Black Mark, page 3
“Shit.” Elliott pulled the door open. “You take the kitchen. I’ll start in my bedroom.”
I followed him inside and went to the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, it was badly in need of an update, with scuffed linoleum flooring, paint peeling off the cabinet doors, and appliances that looked like they came from the Brady Bunch set. But I wasn’t here to decorate. I started my search in the cabinets. Elliott didn’t have much stuff, so it was easy to make sure nothing was hidden behind his cooking supplies. The fridge and freezer were empty too, save for some beer and a couple of frozen pizzas.
I bent over and pulled open the oven door, then straightened up when I heard Elliott’s shout.
“Motherfucker!”
I hurried through to the bedroom. Elliott stood by the open bottom drawer of his nightstand, a pile of socks by his feet.
“What is it?”
He pointed at the drawer. There, at the back, was a 9mm Ruger SR9 and a box of ammo.
“I take it that isn’t yours?” I said.
“Fuck no! I haven’t touched a gun since you got me out of jail.” Elliott’s shoulders shook. He looked scared and alone. “Now what?” he said. “I’m lost here, Mick. Help me out.”
Someone was framing my friend for murder, and if they had been stood in front of me right then, I’d have ripped their fucking throat out. But right now we had to clean up this mess.
“First things first,” I said. “We get rid of the gun.”
FIVE
LET’S GO FOR A DRIVE
I grabbed a plastic shopping bag and a pair of tongs from the kitchen, then went back to Elliott’s bedroom and used the tongs to put the gun and ammo in the bag.
“Is there anything else we should get rid of?” I said.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Drugs. Whatever.” I scratched my head. “Look, just grab anything obvious.”
“I ain’t got nothing like that,” Elliott said. He pointed at the shopping bag. “What are we going to do? Throw it in the river?”
I opened the bag and looked at the gun. There were a couple of greasy smudges on the stainless steel slide, and the matte black grip was dirty too.
“No, let’s keep it. It might come in handy later.”
“Are you crazy? Where are we going to keep it?”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “I know a place. But first there’s something else we have to do.”
I went back outside, grabbed the shovel, and stood over the hole containing Malik Betts’s body. I took a deep breath and heaved dirt over his empty, staring eyes, my stomach churning. I covered the rest of his face quickly. Concealing Betts’s body felt deeply wrong, but we couldn’t risk someone else coming down the lane and seeing it. I kept moving dirt until the hole was full, then tossed the shovel aside.
“Okay, let’s go.”
My car was parked out front of Elliott’s place. At first glance, it didn’t look like much; just another mid-eighties BMW Sedan, with faded green paint and Bondo patches on the rear rocker panels. The window trim leaked and given how much it rained in Portland, the car’s interior smelled like wet carpet, even in summer. It had 210,000 miles on it and I’d owned it since I was in law school. It ran well, though. I’d taken care of the major mechanicals before I lost my career, and the little beemer never let me down, despite its shitbox appearance.
We got in and I headed south towards Interstate 5. Saturday afternoon traffic was light, as we eased onto the freeway.
We drove in silence for a while, Elliott gazing out the window at the lights flashing by. I took the Morrison Street exit off the freeway. Downtown loomed across the river, its skyscrapers cradled by the West Hills beyond. Further south, the green-tinted glass condo towers of the South Waterfront district shone like a man-made forest. Somewhere in a penthouse atop one of those towers, my ex-wife lived with the man she left me for.
Neither of us spoke as we bumped along the badly potholed streets among the empty warehouses and used furniture stores crammed against the east side of the Willamette River. I parked in a spot by the disused rail tracks under the Morrison Bridge. A hot, dusty wind whipped at my clothes as I climbed out of the car. Traffic rumbled past on the bridge overhead. I looked around and I couldn’t see anyone.
“Okay, let’s go. It’s over here.” I pointed at a dimly lit doorway in the western end of the warehouse building across the street.
I punched my combination into the keypad on the door and swung it open. There were no lights on inside, and when I flicked the switch by the door, nothing happened. My unit was at the end of the hall, so I fired up the flashlight on my phone and led us down there. I hadn’t been here in about a year, but everything looked the same. I unlocked the padlock on my unit’s door and opened it, then pulled the light string. A single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling lit up, swirls of dust motes dancing in its harsh glow.
My unit was ten feet by six, the walls lined with ceiling-high stacks of bankers boxes, and it smelled of damp cardboard. The space in the middle was cluttered with junk. A couple of lamps, a desk, an end table, and a box of shoes. Just about everything I’d kept after the divorce.
I went over to the desk, pulled the bottom drawer out, and set it on top. The drawer had a false bottom. I slid it out, put the bag with the gun and ammo inside, then reinserted it and put the drawer back in the desk.
“Should be safe there.”
Elliott looked at me, eyebrows raised.
I grinned at him. “What? You think you’re the first client who had something to hide?”
We locked up my storage unit and went back outside.
“Now what do we do?” Elliott said.
“There’s only one thing we can do,” I replied. “We go back to your place and call the cops.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“Get in the car. I’ll explain.”
I got in without waiting for Elliott’s response. He waited outside, arms folded, his chest heaving like bellows. I put the key in the ignition but didn’t start it up. Eventually, Elliott opened his door and sat down. He slammed the door shut and stared straight ahead.
I started the car and drove off.
“Why don’t we just get rid of the body?” Elliott said.
“We can’t. Think about it. Whoever is framing you was smart enough to plant that gun too. They know you might move the body, so they’ll have a plan.”
“Like what?”
“I’m guessing they kept a shirt with his blood on it, or something like that. When the body isn’t found in a couple of days, they plant it at your house or in your car and drop an anonymous tip to the cops. Then your rival is missing and his blood’s at your house. The cops will be convinced you killed him.” I shook my head. “No, we have to call the cops. If you call them first, you’re one step ahead of whoever is setting you up. The gun is gone and you look like you’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Easy for you to say! You’re not the one with the whole city’s police force on his ass!”
“Yeah, I’ve got an idea about how to deal with that. But first I need to make a call.”
I pulled out my phone and thumbed through my contacts while keeping one eye on the road as we pulled onto the Interstate and cruised past the Moda Center. I was restoring the E30 to its original condition, and that meant no hands-free option. I found the contact I wanted, put the phone on speaker, and hit the call button. Casey answered on the third ring.
“Law Offices of Casey Raife. Who’s calling?”
Casey was the defense attorney who represented me when I was in big trouble three years back. She’d recently gone into private practice after years running the Major Crimes Team at Multnomah County Public Defender’s Office. Casey’s fearless approach and no-nonsense style made her a match for any attorney I’ve known. Besides, now she was in private practice she could probably use the business.
“Casey, it’s Mick Ward. I need your help.”
“Jesus, Mick, what have you done this time?”
“It’s not for me. A good friend is being framed for a murder he didn’t commit.”
“What? Tell me more.”
“Do you know Elliott Russell?” I glanced at Elliott. He was still staring out through the windshield, but his face had softened.
“The activist guy who’s running for City Council?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“We haven’t met, but I know who he is. He raised a ruckus at a City Council meeting I was at recently.”
“Yeah, that sounds like Elliott.”
“You say someone is framing him for murder. But how sure are you that he didn’t do it?”
Elliott glared at me.
“I’m certain,” I said, quickly.
“Okay,” Casey said, “what’s the story?”
I gave her the details. She asked a couple of questions, but mostly just listened.
“Wow,” Casey said when I finished. She paused. “I’m in Sunriver for a defense attorneys’ conference. I need to wrap up a few things here before I head back, so I won’t be in Portland until close to midnight. I don’t suppose you can hold off on calling the police until tomorrow?”
“No. Someone might find the body before then. Hell, whoever’s framing him could be calling in an anonymous tip as we speak.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Casey sighed. “You know the drill, right, Mick? Elliott doesn’t say a goddamn word to the cops. Not one.”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. By the way, that was smart thinking, getting rid of the gun. Now make sure he keeps his mouth shut.”
“Don’t worry, I still remember some things about being a lawyer.”
“Glad to hear it. And be careful what you say, too. I’m going to go wrap up here and hit the road. Call me first thing tomorrow.”
She hung up.
“Who the hell was that?” Elliott said.
“Your lawyer.” I looked at Elliott and he frowned back at me.
“So you’re just going to hand me off to some lawyer I’ve never met before and walk away? You’re the one who dug up the goddamn body!”
“And I’m the one who just got you a lawyer.” I took a deep breath. “Look, I know it sucks, but you’re in for a tough ride. You need Casey’s help. She’s as good as they come.”
“What about you?”
“What about me? I got disbarred, remember?”
“But there must be something you can do,” Elliott said, his voice softer now.
“I wish there was. But you need a lawyer and I stopped being one when I punched a prosecutor in open court. I’ll make sure the cops don’t get out of line today, but the sooner you get Casey working for you, the better off you’re going to be.”
Elliott shook his head and went back to staring out the window. I hated the look of disappointment on his face and I hated not being able to do anything about it. But he needed the best legal representation he could get, and that wasn’t me anymore.
We drove the rest of the way back to Elliott’s place in silence. The sun was setting as we got out of my car and walked through to his backyard.
I grabbed my work gloves and the shovel, and walked over to where Betts’s body was buried.
“What are you doing?” Elliott said.
“Making it look like we just found a body.”
I dug until I figured I was close to the body, then knelt down and removed dirt by hand until I’d exposed Betts’s hand and part of his forearm.
“Okay, that’s far enough,” I said.
I dropped the shovel and stretched, groaning at the popping sounds coming from my spine. It was almost nine o’clock and the sun had fully set, the sky taking on a deep blue hue. At least it wasn’t so hot now.
I took out my phone and looked at Elliott. “You ready for this?”
“No,” he said, “but you’re gonna do it anyway.”
I dialed Portland Police Bureau.
“I need to speak to Detective Eddie Buchanan. It’s urgent.”
I waited while the call was connected.
“This is Buchanan. Who’s calling?”
“Detective Buchanan, it’s Mick Ward.”
“Oh great, that’s all I fucking need,” Buchanan said. “I’ve spent the whole goddamn day trying to run down two meth heads who robbed a Korean deli, I’m buried in paperwork, and I’m late for my wife’s birthday dinner. Now some washed-up ex-attorney I haven’t seen for years is calling me. This better be real important, Ward.”
I looked at Malik Betts’s hand, his dead fingers reaching for something they would never find.
“Yeah, it is,” I said.
SIX
NOWHERE TO RUN
We went inside to wait for the police to arrive. The kitchen was just off the back deck, so we stopped there. Elliott sat at the kitchen table and I leaned on the sink.
“What’s the deal with this Buchanan guy?” Elliott said. “Why did you call him?”
“Buchanan’s a decent guy, for a cop. And he’s the only Black detective in the Portland Police, so you won’t get any racist shit from him.” I didn’t tell him Buchanan was also the one who told me that the cops conspired with the DA to set me up and get me disbarred, so I knew he played it straight.
“Okay.” Elliott rummaged through a pile of papers on the Formica table and pulled one out, then he unfolded it and slapped it down with his palm.
“See that?” he said, stabbing a finger at the page. “Blueprints for the yard work. The driveway goes where the body is. You shouldn’t have been digging there.”
“If I hadn’t, in a day or so the police would be finding a dead body in your yard and the murder weapon in your nightstand. So maybe it’s a good thing you never showed me those plans.”
Elliott put his head in his hands. He sat there for a while, then looked up at me, close to tears. “I’m sorry I got mad at you before, Mick. I know you’re trying to help. But I gotta tell you, I’m pretty damn scared here.”
“I know you are. Hang in there, buddy.”
“What happens now?”
“Buchanan will be here soon, with his partner and a crime scene team. Buchanan will want to interview you. You remember what Casey said, right? About not talking?”
“Yeah, I knew that already,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten everything you taught me.”
“Good. That’s crucial. Don’t say a word—let me do the talking, and that won’t be much. The crime scene team will seal off the scene and search it, dig the body up, take soil samples and whatever other evidence they can find.”
“What about my house? Will they search my house?”
“I expect so,” I said. “They’ll claim they don’t need a warrant. I think they do, and I’ll try to stop them, but we’re probably going to have to let the lawyers fight over that later.”
“I can’t believe this shit is happening. Twenty-four hours ago I was getting a big award. Now I’ll be lucky if I don’t end up in jail tonight.”
“They won’t arrest you,” I said. “Not yet. They need something more than the body to have probable cause.”
I tried to think of something more, something comforting, to say, but I struck out. An awkward silence followed, eventually broken by the sound of cars pulling up outside.
The front curtains were open and blue lights flashed against the walls. We left the kitchen and went out onto the front porch.
“Remember, don’t say a word,” I said, gesturing for Elliott to stay behind me.
Three vehicles had pulled up outside Elliott’s house: an unmarked blue Ford Crown Victoria, a Portland Police patrol car and a black Crime Scene Unit van. The crime scene team got out of the van and put on yellow protective suits and boot covers. Meanwhile, two guys in plain clothes, one Black and one white, got out of the unmarked vehicle and approached us, followed by two uniformed officers from the patrol car.
The two guys walking towards us wore sports coats and white shirts, their ties loose and top buttons undone. I knew them both all too well. Detective Eddie Buchanan was the taller of the two, with a shaved head, a sagging belly and deep wrinkles in his tired face. Like I’d told Elliott, he was the only Black detective in the Portland Police and earning his badge had been a tough road. Buchanan always rode his cases hard. He pushed at every detail, like he knew he had to be twice as good as the white guys. But he played by the rules and he did right by me when he could have kept his mouth shut. The guy next to him was another story.
Short and stocky, with mouth curled in a permanent sneer and a thick scar on his lower lip, Detective James Malone looked every bit what he was—an old-school prick. Back when he was in uniform, before cops wore body cameras, he was notorious for beating the shit out of suspects and booking them for resisting arrest. He looked like a bar-room brawler after one too many bouts. He had a reputation as a racist too, so Buchanan had to love working with him.
“Mick Ward,” Buchanan said as they approached me. “Still causing trouble after all these years.”
“Good to see you Detective,” I replied. I nodded at Malone. “I see they let you keep the puppy.”
Malone moved towards me, but Buchanan put an arm out to stop him. “Settle down,” he snapped. “Okay, Ward, what’s the deal with this body?”
“Detectives, this is Elliott Russell, the homeowner. Mr. Russell has an attorney, Casey Raife. I believe you know her. Ms. Raife is on her way back to Portland from a conference in Sunriver, and Mr. Russell will not be speaking to you until he has had a chance to meet with her. Before we go any further, I need you to acknowledge that you understand.”
“Elliott Russell the BLM guy, right?” Malone said. “I’m gonna enjoy locking your ass up.”
I ignored him and looked at Buchanan. “I’m waiting.”
“Fine, whatever,” Buchanan said. “Now, can you tell us what’s going on here?”
“This way, guys,” I said, and led them around the side of the house.
I stopped the group by the hole containing Betts’s body. Buchanan leaned forward and peered in.
