Read Matters of Doubt for Free Online Page A

his head. “He was a jealous little shit.”
    â€œDid he ever hit her?”
    â€œYeah. A couple of times, at least. Then he’d come crawling back.”
    â€œWhat about you?”
    â€œHe knew that if he touched a hair on my head, my mom would kill him.”
    â€œHe’s still in Portland?”
    â€œOh yeah. He owns a high-end steak joint downtown, on Second, I think.”
    â€œThe Happy Angus?”
    â€œThat’s it, I think. I’m not a regular there.”
    I smiled. “I’ve heard of the place. It’s a Portland landmark.” I drained my tea and waived off a second cup. Antioxidants aside, next to a cup of coffee, drinking tea’s like kissing your sister. “Do you have any idea why your mom’s remains wound up in a reservoir on the Deschutes River?”
    He shrugged as a cloud of pain crossed his face. “No. I tried to find a connection between Conyers and the person who owns that property over there. His name was in the paper. But I didn’t get anywhere.”
    â€œWhat about the woman you tried to confront. What’s her name?”
    â€œJessica Armandy. I think she’s a high-class hooker or something.”
    â€œA hooker?”
    â€œYeah, you know the look, right? Tits on display, too much makeup, and lots of sparkly jewelry.”
    â€œHow does she fit in?”
    â€œAll I know is that Conyers trotted her out when he needed an alibi. Very convenient.”
    As our talk wound down, the lamp began to run out of propane. It started hissing, casting the room in a flickering white light. Standing at the door with the briefcase in my hand, I said, “I’ll find my way out. I got what I need, at least for now. I’ll look this stuff over and get back to you—by email, I guess. We don’t have a lot to go on yet, so I need you to stay patient.”
    Picasso rolled his eyes. “We know who the fuck did it, man. All we need is a little proof.”
    â€œI hope you’re right,” I responded. As I started up the path, I saw the shadowy outline of Joey. I told him good night but he didn’t answer.
    It had been a long day, and I wasn’t looking forward to the long drive back to Dundee. I worked my way over to the I-5, and when I’d cleared Portland heading south, I called Nando on my Bluetooth. “Calvin, my friend, what can I do for you?” he answered.
    â€œI talked to Stout.”
    â€œSo quickly? Thank you.”
    I laughed. “Don’t thank me yet. It was brief. He’s heard of you, Nando. He said you need to clean up your act, that the cops tell him your agency has a reputation for cutting corners.”
    Nando blew a loud breath into the phone. “I am not cutting the corners. I am running a business , and for a business to make money, it must get results.”
    â€œThe police don’t care about your results. They just care about how you go about getting them. There’s a difference.”
    â€œSo, is my license in jeopardy?”
    â€œI don’t think so. Stout said he’d look into the situation and get back to me.” Nando grumbled something in Spanish I didn’t catch, and I changed the subject. “Listen, I’m going to need your help on something.” I filled him in on the murder of Nicole Baxter and answered his questions.
    When I finished, Nando said, “Is this homeless artist able to pay you your usual fee?”
    â€œUh, yeah. His mother left him some money.” I didn’t tell him Picasso was saving that money for art school. “We’ll work it out.”
    â€œGood. I know your weakness for charity cases, my friend. And you know my unwillingness to work for nothing. I do not wish to see you get hurt financially on this.”
    â€œNot a problem,” I said, trying to convey more conviction than I felt.
    â€œIt sounds like you will be spending more time than usual in Portland on this case. Where are you