Matters of Doubt by Warren C Easley Page A

break.”
    â€œDo you have any idea how this Milo could be connected to the murder of the boyfriend?”
    â€œLike I said, he was the one who gave Picasso the message from Conyers, which was probably a forgery. Other than that, I’ve got nothing. I saw some pills in the apartment and grabbed one.” I pulled it out of my pocket and slid it across the metal desk between us. “Looks like a prescription med. Any idea what it is?”
    Nando looked the pill over, which had the number 512 imprinted on it. “Definitely a pain pill of some kind. They are very popular these days. It seems our young people are in a lot of pain. I will check it out. Have you reported the death?”
    â€œNo. That’s why I’m here. Can you do that for me? I really don’t need Portland homicide to know I was snooping around there.”
    â€œOf course. I always keep a prepaid cell phone handy.”
    I gave him Milo’s address. “Just tell them you’re a concerned neighbor and his radio’s been blasting for hours.”
    â€œWhat about his story about the bike messenger? It would be easy for me to check it out with the messenger services.”
    I hesitated as Gertrude Johnson’s warning about my finances rang in my head. But Nando could get the answer much quicker than me. “Yeah, I guess you should go ahead with that.”
    As I was leaving, I said, “Anything on Larry Vincent yet?”
    â€œI have feelers out but have heard nothing back yet. Have you ever listened to his rantings on the radio? The man is a case of nuts.”
    I chuckled and shook my head. “I only know him by reputation. Talk radio’s not my thing. I’d rather listen to mating cats.”
    â€œThis Larry Vincent lives in constant fear—people of color, the homeless, illegals, Muslims. He thinks they are all plotting against him and America. My father had a saying for men like him, ‘Al espantado, la sombra le espanta’ —he finds his own shadow frightening.”
    I got back to the clinic around nine thirty. Scott and Jones’ unmarked sedan was parked in the loading zone directly in front of the building. On the mural side of the building, Picasso was up on his scaffolding surrounded by a tight knot of people. I saw a jumble of cameras and microphones. He looked like he’d been treed by a pack of dogs.
    As I approached the group, someone at the front said, “Hey, Baxter, do you still think Mitchell Conyers killed your mother?” I was surprised by the aggressive tone. The Portland press, like the city itself, was known for its civility. Picasso looked at the man from his perch on the scaffolding, but to his credit and my relief, didn’t say anything.
    I worked my way to the front of the crowd and put up my arms. “Okay, folks, we’re through here. The circus is over.” Then I turned to Picasso and said, “Come on, let’s go inside.”
    As we rounded the corner of the building, the reporter who’d called out the question fell in step with us, as the others followed. There was some jostling, and I got separated from Picasso. The reporter, who was doubling as his own photographer, took some video clips of Picasso with a small, expensive looking digital camera. Then he got up in Picasso’s face and said, “That’s a poisonous snake on your neck. Does it signify anything?”
    Picasso stopped and looked at the man, as if seeing him for the first time. His face tightened and lost what little color it had. The reporter moved in even closer. “Did you attack Conyers again yesterday?” He snapped. “He deserved it, right?”
    I shoved my way past someone to step between them, but it was too late. Picasso’s long leg shot out and his foot caught the man’s hand holding the camera with pin-point accuracy and bone jarring impact. Whack. The camera flew in two different directions, and the man clutched his hand,