Dead Float (22 page)

Chapter Forty-six

After the sun burned off a thin layer of clouds that afternoon, Claire went out on the porch, using one crutch while lugging a hefty environmental tome in her other hand. She may have a broken leg, I remember thinking, but she's still strong and agile. I retreated to my study on the pretense of planning my work week. Not that it needed all that much planning. Hell, two more clients had cancelled their appointments. A definite trend.

I felt so jangled that it took half an hour of deep breathing while listening to a CD of crashing surf before I felt reasonably centered.

Focus on what you know, I told myself. Sadly, that wasn't much. Aside from his identity, all I had on El Cuchillo was that he was holed up somewhere out by Mount Hood, “near a river.” In western Oregon, that doesn't tell you much. What about the inside person? The only tangible evidence I had was that Duane Pitman planned to leave NanoTech. I could argue he was angry enough to have Hal Bruckner killed, but without a link to El Cuchillo, this didn't get me very far. As for Alexis, Hannon, and Streeter, I had nothing on them except that all three benefitted handsomely from his demise. Daina was a wild card in this deck.

I pulled out the little notebook with my jottings from the NanoTech foray and read over them again. All I'd found in Streeter's office was the name of a masseuse named Zina, who worked at a place called Mystic Hands Whole Body Massage Center, and a phone number for someone named Rey on the back. I wondered what kinds of services were offered at the massage center and what role Rey played. The somewhat unusual name, Rey, caught my eye. A woman's name? Or short for Reynaldo?

I had to laugh when I thought about tipping the files over in Hannon's office, but I was still disgusted with myself for not having grabbed the folder that had
Deschutes Trip
written on it. That boat's sailed, I told myself.

The Latin phrase I'd seen on Streeter's desk—
fac ut gaudeam
popped into my head, which reminded me of the other, longer phrase I'd seen in his Rolodex. I couldn't remember all of it, so I looked it up in my notebook—
nemo me impune lacessit.
I could have googled both phrases, but since Hiram Pritchard was always spouting Latin and extolling the virtues of a classical education, I decided to call and ask him to translate.

Hiram chuckled when I repeated the first phrase to him. “
Fac ut gaudeam
? That one's easy. It means ‘Make my day
,'
an homage to Dirty Harry, no doubt.” I read him the longer phrase I'd found in Streeter's Rolodex. “Hmm. Let me consult a text and call you back.”

Five minutes later he had it. “
Nemo me impune lacessit
means ‘No one attacks me with impunity.'
Has a rather vindictive ring to it, wouldn't you say?”

“For sure,” I replied. We talked for a while, trying to wrest some hidden meaning from the second phrase or to find some connection between the two, but nothing came of it. I hung up feeling a little foolish about having bothered Hiram in the first place.

I sat with my feet up on my desk, crumpling up pieces of paper and glumly tossing them at my wastebasket. No way to paper over it. The NanoTech gambit hadn't yielded a damn thing. What did I expect? It was a hail-Mary to begin with. When I'd finally plunked three baskets in a row, however, I picked up my cell phone and made two calls.

First, I called the Mystic Hands Massage Parlor and asked for an appointment with Zina. She had an open slot for three the next afternoon. I booked it, using the name Robert.

Next I called Daina and told her I needed another favor. What the hell, I figured, it never hurts to ask. “Oh God, what is it now?” she said.

“Uh, it's about a manila folder I saw in Mitch Hannon's office. It's marked
Deschutes Trip
in what's probably his handwriting. I saw some interesting things in it but didn't come away with it. I'm wondering if you could, uh, borrow it for me? I'll give it right back.”

There was a long pause. I could hear her breathing. “You're serious?”

“Yeah. Things are breaking the wrong way, Daina. I feel like I'm running out of time here. Surely you or Rusty Musik can come up with something.” It was an unfair request, for sure, but I needed to know what was in that file. And if she brought it to me, that might restore my trust in her. If she didn't…well, I just couldn't see any downside.

I waited through another long pause. “I'll see what I can do,” she finally answered, then hung up.

That evening I grilled some thick portobello mushrooms slathered with olive oil, steamed a handful of asparagus, and made a huge salad, which I served with a baguette. The weather was pleasant, so Claire and I ate and talked out on the porch. I tried to enjoy myself, but a feeling of anxiety draped over me like an itchy blanket. I half-expected another phalanx of cop cars to show up at the gate due to the composite sketch. But it wasn't just that. It felt like some fuse had been lit. Nothing mattered now, I decided, except movement, action.

Gertie called that evening and invited Claire over to watch a couple of episodes of
Prime Suspect
on Netflix. Archie and I walked her over, and I didn't have to tell him to stay with her. As I walked back across our north field, I saw headlights coming up our drive and tensed up. When the approaching car passed through our open gate, I could just make it out in the fading light. It was Alexis' silver Jag.

I picked up my pace, and by the time I reached the house, she was up on the porch leaning on the bell. “You left your car unescorted. This must be urgent.”

Alexis whirled around.
“Jesus
, Cal, you scared the crap out of me.”

I raised my hands, palms out. “Sorry. What's on your mind, Alexis?”

“Can we talk for a few minutes?”

I climbed the porch steps, opened the door, and showed her into the front room. Her hair was pulled back in a careless tangle of blond curls, and she wore no makeup except for a thin swipe of pinkish lipstick. She sat down, crossed her legs, and gave me a wry smile. “Surely, I get a drink this time.”

I popped to my feet. “I think I have some Glenlivet. I don't stock a lot of the hard stuff.”

She gave me a look. “I know, dear. That would be fine. Pour it over ice. A double.”

When I returned with her Scotch, she eyed my other hand, which was empty. “Not joining me?”

“I'm good.”

Her eyes clouded, as if my refusal was a personal rebuke. We waited through an awkward pause. I said, “So, how's Mitch Hannon doing?”

She drank some Scotch, put the glass down and let out a deep sigh. A faint series of food stains in the shape of the Capricorn constellation adorned the right side of her silk blouse. When she leaned into the light, I saw little clusters of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. “I own the company. He runs it. We don't talk much.”

“I see,” I said, wondering what had caused the falling out. “Did you tell him about our last talk?” I tried not to sound accusatory.

She drank more Scotch, crunched some ice, and shook her head. I waited for her to continue.

“I told him you weren't some Podunk fishing guide, that you were an ex-DA from Los Angeles, a damn good one. I said you wouldn't sit around and let someone blame you for Hal's murder. I told him you thought someone in our fishing party was involved in Hal's death, too.”

I nodded.

“Mitch doesn't think those two detectives from Jefferson County know what they're doing. He's worried that if the crime goes unsolved, it might screw up the deal.”

“You mean an IPO?”

“Yes, haven't you heard? NanoTech's going public. We're going to be filthy rich.”

“Who's we?”

She put an open palm to her breast. “The grieving widow, Mitchell Hannon, and Andrew Streeter.”

“What about Duane Pitman?”

She laughed again. “Oh, Duanie—pooh. He wants a full equity share, but Mitch and Andrew are saying no. You know, the pie's only so big.”

“How's he taking it?”

“Oh, he's furious. Threatening dire consequences if we don't deal him in.”

“Like what?”

“He's going to leave, or sue us, or
something.
I don't know. Mitch says the man's a legend in his own mind. But, frankly, he scares the hell out of me. You know, the mild-mannered geek who goes postal.” She laughed, then drew her face into a serious look. “Listen, Cal. I think Mitch wants to talk to you. Don't be surprised if he calls. Talk to him, please.”

“I'll talk to him anytime. No hard feelings.” I met her eyes. They were watery and seemed to have lost some of that deep ocean color. “Sounds like you trust Hannon all of a sudden.”

She shrugged. “Woman's intuition, I guess.” Then narrowing her eyes, she added, “I'm not sleeping with him. It's strictly business now.”

I held a neutral expression. “Let me ask you something about that night on the river.”

She gave me a pained look as if it wasn't a place she wanted to revisit.

“Did anyone in the party know ahead of time you were going to banish Hal from your tent?”

“With the exception of Daina, I'm afraid they all did, dear. It's a small company. Hal's snoring was legendary at NanoTech. I think they all knew he'd be sleeping outside on this trip.”

“Of course. The sleep apnea.”

She dropped her eyes and spoke in a low, halting voice. “Yeah, Hal made light of his condition, and I complained about it all the time. Imagine—
me
complaining because
he
was sick. The truth is, he suffered a great deal. She shook her head slowly, then raised her eyes, which brimmed with tears. “God, I'd like to have that last night back, Cal. I was such a bitch.”

I finally spoke into the silence. “What can you tell me about Andrew Streeter?”

She wrinkled her brow and took a long pull on her Scotch. “Not very much, I'm afraid. Mitch tells me he's great at what he does, but he's, ah, a little hypocritical for my taste.”

“Hypocritical?”

“He hails from an upstanding Southern family, but I understand he can be quite a naughty boy at times.”

“How's that?”

“Oh, you know, he likes to party, drugs, alcohol, women who charge for their services, that sort of thing.” She chuckled. “And he undresses me with his eyes every chance he gets. But I'm told he never misses church on Sunday.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Drugs?”

She nodded. “Puts a lot of money up his nose.”

“How do you know this?”

She laughed. “Hal's secretary told me. She's the epicenter of NanoTech gossip.”

I continued to dig for information on Streeter but didn't learn anything more. Finally, Alexis glanced at her watch and said she had to leave. We stopped at the front door, and she turned to face me. She flashed a brave smile, but fear clouded her eyes. “You haven't told me a thing, Cal. I hope you're getting somewhere. I'm, uh, not sleeping so well.” She folded her arms across her breasts as a tear broke loose and slid slowly down her cheek. “Every time I close my eyes, I see Hal in that sleeping bag.” A shiver rippled her body.

I put my hands on her shoulders and met her eyes. “I'm working this thing as hard as I can. Look, Alexis, keep your eyes and ears open. I need all the help I can get.”

She nodded. “I miss him, Cal. Damn it. I never thought I would, but I do.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Chapter Forty-seven

Zina was a tall redhead with green eyes and breasts that seemed too large for her thin frame, reminding me of a Barbie doll. In addition to her surgically enhanced breasts, her hair was dyed, and her eyes most likely tinted with contacts, rounding out the package. My session was underway at the Mystic Hands Whole Body Massage Center, a ramshackle, two-story commercial building that had been superficially retooled for a massage therapy operation of somewhat questionable legitimacy.

I was sprawled on my stomach with my head wedged into a padded hole in the table watching Zina's bare feet as she worked my neck and shoulders. Her toenails were painted black, and both her little toes were oddly curled up over their neighbors. Considering the duplicity of my intent, I felt vulnerable as hell lying there in the nude with nothing but a sheet covering the lower half of my body.

Candlelight flickered, incense smoldered, and something haunting by Loreena McKennitt played softly on the sound system. “So, Robert, how did you hear about me?” Zina asked, as she gently kneaded the left side of my neck. She'd found a spot, a hard nodule, in which I had apparently stored a good portion of my angst. She was not as good as Daina at kneading my neck, but she was good enough. I had to remind myself why I was there.

“It's Rob. Call me Rob,” I replied through the hole. “I heard about this place from a friend of mine. He said I should check it out. And he recommended you, too.”

“Well, that's nice. You'll have to thank your friend for me. We try to keep our customers satisfied.” She didn't ask for the name. I didn't think she would. After all, discretion is everything in this line of work.

There was a long pause while she worked her way down my back. I began to relax and made a mental note to schedule more massages, if not here then somewhere. We made a little small talk, and it wasn't until she was working on my calves that I said, “My friend also mentioned Rey, said you could put me in touch.”

The pressure from her fingers increased slightly. “Rey? You mean Reynaldo?”

“Uh, yeah, Reynaldo.” I didn't know where the hell this was going, but at least I had a name, and what do you know? Hispanic. I thought about El Cuchillo and his connection with the Zetas cartel. It was a stretch, but better than nothing.

She paused, and I wished I could see the expression on her face. “Why didn't your friend just give you Reynaldo's number himself?” Her voice was cautious now.

I chuckled. “Oh, you know, he's Mr. Disorganized. Since I was coming here today, he said to just ask you.” More chuckles.

Her fingers relaxed perceptibly and she replied, “Okay, Rob. I'll take care of it when we finish.”

“A phone number will be fine,” I added quickly. I wasn't anxious to confront Reynaldo in person.

After I declined the additional services Zina was offering, she left the room in a bit of a snit. I started to get dressed. The massage had revived me, and I was relieved that Zina had apparently bought my story. I was thinking maybe Nando could help me get a line on Reynaldo.

I was lacing up my shoes when the door opened. I looked up. A man stood there, backlit by the harsh hall light. His face was shadowed, but there was no mistaking his girth. He blocked out most of the light from the hallway.

He closed the door behind him. “I'm Reynaldo. I hear you looking for me,” he said with a thick accent. His eyes peered out through the cracks formed between his bulbous cheeks and the bony ridge of his brow. His left earlobe sagged under the weight of a large hoop, and his smile was more gold than enamel. But it was his stomach that got my attention. It pressed on his knit shirt, oozing over his belt like a massive water balloon.

I reminded myself to stay in character and struggled to keep my eyes off his gut. “I'm Rob,” I said, extending my hand.

Reynaldo just stood there and looked at me, his meaty arms at his sides. I withdrew my hand. “What do you want?”

Crap, I said to myself, I wasn't planning on this. “Uh, I hear you're a stand-up guy, Reynaldo. I'm interested in some blow. For my own consumption.” I held my breath, and hoped
blow
was still a reasonably current street term for cocaine.

“Who told you I sell something?”

Moment of truth. This was obviously how he vetted new customers. If I didn't mention Streeter's name, I'd have no credibility whatsoever. I decided to risk it. “Guy named Andy Streeter.”

There was a long pause while Reynaldo's beady eyes examined me through those horizontal slots. It was like being watched by archers inside a medieval fortress. Drops of sweat coalesced in my armpits, broke loose, and slithered down my rib cage. Finally he said, “Where've I seen you?”

I opened my hands and shrugged, trying to appear casual. The composite sketch, I thought. I'm screwed.

He pointed a bejeweled finger that looked like a Polish sausage at me and asked, “You the guy who slugged that cop from Madras?”

“Uh, yeah. That would be me,” I answered, feeling like I just dodged a very large caliber bullet.

He smiled, showing even more gold, extended his hand and, when I reciprocated, nearly pumped my arm off. “You really nailed that
carbón, amigo
.” Then he added, “You a friend of Andy's? He's a good customer. When you need the blow?”

“Tell you what. Give me a number and I'll call you. I'm in town all the time.”

Reynaldo's face brightened. “I've got some pharmacy grade,
amigo
. It will take your head off.”

I walked out of there on slightly rubbery legs. When I got to my car, I let out a long breath and just sat there for a while. Then I phoned Nando Mendoza and asked for a rundown on a drug dealer named Reynaldo who operates out of the Mystic Hands Whole Body Massage Center.

***

After dinner that evening, Claire and I sat locked in a fierce game of Scrabble. I was getting my butt kicked, as usual. I think it was somewhere around the age of sixteen that Claire started to whip me at the word game. Her mother always could, so I'd been schooled in the art of losing graciously.

Archie barked first—a single sharp note—and then I heard the purr of a small engine. I went out on the front porch in time to see Daina getting out of her VW. Archie made a beeline for her, and she dropped to one knee to embrace him. I watched them, thinking about what I'd always said about my dog—that he was an excellent judge of character.

Daina marched up and handed me a manila folder held shut with rubber bands. “Don't ask where I got it,” she said with a look that held anger tinged with resignation. “I didn't look at it. Look it over, make copies, whatever. Then give it back. I'll wait.” It was clear I'd forced her to do something she detested. It occurred to me she might never forgive me. Suddenly that mattered.

I took the file and tried to meet her eyes, but she looked away. “Thanks, Daina,” was all I managed to say.

Breaking a moment of awkward silence, Claire came up behind us on her crutches. I moved aside and introduced the two women. Daina said, “I've heard so much about you, Claire. And I just want to say how much I admire what you were doing over there in Darfur. That kind of hands-on work makes a huge difference and takes real courage, too. You're a hero in my book.”

Claire shrugged in modesty, and they immediately launched into a deep conversation about the role of volunteer work in the Third World, the threat of global warming, and the general state of the world's ecological balance. I was impressed at how knowledgeable Daina was, and it became evident rather quickly that my daughter, like my dog, thought highly of this woman.

I excused myself and took the file into my study and shut the door. Of course, I didn't expect to find a smoking gun. After all, I told myself, Hannon was a bright guy and wouldn't leave incriminating evidence lying around. The map of the Deschutes River was lying on top, just like the night I'd seen it in Hannon's office. The Whiskey Dick campground was circled and someone, presumably Hannon, had written, Camp First Night. I looked carefully at the path of the railroad tracks running parallel to the river. The Kaskela junction was shown clearly on the map next to the circle Hannon had drawn. I was disappointed to see there were no markings or notes to indicate whether Hannon knew that Kaskela was where the trains would pass each other that first night on the river.

I sifted through the rest of the file page by page. A detailed checklist of items to be brought on the trip attested to Hannon's attention to detail, and a sheaf of printouts from the Internet describing the Deschutes River, desert redband trout, and how to fish for them during the salmon fly hatch showed he was a fly fisherman who did his homework. A phone number was jotted in the upper right hand corner of the checklist. I called the number and got the recording of the Riffle Fly Shop in Madras.

So I didn't have squat. As I was closing the file I looked at the map again and noticed something I'd missed. Hannon had circled the campsite for the
first
night but downriver from Whiskey Dick, he hadn't marked anything else. The float trip was to take three days with
two
nights on the river.

Why the hell hadn't a stickler for detail like Hannon noted the second campsite? Could it be that he knew there wouldn't be a second night? Or, was the second site still being debated?

I found Daina and Claire still engrossed in conversation in the living room. When I walked in, Daina got up immediately and announced she had to run along. I gave the file back and walked her to her car. When she got in her car she looked up at me. “You look really stressed, Cal. Are you okay?”

I gave her a blank look. It was either that or unburden myself about the whole catastrophe coming down on me, and I still couldn't bring myself to do that. “Thanks for letting me see the file, Daina. I appreciate it.”

She nodded curtly, started up the VW, and looked back up at me. “Cal, you can trust me. Let me help you.”

I thanked her again and told her to drive carefully.

After Daina left, Claire and I went over to Gertie's to catch the Lakers and Nuggets in the first round of the playoffs. Gertie was a big basketball fan and had a fifty-five-inch high def TV and a larder full of homemade snacks. Five minutes into the second half my cell went off. I took the call out in the kitchen. “Is this Cal Claxton?” The back of my neck tingled momentarily.

I knew the voice—it was Mitch Hannon. “Are you free tonight? We need to talk.”