Never Look Down (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-six

Cal

That same Friday

As colder weather sets in in Portland some of the homeless find their way to warmer climes. The ones that stay become more desperate, and the potential for bad things to happen goes up sharply, and so does my caseload at Caffeine Central. It was the day after my visit to Bridgetown Arsenal, and I was so swamped I skipped Arch's midmorning walk. At noon I taped a hastily written “Back at 2” sign on the door, took Arch on a quick trek around the block, and then headed for a lunch date with Jack Pfister.

“No, you can't go,” I explained to a clearly disappointed Archie before I left. “The restaurant doesn't allow dogs, and it's too cold to sit outside.” Reasoning with your dog is always a good idea.

I suggested the lunch, but Pfister picked the venue, a trendy little joint in Northeast called Toro Bravo. That was fine with me, because it was a short drive, although I worried I'd have to pick up the bill. You can't eat cheap at that tapas restaurant despite the small serving sizes. Wearing a conservative blue suit and understated striped tie, he smiled when I approached his table, but his hawk eyes held reserve.

“So,” I said as I sat down, “I expected you to pick a place in Oregon City.”

He raised one corner of his mouth and shook his head. “Culinary wasteland. Actually, I'd move my practice to Portland in a heartbeat, but my client base tends to be outside the city.”

I nodded. “More gun owners, huh?”

“Right. And folks who are a lot more passionate about the Second Amendment.” He gave me a conspiratorial smile. “Rednecks love their guns, and I love my rednecks.”

I bit my tongue and smiled back. The waiter came and we ordered a selection of tapas and a bottle of Rioja. I managed to deflect some of his sales pitch on his foundation, A Hand Up, explaining that I was already doing pro bono work in the inner city. He took it well, considering this was probably the only reason he agreed to see me. What he did say left me with the impression that he viewed his mentoring work like some kind of merit badge, an effort that would be good for business and perhaps guarantee a happy afterlife. Don't judge, I told myself. Consider the actions, not the motives.

When I nudged the conversation around to my budding interest in gun trusting, Pfister launched into a recitation on the financial benefits with a kind of evangelical fervor. I learned how my practice in Dundee was ideally positioned to serve the Willamette Valley, how the valley was replete with gun owners anxious about their Second Amendment rights, and what sections of the law I'd have to brush up on.

It was a familiar message—the market was up, and the gravy train was moving down the tracks. All I needed to do was hitch on.

Thank God for the Rioja. I drank two glasses before he finished.

When the waiter brought our tapas I changed the subject. “You're probably curious about the Manny Bonilla situation.” I was surprised he hadn't brought the subject up.

Pfister took a bite of empanada with chorizo and slid from his lawyer persona back to his mentor persona without missing a beat. “Oh, yes. I read about the arrest. What's the latest?” I gave him the Bonilla-probably-killed-himself version. When I finished, he said, “I don't buy that. He didn't seem despondent.”

“When did you see him last?”

He drank some wine. “Oh, maybe two weeks before he died.”

I swallowed a bite of seared scallop, and without seeming to press casually asked a couple of questions about the job he'd gotten Manny with Roz Jenkins. That didn't earn me any new information, so I tried a different tack. “I guess as his mentor you must have visited Manny at Sheridan, you know, to help get him into the Re-entry program.”

“Well, I handled his case, so it was no problem getting in to see him.”

“Were you aware that he was known to be associating with a man named Javier Acedo, an inmate with hard-core cartel connections?”

A good lawyer knows how to control his facial expressions. Pfister's face stayed neutral, but his eyes flared for just an instant. Was he surprised I knew about Acedo or just the implications of the question? No verdict.

“Who told you that?”

“Oh, something I picked up from Claudia Borrego's fiancé, the private eye. He has sources inside Sheridan.” There I go, lying again.

Pfister laughed. “Well, that's absurd. I would've heard about it. I've got sources, too. And I would've never placed him if that were true.”

I nodded. “Did Manny get any training for his new job, you know, from Arthur?”

“Not that I heard.”

“Nothing at the Bridgetown Arsenal?”

His laugh was laced with incredulity. “Are you kidding me? As a felon he's not allowed to set foot inside the building. He'd be breaking a federal statute.”

“Arthur wouldn't bend that rule? Maybe Manny had a needed skill set, you know, he had a good mechanical aptitude.”

“Look, even if Arthur wanted to train him for some bizarre reason, Roz would never allow it on the premises. She knows the law.”

“Roz isn't at the Arsenal all that much these days.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Look, we're talking about Arthur here. If Roz or that ugly daughter of hers says ‘Shit,' Arthur says ‘What color?' Where'd you get such a crazy idea, anyway?”

I laughed and waved a hand. “Don't mind me. I ask too many questions.”

Jack Pfister didn't show it, but I'm sure I left him wondering about me that day. He thought he came to recruit a volunteer but wound up getting the third degree. Or he was up to his neck in something and now he knew I was nibbling around the edges. I wasn't sure which. In any case the guy was a piece of work. But we're all bundles of contradictions, I reminded myself.

One plus-mark in Pfister's column—the tapas and Rioja were damn good, and he insisted on picking up the check.

On the way back to Caffeine Central I idly wondered why the car behind me—a dark sedan, a Ford Taurus, I think—made sure he stayed on my tail by bolting through a yellow-turning-red light I'd just sailed through. I thought of ATF special agent Richie Truax. Maybe he got himself a new car. But then the sedan turned off. Don't get paranoid, I told myself.

I let myself into the office, left a voicemail for Tay Jefferson, and was attacking some long-overdue paperwork when someone rapped on the front door. I was officially closed, so, grumbling about people not reading the posted hours, I got up and answered the door. Tay stood smiling at me in spandex, a fleece jacket, and jogging shoes, a sheen of sweat on her face. Archie went around me to greet her. She dropped to one knee, hugged him, and then looked up at me. “Got your message. I had the afternoon off and was running the river. Thought I'd see if I could catch you.” She laughed. “I love the graffiti outside. I'm surprised it's still up there.”

She was referring to the anti-zero-tolerance piece K209 had left on the side wall of the building. I chuckled. “Yeah, that piece was considered evidence at one point. I think it got lost in the system.”

“You never found the tagger, huh?”

“Nope. It's a shame, too. He's the only witness to Claudia's murder.”

Tay lifted a teasing half-smile. “
He?”

I smiled back a bit sheepishly and shook my head. “Okay. I don't know for sure. What pronoun do you want me to use,
it
?” I went on to tell her about Brent Gunderson's burglary, my visit to the Arsenal, and my lunch with Jack Pfister. I left out the part about my having a copy of Bonilla's notebook. I trusted Tay, but she didn't need to know that.

When I finished, she said, “So Manny was involved in something illegal at this gun shop, and you think that got him killed. Do the police know about this?”

“They have the same information I have.”

“Then what's the connection between his murder and Claudia's?”

“I still don't know. I think Claudia got caught in the middle. Probably tried to help him or knew too much.”

Tay shook her head and blew a breath in disgust. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

“Something like that.”

Still frowning she asked, “How does this connect to Anthony Cardenas?”

“You asked me that before. I still don't know.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she shot me a skeptical look. “Are you suggesting he didn't do it?”

I shrugged. Nobody wanted to hear that. “That ship has sailed. I'm just focused on what happened to Bonilla. Which reminds me, have you heard anything more about his relationship with Javier Acedo?”

“No. The line went dead on that.”

“Any chance you can get me the visitation records for Bonilla when he was at Sheridan?” She gave me a quizzical look. “If he was some kind of conduit between Acedo and the outside, I'd like to know who was calling the shots. I know Pfister visited him, but who else?”

We were wrapping up when, out of habit I guess, I glanced at my computer screen which was opened to my e-mail inbox. A new message with the subject line “Rupert Youngblood Murder” had come in from someone using the name “Witness.” Needless to say, those words caught my eye. I asked Tay to excuse me while I opened the message.

I know some stuff about the murder of Rupert Youngblood. I want to help but I can't use my name. A friend said you might be able to help. If you are interested, reply to this e-mail. It can't be traced so don't even try.

“Huh,” I said. “Take a look at this.”

Tay got up, came around the desk, and bent over my shoulder to read the e-mail. “Who's Rupert Youngblood, anyway?”

“I don't know.”

“Hang on, I'll check.” She took her phone from her jacket and a few beats later said, “Found it in
The Oregonian
. He was a homeless man…found beaten to death at a deserted granary on Naito Parkway…on October 18.

“Let's see if the sender's still online.” I hit reply and sent the following message:

I am interested in helping you. What do you know about this murder?

A minute later this came through:

The guy who shot Claudia Borrego also killed Rupert with the help of another man.

“Whoa!” I said to Tay, “Look at this.”

She leaned into the screen. “Oh, my God. Do you think it's a prank?”

“I don't know. Let's see what else comes through.

How do you know this?

I saw the guy shoot Claudia Borrego. I saw the same guy leave the granary with another dude right after Rupert was killed. Rupert was killed because he wouldn't give me up. They tortured him.

Tay squeezed my shoulder with her hand and leaned in closer to the screen. My pulse rate ramped up.

Tell me something that wasn't in the newspapers.

After an agonizing pause, this came back:

I was tagging the building when he shot the woman. He shot at me too. Five or six times. I got away by hiding in the dumpster in the alley behind the building.

I pictured the alley behind the building where Claudia was shot. Yes, there was a dumpster there. I looked around at Tay, my mouth agape. “My God, I think I'm talking to K209.”

Chapter Thirty-seven

Kelly

Kelly's hands had trembled as she typed the messages to Cal Claxton, messages that essentially revealed she was K209, her closest-kept secret. She knew it was necessary, but it made her panicky, like she was somehow losing control. She gnawed at the cuticle on her right thumb and stared at the computer screen, waiting for a reply. Finally it came:

You must be K209. If you are, I'm advising you to come forward and tell the police what you know. If you're worried about the tagging violations, I'll be glad to help you deal with the police.

Kelly's heart sank with the feeling she'd made a horrible mistake.
Come forward? Are you kidding me?
I should have known
, she told herself. It wouldn't be so simple. Nothing ever is. She sat there for the longest time trying to decide how to respond. Finally, she squared up at the keyboard and wrote:

I thought attorneys had to keep stuff confidential. I can't come forward. If you tell the police, I swear I will disappear. I want to make sure that Rupert's murder isn't just forgotten about because he was homeless. That's why I'm asking for your help.

An equally long time elapsed before Claxton's reply appeared on her screen:

Okay. I agree to do what I can to help you and keep this confidential. Who are you and what else can you tell me about both murders?

A warning came up on her screen saying she had seven minutes of screen-time left. She sent a hasty final note to Claxton telling him she would be in touch the next day around the same time. She felt relieved that she'd timed out. She needed time to think about the next session. A stupid mistake could give too much away.

It was still light out when Kelly descended the expansive front steps of the Central Library and joined the afternoon rush hour. By the time she caught the bus the streetlights were on, and tentative reflections began playing on the river. Kelly caught sight of the shadowy form of a lone kayaker moving upriver and felt an immediate kinship. She was fighting to stay upright, too, and the going was against the current.

A sign in the window of the audio components shop on the first floor of Kelly's building greeted her: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. Now she remembered that Veronica had said something about the owner being busted for selling stolen equipment from the shop. Kelly checked the mailbox in the narrow vestibule and headed up the creaking stairs to the landing on the second floor. She heard a noise, glanced up, and froze. A man was standing on the third floor facing her apartment door. He turned and smiled at her. “Hi. You must be Kelly.”

“Uh, yeah. Who are you?”

“I'm a friend of Veronica's. Larry.” He had dark, shaggy hair, a three-day growth and both arms sleeved in ink.

Just then Veronica appeared, all smiles. “Come up and say hi, Kel.” When Kelly reached the third floor Veronica said, “Go on in, Larry. There's cold beer in the fridge.” When he did Veronica turned to Kelly and said in a low, urgent voice. “I invited him to dinner, Kel. I like him a lot.” She thrust out her hand, a pleading look in her eye. “Here's twenty. Go out and get yourself a nice dinner and take in a movie or something.”

Kelly pushed her hand away. “Keep your money. I'll see you later.” As she started down the stairs, she added over her shoulder, “Don't let him sleep over, Veronica. It's the first date.”

Kelly went back out on the street. It was clear, but nightfall had sharply chilled the air. She fished a light fleece jacket from her backpack, put it on, and walked around the building to the alleyway. Three blocks down, she had to duck into the shadows to let a giggling young couple pass by. Then she was up and away, her hands and feet welcoming the cold, dry touch of the granite cornerstones of her refuge. As she climbed the cares of that day began to melt away.

She summited a couple of minutes later, her breath smooth and deep and her mind clear, although she was still pissed at Veronica. As she sat watching the Friday night traffic on Sandy Boulevard, she thought about the contact she'd made with the lawyer, Claxton, and began planning what she would tell him the next day. The more she thought about the exchange, the better she felt. Kiyana was probably right. She could trust the lawyer, but there was no way she was giving him her name.
That's not going to happen
, she vowed,
no matter what he promises
.

Her thoughts turned to Zook, and she began to feel anxious. She needed to find him and apologize for her outburst. Maybe it's not as bad as you think, she told herself. Maybe he's just working his way through a rough patch. When she did find him, she would invite him over for dinner. And Veronica could clear out and go to a damn movie. Yeah, that's what she'd do.