Never Look Down (21 page)

Chapter Forty-four

Cal

The flurry of business at my law office was short-lived, and I found myself facing a light schedule in Dundee for the rest of that week. This was not comforting news, but it did make it easier for me to pack up and head back to Portland, where I planned to redouble my efforts to find K209 and figure out what I should do next vis-à-vis the cast of characters at the Bridgetown Arsenal.

Arch and I got back to Caffeine Central early Tuesday, and at mid-morning I was surprised by another e-mail from K209.

I left something out that might be important. Just before The Shooter killed Claudia Borrego she said to him, “Where is man—?“ or something like that. I don't know what man she was talking about. I hope this helps. Sorry about that!

I sat there for a moment before it hit me, and I had to take a deep breath before typing my response.

Could she have said, “Where is Manny?”

Yes. That could have been what she said. She didn't finish or I didn't hear it all because of the gunshots.

I thanked K209 and pleaded for her to come to Caffeine Central, but she went off-line once again.

I leaned back in my chair, laced my fingers behind my head, and reviewed the probable scenario. They must have lured Claudia out that night by using Manny as bait, probably forcing him to call to set up a rendezvous. She bit, because, as Tay explained, it was a family obligation. Manny got cold feet about something having to do with the Arsenal. Maybe he needed her help or money to get out of town. That would explain the pistol Gunderson found, too. Manny knew he was swimming with sharks. After they killed Claudia they tossed Manny off the Fremont Bridge. End of problem, except for one little detail—a young, fearless girl saw the shooting go down.

At noon Arch and I walked over to the art gallery where Picasso worked. He was with a customer, so we browsed the art on the walls, the best of which—at least in my opinion—had been painted by Picasso himself. I watched him as he discussed a painting with an attractive woman with a serious demeanor and, judging from her elegantly tailored suit and Prada handbag, serious money. He wore an open-necked shirt, so the tattoo of a coral snake on his neck was visible in keeping with the edgy nature of the gallery. Although it was difficult to tell which the woman was more interested in—the tattoo or the paintings—she picked out two of the latter and left after leaving shipping instructions to Scottsdale, Arizona.

“Buy you lunch?” I asked Picasso after he and Archie had finished their ritual greeting. He agreed and we walked over to the Deschutes Brewery on NW Eleventh. I parked Arch outside and we took a table where he could see us. I filled Picasso in on the contact K209 had made with me and the apparent connection between Claudia Borrego's and Rupert Youngblood's murders. When I finished he shook his head. “I hadn't heard about Rupert. I'm getting out of touch, man. He was a legend over in Old Town. Always hung out at the Portland Rescue Mission. Used to do tai chi in the park. Everyone on the street over there trusted him, especially the younger kids.”

I nodded. “He died protecting K209's identity. At least that's what K209 told me.”

Picasso grimaced and shut his eyes for a moment. “Man, I'm glad you're still on this, Cal. Nando's fiancée, then Rupert. These guys need to go down.”

And Manny Bonilla, I thought but didn't say. “Yeah, well, there's something else. K209's a girl, not a guy.”

“I'll be damned. You sure?”

“Pretty sure. The language of the e-mails she sent me kind of gives her away. A female psychologist I'm working with picked up on it first. She's saying a fourteen to seventeen-year-old female.” I had to chuckle. “It wasn't my finest hour. Don't tell Claire. Anyway, this is new information. Does it help us find her?”

Picasso paused, absently tugged on his eyebrow ring, then sat up a little straighter. “The fact that she's a girl doesn't really help, but knowing she had a relationship with Rupert might. Rupert's territory was Old Town, around the Rescue Mission. The kid must hang out in the same neighborhood. She's probably not homeless, because homeless kids don't have climbing gear. But if she knows Rupert, she's definitely not well off, either. That would put her on the east side of the river. West side housing's too expensive. So, my guess is her draw across the river is most likely the alternative high school in Old Town.” He looked a little embarrassed. “I told you I'd check that out, didn't I. I, uh, didn't get around to it.”

“That's okay. Just give me a contact at the school, and I'll check it out myself. You've got art to sell.”

Picasso called a case manager he knew at the New Directions Alternative School and arranged for me to meet with her later that same afternoon. Her name was Monica Sayles, and he told her I was trying to locate a student but didn't elaborate. After being buzzed in I found Sayles in a small, unadorned office on the second floor of the school. She was dressed casually in slacks, a ribbed cotton turtleneck, and jogging shoes, and her direct manner and level gaze told me she was all business. I introduced myself and she said, “It's nice to finally meet you Mr. Claxton. I hear good things about the work you're doing at Caffeine Central.”

I shrugged, thanked her and explained the reason for my visit. When I finished, she said, “I thought the police arrested a man for that awful shooting?”

“They did, but there may be others involved who are still at large.”

She made a face. “I see, but isn't this a matter for the police?”

I smiled. “Of course it is, but you know as well as I do that finding kids like this is not their strong suit.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “There are probably thirty to forty girls here at New Directions between the ages of fourteen and seventeen. I wouldn't know where to begin, Mr. Claxton.”

“This girl's very athletic, smart, and knows something about stencil art. Does that narrow it down some?”

She didn't respond for several beats, and I could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. “Why is this so important to you?”

“Because I'm worried sick she's in danger.”

She met my eyes, chewed her lip for a moment, and shook her head. “I'm sorry, Mr. Claxton. I wish I could help you, but my hands are tied. We have very strict confidentiality rules here. Even if I had a clue who it was, I couldn't tell you.”

I told her I understood but left a card just in case she changed her mind. As I exited the building, I recognized a student out on the street, one of my
clients. “Hi, Kiyana,” I called out.

She turned and beamed a smile. The boots she wore made her even taller, and a hooded sweatshirt hid her dreadlocks. “Hey, Mr. Claxton.”

I fell in stride with her. “I submitted your petition to the court. I'm waiting for a hearing date.”

“All right! How long will that take?”

“Six to eight weeks.” Then on a whim I added, “Listen, Kiyana, maybe you can help me. You must know a lot of kids at the school.”

She looked at me, instantly wary. “Yeah…”

“I'm trying to find the tagger who uses the moniker K209.”

She laughed. “You and everybody else, man.”

“I know. I think K209 is a girl, and she probably goes to school here.” I stopped walking and turned to face her. “I'm looking for her because I think her life could be in danger. Can you think of any girls here who could pull off something like that?”

The smile on Kiyana's face froze for an instant, and her eyes got bigger. Then she smiled more broadly, but it looked a little forced. “K209's a girl? Is that cool or what?”

I nodded and met her eyes. “Can you help me, Kiyana?”

She broke eye contact and shuffled her feet. “I don't know, man. A lot of tough girls at New Directions could be doin' shit like that. This tagger could get in a lot of trouble, too. Right?”

“Not necessarily,” I added hastily and then explained that I would represent K209 if she came forward.

Kiyana looked out across Ninth Street and seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. “Sure, well, if I think of someone, I'll let you know.” She forced another smile. “I gotta go to work now.”

I watched her cross the street as frustration filled my chest like hot steam. Clearly she knew something but was unwilling to talk to me. I stifled an urge to run after her and demand some answers. That would backfire for sure. Kiyana wasn't the type to wilt under pressure. Just the opposite.

No, probably the best I could hope for is that Kiyana could somehow overcome the street code that says you never, ever tell The Man anything.

Chapter Forty-five

Kelly

The Monday following Kelly's visit to the library passed uneventfully. On Tuesday it was nearly dark when Kelly stepped off the bus three blocks from her apartment. The street glistened with reflected light, although the rain had finally stopped. The audio components store was still closed and dark, but Kelly was cheered to see the apartment lights on the third floor. Veronica hadn't left for work yet.

The dog seemed to glare at her with his bug eyes when she let herself into the apartment. “It's me, you grump,” Kelly said. “I live here, too, you know.” Veronica was in the bathroom applying makeup. Kelly watched as she carefully outlined her eyes with mascara, her blond hair still in curlers. “How's Larry?”

Veronica smiled without taking her eyes off the mirror. “He's fine. We're going to a club tonight after I get off work. I, uh, left you some pizza.”

After Veronica left, Kelly busied herself in the kitchen with dinner—a glass of milk, cold pizza, and a salad she made with some wilted iceberg lettuce and low-fat mayonnaise. Someday when she was on her own she promised herself she was going to learn to cook. Not fancy or anything, just healthy.

She'd just settled down with a book in the front room when the mutt stood up with his ears pointing forward and whimpered. Kelly put the book down, went to the front door, and opened it softly. She heard a stair below the second floor landing groan, the familiar sound of someone on the staircase. Her spine began to tingle as she moved to the railing and looked down.

A man was coming up the stairs, his back to her, his shoulders dipping from side to side, arms swinging like a gun fighter.
She knew that walk.

Everything froze for a moment—breath, heart, brain—then Kelly ducked back into the apartment, eased the door shut, slipped the dead bolt, and fastened the security chain. She ran to her room and locked the door, the mutt right behind her.

She grabbed her backpack and moved toward the window, then spun around and rummaged in the back of her closet until she found Rupert's gray box. She jammed the box in her pack and as she slid the window up heard two loud thumps, followed by the splintering of wood. She had one leg out the window when the mutt came up to her, ears down, tail between his legs, sheer terror in his buggy little eyes. “Okay,” she said and scooped him up and stuffed him into her backpack. “But keep your mouth shut.”

She practically slid down the copper drainpipe and when she hit the alley broke into a sprint. The dog whined softly from inside the half-zippered pack.
“Hush,”
Kelly told him in the harshest voice she could muster. He went silent.

She stopped at the building she called her refuge, looked back into the darkness of the alley, and listened for a moment. Nothing yet. The cornerstones were damp and slippery, and she had a counterweight on her back, which would make it even harder. How long to summit, she asked herself? Two, maybe three minutes? She imagined Macho Dude's actions. Once he broke down the bedroom door, he'd backtrack down the stairs and go around the building. Then he'd have to decide which way she went in the alley.

She just might make it.

She dried her hands on her sweatshirt, scraped the bottom of each sneaker on a pant leg, and lifted off, thinking of her dad.
Eyes on the goal, Kel,
he used to tell her.
Never look down.

The stone was slick, and the mutt hung like a dead weight in her pack, making the going slower than she hoped. But she quickly fell into a rhythm and with every upward thrust of her right hand, then left, she would drag her fingers across her sweatshirt to keep them as dry as possible.

She paused halfway up, breathing hard from panic more than effort, her breath condensing in thick clouds around her face. The mutt whimpered softly in the pack but didn't move. She pushed off again, and, near the top, the mutt shifted, causing her to lose a foothold. She hung there for a moment, spread-eagle, her dangling left foot searching madly for the seam between the cornerstones. She finally found it and started up again, her heart pounding so hard it almost masked the slap of boots on pavement coming in her direction from below.

Come on
, she told herself,
you're almost there. Don't blow it, Kelly.

The footsteps got louder, and Kelly realized it was too late. Macho Dude was almost below her. She flattened herself to the cornerstones and froze, petrified that the hammering of her heart would give her away. She remained absolutely motionless as he passed below her.

Her worst nightmare from the night she witnessed the shooting was repeating itself.
People don't look up,
she told herself.
People do not look up.
She hung there for an eternity. But the footsteps faded, and she let herself breathe again before pulling onto the rooftop. She lay there for a while just sucking in the cold air and letting her pulse come back to something approaching normal. Then she sat up, took the mutt from her backpack, and did something she never ever did before—she hugged him.

Just moments later she heard the slapping footsteps in the alley again, coming back toward her this time. She glanced at the mutt, afraid he might decide to bark, but even more afraid of what he'd do if she tried to stop him. She looked at the dog, willing him to stay silent. To his everlasting credit, he just lay there panting, pleased, no doubt, to be out of the backpack. She moved to the low retaining wall and peeked over. Macho Dude was huffing and moving slower this time. She watched until he vanished into the darkness. She hugged the dog again and vowed that from then on she would call him Spencer, not “the mutt.”

An hour later, Kelly stood in the shadows across and down the street from where Veronica worked. She'd been watching a good fifteen minutes and saw no sign of Macho Dude. It was probably safe, she decided. Kelly crossed the street and stood at the window until Veronica saw her. Kelly was holding Spencer, who started squirming and making little whining sounds.

Veronica joined her on the sidewalk, her face filled with concern. “What's the matter, Kel? Is Spencer sick or something?”

Kelly handed Spencer to Veronica. “No. He's not sick.” Then she looked her straight in the eye. “Listen, Veronica, you've got to leave Portland right now.”

The concerned look dissolved into anger laced with fear. “Oh, no, Kel, what have you done?”

“I can't explain now, but you've got
to leave.” She held out a handful of bills. “Here's seven hundred dollars. Go to the bus station and take the next bus to Seattle. Go stay with your friend there.”

“What do you mean? I can't do that. And where did you get that kind of money, anyway?”

“Just go. And whatever you do, don't go near the apartment.”

Veronica's eyes flooded, and her face flushed red. “Oh, Kelly. How could you do this? I knew you'd screw things up for me.”

Kelly thrust the money into Veronica's hand. “Just take this and go. I'll explain everything later. I promise.”

Veronica snatched the money from Kelly's hand. “I'll go, but you need to understand something—I'm done trying to be your parent. It's over between us.” Then she handed the dog back to Kelly and crossed her arms. “And take Spencer, too. I can't take him with me.”

Spencer was as surprised as Kelly and tried to squirm out of her grasp. “But I can't—”

“Take him and get out of here. Good luck in foster care. You're going to need it.” Veronica snapped over her shoulder as she walked back into the restaurant.

Spencer whined a couple of times in protest and then seemed to relax. “
Sheeze,
” Kelly said, “
just what I need. A pet.
” The dog didn't seem to mind when she put him in her backpack and started off…to where? It suddenly hit home that she had no place to go.

She crossed the street and stepped into the shadows of a building to mull it over. She knew if she went to the police, she'd end up in emergency foster care that very night. She'd been through that awful routine before. She could go across the river and find somewhere to sleep in Old Town, but Macho Dude would probably look for her there. She could go to Forest Park and sleep under a tree, but it was cold and wet and she had no gear. There was the all night coffee shop further up Sandy Boulevard, but he might look there, too.

Why not her refuge? It was four blocks from the apartment, but she felt like she could access it through the alley without too much risk. Besides, for all Macho Dude knew, Kelly had called the police about the break-in, so he wouldn't be hanging around there, would he?

She had no sooner scaled the building a second time when the sky opened up. Fortunately, the small enclosure housing the exit to the roof had an overhang that afforded some protection. She sat down, leaned against the wall, and unpacked the dog, who promptly jumped into her lap.

She was bone tired, but the events of the night flashed back in vivid detail—Macho Dude's unmistakable walk, the narrow escape, and the anger and disappointment in Veronica's eyes. The truth was, Kelly felt more shame than fear. Veronica was right, she admitted. She had really screwed things up for them. If she hadn't been out there tagging that night none of this would have happened.

Now Veronica was gone. Sure, the woman was selfish and self-absorbed. But she was also like a mom or a big sister, the closest thing to family that Kelly had. Kelly dropped her head in her hands, but no tears came, just a burning desire to somehow make things right.

Kelly tried to think about what she needed to do next, but she was too exhausted. Using her backpack as a pillow, she lay down, Spencer huddled on her chest, his warmth slowly seeping into her. She brought a hand up, stroked his back once, and fell fast asleep.