Black Mark, page 23
“I found something interesting about that gun store owner.”
“What about him?”
“I think I’ve found his connection to the case. His brother’s a construction foreman. Works for CDS.”
At first, what Tony said meant nothing to me. But then my addled brain made the connection. “You’re shitting me. Sinclair’s company.”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks, Tony. This could be huge.” I hung up.
Wet roads and rush hour traffic doubled my drive time home. Night was falling when I finally made it to my apartment. I was dead on my feet, so I took off my suit, had a quick hot shower, then lay down to snatch some sleep. I set an alarm for three hours later. Thanks to Tony, I had things to do.
FORTY
PARTY CRASHERS
The alarm blasted me out of a deep sleep at 9 pm. It was all I could do to get up, fighting my overwhelming desire to switch off the alarm and put my head back down. I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. It woke me up a little, but I still felt like shit. I got dressed, downloaded some pictures from the case file onto my phone, and headed outside.
I drove over to Northwest Portland, skirting downtown on the south side to avoid the chaos of the riots. As I crossed the river on the raised span of the Marquam Bridge, I saw flashing blue and red police lights reflecting off skyscraper glass and illuminating clouds of smoke drifting up into the night. I took the Everett exit, ducked back under the freeway and parked a block down the street from Paley’s Place. The restaurant was in an elegant pale blue Victorian mansion. It backed onto a small parking lot, with a dumpster just outside the rear door. Judging by the overflowing ashtray on the top step, I’d found the place I was looking for. I leaned against the dumpster and waited.
About ten minutes later, a guy in a chef’s jacket and pants came out and lit a cigarette. He flinched when I emerged from the shadows.
“Shit, you startled me, dude. Not cool,” he said.
“Sorry about that,” I replied, holding up a calming hand. “I need your help. I’m an investigator and I’m looking for information about an incident that took place here on June first this year. It was a Saturday night and there was a private event taking place. Apparently, there was some sort of disturbance and the police were called. You know anything about that?”
The guy took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. “Doesn’t ring a bell, but then I’m usually off on Saturdays.”
“You think you could ask around inside? Find me someone who was there and I’ll kick a few bucks your way.”
“Sounds fair. I’ll see what I can do.” He took another drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out on his shoe and put the unfinished half back in the packet.
He went back inside and I resumed my wait by the dumpster. A couple of minutes later, he stuck his head out of the door. “One of the servers was there that night and she saw the whole thing go down. She said she’ll meet you when she gets off shift in an hour. Her name’s Hayley. I told her what you look like. You know Joe’s Cellar? It’s a couple of blocks that way.” He pointed north, up the street.
“I’m sure I can find it.” I fished a couple of twenties out of my pocket and handed them to him. “Thanks, man.”
He tucked them into his pants without looking at them. “No problem. Good luck.”
He went back inside and I set off up the street. Joe’s was easy to find, thanks to the large sandwich board out front with the name in flowing script and daily specials written in chalk. It was an older corner bar, with cedar siding and neon Pabst Blue Ribbon signs in the windows.
Inside, there were a couple of pool tables, both in use, and half a dozen tables with knots of people around them. The bar was mostly empty, so I took a stool by the far end, where I had a good view of the door.
I had almost finished my second pint when a young woman walked in an hour later. She looked around, saw me wave, and headed over.
I stood up and held out my hand. “You must be Hayley?”
“Yes, that’s right.” She shook my hand, her grip warm and firm.
“My name is Mick Ward,” I said, and gestured at the stool next to mine. “Thanks for coming. Can I get you a drink?”
“Sure. A gin and tonic would be nice, thanks.” She sat down, and I flagged down the bartender and ordered her drink, plus another pint for me.
“So, what do you want?” she asked.
“Your colleague told me you were working when an incident took place at a private party on June first of this year. I’d like to ask you some questions about it.”
“Why? Am I in trouble?”
“No, nothing like that. I just want to know what happened that night.”
“Are you a cop?”
I laughed. “Do I look like a cop?”
The barman delivered our drinks before Hayley could answer. She took a long gulp of hers, then sighed.
“No, I guess not,” she said. “Okay, ask your questions.”
“Let’s start at the beginning. What was the occasion for the event?”
“It was a fundraiser for Mayor Alioto’s campaign.”
“And was Mayor Alioto there?”
“Yes, but he wasn’t involved in the incident.”
I took a sip of my pint. “Speaking of that, can you tell me what happened?”
“It was near the end of the evening. We were serving dessert and coffee. Some guy turned up at the door and tried to get in. He looked pretty loaded and he had a woman on each arm. Both of them had big hair and short dresses, which didn’t exactly go with the fundraiser crowd.
“Anyway, this guy was really loud. He kept saying something about his buddies being inside. The security guard tried to calm him down, but the guy wasn’t having it, so he grabbed him and tried to move him away. Before I knew what was happening, the guy took a swing at the guard, who tackled him and they went rolling down the steps. A couple of us ran out front to see what was happening. The two of them were fighting on the sidewalk. The security guard took him down easily—he got the guy down on the ground and pinned him, with a knee in his back and his arm across his neck.
“Right about then, the cops showed up. Someone from inside must’ve called them. I didn’t see how it ended because I went back in to keep serving, but someone told me later that the cops took both of them away. It was crazy. That kind of stuff never happens at Paley’s. We don’t even usually have security.”
She paused and took another drink.
Something about her story was ringing bells with me. “If I showed you some photos, could you tell me if you recognize the people in them?”
“I can try.”
I took out my phone and pulled up a photo of Kavanagh. “Was that the security guy?”
“Yeah, the redhead. That was him.”
“And the guy causing trouble,” I said. “Was he a white guy? African American?”
“African American. So were the women with him.”
I pulled up a photo of Malik Betts. “Was it him?”
“I think so.” She took my phone and enlarged the picture. “Yeah, that’s him.”
“Thanks.” A thought occurred to me. “One other thing—who hosted the fundraiser?”
“Some old white dude in a suit. I don’t know his name.”
I took my phone back and pulled up another picture. “Him?”
“Yes, that looks like the guy. He was kind of an asshole. Arrogant, you know?”
“Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a hundred bucks.
Hayley raised her eyebrows at the five twenties. “Thanks!” She finished her drink. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to take off. It’s been a long day.”
“Go ahead. I appreciate your help.”
Hayley headed for the door. I looked at the picture on my phone. Charles Sinclair had hosted a fundraiser for Mayor Alioto. He hired Kavanagh to work security, Kavanagh beat the crap out of Malik Betts, and two weeks later Betts was killed. I’d never believed in coincidences, and this sure as hell didn’t look like one to me.
FORTY-ONE
STRIKEOUT
I called Detective Buchanan first thing Tuesday morning.
“Detective, it’s Mick Ward. We need to talk.”
He sighed. “You’re kidding, right? I haven’t slept in two days because the whole goddamn city is on fire, and you want to have a conversation?”
“The city is on fire because a cop shot Elliott,” I snapped, then took a deep breath. “Look, I know you’re slammed, but this is important. I only need ten minutes. I’ll come to the Starbucks by the precinct. Surely you can duck out for that long.”
Buchanan paused. “All right. If you’re willing to meet outside one of your usual shitholes, it must be important. Be there in an hour.”
He hung up.
I headed downtown and parked a couple of blocks north of the precinct. As I walked to Starbucks, every street-level window was boarded up and heavily graffitied, with BLM slogans and variations on the theme of ‘Fuck the police.’ The streets were quieter than usual, as though people were afraid to come out. It had rained overnight and the smell of wet smoke hung heavy in the air.
Starbucks was boarded up too, and an employee was trying to scrub some of the more offensive graffiti off the plywood. I went inside, ordered a large latte with an extra shot and took a seat in the corner.
Buchanan appeared a few minutes later. He didn’t order a drink, just came and sat down heavily in the chair opposite me, with a sigh that sounded like the air going out of a slashed tire. He looked terrible. His usually immaculately shaved head was covered with sparse stubble and his dark skin had a strange gray hue.
He rubbed his face. “Okay, you’ve got your ten minutes. Talk to me.”
“It’s about Charles Sinclair and Sam Kavanagh. You need to be looking at them for Betts’s murder.”
Buchanan’s head lolled back. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“I’m serious,. I’ve been digging and there’s a connection–”
He held out a hand. “Stop. You’re going to tell me that Kavanagh worked security for Sinclair on the side and he got into a fight with Betts at a fundraiser two weeks before Betts was killed, right?”
“Yes, but–”
“And that Betts and Sinclair did a lot of business together?”
“They did–”
“You must think we’re a bunch of goddamn imbeciles. First thing we did when we heard about the murder was run a search on Betts’s name. The Internal Affairs report on the incident between Kavanagh and Betts popped up. We already looked into it and there’s nothing there. Kavanagh was working the night Betts died, and besides, Betts bought a lot of property from Sinclair. Do you honestly think one of Portland’s most successful businessmen goes around whacking his best customers?”
“Okay, but did you know there’s been at least one other recent confrontation between Sinclair and Betts, at a Trail Blazers game?”
“I told you, we investigated and there’s nothing there.” Buchanan looked at his watch. “Are you done wasting my time?”
“If I brought you information proving there’s something weird about the business deals between Betts and Sinclair, would you take another look?”
“No. The Chief raised almighty hell the first time we looked at Sinclair. He’s the mayor’s biggest donor. You think I’m going to put my pension on the line by suggesting we investigate him again? Christ, I almost liked you better when you were a lawyer.” He stood up and left, shaking his head as he went.
I finished my coffee as I walked up to the office. I should have realized that the police would have already made the connection between Betts and Sinclair. Maybe I would have done a better job of selling my idea to Buchanan if I’d led with the unusual business transactions, particularly Betts buying large volumes of condos and selling them so cheap. But I didn’t know what was going on there yet. I made a mental note to go back to the data Tony’s hacker friend had delivered, to see if I could figure that out.
And what about Kavanagh? I already knew he was working the night Betts died. But his name kept coming up: he shot Elliott, he fought with Betts. Could he be involved? Something occurred to me, so I called Tony.
“Hey, Tony, can you check something for me?”
“Sure, what is it?”
“The night Betts was killed. What time did Sam Kavanagh’s shift start?”
“Should be easy to find out. I’ll get back to you.”
“Thanks, man.”
I made it to the office just after nine thirty. Casey looked up from her laptop.
“Working banker’s hours now, huh?”
“Yeah, very funny.” I sat down in one of the conference chairs and told her about my conversation with Buchanan. Her face darkened as I finished my story.
“So let me get this straight. You found out about this fight between Betts and Kavanagh and you took it to Buchanan before you even talked to me?”
“I wanted to get him on the case. If he’d have turned something up, maybe we could have got Elliott out sooner.”
“Jesus, how can you be so stupid?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why don’t you just email our whole defense strategy to the DA? You know the first thing Buchanan’s going to do is tell Nicole Astert about your meeting. So, now she knows that we’re going with a Some Other Dude defense, and that Kavanagh and Sinclair are our other dudes. Which means long before we get to trial, Kavanagh’s alibi is going to be watertight and she’ll have a line of witnesses a mile long ready to tell the jury what great friends and business partners Sinclair and Betts were. We’ll be lucky if we don’t get laughed out of court.”
I shuffled uncomfortably in my chair. “They had to know already that we’d be trying to paint someone else as the killer.”
“Yeah, but they didn’t know who!” Casey took a deep breath. “Mick, this case is a pig. We’ve got to stay tight on communication and strategy if we’re going to have any chance of pulling off a verdict for Elliott. Who knows, that information you found out about Betts and Sinclair might still be useful. But promise me that if you find anything else, you’ll talk to me before you go off on some wild goose chase with anyone else? Especially the other side!”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “Sorry. I just want to get Elliott out of that shithole.”
“I know. Look, we’ve got the hearing on the prosecution’s motion to exclude the video next Tuesday, and trial starts three weeks after that. The best thing you can do for Elliott is help me win that hearing. Without the video, our case falls apart and we might as well not show up for the trial.”
“Okay, where do we stand on that?”
“You remember the test, right?”
I thought for a moment. “Yeah, the judge can exclude evidence if its probative value is substantially outweighed by a danger of unfair prejudice.”
“Exactly. The DA will say that this latest round of riots demonstrates the video is highly prejudicial, and we can’t argue with that. So, we have to show that its probative value is just as high, if not higher. That means we’ve got to establish two things: that we have a credible story about how Betts was killed and that the video is essential evidence in proving it.”
I grimaced. “And right now our theory has holes in it big enough to drive a bus through.”
“Pretty much. I know you like Sinclair as the mastermind behind it all, but it’s hard to make a believable argument that he had his biggest customer whacked.”
“Yeah, I know, everybody keeps saying that.” I paused. “What if we leave him out for now? Just say our theory is that Kavanagh had a fight with Betts two weeks before he was killed, and the video shows he’s a loose cannon ready to pull a gun at the slightest provocation?”
Casey thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. “It’s speculative, but it might work. I’d feel a lot better about it if you could find me similar cases where a judge ruled that kind of speculation was good enough to meet the test.”
“I’m on it.” I stood up and went to my desk, then stopped. “Hey, you know we need to add Kavanagh to our witness list, right?”
“Already done,” Casey replied.
FORTY-TWO
FRIENDLY CONVERSATION
I spent the next couple of days wading through case law, looking for a hidden gem that Casey could use to convince the judge to let the jury see the video. Legal research can be heavy lifting. There’s an art to it, one that I truly believed I had mastered back when I used to do it for a living. But even for an expert like me, this was looking for a needle in a haystack. First, I had to find cases with similar facts, then narrow them down to those where the judge’s ruling supported our position.
I stayed at the office until almost midnight both Tuesday and Wednesday, without much success. Casey got there before me on Thursday and there was a steaming hot Starbucks waiting for me on my desk in the copy room when I arrived.
“Thanks,” I said to her. “I have a feeling I’m gonna need it.”
I logged on and dived straight back into the routine of wading through mountains of case law. A few hours later, I felt like I was going cross-eyed, so I took a break. I called Tony and arranged to meet him for lunch at Pine Street Market.
Summer was well and truly over, replaced all too soon by typically cold and damp northwest weather, so I zipped up my coat and hurried over there. When the rain became heavier, I pulled my hood up. As usual, you could tell the tourists by who was using an umbrella. Portlanders wouldn’t be caught dead with one, no matter how hard the rain came down.
Pine Street was emptier than usual when I arrived. More than half of the benches and tables were free. No doubt a good chunk of downtown office workers had decided to stay inside and have food delivered, rather than brave the elements. I looked around and spotted Tony, waiting at the Kinboshi stand.
