Fatal flaw, p.12
Fatal Flaw, page 12
“At the top. I care for her, Gertie,” I said without hesitation. “But I have to be honest about who I am and what I value.”
“Of course you do. Look, she’s as stubborn as you are, Cal, but I know for a fact that she cares for you, too.” Gerties eyes got a little shiny, the closest thing I’d ever seen to her tearing up. “I hope you two don’t blow it. That would be a damn shame.” She forced a smile. “And that’s all I’m going to say on the subject.”
We finished our Scotches, and Arch and I were halfway across the field connecting our properties when Timoteo called. “Something’s up, Cal!” he began. “An ambulance just showed up in the motel parking lot, and two paramedics rushed up to the room BB’s staying in.”
“You’re sure it was his room?”
“Positive. They’re in there now. The door’s shut, so I can’t see anything. I’ll call you back when they come out.” Ten minutes later: “Here they come. I’ve got my night-vision binocs on them. Oh, shit! BB’s on a stretcher. He’s got a mask on, too. Looks like they’re giving him oxygen or something.”
“Follow the ambulance,” I said. “Find out where they take him. You didn’t see anyone go in or out before they arrived, right?”
“No one. And I had eyes on the room the whole time. I’ll call you back.”
Twenty minutes later, Timoteo informed me BB had been taken to Adventist Hospital on SE Market. “I parked and watched them unload him,” he explained. “He was definitely on oxygen. I followed the stretcher into the ER, and one of the attending nurses asked if I was a friend of BBs. I said I was, thinking they might tell me what was going on. Instead, she asked if I’d had close contact with him. I told her no and asked why. ‘Just procedure,’ she told me, but I think they were worried about Covid-19 exposure.”
“I was afraid of that.”
Chapter Twenty
“Any luck?” I said to Esperanza first thing the next morning.
“Well,” she said, “I had to make four phone calls, but I got some information. Boykin has a severe respiratory illness. They’re running tests. He’s diabetic, which puts him at greater risk, I was told.”
“Does he have the Covid virus?”
“My source didn’t say, but I don’t think his prognosis is very good, Cal.”
My heart sank. My key witness was out of circulation just when I needed him, and he might die on me, too. “Thanks, Esperanza. I’m not going to ask about how you got around the HIPAA rules.”
She laughed. “Don’t. It wasn’t easy. I don’t feel bad about it, though. Like you suggested, no names were used, just the time of his arrival at Adventist and the fact that he was being administered oxygen when he was admitted.”
“Have you heard from Nando?”
“Yes, just yesterday.”
“Is he worried he’ll get stuck there or quarantined because of the virus? I understand Europe’s restricting travel now.”
An exasperated sigh. “Does Nando worry about anything?”
I laughed. “Yeah, that was a dumb question. Keep me posted. And thanks again, Esperanza.”
Afterwards, my gut turned sour. I was concerned about Nando staying safe in Cuba and, closer to home, what his absence meant for me. It was like being on a high wire without a net. I missed my wingman.
I called Ned Gillian next and gave him the bad news. “This damn virus is worrisome,” he commented. “I read there’s been quite an outbreak at a nursing home in Washington. How do you know BB didn’t expose you?”
“He looked a little feverish, so I gave him a wide berth, and we were outside.”
“That was wise, my friend.”
Archie and I left for Willow’s place in Southeast Portland next. We were on our way to Malcolm Bainbridge’s house to search for his laboratory notebook. I’d warned her about my exposure to BB, and we decided that as a precaution she would ride in the backseat with Tater and Archie, and despite the early morning chill we would put the windows halfway down. After she nestled a sleeping Tater into her car seat, Willow looked at me and shook her head in disgust. “Donny wouldn’t give me the key, of course. He insisted on meeting us there.”
I’d warned her that might happen. “They’re playing keep away with the key so they can keep an eye on us,” I explained. “I’ve written Bower a letter with a copy to the probate judge demanding a key. This won’t happen again.”
Wearing a heavy Carhartt jacket and a flat-billed ball cap with ‘Zero Fucks Given’ emblazoned on it, Donny Romano was slouched on the front porch steps when we arrived. He stood, smiled without warmth and looked at Tater, who was still snoozing in her mom’s front pack. “Jesus, Willow, you ever hear of babysitters?”
“You can open up and leave the key, Donny,” she answered, her voice level but her face rigid with defiance. “No need to waste your valuable time here.”
“That’s okay. I think I’ll stay around.” Another arctic smile. “We can catch up, Cuz.” He opened the front door, slipped the key into his jacket pocket, and hung the jacket on a corner coat rack.
We were halfway down the front hallway when Willow, who was leading the way, stopped abruptly and gasped. “The Ansel Adams photographs. Where are they?” The hallway walls were bare, where more than twenty large prints had been the last time I was in the house. She spun around and glared at Donny, her eyes burning with anger. “What did you do?”
He stepped back and opened his hands. “Whatdaya mean? I didn’t do anything. What the fuck did you do?”
Willow looked at me, tears brimming in her eyes. “What happened to them?”
“Let’s check the house for signs of a break-in,” I said. When we got to the studio, Willow gasped again. A side window was wide open, and the back door was ajar. After checking the rest of the house to make sure the photographs were indeed gone, I called 911 and reported the theft.
The animosity between the cousins was palpable, and I was relieved when Donny chose to isolate himself in the living room with his cell phone while Willow was distracted by the act of feeding and changing her daughter. Archie and I waited on the front porch. It took twenty minutes for a patrol car and two officers to arrive.
The lead officer’s eyebrows rose in surprise when he was told how much the photographs were worth. He immediately called in to request a full investigative team. Meanwhile, he questioned us, saying at one point, “Do you have any idea who could have done this?”
I shook my head and Donny shrugged, but Willow narrowed down her eyes and pointed directly at her cousin. “He did it. I know it.”
Donny’s face contorted with rage. “You lie, you little bitch!” He took a threatening step toward Willow and Tater, and I instinctively moved between them. He shoved me hard, and in the exchange his nose somehow found my elbow. Imagine that. He cried out and dropped to one knee, catching a few drops of blood in his palm. He looked up at me, then the officer, his expression dripping with self-pity. “He assaulted me. Arrest him.”
The officer rolled his eyes and after examining Donny’s nose said, “You all need to calm down. I’m not arresting anybody at the moment, but don’t tempt me again.” He separated us, and by the time he and his partner finished their preliminary questioning, a forensic team arrived along with a detective from the robbery division.
The detective cut us loose a half hour later, but not before requesting that we stop by the police bureau building the next morning to leave our fingerprints. Donny scurried out to his car and took off with squealing rubber. That was the moment Willow reached into her coat pocket, withdrew her hand, and held up a key. “Well, at least we can get in the house now,” she said with a triumphant look. “I lifted it from Donny’s jacket. He was so anxious to get out of here he didn’t think of locking the door. Now we can look for that notebook without him being around.”
We locked up, got in the car, and rushed to Cartopia to give Willow enough time to prepare for the Saturday lunch traffic. Trying to contain a smile, I said, “You sure didn’t hold anything back in there.”
I caught her concerned look in the rearview mirror. “Did I go too far by accusing Donny?”
I had to laugh. “Not in the least. The cops needed to hear that. You project a kind of righteous indignation that’s very persuasive.”
“Well, there’s no doubt in my mind. Donny took them.” She paused for a moment. “But I doubt he acted alone. Initiative’s not his strong suit.” She frowned. “I’ll bet Gloria planned this and used her puppy dog to do the dirty work.”
“Could be,” I said, “and my guess is Bower’s involved as well.”
“Will we ever get the pictures back?”
“Hard to say, but they’re hot, so it’ll be hard for whoever it is to unload them for a while. That works in our favor.”
She sobbed, a single gasp. I glanced in the mirror again. Tears were streaming down her face. “Those photographs were the only thing in that house I cared about.” She sniffed. “I learned so much from them—composition, lighting, perspective. Uncle Mal and I used to pour over them, sometimes for hours. I can’t believe they’re gone.”
“Well, between what I told the detective and what you said, I’m sure they’re going to look hard at Donny.”
“I hope so,” she said. “Maybe they’ll recover them before he does something unthinkable, like destroy them if he can’t sell them. They’re evidence, after all.”
“I doubt that will happen,” I reassured her. The real danger, I said to myself, is that they’ll wind up on the walls of some billionaire collector with no scruples. “Let’s look for that laboratory notebook first thing tomorrow.” She agreed.
I had a quick lunch at Cartopia and then headed back across the Hawthorne Bridge. Willow said she was closing Plat du Jour early to attend Wanda Jenkins’s funeral, a funeral Wanda’s brother would not be able to attend. Before I left, I reiterated the need for her to be cautious, although I didn’t go so far as to name what had become obvious—if BB was right about his sister’s death not being an accident, then we were dealing with two brutal murders, not one.
An unsettling thought.
Chapter Twenty-One
As I crossed the Willamette later that afternoon, I called Spectro System CEO Bradley Nielsen, hoping to catch him in the office. He picked up, and I said in a bright, cheery voice, “Working on a weekend, I see, Bradley. This is Cal Claxton.”
“It’s all-hands-on-deck around here,” he replied, his tone all business. He went on to say he was glad I called, that he’d been wondering how my investigation was going. It was just the response I was hoping for, and I said I’d drop by to update him in within the hour.
The parking lot adjacent to the Spectro Vision building was filled, and I had to park out on the street. I announced myself and waited at the reception desk until an escort showed up, a harried-looking young man wearing a stained lab coat and high-top North Face hiking boots. Nielsen was on the phone but waved me in anyway. I took a seat just as he thanked the caller and hung up.
“That was a contact in the New York State Department of Health I was talking to,” he said, referring to the phone conversation. “They’re starting to see some Covid-19 cases, but the test kits sent out by the CDC fail half the time.”
The comment—which seemed like something inappropriate to share with me—caught me off guard. “That sounds bad,” I said.
“Bad for New York but good for us. If Covid-19 takes off in this country, we could be a major player. Put a test kit in every home.” He smiled, relishing the thought. “We weren’t even counting on the domestic market…and now this.”
Rooting for the virus seemed obscene, but I swallowed a sarcastic comment. “I thought you said we’d have no trouble containing the virus.”
“We can if we get on top of it, but I’m beginning to wonder. I think the man in the White House is more worried about the economy. The Chinese are shutting their cities down, and Italy is heading in that direction.”
“How are the InstaVision tests going?”
“The key tests are underway. Meanwhile, more of our internal results are in from Trenton’s tests. They look tremendous.” He paused. “We could own this market. Malcolm’s gone, but we haven’t missed a beat.”
“Has the issue of inventorship between Malcolm and Eric Trenton been sorted out?” I asked.
He swung his eyes to mine. “That’s company confidential.”
“Trenton’s got a credibility problem, you know.”
He kept his eyes fixed on me. “What do you mean by that?”
“A lot of his co-workers don’t believe he invented InstaVision. They’re saying Malcolm Bainbridge deserves the credit, that he was the brains behind the breakthrough. What’s your view?”
His neck bloomed reddish, and his jawline flexed like he was biting down on something hard and flat. “Who’s saying that?”
I smiled to provoke him even further. “I can’t reveal my sources, or they’ll dry up. You wanted me to keep you apprised, right? Well, this is what I’m hearing.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Actually, I don’t give a shit. I own the patent in either case. And Trenton’s got notebook entries that back up his claims. But if this palace intrigue shit gets out, it could be very damaging.” He paused and cocked his head. “What else have you heard?”
“Some of your employees aren’t buying the suicide, despite the medical examiner’s findings. I’m also hearing that the animosity between Bainbridge and Trenton was intense. Is this true?”
Nielsen came forward in his chair. “Meaning?”
“It’s just a question.”
He sighed and shook his head. “We’re about ready to close a major deal. Like I told you last time, just the appearance of a scandal could blow it. Who the hell’s spreading these conspiracy theories? I need to know.”
I looked at him straight on. “What you need to know is the truth. I’m no patent attorney, but I know that misidentification of inventorship can invalidate a patent.” I waited for that to sink in. “I need to talk to Eric Trenton. It would help if you could set something up.” It was a blatant bluff I wasn’t sure Nielsen would buy, but it was worth a try. “Tell him you’ve asked me to identify who’s spreading rumors or something along those lines.”
Nielsen leaned back in his chair and massaged his temples with his brow scrunched up and his eyes closed. “I’ll think about it.”
With that, he called someone to escort me out. I stopped in the entryway at a photo display of company executives. Malcolm Bainbridge was in a prominent spot, and next to him was a smiling Eric Trenton. Now at least I knew what Trenton looked like.
As I walked back to my car, I wondered about the relationship between Trenton and Bradley Nielsen. Bainbridge’s death, after all, benefitted them both in a timely, substantial way. Was Nielsen too cavalier about the patent issue? Wouldn’t he be concerned that Bainbridge’s notebook could turn up and complicate the process? Maybe he knew for certain it wouldn’t.
My persons of interest list, I realized, was divided into three distinct populations, each potentially driven by different motives. The Gloria, Donny, Bower cohort benefitted from the value of Bainbridge’s estate, and Nielsen and Trenton gained from having Bainbridge out of the picture at Spectra Vision. I wasn’t sure what Benny Boykin could’ve gained—probably cold, hard cash—but I suspected he’d done some, if not all, of the dirty work and because of the death of his sister, he was now ready to spill his guts.
Get well, soon, BB, I said to myself.
Chapter Twenty-Two
When Arch and I arrived at the Aerie that evening, Zoe’s Prius was parked in the driveway, a sight that did my heart good. I found her on the side porch, sitting next to my blazing propane fire pit wearing a ski jacket and a knit cap. A bottle of wine sat next to her along with two wide-bowled glasses, the kind you drink a big red from. After greeting Archie, she stood, and I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her hard, breathing in a scent of lavender. Stay cool, I told myself. Keep your emotions in check.
“I missed you, too,” she said as we uncoiled. She motioned toward the wine. “I brought a Le Petit Truc pinot. Gertie gave it to me. She said you’d appreciate it.”
I studied the bottle for a moment. “Wow, a 2012. Probably Jim Kavanaugh’s best vintage ever.” I laughed but didn’t say what I thought—that Gertie was playing Cupid. “I suppose this means I’m cooking tonight.”
She smiled the smile that came so easily, that bloomed on her face like a flower. Her blond hair, aged to a pleasing ash color, brushed her shoulders, and her big, expressive eyes shone slate blue in the fading light. “Would you?”
“I’ll see what I can come up with,” I said, “but you’re the sous chef.” I uncorked the wine, poured us each a glass, and after savoring the deep, fragrant bouquet we clinked glasses and sipped while catching each other up.
“I finished three chapters this week,” Zoe began. She talked with animation about her book, lifting her chin to say, “Even wrote some pretty decent dialogue, I think.” She paused for a moment, her eyes brightening with what she was about to say. “Something pretty crazy happened, too. I planned to bring my protagonist’s daughter in for one chapter—you know, a cameo—then send her on her way, but guess what?”
I smiled at her enthusiasm. “What?”
“She refused to go! She’s demanding a bigger part in the book. And it seems so easy to write her that I think I’ll do it.” Zoe laughed and shook her head. “I sure didn’t see that coming.”
I joined her laughter. “That’s a daughter for you.”
We’d finished a first glass of wine by the time we got around to my news. I poured us another—it was Saturday night, after all—and hit the high points, the biggest being the hospitalization of BB and the theft of the Ansel Adams photographs. When I finished, she said, “That’s rotten luck about BB. Any way to get your lawyer friend into the hospital to talk to him?”
