No Witness

by Warren C Easley

  Her eyes flashed again. “Yes, these people have every reason to be afraid.” She paused and cocked her head. “Is this about Diego Vargas? I know the police talked to Gavin about him. He had nothing to do with the attack on the girl’s brother. He was with Gavin and me in Portland that night.”

  “I know. The brother, Luis Fuentes, was in a group Diego was counseling. The investigation has stalled, so I’m following up every connection, no matter how obscure.”

  “I see. You should know Diego is doing good work. These young men need all the help they can get. He used to do that work at his church, but he moved it to a pool hall to attract a wider, more underserved group.”

  “Commendable. Is he still doing this work?”

  “As far as I know, yes.”

  “At the same venue?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I started my car, and a horse whinnied in the field. “Your horses are beautiful, or should I say handsome?”

  She beamed. “They’re both. Thank you.” Inexplicably, the smile drained from her face. “They are my refuge,” she said so softly I barely heard it. I waited for her to continue, but she seemed to catch herself. The smile reappeared, although her eyes betrayed a hint of sadness. “Thanks again for the help, Mr. Claxton.” She placed a hand on my arm. “And I hope you find the person who killed that young girl.”

  It was strange, but I felt a connection to this woman, as if a bond of trust had formed between us instantly. Although I had no reason to, I handed her a card and asked her to call me if she thought of anything else.

  ***

  A slate-roofed behemoth with a turret rising out of one side, the Whittaker residence could have been used to film a British period piece. The English ivy clinging to the front of the structure added to the effect. I parked behind a dark-blue Land Rover SUV with tinted windows that sat on the edge of a semicircular cobblestone drive with a gurgling fountain in the center. I half expected a butler in tails to answer the bell, but it turned out a young Latina wearing a nervous smile did the honors. She led me down a central hallway and knocked softly on an ornately paneled door.

  “What is it?” an irritated voice snapped from within. “I’m on the phone.”

  “Your visitor.”

  “Oh, Christ. Forgot. Have him wait.”

  She looked at me apologetically.

  “No problem,” I reassured her.

  The maid and I tried to converse, me in tortured Spanish and her in equally flawed English. I did learn she lived on the grounds with her husband, and they were both from the state of Michoacán in Mexico.

  A good five minutes later the door burst open. “Sorry,” Whittaker said, extending his hand, “I thought that damn conference call would never end.” He was a couple of inches taller than me with coiffed, wavy black hair, a florid complexion, and a waistline that had gotten away from him some time ago. He retreated behind his hulking mahogany desk, and after I explained my role in the investigation, said, “So how’s it going? It’s been, what, nearly three weeks since the murder?”

  “It’s progressing.”

  He smiled. “Progressing? Come on. Surely the police have some leads, a suspect maybe?”

  “I’m not privy to everything the Major Crimes Response Team has uncovered.”

  He held the smile, which had acquired a tinge of sarcasm. “What about your investigation? I hear you’re a capable crime-solver.”

  “Progress has been slow, and I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Of course. The thought of that butcher running free out there makes my blood run cold. As I mentioned, I’ve told the detectives everything I know, but go ahead, tell me how I can help you.”

  “Diego Vargas isn’t a suspect here, but I’m interested in his counseling work. Did he ever talk about it with you?”

  “Occasionally. Fine work he’s doing.”

  You have to give a little to get a little, I said to myself before asking the next question: “Do you know of any connection between his work and Prosperar, the medical group whose board you serve on?”

  “No.” He said it quickly, with finality.

  “He didn’t associate with anyone at Prosperar?”

  “Not that I know of. I mean, he drives me over there occasionally, but generally waits in the car.”

  “Were any of his counselees connected with Prosperar?”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  I leaned in. “Would Vargas talk to me?”

  Whittaker paused. “After the way the cops treated him, I’m not so sure. I mean, we’re talking Gestapo tactics. They stormed in and searched his house, scared the hell out of his wife and his kid, embarrassed him. And the kid’s not well. All because somebody sends a text from a burner phone with his name on it? Come on.” Whittaker’s face took on some color. “And then, they came back again after that worker got stabbed up in the hills.”

  “Plácido Ballesteros,” I said.

  “Whatever. Is Diego going to be a suspect in every crime around here? Well, we were down in southern Oregon when that happened.” He paused. “Are the two crimes connected?”

  I shrugged a nonanswer. “Look, I can see Diego’s point, but I’d still like to talk to him. I’m not with the police. Maybe he’ll feel more comfortable talking to me. The smallest detail could be important.”

  Whittaker nodded. “Okay. I’ll ask him and get back to you, but don’t hold your breath. And, if there’s anything else I can do, just let me know.”

  A crunching handshake and an exchange of business cards sent me on my way, escorted by the maid. As I traversed the central hall, my eyes were drawn to a large portrait of the man, a complimentary depiction of Gavin Whittaker in a crossed-arm, captain-of-industry pose suitable for a Time magazine cover. There were photos and plaques along the walls, too, de rigueur for a man intent on documenting his status in the world—an award here, standing with a well-known politician there, and even a shot of him with what looked like the rugby team I’d read about in the News-Register.

  As I pulled out onto the Pacific Highway, I wasn’t optimistic that I’d accomplished much of anything. However, two observations caught my attention. First, something in that rugby photo rang a bell, although I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Second, those bruises on Isabel’s arm—the ones she apparently didn’t want me to see—consisted of four evenly spaced marks, about the distance between the fingers of a large hand. Inflated ego aside, Gavin Whittaker seemed a decent enough guy, but those bruises gave me pause.

  Chapter Thirty

  It was late afternoon, so I drove straight to the Aerie, changed clothes, and began to work on the wall with Archie looking on in bored acceptance. I resumed laying the course I’d torn down, choosing the rocks with slightly more experience, all the while revisiting the encounters at Whittaker Landing. I kept coming back to Isabel’s comment about her horses being her refuge. Not the words so much but that look of sadness in her eyes. Someone with a large, strong hand had grabbed her by the arm. Was it her husband? I had no way of knowing, of course, but the thought of it bothered me. A lot.

  I was hefting a large slab of blue basalt when some somnolent synapse awoke and fired in my brain—one of the players in that rugby photo had a Vandyke mustache and goatee. That was what had caught my eye. I dropped the slab, sat down on it, and pulled out my phone. “What was the name of that team?” I asked Archie, who had snapped to attention owing to my odd behavior. “The North Valley Rugby Club,” I said, answering my own question.

  I pulled up the team photo on my screen and enlarged it to the max. The Vandyke guy was standing next to Gavin Whittaker, proud sponsor of the club. I looked over at Arch. “I’ll be damned, Big Boy. That dude with the beard is Curtis Drake from the ICE holding center.”

  I sat there mulling that over and then got up and went into the h
ouse. I pulled a cold Mirror Pond from the fridge, popped the cap off, and went into my study. Taking a sheet of blank paper, I drew three circles, labeling them:

  PROSPERAR CANTINA CARTEL

  Inside the first I wrote Olivia Fuentes, Robert Harris, Gavin Whittaker, and Sofia Leon. Inside the second I wrote Diego Vargas, Luis Fuentes, Plácido Ballesteros, and Others, and inside the third, El Solitario. And off to one side, I wrote Curtis Drake. I studied the sheet for a while, then linked all the known connections with dotted lines.

  I leaned back, looked at the sheet, and laughed out loud. A map of sorts but with no discernable pattern, it looked like a web spun by a drunken spider. Undeterred, I taped it to the wall, took out a second sheet of paper, and jotted down the questions and observations that came to mind.

  1. Why did Olivia send Luis to the cantina? What was Vargas doing there?

  2. Who was the intended first victim? Luis, most likely, motive unknown. Olivia can’t be ruled out, motive unknown. Carlos unlikely, motive could be cartel revenge.

  3. Who sent El Solitario and why?

  4. Who texted Luis?

  5. Where does Robert Harris fit in, and what is he afraid of?

  6. Is Drake, ICE supervisor and alleged white supremacist, a player?

  7. Why did he lie to me about Luis?

  I taped the questions next to the spiderweb and studied them as I sipped my Mirror Pond. There were more questions than answers, and I had no theory of the crimes that made sense of the puzzle.

  There was, however, a possible through line: Olivia sent Luis to the cantina, setting events in motion and connecting him to Vargas. Plácido Ballesteros was also connected to Vargas through the cantina, and it was Plácido who gave the vineyard key to El Solitario and tipped the killer at the Road House. And, as Whittaker’s driver, Vargas could have been acquainted with Harris through Prosperar, and with Drake through the rugby club, although I didn’t know how either of them fit in, if at all.

  I redrew the spiderweb on another sheet of paper, putting Diego Vargas at the center, then taped it up on the wall and sat looking at it.

  Is Vargas the key? I asked myself.

  ***

  I was chopping fresh ginger and mushrooms for a stir-fry a half hour later when a call came in. “Cal? It’s Timoteo.” The anxious voice again. “It’s my father. The Newberg-Dundee police just came and took him away.”

  My chest tightened. “They arrested him?”

  “I didn’t hear what they told him, but when I came out of my room, he was handcuffed and being led to a patrol car.”

  I exhaled a breath. “If he was handcuffed, it was an arrest.”

  “I warned him not to talk to anyone except you. Can you go to the police station? I can’t leave. Mamá heard them and saw the patrol car.” His voice began to tremble. “She’s crying uncontrollably. I don’t know what to do, how to comfort her. I’m scared, Cal.”

  “I’m on my way to the station. I’ll sort this out. Stay calm and do what you can for your mother.” I thought for a moment. “I’ll call Dr. Bennett and see if she can come to your house. Give me a minute.”

  I left Archie at the Aerie and on my way down the hill, called Zoe and explained the situation. She didn’t hesitate. “We’ve just finished dinner here. I can leave right away. Gertie will be fine.” I called Timoteo back and then stepped on it.

  “What the hell, Darci?” I said as I entered her cramped office after checking in at the front desk of the police station. “You don’t even bother to call me? What’s the charge, anyway?”

  She looked up at me. Tinged with guilt, her eyes rode above grayish half-moons. “We think he killed Plácido Ballesteros. I meant to call, but—”

  “That is such bullshit.”

  She shook her head, dropped the pen she was writing with, and scowled at me. “You know the drill, Cal. My job’s to gather evidence. DA Thornberg made the call on the arrest.” Her eyes flashed at me. “It’s a righteous case. You know Carlos had one hell of a motive.”

  “What else you got?” She hesitated. Sharing information at this juncture was a gray area. “Come on, Darci. I’m going to get everything in discovery anyway.”

  She leaned forward and propped both elbows on the desk. “We have two witnesses who heard Fuentes threaten Ballesteros. We know he received the sketch of Ballesteros from his son Friday afternoon. We have another witness who saw him leaving Ballesteros’s house in his pickup at around three a.m., which is within the time-of-death interval Friday night. Our forensic team says he couldn’t have picked up blood on his shoes when he found the body the next day. The blood was too dry. So, where did it come from? We’re checking the origin of the murder weapon, but your client certainly had access to and was familiar with that type of harvest shear.”

  Trying to hide my shock, I shrugged. “Righteous? I’m not all that impressed. But, thanks, Darci. I’d like to speak to him now.”

  She got up, and I saw a momentary glint of compassion in her eyes. “Of course. There’s one other thing. We found the burner phone used to lure Luis to the Road House at Ballesteros’s place. Looks like he sent the text, not Diego Vargas.” Her eyes hardened. “With all due respect for the dead, the son of a bitch was neck-deep in both Fuentes cases.”

  I couldn’t have agreed more with her characterization.

  Bent as if the charge against him were an actual weight on his shoulders, Carlos Fuentes looked a decade older. When he sat down across from me, the first thing he said was, “How is my family?”

  “Timoteo is with your wife, and Dr. Bennett is on her way to assist him. I think it will be okay.”

  “Bueno.” He looked me straight in the eye. “I did not kill anyone.”

  “That’s a good place to start, but I’m disappointed, Carlos. There’s a lot you haven’t told me.”

  He kept his eyes on me. “It is true. Some details, yes. I am sorry.”

  Anger boiled up in my chest, but I kept my temper in check. “Damn it, Carlos. Those details could get you convicted of murder. Now, let’s start over. Tell me again what happened the first time you visited Plácido.”

  He took me back through it, adding, “Two of his cousins were there when we talked. They went into another room, but I suppose they heard me.”

  “You threatened Plácido? What did you say to him?”

  He shrugged. “I was angry. I said that if I found out he was lying, I would come back and twist his head off.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No. I left after that.”

  “Did you mean it? Would you have killed him?”

  He shook his head, allowing a faint smile. “My wife says my talk is sometimes bigger than my actions. I would’ve hurt him, yes. But kill him? No, I could never do that.”

  “The two cousins told the police about your threat. They’re cooperating with the police, despite the fact they’re both undocumented.”

  Carlos shrugged again. “It is understandable. Es familia.”

  “Okay, tell me about the Friday of the murder. Did you go to Plácido’s?”

  “Yes. Twice. I was in my office at the vineyard when I received the drawing late that afternoon. It came on my phone from Marlene. I knew at once it was Plácido. I thought he could still be somewhere on the vineyard, so I started asking around for him. He was nowhere to be found.” Carlos’s look turned sheepish. “I was shaking with anger. My crew had never seen me like that. I think someone might’ve warned him. It was stupid of me.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I drove straight over to his house. Nobody was home, so I came home and drank a little pulque. I couldn’t sleep. Sometime around three a.m. I went back.”

  “At three a.m.? Why would you go back then?”

  He shrugged. “I told you. I could not sleep.” He balled a fist for emphasis. “I didn’t care about the t
ime. I just wanted to talk to him.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Lights were on in the front room of the house, but no one answered my knocking.”

  “You didn’t go in?”

  “No. I was thinking about it, but a light came on next door, so I decided to leave and come back in the daylight. That’s when I found his body and my son called you.”

  “A neighbor told the police he saw you. It was right around the time the murder happened.” I met his eyes and held them. “That’s a very damning fact, Carlos.”

  He glared back at me without blinking. “I did not kill him.”

  “Was the porch light on?”

  He hesitated and closed his eyes, wrinkling his nose. “I’m not sure. The curtains on the living room window were drawn, but a light was on inside.”

  “Did you hear anything unusual inside the house? Voices, music, anything?”

  “No. It was quiet.”

  “Did you notice anything looking like blood on the porch or the walkway?”

  “No.”

  “They found Plácido’s blood on your shoe. They’re saying the blood was too dry the next day to transfer to your sole.”

  He shook his head, and his eyes flashed. “Puta madre. It looked sticky to me, Cal.”

  “We’ll have an opportunity to challenge that.” I paused for a moment. “Is there anything else you noticed, anything unusual?”

  He exhaled a breath and scraped the thick stubble on his chin between his thumb and fingers. “I thought I heard something as I pulled up to Plácido’s that night.”

  I leaned in. “What?”

  “The sound of a motorcycle heading the other way. Muy tenue. I barely heard it but thought I saw a taillight before it turned off.”

  “That could’ve been the killer. I suppose he’d chance riding his bike at three in the morning.”

  “You think so? If I came five minutes earlier, maybe I could have caught him.”

  “He would have shot you, Carlos.”

  He dropped his gaze. “Es posible.” After a long pause he said, “What happens next?”