No Witness

by Warren C Easley

  At 10:06, Luis came out of the Road House, followed the lighted path to the parking lot, and headed toward the Prius. He was halfway to the car when I saw it—a single headlight came on from the shadows of the tree-lined side street. I got out of my car and heard the low whine of a motorcycle engine as it lurched forward in Luis’s direction.

  “LUIS!” I shouted and began sprinting toward him with the Glock drawn. “LOOK OUT!”

  He turned to face me as the motorcycle closed in on his back, a puzzled expression on his face. I was closer, but the motorcycle was much faster. “GET DOWN!” I shouted, but he stood there looking at me, frozen like a statue.

  I kept sprinting and hit him like an NFL linebacker. At nearly the same instant, I heard pop pop, pop pop, four shots, over the whine of the bike. I went down on top of him and, expecting the assailant to take another run at us, twisted around and leveled the Glock in the shooter’s direction. But instead, the motorcycle pulled out onto the highway and headed north at a high rate of speed. I listened until the muffled whine receded, then rolled off Luis, who lay facedown. Gently, I eased him onto his back.

  His body was limp. I looked down at his face, which was covered with blood, and shuddered.

  “No. God, no. Not again.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Luis groaned, and my heart nearly leapt out of my chest. “Luis, Luis, are you okay?”

  He opened an eye, the one that wasn’t bathed in blood and rapidly swelling shut. “Mierda,” he rasped, “What the fuck just happened?”

  “Are you hit?”

  He raised his head a fraction of an inch before giving up. “I don’t think so. Was that dude on the bike shooting at me?”

  “He was.” I took out my handkerchief and dabbed at the blood on his face, revealing a nasty horizontal gash in the center of his forehead matched by a vertical wound below his left eye. He managed a weak smile. “I think he missed, but you sure as hell didn’t.”

  “Me?”

  He pointed his index finger up. “Yeah, when you took me down, I think I hit the mirror on the Prius.”

  I looked up. The driver’s-side mirror was shattered and bloodstained and the housing bent forward. “Oh, shit. You’re right.” A sheepish smile. “Sorry about that.”

  “Hey, it beats a bullet in the head. You saved my life.” He smiled again and gave me a weak fist bump. “But Marlene’s gonna hate you, man. That Prius is her pride and joy.”

  I glanced at the bullet holes in the car door, eased the door open, and noted that two of the rounds had gone through it and penetrated the passenger-side door. There was a good chance at least one bullet had lodged inside the car. Marlene’s pride and joy was about to be impounded as evidence in a crime scene.

  I called 911 first and then Timoteo, telling him what happened and to meet his brother at the medical center. “You sure he’s okay?” he asked, his voice quavering.

  “He’ll need some stitches, but I think he’s okay.”

  By the time an ambulance arrived, Luis was propped against the back tire of the Prius holding a towel to his face that one of the waiters had brought him. Another waiter held an umbrella over him to keep the mist off. An officer from the first patrol car to arrive accompanied him to the hospital. “Keep an eye on him,” I warned the officer. “The shooter’s still out there.”

  I told his partner that the shooter was heading north on the Pacific Highway, was about my height, and drove a black motorcycle, probably a Kawasaki. After he called that in, I suggested he contact Detective Darci Tate. “This shooting’s related to the Olivia Fuentes murder,” I explained. The officer called Tate immediately, and she told him she and her partner were on their way.

  Darci Tate wore a pair of faded jeans, cowboy boots, and a long-sleeved shirt with snap buttons. “Caught me at home,” she said by way of an explanation I didn’t require. “I snuck in a horseback ride this evening.” As her partner scoured the scene for spent shell casings and other physical evidence, she took notes on my version of what had gone down. When I finished, she said, circling back, “So the shooter waited on a motorcycle in those trees across the street?”

  “Yeah. Looks like the text Luis got was a setup intended to lure him into the bar.”

  “And the guy who texted Luis, Diego Vargas, said he wanted to talk to Luis about a job.”

  I nodded. “I don’t think Vargas was ever going to show. Someone in the bar probably tipped the shooter when Luis finally left.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Not much light back here. It would have been difficult to know Luis was the target from across the street. And the shooter timed the attack perfectly.” That triggered a memory. “The shooter’s a lefty, at least that’s the hand he held his gun in.”

  Tate added that to her notes. “What about the make of the bike?”

  I shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. The locksmith said the guy he saw rode a Kawasaki, black. One thing I noticed, the bike seemed to be pretty heavily muffled.”

  “Makes sense, I suppose.” Tate’s not-yet cop eyes fixed on me. “Present at the scene again, Cal. Why this time?”

  I knew what was coming and wasn’t sure how it would go. Cops are never fond of civilians being involved in their investigations. “I’m working informally with the Fuentes family to take a look at their daughter’s murder.”

  Her jaw clenched. “You’re kidding. And you took the job?” After I gave her my reasons, she said, “Goddamn it, that’s crazy. We don’t hassle the migrants around here. This is wine country. We know how valuable they are. It’s ICE that’s stirring up all the fear.”

  “They’re not making that distinction anymore, Darci. They feel like the whole country’s turned on them.”

  She blew a breath out and kicked at some gravel on the pavement. “The truth is we don’t have shit on the Olivia Fuentes case. You’re right, nobody knows anything, and nobody wants to talk to us.” She half smiled. “You got anything I can use?”

  “The shooter tonight is the same guy who killed Olivia.” I went on to describe the key transfer and what the woman up on Buena Vista told me.

  Tate shook her head. “I talked to that woman myself. She didn’t say anything about a motorcycle.”

  I chuckled. “She mentioned it in passing, but after what the locksmith told me, it caught my attention.”

  “And Ballesteros and the two up in Washington?”

  I shrugged. “Carlos Fuentes doesn’t think Ballesteros is the key supplier, and he’s trying to find the other two.”

  Tate eyed me again for emphasis. “We’ll look for them, too, and you’ll let me know if Carlos succeeds, right?”

  “Of course. Something else you should know—two ICE agents showed up at the Fuentes’s home yesterday looking for Luis. He wasn’t there, and they didn’t show any ID. I went to the field office in Newberg to check if they were legit. The ICE supervisor implied they were. I’m not so sure.”

  “You talked to Curtis Drake?”

  “Yeah, that’s his name. He’s, uh, not a big fan of the immigrant community.”

  Tate laughed with derision. “He’s rumored to have white supremacist ties. He implied they were legit?”

  “Yeah, nothing definite. You know, can’t compromise national security and all. But the thought lingers—it could’ve been a planned abduction. Take Luis alive and find out what he knows. When it failed, maybe they decided to take him out with the drive-by.”

  “Hmm. I’ve got a reliable source at ICE. I’ll cross-check that and let you know what he says.”

  “Thanks.”

  She paused, as if to choose her next words with care. “Look, Cal, I appreciate the information, and I’m sure you’re going to continue to investigate. This is a weird situation. Why don’t we stay close?” She glanced at her partner, who was at the other end of the parking lot. “Keep it betwe
en you and me for a while?”

  I smiled. “Yeah, I can do that. Maybe between the two of us, we can crack this thing.” I was relieved and gratified she’d made the offer. It wasn’t a typical cop thing to do, but then, Darci Tate wasn’t a typical cop.

  “Where does this guy Vargas fit in?” she asked next.

  “Other than him setting Luis up, I have no idea. He’s apparently connecting young Latinos with job opportunities of some kind.” I described the scene at the Tequila Cantina that Timoteo and I witnessed.

  “Know where we can find him?”

  “No, but finding him shouldn’t be difficult.”

  At this juncture, I held back the fact that Olivia had sent Luis to the cantina, because I didn’t have any idea how that fit in. Let it ride for now, I told myself. You’ve given Tate plenty to go on.

  ***

  “My father stayed with Mamá,” Timoteo told me as we stood in the waiting area of the hospital. “I played it down, said the Luis had an accident but was okay. I didn’t want to worry him until I knew more.”

  “That was wise.”

  Shortly after that, a nurse escorted us to Luis’s room. The officer who arrived with him nodded as we entered the room, and Marlene, who sat next to the bed holding his hand, got up and flashed a nervous smile. Timoteo sucked in a breath when he saw his brother. Luis raised his other hand reassuringly. “Hey, I’m gonna live, bro.” Maybe a dozen stitches closed the gash on his forehead, and a butterfly bandage did the same for the lesser wound beneath his left eye, which was swollen completely shut.

  Timoteo showed the Fuentes smile. “Next time Cal says duck, I bet you do it.”

  Luis looked at me and managed a groggy chuckle. “You hit like a truck, man.”

  I rubbed my right shoulder, which was stiffening up. “You felt like a brick wall.”

  We all laughed.

  Luis introduced Timoteo to Marlene, and after they exchanged a couple of introductory comments, he turned to me. “The cops impounded her Prius. She had to Uber over here.”

  I looked at Marlene. “The police are going to dig the bullets out of your car before they give it back. It might take a week or more before they return it.”

  “A week?” She looked from Luis to me. “Will they fix it when they’re done? I need that car.”

  “No, they won’t. But your insurance might cover it.”

  She exhaled, rolling her eyes. “I just finished paying it off.”

  “It was my fault, Marlene,” Luis said. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”

  She squeezed his hand and looked down at him adoringly. “I know, baby, I’m just thankful you’re alive.” To me, she said, “If you hadn’t been there…” her voice trailed off and tears welled up in her eyes. “Thank you.”

  I nodded and said to Luis, “Did you notice anyone in the bar watching you?”

  His right eye flared for an instant, and he paused. “Almost forgot. I’m out of it, man. As I was leaving I saw one of the guys from the cantina.”

  “Know his name?”

  “Nope. Only saw him a couple of times.”

  “Did he have his cell phone out?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Just a hunch. Did he realize you recognized him?”

  “No, I’m sure he didn’t. He was talking to the bartender when I saw him. I figured it was best that he didn’t know, so I didn’t look at him or anything.”

  “That was smart, Luis.”

  At that moment, Detective Tate came in and immediately asked us to leave. I leaned in close to Luis. “Be honest with her. You can trust her.” The look he returned was laced with skepticism. Luis Fuentes was not a man who trusted easily.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Sounds like you have the tiger by the tail, my friend,” Nando said as we were having lunch at Pambiche, our favorite Cuban restaurant. It was Friday, my pro bono day in Portland, and I’d just finished bringing him up to date. “The stakes must be high for these bags of scum to react so violently. The Fuentes family has much to fear and so do you.”

  “I hear you. You would have been proud. I had my Glock out and was ready to use it if the shooter had turned around.”

  Nando’s thick, arching eyebrows raised, and he flashed a brilliant smile. “¡Bravo! Calvin!” The basso profundo outburst turned several heads. “I am proud of you.”

  After the onlookers turned their attention away from us, I said, “What have you got for me?”

  “Several things. First, and further to my point about danger, my contact just informed me that a cartel hit man who is believed to operate out of L.A. is on assignment, perhaps in the Northwest. He is an independent contractor and goes by the name El Solitario.” Nando raised a forkful of braised oxtail halfway to his mouth. “And he is reported to have used a motorcycle in some of his hits. Drive by, bang, bang, and then he seems to disappear.”

  The scene at the Road House rushed back to me in excruciating clarity. “The guy I saw shot with his left hand.”

  Nando nodded grimly. “A witness to one of the motorcycle attacks said the same thing. El Solitario is a leftie, about six foot tall. He wears leather and a tinted face visor.”

  “Sounds like our man.” I cut a bite of red snapper but left it on my plate. “Why do these guys always have dumb nicknames?”

  Nando shrugged. “Nicknames that stick come from the cartels, from men with small brains, much testosterone, and no consciences. In some twisted way, the hit man is a hero to them.” Nando’s look grew grave. “His presence raises the stakes, my friend.”

  “Of course. What else is known about him?”

  “Other than the fact that he has killed at least a dozen people, very little. He has left no DNA behind, but LAPD thinks they have one good fingerprint. He prefers a thirty-eight-caliber handgun, but he has resorted to a knife and even a lead pipe on one occasion.”

  “An opportunist.”

  “Yes. He operates on both sides of the border and is believed to have an American passport. His nationality is unknown.”

  “What else you got?” I asked before taking a bite of fish. It tasted flat and unappetizing.

  “The mysterious Diego Vargas has a day job. He is the driver for a man named Gavin Whittaker, a man of considerable means, apparently. Vargas has a green card, but it is probably bogus.”

  “A driver? Who the hell uses a driver these days?”

  “Status, my friend, status. Whittaker has an estate on the Willamette River with horse stables, tennis courts, and a polo field.”

  “Anything else on Vargas?”

  “He lives in Woodburn with his wife and ten-year-old son. No prior arrests.”

  “What about Robert Harris?”

  “A native Oregonian, grew up in Portland, educated at Portland State. Lives in a nice apartment in McMinnville with a woman named Patricia Stiles. No priors, but one interesting thing—his FICO is 485.”

  I groaned. “That’s a horrible credit score. Any clues as to why?”

  “No. Do you wish me to dig into that?”

  I took a long pull on my beer while considering the escalating cost of the investigation. “No, hold off for now.”

  Nando swallowed a bite of oxtail. “Detective Tate has probably picked up Vargas by now. Any word?” I shook my head, and he continued, “Surely the man would not be stupid enough to link himself to the murder attempt by using his cell phone to text Luis.”

  I pushed my plate away and drank some more beer. “Yeah, that is weird. A text from a burner phone could be from anyone, of course. And if Vargas is implicated, he would make sure he has a good alibi for the time of the attack.”

  Nando nodded slowly, his face grim again. “There is much that we do not know and every reason to proceed with great caution.”

  I had to agree.

  *
**

  Back at Caffeine Central, I checked in with Darci Tate between clients and a quick walk with Archie. “You sound tired,” I said when she answered.

  “Yeah, we took Diego Vargas in for questioning around three a.m. Didn’t cut him loose until seven. He’s got a solid alibi. Drove Whittaker and his wife into Portland and was waiting outside the Schnitzer for them at the time of the attack. Some kind of concert. Drove them home before going to bed at his place. Judge McMaster signed off on a search warrant, but we didn’t find diddly shit at his place.”

  “His phone?”

  “No record of a text to Fuentes on it, of course. And the phone used to contact Fuentes can’t be traced.” She sighed wearily. “A big, fucking nothing burger.”

  “Did Luis remember anything else of interest?”

  “No. I had to drag everything out of him. He’s not real forthcoming to law enforcement, even after somebody tried to blow his head off.” I suppressed a smile, and she went on, “I’m concerned about his safety when he leaves the hospital, too. Getting the chief to authorize protection for his girlfriend’s place won’t be easy. Any thoughts?”

  “You read my mind. Let me look into it and get back to you.” I then went on to tell her about El Solitario.

  “A hit man with a moniker, huh?” she said after thanking me. “This case is getting hairy.” Her voice had acquired a sharp edge, as if she were energized by the challenge of the new information. “Why in hell would a Mexican cartel have it in for the Fuentes family?” The question hung there for a moment, suggesting Tate suspected I knew more than I was telling her.

  She was right, of course. I did know about Carlos Fuentes’s cartel connection, which I was obligated to keep confidential. However, it didn’t particularly bother me to withhold this information from Tate, because I didn’t see the relevance. After all, it appeared that Luis, not his father, was the target of the cartel hit man.

  All I answered was, “Good question.”

  ***

  Timoteo was covering my Dundee office. I called him at my next break. “How’s Luis?”