No Witness

by Warren C Easley

  “Hi,” Zoe said when I opened the door. Her smile had an uncertain quality. Had Gertie said something? “The rain let up, so I’m out for a stroll.” She wore jeans, an oversized sweater, and the blue scarf I liked, but not the pearl earrings.

  I invited her in. “I’ve got something on the stove. Come on back to the kitchen.”

  “It smells wonderful. What is it?”

  “Just a simple risotto. Ned Gillian gave me some nice chanterelles today. Have you eaten?”

  “Oh, yeah. I, ah, made spaghetti tonight for Gertie and me.”

  I poured her some wine and began to ladle small amounts of the now-simmering chicken broth into the rice mixture. Absorbing the broth, the rice plumped a little with each addition. Zoe eyed me with an eyebrow raised. “You didn’t return my call last night.”

  I apologized, explaining that Timoteo had called, and I got distracted. It sounded lame. “I was glad to hear you’re making progress with Elena,” I added, just to prove I had, in fact, listened to the call. Lame again.

  She let it pass, and while I coaxed the arborio into plumpness, we discussed the latest developments. I described the surprise visit from Isabel Whittaker. “I think you’re right about her reticence, Cal. Chilean culture is laced with machismo, you know, men are deemed superior, and strict wifely obedience is the norm.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “it’s like she’s caught between her conscience and her upbringing.”

  Zoe nodded with a bitter smile. “And her bastard of a husband is abusing her. What irony if she thought marrying Whittaker, an American, would be different. I feel for her.”

  “What do you make of Diego Vargas’s breakdown?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t call it a breakdown. He did regain his composure, but I think Isabel’s right. He’s in over his head in something, and whatever it is has him very frightened. ”

  As I ladled on more broth, I told her what Sofia Leon had said about Whittaker offering to deal with Robert Harris’s gambling habit. “What do you make of that?”

  She drank some wine and then exhaled. “Sociopaths have a sixth sense when it comes to spotting the right people to manipulate and are highly adept at exploiting them for personal gain. They’re also really good at impression management, meaning they know how to fool people into thinking they’re paragons of virtue. Whittaker could fall in that category.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “Robert Harris has a gambling addiction, and Curtis Drake, deacon of an evangelical church, prefers sex with men. It wouldn’t even take a sixth sense to recognize their vulnerabilities.”

  The bitter smile again. “The ties that bind in a big, happy family.”

  I chuckled at that. “I know who the players are but still have no hint of a motive.” I blew out a breath. “It’s frustrating as hell.”

  “Maybe so, but look how far you’ve come.”

  I tasted the rice. “Al dente. Perfect.” I was adding some freshly grated Parmesan when I caught Zoe’s longing glance and decided I’d tortured her enough. “You want to join me?”

  She smiled sheepishly. “I thought you’d never ask. I didn’t eat much tonight. I, ah, I don’t really like my own cooking.”

  I laughed. “What about Gertie?”

  “She said she liked it, but come to think of it, there was a lot left over.” Another sheepish smile. “She said she’s feeling good enough to start doing more of the cooking.”

  “I made plenty,” I said. “You can take her some.”

  I made a quick salad and sliced up a baguette. I was as hungry as she was, and we ate in silence for a while. Finally, Zoe said, “Where’re the puzzle pieces?”

  “They’re in the study. I got five more names last night and passed them on to Sofia Leon this morning. She confirmed they were also on Prosperar’s roll.” We kicked that around for a while and then, after dinner, retired to the study to see how many more names we could come up with. While we worked, I caught myself stealing glances at Zoe, noticing the fine curve of her cheek, the soft shine of her blue eyes under the lamplight, the swelling of her chest as she breathed.

  Hey, I told myself, knock it off. Remember your promise to Gertie.

  It was past midnight when we stopped. We’d deciphered another eight names, and the remaining scraps looked useless. Archie was the first out the door as we headed toward Gertie’s. I was packing the Glock as a precaution. We’d gotten maybe a quarter of the way across the field when Archie peeled off and headed toward the driveway. He stopped just within my range of vision near the gate and faced the west fence line. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Had he sensed something on the other side of the fence again?

  I stopped and put an arm out to halt Zoe and then clicked my tongue. Archie looked back at us but didn’t move. Zoe started to speak, and I put my hand over her mouth. I clicked my tongue again, louder. To my relief, Archie turned and trotted toward us, an obedient dog.

  “Do you have your car keys on you?” I whispered to Zoe. She nodded, I took her hand, and we walked across the field at a normal pace. Her car was in Gertie’s driveway. I said, “Give me your keys, and then go in the house and lock up. Take Archie with you.”

  Her eyes got huge. “What is it?”

  “Archie was pointing at something on the other side of my fence. I need to check it out. It’s probably nothing.”

  “I want to go with—”

  “No. Stay here, please. Take Archie and go inside.”

  She did, and I backed her car out of the drive and headed down Worden Hill Road with the lights off. I pulled over across from my mailbox with the car idling and sat staring into the darkness.

  Nothing moved up ahead, at the spot where I’d discovered the animal trail leading to my fence line. Thirty-five minutes later, I heard a motorcycle start up and saw a red taillight as the bike pulled onto the road at that very spot.

  I waited until the bike was maybe a block down the hill before slipping Zoe’s car into gear. While I followed the distant taillight toward Dundee, I called 911. There was no time for explanations. “This is Cal Claxton,” I said. “Someone just stole my motorcycle and is heading down Worden Hill Road toward the Pacific Highway. I’m following him in a silver Toyota. He’s on a black Kawasaki, and I think he’s armed.” The operator said she’d dispatch a patrol car and warned me to keep my distance.

  As I rounded a curve just past Crabtree Park, the taillight was gone. I slowed down, and as the road straightened out, the light came back on less than a hundred feet ahead of me.

  “Damn it, he’s seen me,” I said out loud as the bike roared off at a high rate of speed. I turned my lights on and stepped on the gas, but there was little hope of keeping up with the Kawasaki.

  I passed the Scenic Overlook and hit the straightaway leading down to the highway. The taillight was no longer visible. In the distance I heard a screech of air brakes, and when I reached the intersection, I came to a stop. A jackknifed tractor trailer rested in the middle of the highway. The driver was standing outside his rig holding his head in his hands. The Kawasaki was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  I got out and approached the truck driver. “Did you see a motorcycle? Which way did it go?”

  The man dropped his hands and looked at me, his face anguished, his eyes wide. “He pulled out right in front of me. I couldn’t stop.” He pointed toward the cab of the truck. “He’s under there. Can you call the cops? No need for an ambulance.” He clasped his head in his hands again. “Aw, man, what was he thinking? Aw, man…”

  I approached the cab of the truck, dropped to one knee to have a look. El Solitario was facedown in a jumble of twisted metal with one leg pinned under the left front wheel of the rig and an arm entangled in the truck’s undercarriage. Strong gas fumes wafted up from under the truck. The driver was right. He would not need an ambulance.

  A
moment later, the patrol car dispatched by the 911 operator arrived with flashing blue lights.

  While one officer placed flares and began directing traffic, the other briefly interviewed the truck driver. When she turned to me, I said, “You should call Detective Darci Tate right away. She needs to be here.” I went on to explain that the victim was a suspect in the murder of Olivia Fuentes, which raised the eyebrows of the young officer. She called Tate immediately, then began interviewing me. As we talked, my phone rang. It was Zoe. I called her back after the interview, but just as she picked up, Tate arrived. “I’m okay,” I told Zoe. “I’ll fill you in when I get free.”

  Tate conferred with the officers, looked the scene over, and then came over to me. “You think the vic’s El Solitario, huh?”

  “It’s him.”

  She shook her head. “Well, one thing for sure, there won’t be any facial recognition. He took a total faceplant on the asphalt.”

  “I noticed.”

  “He was lying in wait at your place?”

  “Yeah. He was planning to take me out tonight.” I went on to describe the chain of events leading up to the accident.

  When I finished, Tate said, “So, he was waiting by the gate to pop you when you walked by, but instead you decided to cross the field with your friend. He waited around for a half hour and when you didn’t show, he got back on his bike and buggered off.”

  “That’s the way it went down.”

  “You didn’t actually see him, right?”

  “Nope. I went by Archie’s reaction.”

  She furrowed her brows. “He must have known you had a dog. Wonder how he planned to deal with that?”

  I shuddered at the thought of what could have happened. “I think it was simple—shoot my dog first, then me.” I shrugged, “Whatever he had in mind, he underestimated Archie.”

  Tate smiled. “Apparently.”

  The exchange got my back up a little, but Darci’s cynical mindset was what made her a good cop.

  I stayed around until El Solitario’s body was removed in a bag and the wreckage cleared. The last thing Tate said to me was, “Now, all I have to do is prove that this guy was a notorious cartel hitter who killed Olivia Fuentes and attempted to kill her brother.” She leveled her eyes on me. “The alternate scenario is that he was some local dude out for a ride who stopped to take a leak and panicked when he realized you were following him with your lights off.”

  I smiled. “Don’t worry, Darci, you got your man, and you’re gonna get a medal for this. The question now is who sent him?”

  I was so wired and caught up in the activities at the scene that when I left around two thirty, I realized I hadn’t called Zoe back. Thinking she was probably asleep by then, I texted her that I was on my way and added: El Solitario is dead. She replied immediately: What?! OMG! I’m in the kitchen. Come around to the back door.

  Archie came to the door first, whimpering softly, and then Zoe appeared. She threw her arms around me. It felt so natural I followed suit. We broke apart quickly, both looking a little embarrassed. I bent down to stroke my dog, and she put a hand to her mouth. “My God, that was him behind the fence?”

  “Yeah. I’d bet my mortgage on it.”

  She looked down at my dog. “Archie, you’re a hero.”

  I chuckled. “Careful, he’ll get a swelled head.”

  Zoe and I sat in Gertie’s kitchen and talked until the buzz wore off. By the time Archie and I headed back across the field, the sun was silhouetting the Doug firs along the east side of the Aerie. I slept soundly for four hours, showered, and then called Nando to give him the news.

  “This is huge, Calvin,” he said. “El Solitario is dead. A notorious cartel hit man. You killed him.”

  “I didn’t kill him, damnit. He was a careless driver.”

  He laughed. “That is a good way to put a spin on it. We don’t want the cartels to blame you.”

  “Hey, he was an independent contractor, doing high-risk work. Why would they blame me?”

  Nando laughed. “Oh, of course, they are such reasonable people. But don’t worry, my friend, your secret is safe with me.”

  “Secret?”

  “Yes, that your dog is the real hero.”

  I had to laugh at that.

  I called Timoteo next. After briefly recapping the events, I said, “Call Luis and have him come to your place. I’ll be there with Zoe in an hour. We need to talk.”

  The front had blown through, leaving in its wake a cobalt-blue sky and air with a crispness that only occurs in late fall. Marlene came to the Fuentes’s front door to let us in. Her smile was lovely, something I hadn’t noticed before, and her eyes gleamed with expectation. We followed her into the kitchen where Luis and Timoteo were sitting on either side of Mariana, who looked up at me with equal expectation. I was surprised to see her, but it made sense. She was on this team, after all. Cups and saucers were set out along with a pot of coffee. The aroma was tantalizing.

  While I poured myself a cup, Zoe said, “Excuse me. I’m going to see if Elena wants to join us.” She returned a few minutes later, looking disappointed. “Maybe next time.” She looked at the two brothers. “I didn’t say anything. I’ll let you two tell her.”

  They all sat in rapt attention while I described what happened. Luis spoke first, a grim smile on his face, which still bore the scars of the attempt on his life. His voice was husky, his eyes shiny in the overhead light. “Bam, he’s crushed by an eighteen-wheeler. My only regret is that the cábron didn’t suffer.”

  Timoteo said, “How will the cops prove he’s the killer?”

  “Good question,” I said. “They’ll be looking for a weapon and try to trace it back. We know the same gun was used in the murder and the attack on Luis. They’ll run his prints and DNA in the national system and see what comes up. In addition, they’ll be looking for his cell phone and anything else they can trace back to the person who hired him. It’s on them to prove it, and believe me, they’ve got plenty of incentive.”

  Mariana said, “They’ll be able to compare his DNA with the hairs they found on Plácido Ballesteros’s body, too.”

  “That’s right,” I said. I wasn’t going to mention that, because I didn’t want to unduly raise their hopes about Carlos’s situation. “Let’s hope we catch a break on that, too.”

  Timoteo leaned in, his face taut. “On Friday night, Mariana and I watched Curtis Drake and Robert Harris turn off the Pacific Highway onto Fulquartz, which leads to only one place—Whittaker Landing. One night later, El Solitario shows up at Cal’s place.” He looked directly at me. “That’s no coincidence. Those bastards sent him to kill you.”

  And my dog, I thought but didn’t say. The attack on Archie and me made it even more personal, but this was no time to give in to blind anger. “It looks that way, but we’ve got no direct proof of anything yet.”

  That set off an impassioned discussion of what to do next. An hour later we had come up with the semblance of a plan. Luis would try to make contact with yet another one of Diego Vargas’s boys. Surely, we could get one of them to talk. Timoteo and I would start interviewing the persons on Eduardo Duran’s pieced-together list. What do they have in common? Meanwhile, the surveillance would go on, I would press Nando Mendoza for results on his probe of Gavin Whittaker’s finances, and Zoe would bolster the home front by continuing to counsel Elena Fuentes.

  After the meeting broke up, and Zoe and I were headed back to the Aerie, she laughed and said, “That’s quite a group you’ve assembled. Cal’s Army.”

  I shrugged and shook my head. “I sure didn’t plan it that way. It just sort of happened. One thing’s for sure—there’s no doubting the commitment of my army.”

  We drove on in silence for a while. Zoe looked over at me. “You seem a little down. What is it?”

  “Not down, pensive. El Solitari
o is off the board, and that’s a great thing. But there’s one nagging problem—I chased down and caused the death of the one man who could lead us directly back to the person or persons behind this. ” I sighed. “We’ll be hard-pressed to find a direct link now.”

  “Come on, Cal,” Zoe said, “it’s not your fault that you didn’t take him alive. Cal’s Army will find a way.”

  “We’d better,” I said. “There won’t be any closure unless we do.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  “Well, what do you think?” I asked Timoteo. It was the next evening, and we’d just finished questioning another person on Duran’s list. Of the six doorbells we’d rung so far, only three people agreed to talk to us.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I wasn’t too sure of that first guy at Abbey Heights in Dayton. Seemed like he might know something but didn’t want to tell us. The other two? I don’t think they know anything. It’s weird. Why did Duran have that list, and why did he bother to rip it up?” He waved a dismissive hand and laughed. “Maybe it has nothing to do with the case.”

  By the end of the evening, we’d talked to six people and drawn an absolute blank. As we were heading back to Angel Vineyard to drop off Timoteo, he said, “It’s like that was a customer list or something. Whatever the list was intended for, I don’t think Duran had made any contact yet.” He exhaled in frustration. “Mariana and I should have been out there tonight following either Harris or Drake. El Solitario’s death probably stirred the pot.”

  “Could be, but it’s more likely they’ll be even more cautious now. He was the enforcer.” I looked over at my young assistant. “You and Mariana make a good team.”