Bound by Mystery Page 21

  She gathers up all the shredded paper and rolls it unto a ball, and then tosses it in the bar sink and sets it on fire with a Bic lighter. Flames flicker in her bulging green eyes. I glance toward the soldiers to see what they make of her actions and find they’ve gone.

  A thin rope of smoke rises from the bar sink. Dodo’s torn paper face is now reduced to charred flakes. The woman in white examines the burnt remains and cocks her head, curiously. She parts her wide mouth into a demonic grin. Holding this expression, she rinses the burnt bits of Dodo’s face down the drain, shakes off her smile, and pats her stomach.

  I point a finger gun hand in her direction. “You must be Angie Nowicki.”

  She points to herself with both hands. “I must be.”

  “I’m Oscar Grigio, Dodo’s brother.”

  Her eyes narrow. “The fugitive.”

  “At least I’m not a demon, like you.”

  She pops a hand on one hip. “Wow, you really are as crazy as they say.”

  I rise and get in her face. “Not crazy, just clairvoyant. I knew something bad was going to happen to Dodo, today. At first, I thought he died of a heart attack. Then I figured he kicked it because your dad broke his picture. Now I’m considering the possibility that you poisoned him. Murder by manicotti, perhaps. I noticed there were mushrooms in that dish you made.” I fold my arms. “Dodo said you forage in the woods for your own cooking ingredients. I know death cap mushrooms taste delicious. But nobody dies that quickly from mushroom poisoning. However, the Dorian Gray in the book was protected from poisoning and ailments, only as long as his picture remained intact. So I’m guessing that once your dad ruined Dodo’s picture all the poisons you’d given him kicked in at once.”

  She lifts an evangelistic finger over her head and stares into my one good eye. “Better for him that each sin of his life had brought its sure swift penalty along with it. There was purification in punishment.”

  I grab the balding side of my head. “Whoa. That’s from the ending of the The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

  She claps. “You’re such a clever fugitive.”

  I lunge in and grab the thin chiffon sleeve of her blouse. She pulls away, ripping it at the shoulder. “I know a demon when I see one,” I say, shaking. “You won’t get away with this. I’ll force the cops to test Dodo for mushroom poisoning.”

  “They won’t listen to you.” She bolts for the main room, pointing behind her. “Help!” she cries. “Officer Cieco! Anybody! That creep in the orange shirt just attacked me!”

  I fly out the back door. I still know the fastest way out of town. I’m headed back to Southern California, where everybody understands the power of ageless Dorian Grays, precognition, angels, demons, past lives, and afterlives.

  La Corazonada

  Warren C. Easley

  How I Almost Didn’t Become a Poisoned Pen Author: In the spring of 2012, I finished a manuscript I was very proud of. The title was Matters of Doubt, and it featured my protagonist, Cal Claxton, coming to the aid of a young homeless man accused of a brutal murder in Portland, Oregon. This was the fourth manuscript I had competed in the series. The first I wisely put in a desk drawer, and the two before M of D I shopped around. Both manuscripts caught the attention of Annette Rogers at Poisoned Pen Press, at least to the extent that she wrote me a couple of rejection letters that gave me hope!

  I took the critiques in those letters to heart, and when I submitted Matters of Doubt, figured I had a real contender, my best work by far! I heard nothing back. Not even a friendly rejection from Annette? I was hurt, maybe a little mad. Meanwhile, the manuscript was getting a lot of attention elsewhere. Almost as an afterthought, I e-mailed Annette because, well, I wanted to write for PPP. The same day, I got back a note from her saying “Resubmit. We changed our process and you got lost in the shuffle.” I resubmitted the manuscript and signed a three-book deal with Poisoned Pen Press three months later. Whew.

  —W.C.E.

  ***

  On a gorgeous May morning, Albert Kleinman decided he would take the afternoon off at his law office in Southeast Portland. Albert practiced alone, doing a little criminal defense, mainly DUIs, some divorces, and a lot of pro bono for people in his neighborhood whose boats had not been lifted by the tide of the so-called recovery. He was placing a Closed sign in the front window of his office when a young woman came in carrying a small briefcase. She wore a hat with a broad rim, large dark glasses that concealed her eyes, and delicate black gloves. Her legs were slim and pretty. Albert invited her to sit and chuckled to himself. She reminded him of Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and he wondered if one of his friends had sent her as some kind of joke.

  But the woman was all business. “Are you Albert Kleinman?”

  “In the flesh,” he said, suppressing a smile. “You can call me Al.”

  “Okay, Al. My name’s Stephanie Nicholson. I’m a personal representative of Ms. Johnson. We need your help in closing a business transaction, and we understand that you know how to handle…um, things of a sensitive and confidential nature.”

  Albert nodded, still half expecting a joke to be sprung. “Go on. I’m all about sensitive and confidential.”

  The woman sat up a little straighter, smoothed the skirt on her lap, and when she spoke her lip quivered perceptibly. “A man has some photographs we wish to purchase. We would like you to negotiate with him and secure the best price. And by no means do we wish the deal to fall through.”

  Albert frowned. Clearly, this wasn’t a joke. “That sounds like a job for the police. Extortion’s a felony, you know.”

  The woman’s slender neck contracted as she swallowed, and a muscle rippled along her jawline. “We just want to purchase the photographs and the digital record. You can call the photos art treasures, whatever. There’s no crime involved.”

  Albert leaned forward and opened his hands for emphasis. “Look, Stephanie, the police know how to handle this sort of thing. You can have this guy put away for a long time.”

  She folded her hands in her lap and summoned a look of fierce determination. “Ms. Johnson must have the photographs back.”

  Albert paused for several moments and the woman sat there watching him from behind her dark glasses. Finally he said, “What price range are you talking about for these art treasures?”

  “The seller is asking two hundred and fifty.”

  “Thousand?”

  “Yes.”

  Albert snapped his head back and whistled. “They must be very valuable, these treasures.”

  “Ms. Johnson will give you five thousand in cash now and another five when you close the deal. In addition, you can keep anything you save off the two-fifty.”

  Albert knew he should have halted the process right then and there, but there was something about this young woman that drew him in. A protective instinct born of her apparent vulnerability and fear, or was it the fact that she was pretty and reminded him of one of his favorite movie characters? A little of both, perhaps. In any case, he was also behind a month in his rent.

  He agreed to help her, and after she signed a hastily drawn-up contract she said, “I’ll let you know when and where to meet this man for the negotiations.” Then she picked up her briefcase. “There’s, um, one more thing. Ms. Johnson’s afraid of this man. She purchased a gun for protection, but she doesn’t know the first thing about it.” She opened the briefcase and handed him the gun, her gloved hand trembling ever so slightly.

  Albert examined the weapon. “This is a street gun.” He pointed at the barrel. “See? The serial number’s been filed off. Where did you get this?”

  “Um, Ms. Johnson bought it from her gardener.”

  “This thing’s bad news. Tell your Ms. Johnson to get rid of it.”

  Instead of responding, the woman reached into the briefcase and produced a box of cartridges. “Can you show me
how to use it, please?”

  Albert shook his head, but it was clear there was no changing her mind. While the young woman watched, he loaded the weapon then unloaded it and showed her how to snap the safety on and off.

  He knew it was a foolish act, and he pushed down a feeling of having been manipulated. After she left, he took a beer from a small refrigerator, sat back down with his feet on the desk, and exhaled a long breath. The encounter stirred up thoughts of his ex-wife. She left him for a young pro-golfer, and, accustomed to the better things in life, demanded half of everything, including his big salary at the most prestigious law firm in Portland. Albert’s response was to resign his partnership in the firm, sell the house and most of their belongings, and write a very big check to his favorite charity, Mercy Corps.

  Even now, three years later, he laughed aloud thinking about what happened next. She flew into a rage, broke off the affair with the golfer, and returned to Portland, threatening to sue. But it was too late, the assets were gone. Being a resourceful woman, she gave up on the suit and took up with and married one of Albert’s previous partners, a man of considerable means.

  Alfred considered this his finest hour, and the truth was his wife had done him a great favor. His new, more authentic life brought him great satisfaction and even a few moments of happiness.

  ***

  The next day Albert met the man with the photographs in a small park in downtown Portland. He had an eastern European accent and the nervous manner of a drug addict. After heated negotiations during which the man repeatedly raised his voice, they agreed on a price of two hundred thousand, to be paid in cash upon receipt of the photos and the digital card they came on. Albert understood why he was hired as a go-between. The man was unstable.

  Things happened very quickly after that meeting in the park. The young woman called that night, and Albert told her the terms of the deal. She said she would bring him the money the following evening so that he could arrange the exchange. Albert was to wait for her alone at his home.

  But she didn’t show that night, and she didn’t call to explain.

  While having his morning coffee the following day, Albert saw a grainy picture in the newspaper of a man who looked very much like the blackmailer. The caption read—Man Slain in Pearl District Apartment. The victim was forty-one-year-old Sergei Kuznetsov. He’d been shot in the head. The motive appeared to be robbery.

  A feeling of alarm gripped Albert, and he thought about contacting the police. But he wasn’t certain that the murder victim was the man he’d met in the park, so he did nothing. The young woman still hadn’t called the next day, and by that time Albert was pretty sure she wouldn’t. He was just leaving for his law office when the police arrived. They’d received an anonymous tip that he’d been seen with the murder victim at Overton Park two days earlier. They produced a clearer photograph of the victim, and Albert admitted that was the man he’d met with.

  “What was the nature of your meeting?” he was asked.

  “I was negotiating a business matter on behalf of a client.”

  “What caused the argument?”

  “Argument? There was no argument. Just a business negotiation.”

  Albert was pressed for the name of his client and the subject of the meeting. He said he would have to get back with them after speaking to his client—something he knew wouldn’t happen because by now he was certain he’d been set up.

  The next morning the detectives arrived again, this time with warrants to search Albert’s office, car, and house. They started with his car, and in the trunk behind the spare tire they found a gun and fifteen thousand dollars in cash. Although he pointed to scratches on the driver’s side door, the police seemed skeptical of Albert’s claim that he didn’t know how the items got there and noted his lack of an alibi for the night Kuznetsov was killed.

  Crime lab confirmation that the gun found in his car was the murder weapon was swift, as was the discovery of his prints on the weapon. Albert was arrested, formally charged with murder, and held without bail. Sergei Kuznetsov, it was revealed, was a high-roller who supplied drugs to the wealthy and was famous for flashing cash around in the bars and restaurants in the Pearl District. The motive was robbery, and the police were confident that they had arrested his killer.

  ***

  Albert was in denial about the seriousness of his situation, and it wasn’t until he found himself in jail that he called his good friend Hernando Mendoza, a private investigator. Nando—as he was called by his friends—was a Cuban American who had made his way from his island homeland to Florida in a makeshift raft of his own making fifteen years earlier.

  “How are you? Nando asked as Albert was led into the interview room and shackled to a steel chair bolted to the floor.

  “I’d be better if you’d brought me a plato comunista from Pambiche. The food in this place is inedible.”

  Nando laughed as he was prone to do, a deep, baritone rumble that filled the room. “When we get you out of here, my friend, I will take you to dinner, my treat.”

  Albert filled Nando in, and when he finished sighed deeply and shook his head in disbelief. “I was a fool to have trusted her, Nando. I read her wrong. I figured she was the one who wanted the pictures back, and I felt, you know, some kind of obligation to help her.”

  “What is done is done, my friend. Have you thought about a lawyer?”

  Albert laughed bitterly. “Two old colleagues of mine have called already. But they don’t work for free, do they? No, I’m going to represent myself.”

  “Is this wise, Albert?”

  “Hell, no, it’s not wise. You know what they say about a lawyer who represents himself?”

  Nando shook his head.

  “He represents a fool, that’s what. But I don’t have the money for a lawyer. It’s you and me, Nando.”

  They came up with three things that afternoon for Nando to investigate. First they wondered if the woman had driven to Albert’s office. If so, had someone in a neighboring shop noticed what kind of car she was driving or if someone had dropped her off? Second, they wanted to know where the woman got the pistol used to kill Kuznetsov. The police would also be looking at this, but Nando knew people on the street to ask who would never talk to the police. Third, they wanted to see if they could find an alibi for Albert. He had been tricked into staying home alone the night of the murder, but perhaps one of his neighbors had seen him through a window? Or perhaps they had seen someone breaking into his car that night?

  The list was a short one, but the friends parted sharing a sliver of hope.

  ***

  They met again in the jail three days later. Nando said, “My friend, you do not look so good. Are you getting enough sleep?”

  Albert shook his head. “Hell, no. This place never quiets down. If it isn’t a fight or someone snoring like a locomotive, then they’re bringing in some drunk at three in the morning. Christ, Nando, I’ve got to get out of here.”

  Nando frowned and cast his eyes down. “I’m sorry, but the news is not so good. I visited every shop for five blocks on either side of your office. No one noticed a woman like the one who calls herself Stephanie Nicholson. I put the word out on the street that I wanted information on any handguns sold recently, but I have not heard a word back.”

  Albert shook his head. “Damn. I was hoping you’d get a line on the gun. Did my neighbors see anything?”

  “Nothing. I talked to all of them. In Cuba a car break-in like this would not be possible. People live on their front porches there. You Americans are either on your little phones or watching the TV.”

  After more discussion, they decided Nando should focus next on the victim, Sergei Kuznetsov, his background, his friends, and his hangouts. Perhaps this would provide a lead. Other than that, their only hope was that someone would come back to Nando with information on the murder weapon.

&
nbsp; It was hard for Nando to leave his friend that night. He knew Albert’s heart was heavy with worry. But he had an idea. In Spanish, it’s called una corazonada. A hunch. But he didn’t mention it to Albert. He didn’t want to raise his hopes until he was more certain.

  Two days later Nando was sitting in the conference room when they brought Albert in. There had been no word on the murder weapon and no leads on Kuznetsov. Albert slumped down in his chair, looked at his friend, and raised his eyebrows as if to say, why did you come?

  Nando took an envelope from his briefcase and slid it over to Albert. His heart was beating like it had the night he launched his raft for Florida. “Do you recognize this woman?”

  Albert opened the envelope and slid out a photograph. He looked down at it and then back at Nando. “My God, where did you get this?”

  “Is she the one who visited you?”

  “I think so. Who the hell is she?”

  Nando let out the breath he had been holding. “Her name is Nicole Stephan. The woman who visited you said her name was Stephanie Nicolson. Do you get it? It’s a play on her real name.”

  “My God, Nando, you’re right.”

  “She has been missing for five days. Her car was found at a trailhead up on Mt. Hood. They are looking for her as we talk.”

  Albert studied the photo more carefully, then nodded with firmness. “Yes, I’m certain it’s her. She’s the right age, the nose and mouth are right. She had those huge dark glasses on, but I’m still certain. How in the hell did you find her?”

  Nando smiled with modesty. “It was not difficult. One thing I know about you, Albert—you are a very good judge of character. After all, you chose me as a friend. So I asked myself, what if the woman didn’t know she was setting you up? What if she thought she was helping someone, a friend, perhaps? Then her sincerity would have seemed genuine, am I not correct?”

  Albert nodded. “I suppose so.”

  “Such a person could have fooled you, no?