Never Look Down (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

Cal

After Tay left that night, I busied myself cleaning up. I could mess up the kitchen counters just boiling an egg, so a pasta dinner for two had catastrophic consequences. But I didn't mind so much because I had plenty to think about. And apparently so did Archie, as he lay under the table in the dining area with his chin on his paws, watching me intently. “No, there aren't any table scraps tonight, big boy,” I told him. “And you're lucky you've got paws, not hands. Otherwise, you'd be drying these dishes.”

He lifted his head and wagged his stump of a tail in response.

I can't say a pattern began to form in my head, but something started to jell, something with Manny Bonilla and the Bridgetown Arsenal in it. And I had a new lead to chase down—a young sociology student named Brent Gunderson. What could he tell me about Bonilla? I was anxious to talk to him, but it would have to wait. I was booked solid for the next two days at my office in Dundee. The bills have to be paid, after all. I was restless, so I packed up and drove back to the Aerie that night instead of waiting until morning.

Nando called me at my office in Dundee on Thursday with an edge of excitement in his voice. “I have some news on the witness-front,” he began. “One of the men in the security tape talking to Cardenas' supposed alibi, Sheri Daniels, is Kyle Kirkpatrick. He's an administrative assistant to the mayor. The tape only showed his back and partial side, but an associate of mine knew him well enough to pick him out. Kirkpatrick was talking to Daniels just before closing.”

“Does Scott know about this?”

“I don't know, but he and his partner have the original copy of the tape. In any case, I talked to Kirkpatrick last night. He was up very tight, not wishing to become involved for obvious reasons.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him that being with a prostitute was a forgivable offense, but if he lies about it in a murder case and is caught he can kiss his job and his career good-bye.”

“How did he respond?”

Nando chuckled. “He told me to, uh, take the flying fuck, but his upper lip had broken out in little pimples of sweat. I am sure he is thinking it over.”

***

On Friday of that week, I headed back to Portland. As I pulled into my space at Caffeine Central, I could see a half dozen people already lined up at the front door. The only thing typical about my clients was that there wasn't anything typical about them. The first three that morning were the indomitable Thelma McCharles, the elderly woman trying to refinance her mortgage; a young man from Michigan who wanted to fight a ticket he got for camping in Forest Park; and a sixteen-year-old girl who wanted help in becoming emancipated from her crack-addled parents.

I had good news for Thelma. The bank agreed to a meeting. I told the kid from Michigan to clean himself up before he went to court and to tell the judge he'd pay the fine after he found a job. Chances are the judge would waive it.

The girl's name was Kiyana Howard. She was nearly my height with a kind of regal yet unpretentious bearing, like some African princess set down in the middle of Portland. She had an open countenance, big, intelligent eyes, and dreadlocks that looked like they'd been woven by a master weaver. Yes, she could prove a history of neglect by her parents, she told me, and yes, she had an apartment and was supporting herself.

“Okay, Kiyana,” I said after we went through the details of her story, “I think we've got a shot here.” The look on her face made my week.

Arch and I took a midmorning break when the waiting room finally emptied out. When we returned, there were still no customers waiting for us. I used the lull to answer some mail, but it wasn't long before the buzzer on the front door announced a new arrival. I looked up through the half-open door to my office to see a man in an elegantly tailored suit enter. He looked familiar, but I had only gotten a fleeting look at him. I got up and swung the office door open. “Can I help you?”

He turned to face me. “Uh, yeah. You Cal Claxton?”

I nodded. The swept-back hair and hard-featured face most women would consider handsome rang a bell.

“I'm Anthony Cardenas,” he said. “We need to talk.”

I invited him in to my office and closed the door. He was dressed like a banker with good taste—a pinstriped navy-blue suit, paisley tie with matching handkerchief in the breast pocket, and a bit of light blue shirt cuff showing at the sleeve. He took a seat in front of my desk, hunched forward, and shook his head resolutely. “I didn't kill Claudia, man.”

I leaned back. “I didn't say you did.”

“Yeah, but your buddy Mendoza's saying that. He and his Cuban buddies are all over Portland trying to put a wire up my ass. I've got enough trouble with the cops. I don't need him making things worse.”

“As I understand it, you've got an alibi. You were with Sheri Daniels the night of the killing, right?”

He leaned back and opened his hands. “Yeah, right.” He exhaled another long breath. “But you're a lawyer. You know she's, uh, got some issues that don't make her the most reliable witness. And Mendoza's out there trying to turn her against me. The cops would like nothing better than to hang this on me. You know, the ex-husband's always suspect number one.”

“What about Manny Bonilla's death? Know anything about that?”

He opened his hands and shrugged. “I saw that, man. The dude's her cousin. I mean, what the fuck's going on?” A faint, wistful smile. “He was a good kid, crazy about Claudia. We used to hang out sometimes. I taught him how to play Texas Hold'em and, man, did that piss Claudia off.”

I sat back and looked at him. “Why are you telling me this? I'm sure you've got a lawyer, and he's not going to be happy about this visit.”

Cardenas closed his eyes for a couple of beats as if fighting off a wave of emotion. I flashed back to Nando doing the same thing. “Damn straight I've got a lawyer. But I call the shots. Look, man, I hear you might have some influence on that crazy Cuban. He needs to back off. I didn't kill Claudia.” He opened his hands again and looked me full in the face. “I
loved
that woman just like he did. I wouldn't touch a hair on her head.” His gaze was direct and unflinching. “That's the truth, man.”

I nodded. There wasn't much I could say and even less I could do. Even if I believed him, controlling Nando would be like trying to redirect a hurricane. I settled for, “I'll give him the message.”

He leaned forward again and pulled his face into a sneer. “Don't just give him the message. I'm asking for your help, man. Convince him.”

I met his eyes. “Are you asking me or threatening me?”

“I'm asking you, man. I didn't kill Claudia Borrego. Tell Mendoza to back off.”

I stood up. “I got the message. If you didn't do it, you don't have anything to worry about.”

His sneer morphed into a sarcastic smile. “Oh, sure. Our justice system's such a model of fairness.” When I didn't reply, he got up abruptly. At the door he turned and pointed a finger at me. “And tell Mendoza that I'm going to the funeral tomorrow to pay my respects. Tell him I won't be looking for any trouble and he shouldn't either.”

I sat there for a few minutes trying to process what just happened. Obviously, Cardenas was worried the alibi provided by Sheri Daniels wasn't going to hold up. I didn't blame him for being nervous. I wouldn't want Nando Mendoza breathing down my neck. I was glad for one thing—the heads-up on the funeral. I would remind Nando that Cardenas had a right to attend and that an ugly scene would serve nobody's interest, particularly the deceased's.

Chapter Twenty-six

Kelly

Earlier that same Friday

A big drop of sweat broke loose from Kelly's forehead, seeped through an eyebrow, and blurred her vision. The next handhold's a bitch, she told herself. If you don't make it, you're coming off. Just as she stretched out, a voice boomed up from below, “Hey, get the hell off there.” The tips of her fingers caught the block, but without enough purchase to arrest her fall. Her dad's favorite saying—
gravity never sleeps
—flashed through her head as she plunged downward.

The belay caught her about six feet off the gym floor with a jarring snap that made Phil Hanson laugh. Hanson owned the climbing gym from whose wall—the one for advanced climbers—Kelly had just fallen. “Good timing,” he said, still chuckling. “Now get to work, young lady. We open in an hour, and the floor needs sweeping.” Kelly did odd jobs around the gym for minimum wage and climbing privileges off-hours, which helped her stay sharp.

“Damn eager beavers,” she mumbled, as someone began rapping on the front door. She unlocked the door and prepared to tell the person that the gym didn't open until eight-thirty. But instead of an early climber, Kelly stood looking at one of the cops who'd stopped her and Kiyanna in Tom McCall Park. He was the older one with the friendly eyes, although they weren't so friendly now. Kelly fought to quell the blood rushing from her head.
Stay cool, girl,
she told herself.

The cop held his badge up. “I'm Lieutenant Harmon Scott of the Portland Police. Is your boss in?”

Kelly tried to smile, but her face turned to granite. “Uh, yeah, he's, uh, in the back, in his office.”

“Can you take me to him, please?”

As they were walking through the gym, Kelly in the lead, Scott said, “You look familiar, have we met?”

Without turning, Kelly said, “Maybe, but I've been told I have a familiar-looking face.” Lying to this cop didn't seem like a smart thing to do.

He didn't respond, and when they reached Hanson's office at the back of the gym, Kelly knocked twice before opening the door and announcing Scott. As he entered the office Scott took another, more careful, look at her.

Kelly went back to her sweeping, pushing the broom as fast as she could.
Get the hell out of here
, she told herself. But before she could finish Hanson yelled out, “Hey, Kel, come on back here for a minute.”

She had an urge to bolt, but she knew that would be stupid. When she entered the office and closed the door behind her, both men eyed her with interest. Hanson said, “The lieutenant here is looking for a witness to a crime over in Old Town. A woman got shot early last Friday morning.” Kelly nodded, and although she kept her eyes on Hanson she could feel the pressure of Scott's gaze. “He thinks the witness is a teenage boy or young man who likes to tag and knows how to climb, too. You know anyone fits a profile like that?”

She shifted her eyes to Scott, then quickly back to Hanson. “No.” That was the truth. She didn't, but even if she did, no way she'd set the cops after him, even if it meant less heat on her.

“You sure?” Hanson persisted. “What about that Davidson kid, the one who's always challenging you on the wall?” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Scott lean forward slightly.

She forced a smile. “Him? He's an okay climber, but he's no tagger. I think he's an Eagle Scout or something.”

“What about that skinny blond kid's been coming in the last month or so? What's his name?”

“Charles something. I don't know his last name. He, uh, can't even do the beginners' wall yet.”

Hanson tossed out a couple more possibilities, and Kelly managed to find fault with each of them. Scott took a few names down but didn't seem particularly interested. Finally Kelly said, “Can I go now? I'm going to be late for school.”

Scott said, “Hasn't school already started?”

“I go to an alternative school. The academic program doesn't start till ten.”

Scott snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “That's where I saw you. Out on the parkway last Saturday. You were with a tall black girl.”

“Oh, yeah,” Kelly said, feigning recollection, “I remember now.”

Scott handed Kelly another card, his eyes lingering on her longer than she would have liked. “Thanks for the help, Kelly. If you think of anything else, anything at all, give me a call. We want this killer off the street.”

Kelly's pulse didn't come back to normal until she was on the bus heading over the river. All Scott had to do was check her juvenile record and he'd know that she fit the “profile.” But the thought, unsettling as it was, caused her to smile. She could tell that detective couldn't imagine a girl doing K209's tags. Hanson couldn't either, for that matter.
Men. They're so clueless.

Kelly arrived at school, where she found Zook standing outside the entrance puffing a cigarette. “That stuff'll kill you,” Kelly said as she walked up.

He took a deep drag and flicked the smoldering butt into the gutter. “I thought it was demon weed gonna do that?”

“Both. What's up at PSU?”

Zook's face brightened, and his mouth stretched into that lopsided grin of his. “They love me, man. Want me on the practice squad. When I can get my GED, I've got a shot at a scholarship next year.”

Kelly's face broke into a radiant smile. “That's great! Uh, they gonna make you pee in a cup?”

“Yeah, I think so, one of these days.”

Kelly met his eyes and frowned. “How's that going to work?”

Zook looked aside and ran a big paw through his hair. “No worries. Three days clears it.”

Kelly shook her head. “Not the way you use.”

Zook forced a grin. “Hey, I got this.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out a small plastic vial containing a yellowish liquid and held it up. “I just got this from Billy Porter. He hasn't smoked in a year.”

Kelly made a face. “Ew, how disgusting. They aren't stupid, Zook. You're gonna get caught. Why don't you just quit?”

He showed the grin again. “I got it covered, Kel.”

The scare at the climbing gym left Kelly uneasy, but fortunately Zook needed help with his math. Helping him was never a chore—it was how their relationship began—and that day it was a welcome distraction as well. Zook was a bright kid who could read and write at a high level, but he cowered in fear at the very mention of the word
algebra
. “Look, Zook,” Kelly said at one point, “using the quadratic equation is pretty simple. Just lay the problem out, determine the constants, plug them into the equation, and do the arithmetic to get
X
.”

He ran a big hand through his hair, scratched his head, and scowled. “Simple for you, maybe.” He turned to face her. “Why did they have to make the GED math test even harder, man? I mean, I had a shot at passing the old test, but not now. Wasn't putting it online enough? Did they have to make it harder, too? I'm screwed, Kel.”

“No, you're not screwed,” she told him. “Now shut up and do the next problem.” He dropped his eyes back to the math book, but she could tell his heart wasn't in it.

That afternoon, after Zook went off to practice at PSU and Kiyana to work, Kelly walked over to the library on SW Tenth Street to get her homework done. But it was hard to concentrate. That cop's last words bore down on her—“We want this killer off the street.” Was she a bad person for not coming forward? A now familiar feeling of indecision settled on her like an itchy blanket. It would be such a relief to put the burden down, a small voice in her head suggested. Let someone else handle this.
You're in over your head, Kelly Spence
.

Then she thought about Veronica, the desperate look in her eyes when she pleaded for Kelly to stay out of trouble. What would happen to Veronica? And foster care?
You'll be back in the system in a heartbeat
, she reminded herself. That thought made her shudder.

No, she wasn't about to come forward. But that didn't mean she was going to quit, either.

Late that afternoon, Kelly was back at her perch across from the Arsenal. It was a cold, gray day, and even though it wasn't raining she could smell dampness in the stiff breeze coming off the river. The shadowy image of the man she saw at the Arsenal the other day was seared into her memory. She needed another look at closer range. She figured she could spot that walk either coming or going.

In any case, if he showed again she had a plan, sort of.

Hastened by the thickening cloud cover, night was coming on when a lone panel truck turned in the drive and parked at the loading dock. Kelly watched as two men got out. The one she could see best—short and borderline obese—opened the back doors of the truck and walked into the building. The other man stood next to the car, frustratingly shielded from Kelly's view.

She scrambled down the girders, and was over the back fence and out on the street a few moments later. She stood there in the gathering darkness and took a deep, trembling breath.
They don't
know me
, she repeated to herself several times and then, after stashing her binoculars in her backpack, started across the street.

She followed the sidewalk and turned at the driveway along the side of the Arsenal. With any luck, she might get a better look at the man shielded by the truck. The other man suddenly emerged from the building carrying a large, rectangular box. He stopped abruptly when he saw her. “What the fuck do you want, kid?”

She was ready for the question. “Uh, Tyler Tea?” She knew it was up the street. “You know where their building is? It's around here somewhere, on Water Street.”

His hands full, he nodded in the direction of Water Street. “Up about six blocks on the right. Now beat it.”

The man behind the truck didn't move or say a word.
Just my friggin' luck,
Kelly told herself.
The other guy's standing there like a statue, and I can't even see him
.
What a dumb-ass plan.
The man holding the box kept glaring at her. “Thanks, mister,” she said as she began to retreat. A car suddenly swung into the driveway, bathing her in harsh light. She moved aside, flattening herself against the building. Gravel popped beneath the tires as the car moved slowly past her. She saw the dark, indistinct shape of the driver from behind heavily tinted glass, his head turned to appraise her. For reasons she couldn't explain, an involuntary shiver passed through her at the sight of that man's outline.

The car pulled to a stop, and she heard the car window retract. Kelly turned and began walking toward the street. From behind her she heard the man call out, “What's taking so long? You need to get your ass out of here.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she stopped dead for a moment.
That voice. I've heard that voice before!
The realization hit like a slap to the face—that's the man she saw with Macho Dude the night Rupert was killed, the man in the shadows. What had he said? “…at least take that fucking jacket off, you idiot.” The words reverberated in her head with a tone and texture that meshed perfectly with what she'd just heard.
That's The Voice. I'm sure of it.

She stole a quick glance back at the car, but it was dark and The Voice didn't get out. With rubbery legs she kept walking toward the street while repeating her mantra—
They don't know me, they don't know me—
which was the only thing keeping her from breaking into a dead run.

She walked for three blocks before stopping again. In her panic to get out of there, she hadn't gotten the plate number of either the van or the car. If you go back now, she told herself, you might have a shot.

But that option closed when The Voice's car, followed by the truck, pulled out and headed south on Water, away from her. As Kelly walked toward the bus stop, she fought back a stiff wave of disappointment.
What a joke,
she told herself—a shooter you can only recognize by his walk and a voice you can't put a face to.
You've got nothing
.

But she was pretty sure of one thing—she wasn't wasting her time. The gun shop she'd been watching seemed to be at the center of something….