Never Look Down (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-seven

Cal

Claudia Borrego's funeral service was held the next day at St. Mary's Cathedral in Northwest Portland. I found a seat on the aisle toward the back of the church where I could keep an eye on things. Nando had been asked to sit in the front with Claudia's family. Anthony Cardenas filed past me and took a seat three rows behind him. I'd warned Nando about Cardenas but got no indication of how my friend might react to the ex-husband's presence. I figured Cardenas would keep his cool, and I could only hope Nando would as well.

The cathedral was filling up fast when Tay Jefferson walked by me looking for a seat. Realizing there were none closer in, she turned, and I pointed to the space next to me. Her eyes widened in recognition, but her face continued to register nothing but pain. When she slid in beside me, she rolled her eyes and exhaled a long breath. “Thanks, Cal. God, I hate funerals.”

I nodded, knowing exactly what she meant and how she felt. “Me, too.”

I don't remember much about the service, except when the priest talked about what a giving person Claudia was. To make the point he asked, “How many people in this room feel they were a special friend of Claudia's?” Tay and half the room of well over a hundred people raised their hands. Enough said. Oh, and the casket was closed. Two bullets in the head will spoil even the prettiest face.

Tay and I were toward the front of the long line that had formed after the service to offer condolences to Nando and the family, who were gathered outside the church. A private burial was to follow at Riverview Cemetery on the Willamette River. Nando's face was taut, like a drum skin, and watching him there I realized it was the longest I'd ever seen my friend go without smiling when surrounded with people. Cardenas left the cathedral by a side exit rather than filing out the front. I exhaled. Confrontation avoided.

Tay and I found ourselves walking together as the crowd dispersed. There's something therapeutic about walking, and we both needed therapy after that service. Neither of us said anything for several blocks. It seemed natural, walking with Tay. Finally, she said, “That was too close to home. My brother's friend's casket was closed, too. Now this.” She sighed. “Oh, Claudia, I miss you already.”

The comment broke loose a flood of memories for me, none of them pleasant. I said, “My wife's casket wasn't closed, but I wished it were.” Then I caught myself. I wasn't going down that well of self-pity, no matter what the excuse. I glanced up. Tufts of cottony clouds drifted against a cobalt sky like boats without rudders. “The pain never completely leaves, but it gets bearable somehow.”

She nodded and we walked some more in silence. We stopped at a little bar and grill on Twenty-first and got drinks, a Mirror Pond for me and a glass of sauvignon blanc for her. A new convert to Sancere wine, she was miffed that the bar didn't stock the label and told them so. We took a table near the back of the place and talked about nothing in particular. We were at a lull in the conversation when she said, “Have you talked to Brent Gunderson?”

I chuckled. “It's on my to-do list for later today, as a matter of fact.” She was pushing me. I liked that. “Anything on Bonilla's prison contacts?”

She frowned and sipped her wine, her eyes dark in the low light. “I got a call yesterday, but I didn't get much. Nobody seemed to know what was up between them, business of some kind or, uh, something more intimate.”

I nodded. “Okay. So maybe business or maybe sex.”

She laughed. “Or both. Anyway, my source is still digging.”

“That's good. But, listen, Tay, make sure your name doesn't get used. That could be dangerous.”

She met my eyes, and for a moment hers softened as if touched by my concern. Then they narrowed back down and her lips compressed into a straight line. “Don't worry. I know what I'm doing. I owe this to Claudia.”

We finished our drinks, and I walked Tay back to her car. As if it was the most natural thing in the world we hugged each other before she got in. It was the kind of hug that two friends give each other as a show of strong support.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Cal

I took Arch for a well-deserved walk that afternoon. When we returned he gave me a baleful look and whimpered a couple of times when it was clear I was leaving again without him. “Guard the castle, big boy,” I told him.

Brent Gunderson lived near the Portland State campus, close enough that I decided to walk. I crossed Burnside and made my way to the South Park Blocks, a twelve-block strip of green that cuts through downtown and terminates at the PSU campus. The sky had cleared to a deep blue, and the elms, maples, and oaks lining the greenway were lit with fall colors. Half the city, it seemed, had found an excuse to congregate there.

Gunderson's apartment was on SW Seventeenth, just off Columbia Street, in a once-proud, now shabby, Victorian two-story. Gunderson lived on the first floor, according to a hand-scrawled note tacked to the wall next to the mailboxes in the entry. I rang his bell, a charming three-note chime that must have been the original doorbell. He buzzed me in.

An inner door opened, and a young man peered out at me, backlit by a table lamp. A bit on the plump side, he had short, neatly parted black hair and clean-shaven cheeks that glowed healthily. “Oh, God, you're not selling something, are you?”

I chuckled. “No. If you're Brent I just want to talk to you.”

The smile faded. “About what?”

“I'm Cal Claxton.” I handed him a card, which he took without glancing down at it. “I was wondering if we could chat a few minutes about Manny Bonilla?”

His cherub face hardened. “Oh,” was all he said before shutting the door in my face.

“Crap,” I uttered under my breath. “That was a long walk for nothing.” I knocked on the door again and said in a louder voice, “Brent, I just want to talk, that's all. Open the door, please.” But all I heard on the other side was the sliding of a deadbolt and his receding footsteps.

I was halfway across the 405 overpass when I glanced back at the Victorian mansion and noticed a metallic gray Chevy Malibu maybe a block and a half behind me. I'd seen a similar car on the way over. The only reason I noticed the Malibu was because my neighbor and accountant, Gertrude Johnson, owned a similar model. Coincidence. The car, which contained a single, male driver behind tinted glass, drove by and continued on SW Columbia.

It was a pleasant evening, so when I got back to the South Park Blocks, I took a seat on a bench next to a rousing bronze statue of Teddy Roosevelt leading the charge at San Juan Hill. I was in the middle of trying to think of how to re-approach Gunderson when there he was, striding toward me with a backpack on. He hadn't seen me yet, so I got up and put the statue between him and me. When he passed, I followed him to a coffeehouse on Market.

I loitered outside, and after he bought a coffee and took a seat in the back, I entered and slid into the chair across from him. He looked up with surprise. I said, “I'm sorry to bother you, Brent, but I've got to talk to you about Manny Bonilla. I'm a lawyer. Whatever you tell me will be held in strictest confidence.” Okay, that wasn't necessarily a true statement, but I needed this guy to talk to me.

A ripple of emotion crossed his face, a mixture of sadness and fear, but he kept his seat. “I, uh, just heard about his death three days ago. I don't know anything. Why are you involved, anyway?”

“I'm investigating the death of his caseworker, a woman named Claudia Borrego.”

“She's dead, too?” His hand went to his face, which had gone a shade paler. “She helped set up my interviews at the FRC. I don't keep up with the local news. What happened?”

“She was shot to death not far from here a week ago. Manny drowned a short time later. His death has been ruled suspicious. The crimes might be related.”

He took a sip of coffee as if to calm himself, rattling the cup against the saucer when he replaced it. “Oh, my God. They're both dead,” he said, half to himself. “Manny, he, uh…”

When he didn't finish his sentence, I said, “Go on, Brent, tell me what you know about this.”

“Nothing,” he snapped. “I don't know a thing.”

I leaned in. His blue eyes betrayed his anxiety. “Look, Brent, you'll feel a lot better if you get this off your chest.”

His eyes welled up, and a single tear broke loose and followed the arc of his cheek. “We became friends after I interviewed him for a project I'm working on. We were, um, talking about him moving in with me when he was released. He told me he was going to come into some money when he got out and that he had a great job lined up. I didn't care about the money.”

“Where was the money coming from?”

“He didn't say.” Gunderson paused, and I waited. “Then, like last Thursday, Manny calls me and says that he has to leave town for a while, that he's
not
taking the money, and can't afford to move in with me. I told him it didn't matter, that we'd work something out.” Gunderson dried his eyes and took a sip of coffee. “Then he says something like, ‘I'm involved in some bad shit, Brent, and I'm trying to get out of it. You need to forget you ever knew me.' I told him I'd help him, but he said, no, it was too dangerous, and that if anything happens to him, I shouldn't get involved. You know, like he was trying to protect me or something.”

“Did he say anything about Claudia Borrego?”

“Yeah, he did. He said she was helping him do the right thing.”

“Have you told anyone about this?”

Gunderson dropped his eyes. “No. I'm such a coward.” He looked back up and forced a smile. “I, um, I'm only out here in Portland. I'm from Utah, and the rest of my family doesn't know I'm gay. I figured this might blow it, and, besides, Manny scared the crap out of me.” His gaze dropped back to the table. “Now he's dead.”

We talked over a second cup, a decaf for me. I didn't get anything else. By this time Gunderson was visibly relieved, as if he'd just shucked off a huge weight. I gave him Harmon Scott's number, and he promised to call him as soon as I left. As I stood to leave he smiled and shook my hand. “Who knows?” he said. “Since I'm making phone calls, maybe I'll call home, too. I've got some things that need saying.”

It was dark as I walked back to Caffeine Central, but that damn gray Malibu was still back there. I spotted it in the streetlights on Tenth, a block behind me in the left-hand lane. I crossed the one-way street and stepped behind a covered Trimet bus stop. When the Malibu pulled up to the stoplight I stepped out and rapped sharply on the driver's side window.

The window rolled down, and a man looked up at me with a very annoyed look on his face. “Hi,” I said, “I'm Cal Claxon. What can I do for you?”

Chapter Twenty-nine

Cal

The man in the car shook his head and smiled, seemingly in spite of himself, then reached into an inside breast pocket and produced a badge. “Special Agent Truax, ATF. Since you made me, you might as well climb in. And hurry. The light's about to change.” The badge looked legitimate, so I took him up on the offer.

Truax was my size with thick forearms covered with wiry black hair and large hands with no jewelry except for a plain wedding band. His face bristled from a two-day growth, and he had deep-set eyes the color of good bourbon. The funny thing was he looked vaguely familiar.

“Where are we going?” I asked him.

“Well, shit, I might as well just take you home. You've had a long walk tonight.”

“I wouldn't have noticed you, but you're driving the same car as my bookkeeper.”

Truax shrugged. “Just my luck. Surveilling someone who's on foot's a bitch in the best of situations.”

“Are you going to tell me why you've been following me?”

He gave me a pained “oh, please” look and then turned his attention back to the street. “You've been busy lately, Claxton. What's the deal?”

“Deal?”

“Oh, come on. I'm a federal agent. What the hell are you up to?”

I shrugged. “I suppose you're referring to the Claudia Borrego murder. She was my best friend's fiancée. He's a PI here in Portland—Hernando Mendoza.” Truax nodded, suggesting he knew about Nando or at least the name. “He's understandably upset about her death. I've been helping him run down some potential leads, you know, trying to help the investigation.”

Truax barked a laugh. “I'm sure Portland PD's just thrilled about that. And…?”

“And what?”

“What've you learned?”

I laughed. “Very little. Look, I'm just going through the motions here, trying to help a friend cope with his loss.” Since Truax wasn't sharing anything with me, I saw little reason to open up to him.

After driving in silence for several blocks he pulled up to the curb in front of Caffeine Central and left the engine running. “That apartment you just visited on Columbia—who did you talk to?”

“Oh, that was on an unrelated matter. Turned out I had the wrong address.” I didn't want to drag Gunderson into this after he bared his soul to me.

Truax looked at me and held his gaze for several beats. “Look, Claxton, I'm sure you and your buddy Mendoza mean well, but you need to cut this crap.”

“What crap? We're not breaking any laws, and anything we learn will go straight to the team investigating the murder.”

He exhaled a breath and shook his head. “You're mucking around in something you know nothing about. Maybe there's more here than meets the eye. You get my drift?”

“No, I don't. Maybe you should give me a little more infor-
mation.”

Truax placed both hands on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. His knuckles shown white through tufts of dark hair. “Goddamn it, Claxton. Maybe you're going to find your ass between a rock and a very hard place, too.”

I smiled, nodded, and clicked the car door open. “I'll keep that in mind.” After I got out I leaned back in and said, “I finally figured out why you look familiar. You're Richie Truax, aren't you? You were a linebacker at USC back in the Ted Tollner era.”

A smile got loose on his face and faded just as fast. “That was a long time ago. Talk to Mendoza, Claxton. Tell him what I said. Rein it in, cowboy.”

After the Malibu pulled away I stood there feeling uneasy. What had Nando and I been up to over the past week that would worry the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms? Whatever it was, Truax wasn't about to tell me. Maybe I should have leveled with him, but hell, I didn't have anything anyway.

One thing was certain, though—the investigation that Nando and I were carrying out seemed to be upsetting an awful lot of people.