Free Matters of Doubt by Warren C Easley

you should distance yourself from this situation.”
    I stopped pacing and turned to face him. “Look, Nando, I gave the kid the benefit of the doubt, okay? He’s being thrown to the wolves by someone, damn it. And you know as well as I do that the justice system will only be too happy to oblige. I can’t just stand by and watch that happen.”
    Nando sighed heavily, nodded, and drained his beer. “So, someone is setting the young artist up?”
    â€œNo question in my mind. I mean, he’d already assaulted the guy once, and it was duly recorded in the newspaper. And to John Q Public he’s nothing but a pierced and tattooed thug—the perfect fall guy.”
    â€œWho would do such a thing?”
    I shrugged. “I don’t have a clue, but I’m willing to bet it has something to do with the discovery of Nicole Baxter’s remains. I think Conyers must have known something, something important enough to get him killed.”
    Nando popped another beer open. “It would seem so. Otherwise, one would have to assume the timing is coincidental, which, of course, it never is.”
    Nando left an hour later. I love the man, but he said absolutely nothing to make me feel better about my choice to stand by Picasso. I suppose that’s what friends are for—to tell you when you’re hell-bent for disaster whether you want to hear it or not. When I was wearing three-piece suits and worrying about my career down in L.A., I would have listened to my friend, but not now. It wasn’t just misplaced idealism, either, damn it. The case just didn’t sit right with me.
    I logged on my computer, typed in a complete set of notes covering the day, then fell into bed. Sleep came quickly, but I had a repeating dream of Conyers’ battered head floating past me as I fished a cold, swift river under a dark sky.
    Early the next morning I called Gertrude Johnson, whose ten-acre spread sat uphill from mine. She was my accountant as well as my only close neighbor and had agreed to feed Archie in my absence. Before I could ask her about my dog, she said, “Listen, Cal, I hope the time you’re spending in Portland is going to result in some receivables, because you were down almost twenty-five percent last month.”
    My stomach took a quarter turn. “Well, some months are like that, Gertie.”
    â€œ Some months? This is getting to be a regular occurrence. You’re down almost twenty percent, year over year,” she shot back.
    â€œPortland’s not like the valley,” I countered. “Business is still pretty good here.” It was a true statement as far as it went. “How’s Archie?” Changing the subject seemed like the best way out.
    After that bracing conversation with Gertie, I headed to the medical clinic on foot with the objective of getting there ahead of Scott and Jones. I arrived at 7:50 to find the place locked and no police in sight. I grabbed an outside table at the little coffee shop and waited with a double cappuccino.
    Ten minutes later I saw Anna Eriksen coming down Davis. You can tell a lot about someone by the way they walk. Anna moved with long strides, her gait fluid, athletic—the walk of someone with strong purpose. Dark slacks accentuated the length of her legs, and I decided she must have chosen medicine over dancing or marathon running. But her shoulders were slightly stooped, and as she juggled her briefcase and fumbled for her keys at the door, I sensed she was tired, maybe exhausted. I wondered when she’d last taken a day off.
    I caught up to her as she was entering the clinic. She turned to speak and the sun lit the streaks of gold in her hair. “Oh, it’s you, Cal. I used the number on your card to call you yesterday and last night, but only got your machine. I’ve been worried sick. Is everything alright?”
    I shook my head. “Sorry. I didn’t check my messages last night.”