Matters of Doubt by Warren C Easley

care. Just how, I wasn’t sure.
    I went into the clinic, slipped by the guy with the stretched earlobes, and peeked through the swinging doors. Anna Eriksen was reading at her desk. “Hi, Anna. I see you’re being immortalized in Picasso’s mural.”
    She put her glasses down, smiled, then wrinkled her brow. “ What? ”
    â€œThere’s a tall woman sketched in out there that looks a lot like you.”
    She brushed a lock of hair from across her eye and smiled, crinkling the corners of her pale blue eyes. “ He didn’t .”
    I returned the smile. “Might be your twin.”
    â€œWe talked about that. He promised .”
    â€œDo you know where he is?”
    â€œYou just missed him. He said to tell you he went to meet with someone named Mitchell Conyers. He’ll be back as soon as he can. I’m glad you two were able to work it out.”
    â€œ Conyers ?” I said, ignoring her last sentence. “How did thathappen?”
    â€œI have no idea. Is something wrong?”
    â€œThe last time those two got together, they wound up in a fist fight. Picasso’s convinced Conyers killed his mother.”
    Anna put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, God. I thought that name sounded familiar. They had a fight at the memorial service, didn’t they?”
    â€œRight. Do you know where they’re meeting?”
    â€œNo.” She paused for a moment before adding, “But I think he used his computer to get directions.”
    â€œWhere’s his computer?”
    Anna got up and I followed her to a storage room at the back of the clinic. Picasso’s battered laptop was charging there. The screen was up, but dark. I hit the enter key and held my breath. An address on Westover Road and directions to get there popped up.
    â€œAre you going to go over there?” She had more than a little concern in her eyes.
    I nodded. “Yeah, I probably should.”
    â€œHe’s on his bike, so you’re not that far behind him.”
    I took Burnside to 23rd and hung a right, then a quick left onto Westover, which started to climb into the West Hills, Portland’s primo neighborhood. The street number on Picasso’s computer corresponded to a three story Tudor, white with dark, half-timbering detail like something from Stratford on Avon. Artisan stone steps led up a steep, ivy covered bank to the house. I parked and took the steps two at a time. Picasso’s bike was propped next to the front porch.
    I started to ring the doorbell, when I heard the rattle of a gate to my left, then a muffled voice. I turned toward the gate and heard the next utterance with crystal clarity. “ Oh, Jesus Christ. ” The hair on the back of my neck straightened out. It was Picasso’s voice.
    The gate burst open and Picasso came into view. He was soaking wet and there was no question about it, his hands and arms were covered in blood.

Chapter Eight
    I came off the steps and rushed over to him. “What the hell’s going on?”
    He looked at me as if I’d just materialized out of thin air, his eyes huge, strangely unfocused. He turned his head, looked back through the gate and pointed. “He’s dead. Conyers is dead.”
    â€œ What?” I said, pushing past him. The backyard looked like something out of the tropics—lush grass, big leafed plants in massive pots, and a profusion of flowers in beds and hanging baskets. A kidney-shaped swimming pool edged in jade green tile and surrounded with a stamped concrete deck sat toward the back of the yard, which was fenced and gated. The body of a man was lying at the shallow end of the pool, legs dangling in the water, arms outstretched, as if he were trying to pull himself out. His head was haloed in blood, the water in the pool a hazy, telltale pink.
    I dropped to one knee next to him. His eyes were cocked open in a blank, dead-man’s stare, his mouth agape, a look of utter surprise