy him booze. Kavanagh’s partner, who had been on the force for five years, tried to calm the guy down and get him to move on. The guy kept refusing and that’s when things turned ugly.
Two customers had seen what went down and both filed complaints. They each stated that Kavanagh tried to shove the guy out into the street. According to them, when the guy refused to move, Kavanagh took out his truncheon and whacked him across the knees, then kicked him twice, in the stomach and the face, while he was down. He was going in for another kick when his partner stopped him. They bundled the guy into the back of the patrol car and left.
There was no mention of the victim’s ethnicity, but his name was Jamarcus Watkins, so it wasn’t hard to guess.
Not surprisingly, both Kavanagh and his partner claimed that Watkins had taken a swing at Kavanagh before any force was used against him, which directly contradicted the onlookers’ statements. The incident resolution noted that unprovoked use of force was a firing offense, but since the evidence was inconclusive as to whether Kavanagh’s use of force was unprovoked, there were no grounds for termination. Instead, Kavanagh was ordered to take remedial training on handling encounters with impaired persons.
“Wow, he got off to a hot start,” I said.
“Yeah.” Casey scratched her chin. “I’ve seen cops fired for less, you know.”
“Given the size of his file, it’s a miracle he’s still on the force. It takes more than a relative in high places to protect you from this crap. He’s involved in something.”
We continued reading through the file. There were other inappropriate use of force reports with largely similar patterns. And each time, the resolution stated the evidence was inconclusive, and recommended additional training for Kavanagh.
Also, as Tony had told me, Kavanagh was one of half a dozen cops who had complaints filed against them for firing rubber bullets at civilians during the BLM protests that erupted after Andre Gladen was killed. This time the force closed ranks around all six of the accused, with multiple officers filing statements to the effect that protesters had charged at the police brandishing Molotov cocktails and other weapons, and no disciplinary action was taken against any of them.
Then we came to an incident towards the end of the file, about two weeks before Elliott’s arrest. In some ways it continued the pattern of prior incidents; Kavanagh had used excessive force in dealing with an altercation at a party. But there were two important differences. First, the incident had taken place while Kavanagh was off duty and working as a private security guard. Second, other than Kavanagh, the names of everyone involved in the incident were redacted. Wherever a name would have appeared, the text had been replaced with solid black blocks.
“What do you make of that?” Casey said.
“I’m not sure. Plenty of cops work security gigs on the side.”
“True, but why redact names in this case? They didn’t in any of the other incidents.”
“Good point.”
“Besides, those redactions stop us following up on that one event. Kind of defeats the purpose of discovery.” Casey made a note on her pad. “I need to go to the judge, get him to order the cops to give us the unredacted version.”
“It might not matter,” I said.
I grabbed the laptop and scrolled back up to the top of the incident report. The date and time weren’t redacted, and nor was the location: Paley’s Place restaurant.
“Now, that is interesting.” Paley’s Place was one of Portland’s finest restaurants, with prices to match. It was also in constant high demand, with the wait time for reservations running at two to three months. Whoever booked the place out for a private party had a lot of influence as well as money.
“I don’t think they’d go to the trouble of redacting names just to spare blushes.” I jabbed a finger at the screen. “There has to be more to this. I’m going to dig into it and see what I can find.”
“Okay, it can’t hurt. What’s your plan?”
“I’ll go to Paley’s. Talk to some staff, see if I can find someone who worked that night. It might take a few days. I need to prep for Sinclair’s deposition and the bail hearing. Plus, Tony and I are going to see some guy who can get us information on Betts’s business dealings on Wednesday.”
“Fine, but don’t leave it too long.” Casey leaned forward. “I think you might be onto something here.”
THIRTY-TWO
DIGGING IN THE DIRT
“Who’s this guy we’re going to see?” I asked Tony.
“He’s my go-to guy for computer searches. Kind of paranoid, but if you want information that’s in a database somewhere, he’s the man.”
I stared out the window as Tony drove us up into the hills behind downtown. A thunderstorm had blown through town Tuesday night, soaking Portland with a couple of inches of rain, and bringing the brutally hot summer to an abrupt end. By the afternoon, the rain had eased back into the usual northwest drizzle that hung over the city like a damp blanket.
“Where does he live?”
“Out past Cornelius Pass, on a couple of acres in the hills.” Tony tapped a hand on the steering wheel. “Oh yeah, I meant to tell you. My guy checked Sam Kavanagh’s schedule. He was working the night Betts was shot, and when you found the body, so that probably was him at Elliott’s house.”
“Shit. So much for him being the shooter.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
“Not your fault,” I said. “I guess that would have been too easy.”
Tony nodded and kept driving.
We drove around the back of the Mount Calvary cemetery and up Skyline Boulevard, then cruised along the winding two-lane road, passing hobby farms and horse ranches. Traffic was light, mostly BMW and Audi SUVs, with the occasional shiny new pickup truck. Playthings of the wealthy urban hobby farmers who lived up there. We passed a group of Lyra-clad cyclists, challenging themselves against the long, undulating hills. The road was still wet, with frequent blind corners, so Tony kept to a reasonable speed.
A couple of miles past Cornelius Pass Road, Tony turned off onto a dirt driveway. It wound through a stand of tall cedars, then opened up in front of an old sky-blue ranch-style house that was invisible from the road. Paint was peeling from the house’s siding and much of the roof was covered in moss. There were two large satellite dishes mounted on poles behind the house, visible above the roof.
