Not Dead Enough by Warren C Easley Page B

story with them in great detail. At one point Detective Adams, an old warhorse with thick, stubbly jowls and a florid complexion, said, “How did you get into the building to see Ferguson?
    â€œI waited ’til a couple was buzzed in and went in with them. There’s not much security there.”
    â€œYou in the habit of sneaking into private buildings, Mr. Claxton?”
    I smiled. “No, of course not. It was just that Ferguson didn’t know me, and I figured it was my only shot at talking to him. You know, just show up at his door.”
    Adams glanced at his partner and back at me. “No. I don’t know. You were trespassing, Mr. Claxton.” His partner, a younger black man named Hamilton, shifted in his seat and nodded in agreement.
    â€œMr. Ferguson invited me into his apartment.”
    â€œI was talking about the building, not his apartment,” Adams snapped back.
    I kept my mouth shut. Technically, he was right.
    â€œSo, Ferguson proceeds to suggest he knows who killed the guy out in eastern Oregon—”
    â€œWho you also just happened to pop in on,” his partner, Hamilton, interjected, leaning forward in his chair.
    Adams warned him off with a look and continued, “Did Ferguson say how he talked to this party? In person? E-mail? By phone?”
    â€œYes, like I said, he mentioned a pay phone.” Out of frustration I added, “Look, gentlemen, we’ve been over this already in great detail. I’ve told you everything I know.”
    Adams nodded grudgingly. “And you’ve done all this investigative work on behalf of a client you’re going to make available to us to question.”
    â€œRight. No problem. I’ll pursue that as soon as we finish up here.”
    â€œFine,” Adams replied.
    The two detectives left, and I stayed in the interview room waiting for Deputy Grooms. I didn’t enjoy it, but I wasn’t surprised at the hard grilling they’d given me. At this point I remembered the look in Winona’s eyes and her comment after I told her what Ferguson had said about her grandfather’s resting place. How much of a warrior was she? I didn’t know the answer, and I brushed away the thoughts the question conjured up.
    I spent another forty minutes giving a statement on tape to Grooms about my meeting with Ferguson. I tried to get her to reciprocate with some information on the murder, but all she told me was that he was beaten to death that night after I left. I gathered that no one had heard or seen anything suspicious, and there were no surveillance cameras at the retirement home. At least I hadn’t seen any. When we finished, Grooms said, “Where does your client live?”
    â€œHere in Portland.”
    â€œAny chance you can get that person over here? It would save us all a lot of trouble.”
    â€œRight. I already told the Portland detectives I’d try to do that. Hang on.” I took out my cell phone and speed-dialed Winona. She didn’t pick up, so I left a message for her to call me.
    We decided to wait for a while. Grooms went out and brought back two cups of coffee. I blew on mine, took a sip, and looked at her over the cup. She had sturdy legs and surprisingly narrow hips that fanned into a thick upper body with well-muscled arms and broad, beefy shoulders. She moved with the kind of physical assurance top athletes have. I guessed softball. I could picture her hitting the cover off the ball or windmilling a fastball that rose a half foot before it got to the plate. Her face was round and fleshy with a small nose and large, full lips, but it was her steel-hard eyes that you remembered.
    â€œSo, teaming up with Portland’s finest to solve interconnected cases, huh?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œI couldn’t help notice you didn’t sit in on my interview.”
    â€œWasn’t invited. Adams and what’s his face won’t give me the time of day. I might