Matters of Doubt by Warren C Easley Read Free Book Online Page A

fact, he was.
    I leaned back in my chair and stretched. Not a bad night’s work, I decided. Of course, the first thing I should do is talk with the Portland Cold Case Unit, I told myself. The information I’d developed should be of interest to them and Jefferson County. At the same time, I felt more than a little protective of what I’d uncovered. Maybe I should hold off. Talk to Picasso and a couple of the key players first. Check a few things out. That’s what I decided to do.
    I took the back stairs to my bedroom and stood at the open bedroom window drinking in the cool night air. A few lights still flickered in the valley. They looked like a reflection of the stars in the night sky. An owl hooted way up in a Douglas fir next to the house, and a family of coyotes was chorusing merrily down in the quarry.
    I was back in the hunt.

Chapter Seven
    At seven the next morning I was roused from a deep sleep by Archie’s barking and someone banging on the front door. As I staggered down the stairs cursing under my breath, I remembered it was the day the guy who’d agreed to repair my fence in exchange for a divorce was due to start work. He’d brought the materials we discussed and some beat-up tools, but it didn’t take long for me to see he’d never fixed a fence before in his life. I wound up spending the day at the Aerie making sure the job got done. I was tired of skunks and coyotes wandering in at night through the holes in the fence, and Archie was, too.
    This wasn’t exactly the bargain the man and I had struck, but I decided not to make a big deal out of it. Plus, he was out of work and like so many people I represented, shattered by the failure of his marriage. Besides, he may not have known much about fence repair, but he put his back into the work.
    When we broke for lunch, I sent Picasso the following email:
    Hello Picasso,
    I’ve read through your evidence book and have a couple of questions. I’m tied up today, but plan to come to Portland tomorrow. Let me know best time, place for us to talk. Meanwhile, think about the following.
1. Do you know or have you ever heard of someone using the nickname X-Man? Your mom met or talked with him several times and I’d like to know his name.
2. Do you know anything about a story your mom was working on when she disappeared? She might have described it as something big, a “blockbuster,” maybe.
3. Did your mom mention someone named Larry Vincent around the time she disappeared? He’s a DJ at KPOC radio station. I think she had an appointment to meet with him a few days after she disappeared. Just wondering if you remember hearing the name…
    Regards,
    Cal
    It was close to noon the next day when I cleared the Terwilliger curves on the I-5 and Portland’s skyline burst into view, wounded as it was by the new high rise condos built on the river. To the east, Mt. Hood levitated above a sea of low clouds and to the north I could just make out Mt. St. Helens’ decapitated profile. On the way up, the odometer of my three series BMW clicked past 200,000 miles, a milestone that gave me more than a little satisfaction. I’d bought it used at 50,000 miles and was getting my money’s worth. I found a parking space on Couch and walked over to Nando’s building. I was meeting him to check out the place he had offered me.
    Nando showed up five minutes later, impeccably dressed as usual, in a silk tie, finely tailored blazer, sharply creased chinos, and hand-tooled Italian loafers. He opened the front door with a key and waved me in. “Welcome to your new home away from home. I hope you like it.”
    By the sign still hanging above the door—Caffeine Central—I knew it had been a neighborhood coffee shop that had almost certainly been put out of business by the Starbucks perched at the end of the block. “I hope they left the espresso machine hooked up,” I said as I followed him into