No Witness

by Warren C Easley

  I went on to tell them about the meeting Luis was arranging for later that night. Of course, Timoteo wanted to be there, but I told him no, and before we disconnected said, “Look, it’s absolutely essential that you keep this information to yourselves. Not a word to anyone. Understood?” They both said yes. I wasn’t worried about Timoteo, but I didn’t know Mariana all that well and, after all, she was a budding newspaper reporter, and this was the potential scoop of a lifetime.

  ***

  “I’ve seen this movie,” Luis said with a look of worry and disgust as he rolled an unlit cigarette between his fingertips. It was seven fifty that night in my office. He was leaning back in his chair with one foot resting on the corner of my desk. “You think another no-show means trouble?”

  I shrugged and was glad I’d brought my Glock, which rested uncomfortably between my belt and the small of my back. “Let’s give him ten more minutes.”

  Luis nodded once. The ring around his left eye had faded from deep purple to yellowish-gray, but the stitches in his forehead still looked red and angry after a week. “His name’s Eduardo Duran. We could go to his place, the two of us. See if we can find the pendejo.”

  “You have his address?”

  “Hang on.” Luis pulled out his cell and made some calls, all in Spanish. Finally, he motioned for a pen and paper and jotted down a set of directions.

  Twenty minutes later we turned off the Pacific Highway just past Newberg onto a narrow lane ending at a cul-de-sac. A hundred yards of driveway to the left led to an attractive, low, stone house. “Shit,” Luis said, eyeing me incredulously. “Duran lives here?”

  I pointed toward a large barn perched at the top of the property. “Those windows on the second floor look like they belong to an apartment. Maybe that’s where.” We left Archie in the car and, after trying the bell at the main house without receiving an answer, walked to the barn and took an open staircase on the left side that led up to an apartment door.

  “Hola amigo, soy Luis Fuentes.” Luis said, when a young Latino man answered his knock. “Tu eres Eduardo?”

  “No. Soy Arlo.”

  After an exchange in Spanish, Luis turned to me. “Arlo here says Eduardo left this afternoon in a big hurry. He doesn’t know where he went.”

  “Does he know why he left?”

  More Spanish, then Luis said, “Eduardo got a call on his cell, said he kind of freaked out after that. Packed a few things in a backpack and left in his car without saying why.”

  On a whim, I said, “Ask him if we can see Eduardo’s room. Tell him it’s important that we find him, that he could be in danger.”

  After another exchange, Arlo folded his arms across his chest and shook his head with finality. The three of us stood in silence for a few moments, the man frowning, Luis scowling. Finally, I said, “Okay,” and turned to leave. Luis put a hand on my arm and addressed Arlo again, with more feeling this time.

  Arlo glanced from me to Luis and forced a smile. “No quiero problema.” He gestured toward a hallway and stepped aside. “A la derecha.”

  Luis stepped past Arlo into the apartment and said over his shoulder, “Down the hall on the right.” I followed him in as second thoughts clouded my mind. We had no right doing this, but, dammit, we were here, and I felt the stakes were high enough to warrant a quick look.

  We entered the room and closed the door. Luis turned to me with a quizzical expression. “What the hell are we looking for?”

  I shrugged and looked around. A narrow closet was stripped bare, drawers in a small chest were pulled out, and shoes and items of clothing littered the floor. “I don’t really know. Anything that might tell us where he’s gone, anything that looks unusual.”

  Luis nodded. “Dude left in a hurry, that’s for sure.”

  While Luis rooted around in the closet, I looked through a small writing desk that contained a few receipts, an unpaid cell phone bill, and nothing more. A wall shelf above the desk held a half dozen books, all in Spanish with nothing hidden inside them. I opened a Bible sitting on a nightstand, and a photo of a young boy with a huge grin holding a soccer ball fell on the floor. I felt a twinge of guilt at the invasion of privacy.

  I handed Luis the photo. “There’s writing on the back. What’s it say?”

  He turned the photo over, scanned it, and looked up. “It’s a note from his mother thanking him for the money he sends. It pays the rent, and she bought the football his little brother’s holding for his birthday.”

  A wicker wastebasket next to the desk held a couple of torn envelopes that had once contained bills. I looked closer and saw a smattering of paper fragments beneath the envelopes. The pieces were small. Someone had taken the time to methodically tear up a sheet or two of paper.

  Why?

  I took me a while, but I managed to pluck all the pieces off the bottom of the basket and put them in my coat pocket.

  We finished up shortly after that, and on the way out I had Luis ask Arlo where Eduardo worked and what kind of car he drove. “He said he doesn’t know where he works, that he doesn’t talk about it,” Luis said after an exchange. “And he drives a dark-blue Kia Forte with California plates.”

  Back at the car, I turned to Luis and laughed. “What the hell did you say that made him so cooperative?”

  He gave me a sly look. “I told him you knew the ICE jefe in Newberg, and that if he didn’t let us look around, it might go bad for him.” He shrugged. “Too bad we didn’t find anything.”

  Luis hadn’t seen me fish the torn fragments out of the wastebasket. Just as well, I remember thinking. They’re probably nothing important, and besides, I’m lousy at putting puzzles together.

  Only the last half of that thought was half right, it turned out.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  We returned to my office, and after Luis left, I called Darci Tate. “I’ve got a lead for you on the Olivia Fuentes case.”

  “I’m listening.”

  I went on to describe how Eduardo Duran had contacted Luis and our visit to his apartment. “It’s a shame he took off, and I doubt he’ll contact Luis again. Something spooked him.”

  “Maybe we can pick him up.”

  “I hoped you’d say that, although he probably won’t talk to you. He’s driving a dark-blue Kia Forte with California plates. It’s worth a shot.”

  “I’m on it, Cal. Thanks.”

  “You owe me one. What’s new at your end?”

  “Nothing, as in zero.” A pause. “Well, you should know DA Thornberg’s not backing off on prosecuting Carlos Fuentes to the full extent. I hope Gillian’s up to the task.”

  “So you’re seeing the light?” I said with a slight tease in my voice.

  “I didn’t say that.” She sighed deeply. “It’s just that, I don’t know, I guess I don’t blame him for what he did. His daughter was a jewel.”

  “She was a jewel, all right, but he didn’t do it, Darci.”

  ***

  I was hungry when I got home that evening, but I’d been too busy to shop, and the fixings for a serious meal were in short supply. I did have a block of Tillamook cheddar, and when I spied a can of diced tomatoes sitting next to a can of chicken broth in the cupboard, I knew what I had to have. I fed Arch then sautéed some chopped onions, garlic, and red pepper flakes in butter and olive oil before adding the tomatoes and chicken broth. After a forty-minute simmer, I puréed the concoction, stirred in some fresh basil, and ladled a steaming portion of the soup into a bowl. Two cheese sandwiches I’d just removed from the grill and a glass of pinot rounded out the meal.

  “What is it about tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, anyway?” I asked my dog when I finished eating. He yawned with a look of indifference. It wasn’t a meal that sparked his interest.

  After cleaning up the kitchen, I went into the study, sat down, and pondered the list of
questions and the spiderweb I’d taped to the wall. Not much progress on the questions, except that I now knew it was Plácido who lured Luis to the Road House and that Curtis Drake was probably a player in this game. I got up and put check marks next to those two questions. I turned my attention to the spiderweb, which showed Diego Vargas at the center. I took a clean sheet of paper and redrew the web, putting Gavin Whittaker’s name at the center with lines radiating out to Vargas, Drake, and Harris. I added El Solitario but didn’t show a connecting thread. I had no proof there was one.

  I taped my new web over the earlier one and sat back with some satisfaction. That makes more sense, I told myself.

  But what the hell’s the game?

  I fetched my coat from the hall, went back into the kitchen, and emptied the torn pieces of paper I’d found in Eduardo Duran’s apartment onto the kitchen table. After spreading them out, I counted 206 pieces, printed on one side only. Not that many pieces as puzzles go, but the task still looked daunting. I exhaled a long breath. Was this worth my time?

  I didn’t know the answer, but unless Duran had some kind of shredding compulsion, he’d probably torn up that paper as he was making his hasty exit. If that were the case, it was of interest to me.

  I turned all the pieces faceup and began examining them. Fragments of names and what appeared to be addresses became immediately apparent. It looked like all the names were of Latino origin. I started playing with the pieces, looking initially for scraps that obviously fit together. Twenty minutes into the mind-numbing task, Archie gave a couple of sharp barks that told me he heard something outside.

  I opened the front door just as Zoe was taking the steps. Archie met her halfway and got a warm hug. She looked up and smiled, the porch light casting her in a soft yellow glow. “I just got back from a session with Elena. Thought I’d stop by and get an update.” She handed me a paper bag. “Here. Gertie made these for you.”

  I looked in the bag and smelled the contents. “Mmm. Oatmeal cookies. My favorite. How is she?”

  “She’s prowling around in the kitchen, which is a good sign. I’m about out of a job.”

  I winced inwardly at the thought of her leaving but didn’t comment. “How’s Elena doing?” I asked after she followed me past the staircase, down the hall, and into the kitchen.

  An audible sigh. “There’s no such thing as brief therapy when it comes to trauma recovery, and the news about Carlos has set us back even further. Her energy is still depleted, and she’s terrified the overwhelming grief she feels will be permanent. But I’ve got her talking about Olivia, about when she was a baby and a little girl. That’s a positive step.” Zoe smiled. “And she showed a flicker of anger about Carlos’s arrest. Deep down, she’s a fighter, and anger’s one way to beat the paralysis she feels from her sense of loss.”

  I felt some relief. “That’s good news.”

  I poured us each a glass of pinot, and after we sat down at the table, I brought her up to date. She listened intently, at one point remarking, “The ICE supervisor, Drake, and Prosperar’s finance man, Harris, appear to be trading information. Maybe Harris is simply feeding Drake the names and addresses of undocumented persons. After all, Prosperar must have a huge database. Maybe Harris is selling the information to Drake. He probably needs the money, given his gambling habit, and Drake gets an atta boy from Washington for busting more illegals. They found out Olivia knew about it and had her killed.”

  I nodded, impressed with her quickness. “Yeah, that’s the simplest explanation. But it doesn’t tie in Diego Vargas’s boys’ club or explain why Olivia sent Luis to spy on them. Believe me, Vargas is wrapped up in this, and all my instincts say Gavin Whittaker is, too. And Whittaker’s probably pulling the strings. This feels like something bigger.”

  “Whittaker’s poor wife—do you think she knows anything about this?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t think so, but I’m trying to keep a line of communication open to her.”

  Zoe eyed me with the trace of a smile. “Miss Chile. She must be very beautiful.”

  “She is. And very vulnerable.”

  Zoe sipped her wine and glanced at the pile of paper scraps in front of her. “You really think there’s something in there, something significant?”

  I smiled. “They appear to be names and addresses of Latino people… What do you think?”

  “Well, I like a good puzzle. Give me half the stack and you take the other half.”

  That said, we started to work. The font of the print was small, and many of the scraps had similar shapes, so the going was exceedingly slow. It immediately became a team effort. “I’ve got a ‘nandez’ here,” Zoe said at one point. “Do you have a ‘Her’?”

  “One ‘Her’ coming up,” I said as I searched through my scrap heap. I found it and slid it over to her. “Here you go.”

  She thrust a thumb up. “Okay, I’ve got a Hernandez, first name Arturo, and a partial address, ‘Dabney Apa.’ She took out her cell phone, tapped on it, and looked up a few seconds later. Dabney Apartments in Lafayette. It’s billed as affordable housing.”

  I sprang up, grabbed a tablet and pen from a drawer, and wrote the information down. Forty minutes, another glass of wine, and a half-dozen oatmeal cookies later, we had five names and addresses:

  Arturo Hernandez, Dabney Apartments #301A, Lafayette

  Felix Barajas, Deacon Commons Apartments #22, Newberg

  Maria Vasquez, Sunflower Hill Apartments #3B, McMinnwille

  Ramon Ortega, Hapworth Terrace Apartments #38A, McMinnville

  Roberto Morales, Hapworth Terrace #16, Lafayette

  We both sat back and admired our handiwork. Zoe said, “Judging from what we’ve done so far, I’m guessing there were at least two sheets of paper with maybe twenty or thirty names and addresses on them. What do you think this guy was doing with them?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea, but the first thing I want to do is try to cross-check these names with the clients at Prosperar. Duran was a member of Diego Vargas’s club.”

  “That should be revealing. Are you going to question them?”

  “You bet, with Timoteo’s help. These five are enough to start with.” I saw her stifle a yawn and sprang up again. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the gate.” I excused myself and, while she waited on the porch, went upstairs and tucked my Glock into my belt, covering it with a windbreaker. It was only ten thirty, but I was taking no chances.

  A front was blowing in, and a gust of wind caught my jacket while I was under the porch light. “Is that a gun?” Zoe said, her eyes huge again. “Why do you have a gun?”

  “Just a precaution.” I told her about Archie sensing a possible night visitor. “Could be just a Fig Newton of my imagination.”

  She frowned at my attempt at humor. “I don’t believe that for a minute. You know your dog too well.” She raised her chin and set her jaw in a look of determination. “These are interesting times, indeed.”

  The moon was low, and clouds were on the move. We crossed the field in silence, but at the gate we heard our friend, the great horned owl, call to us from the Doug firs. We stood there listening, and when the four-note chorus ended, Zoe laughed. “Our song.”

  I turned to her. “Thanks for your help, Zoe, I—”

  “Shhh. I don’t want your thanks. I’m glad to help.” She met my eyes, and her soft smile caused my stomach to drop a little. “And I think we make a pretty good team.” With that, she leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. “Good night, Cal.”

  I turned and crossed the field with Archie, trying to put some guard rails on my feelings. I had a chat with myself. Careful. It’s too early for anything like this. You’re caught up in the emotion of the case. Stay focused.

  It was a hard sell.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” I said to Sofia Leon
at nine thirty the next morning. She looked up from her computer, and her face was etched with such despair that I blurted out, “Are you okay?”

  She absently pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “It’s not me. It’s this world we live in. These new ICE raids are taking their toll. Families are cowering in their apartments, too worried to answer their doors.” She sighed. “We had a woman die of cardiac arrest in her bedroom, because her husband was afraid to seek help. We just took the body out.” Her eyes flashed at me. “Why can’t we admit these people belong here, that we need them?”

  I shrugged and shook my head. “I—”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, catching herself. “You didn’t come here to listen to a diatribe. Did Gavin Whittaker call you?”

  “No, but he showed up in person with Diego Vargas in tow. Thank you.”

  She waited for me to elaborate. When I didn’t, she said, “I heard that Carlos Fuentes was arrested for killing some vineyard worker he suspected was involved in Olivia’s death. Is that true?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid it is.”

  Her face clouded over. “Oh, my God, what next? I met Carlos a couple of times, a nice man, a good father. Do you think he did it?”

  “No. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He has a good lawyer.”

  Her face softened a bit in relief. “Good, but the strain on the family must be horrific. How’s Elena coping?”

  “It’s hit her the hardest, but they’re a strong family.”

  She sighed deeply and motioned toward a chair. “What about the investigation of Olivia’s murder? What can you tell me?”

  “I’m encouraged,” I answered, sitting down. “That’s why I’m here. I have another favor to ask.”

  She removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes before replacing them and showing the trace of a smile. “What is it this time?”

  I took a sheet of paper from my shirt pocket and unfolded it. “I’ve got a short list of people here, including their addresses. I’m wondering if they are in any way associated with Prosperar.”