No Witness

by Warren C Easley

  “Very well.” She gestured toward the patrolman. “He has my bloody clothes in a bag. Give me a few minutes to change.”

  While we waited, Vargas got out of the Land Rover and came over to Tate and me. “There is one more thing,” he said. The words seemed to hover in the air between us for a moment. We looked at him and waited. “A week ago, Gavin came to me with a briefcase. It was locked, and it was very heavy. He said, ‘Put this in the river. Not here, but off the St. Paul Bridge. Do it now.’”

  I glanced at Tate. “He’d probably heard about El Solitario’s accident.”

  She nodded and Vargas went on, “I took the briefcase, but I didn’t throw it in the river.”

  “Where is it?” Tate said.

  Vargas allowed himself a faint smile, seeming in no hurry to recount this. “When I came to the fork in the driveway, I pulled over. The briefcase was locked, but I quickly opened it with my knife.” He paused, frustrating us both.

  Tate said, her voice ringing with impatience, “What was in it?”

  “Papers showing El Seguro payments and a barbell weight to make it heavy. I wasn’t going to throw the case off the bridge, but I wasn’t sure what to do with it. I took the driveway to the barn instead of the gate and put it in the polo equipment shed.”

  Tate shot me a quick glance. “Is it there now?”

  “Yes. I can show it to you.”

  We got in Tate’s unmarked and drove to the barn. The equipment shed was at the far end of the polo field. We crossed the field under the careful scrutiny of Isabel’s horses, and when we reached the shed, Tate said, “Mr. Vargas, I want to confirm in front of Mr. Claxton that you freely offered to show me a briefcase given to you by Mr. Whittaker. This is not part of a search on my part, is that correct?”

  “Yes, that is correct.” He took a key hidden under the eaves, and when he opened the shed we were treated to a blast of musty air. The briefcase was at the bottom of a barrel filled with polo mallets, balls, and other equipment. Tate said to Vargas, “Did you touch anything inside the case?”

  He shook his head. “No, I only opened it, saw the paper on top, and then closed it.”

  “Good.” She donned a pair of latex gloves and examined the contents. As advertised, it held a tranche of papers held down with a ten-pound barbell weight. The papers showed names, dates, and dollar amounts for people being shaken down by the El Seguro operation. In addition, there was a record of several wire transfers of substantial sums of money and stashed in a compartment in the lid of the case, a nice, shiny TracFone.

  Tate regarded me with a satisfied look. I said, “That burner phone didn’t get burned, or in this case, I guess I should say drowned. Any way you could ask your partner to get El Solitario’s phone out of evidence and try to call us? I’d like to know now, wouldn’t you?”

  She smiled. “I like the way you think. We tried triangulating the only number on that phone to get a location, but El Solitario’s calls pinged off only one tower. That gave us such a broad swath of real estate it wasn’t of any use.”

  “Did the swath include this location?”

  “It did.”

  Tate called her partner, and we waited in the polo field for twenty minutes. A light breeze stirred the firs separating the field from the river and carried the occasional whinny from one of Isabel’s horses. Finally, Tate’s phone pinged. She looked down at her screen. “Okay, he’s trying it now.” She gave me that sardonic look of hers and said, “Hail Mary, full of grace.” We waited, our eyes glued on the TracFone. Finally, it trembled once, made a faint buzzing sound against the papers, and then went silent like a dead insect.

  A smile bloomed on Tate’s face. “It was on vibrate and had just enough juice for one ring.”

  “Yep,” I said, “You now have a direct link between Whittaker and El Solitario. Nice work, Detective.”

  Tate bagged the evidence, and we drove back to the mansion. She instructed both Vargas and me to meet her at the station. To Vargas she said, “I’m investigating two murders, Mr. Vargas. I have no interest whatsoever in your immigration status. Do you understand?” Vargas nodded and she paused before adding, “Tell me something. Why did Whittaker trust you to get rid of the briefcase?”

  Vargas smiled bitterly. “The man never did anything for himself. And he knew I was his slave because of my Tito and the fact that he and I have no papers. He is an evil man, Detective.”

  As Vargas pulled out, she said to me, “That financial evidence looked pretty comprehensive.”

  “Yes, very thorough. The work product of Robert Harris, no doubt. Vargas told me Whittaker was proud of El Seguro, that he was going to scale it up on the entire West Coast. I guess he wanted complete documentation.”

  Darci nodded. “El Solitario’s phone had outgoing calls after the hits on Olivia and Plácido and the attempt on Luis to only one number—this one. It’s game over for Whittaker.” She shook her head. “My God, If Vargas had been a loyal employee, we wouldn’t have diddly shit on Whittaker right now.”

  I laughed with relief. “You know what they say, Darci—it’s better to be lucky than good.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  “We arrested Whittaker for aggravated murder this morning,” Tate said to me over the phone on the following Wednesday. “We also picked up Harris and are considering charging him as an accomplice based on Vargas’s testimony. Harris admits to being in on the scheme but not the hiring of El Solitario. Not sure how that one’s going to swing.”

  “What about Curtis Drake?”

  “He’s in our crosshairs, but my boss wants to make sure we’ve got all our ducks in a row. He’s a federal employee working for Homeland Security, after all.” She went on, “Whittaker’s in a wheelchair now, so we’re going to arraign him at the courthouse this afternoon at two. He’ll be coming out of the hospital around one thirty. You didn’t hear this from me, but I thought maybe you and some of Olivia’s family members might want to witness that. But, Cal, tell them not to do anything stupid, okay?”

  I thanked her and immediately called Timoteo. “I’ll get in touch with Mariana, Luis, and Marlene,” he told me. He paused for a moment, his voice growing thick. “I wish Papi and Mamá could see this.”

  “Me, too.”

  I called Zoe next and then Ned Gillian, and they wanted to witness the event as well.

  When I disconnected from Gillian, I looked over at Archie and laughed. “Looks like the whole army will be there, Big Boy.” He lowered his eyes in a kind of plead. “Okay, you can go, too.”

  An hour before Whittaker’s perp walk, another breath-stopping call came in. “Cal Claxton?” a familiar voice said. “This is Carlos Fuentes. I am at the ICE holding center in Newberg. Can you come, please?”

  I tensed up. “What’s the matter, Carlos?”

  “They have just released me, and I am confused about why they did this.”

  “Released you?”

  “Yes, they said I was free to go and nothing more. I am standing outside on the sidewalk.”

  When I arrived, he was still standing there. “Can you talk to them?” he said when I approached.

  I thought about it. “They said you were free to go?” He nodded. “Then, let’s take you home. I can talk to them later.” I glanced at my watch. “No, I’ve got a better idea.”

  Carlos and I were nearly to the hospital when Zoe called. “Cal, I just did something a little crazy. I swung by the vineyard and asked Elena if she would come with me. She said yes. She’s sitting right next to me.”

  I smiled. “Good. That will be quite a surprise.”

  I pulled into the parking lot shortly before Zoe and Elena arrived, got out, and leashed up Archie. Carlos emerged from the passenger side just as Zoe and Elena cruised by. The car jerked to a halt, and they both got out. Zoe looked at me, her eyes huge and questioning, but she didn’t say anything. Neit
her did I as the couple slowly approached each other. Carlos reached out a big, gnarled hand, and Elena took it. They stood looking into each other’s eyes for the longest time. Elena said, “I am sorry that I blamed you, Carlos. Can you forgive me?”

  Carlos gently stroked her cheek. “There’s nothing to forgive. It’s okay. I understand.”

  They embraced, tentatively at first and then with feeling. Zoe and I turned away as we both blinked back tears. Up at the hospital entrance, I saw that the rest of the army had gathered. They were focused on the entrance doors and didn’t see us until we were nearly upon them.

  “Papi, Mamá!” Timoteo said when he saw them. Luis looked at his parents and spread his arms, speechless, his mouth open. We gave the Fuentes family some space as they stood together, hugging, talking softly, and smiling.

  It was Marlene who said, “They’re coming.”

  The hospital doors swung open and two uniformed officers came out first, followed by a wheelchair being pushed by a nurse. Gavin Whittaker sat slumped in the chair. He was unshaven with matted hair, and his eyes were fixed in a kind of manic glare.

  He looked around, taking in the scene. We stared back. No one said a word, and as he neared the end of the gauntlet, I cleared my throat. “Mr. Whittaker, this is Olivia Fuentes’s family and some of her good friends. We’ve come to wish you a happy arraignment.”

  He tried to speak, but it came out as an unintelligible squawk.

  We stood and watched as he was loaded into a van and whisked off. As the army began to break ranks, I peeled Timoteo off. “Okay,” I said, “what do you know about your father’s release?”

  His face tensed. “Mariana and I followed Curtis Drake a couple more times. One night he picked up the blond kid and another kid, who was definitely underage. I, um, took some more pictures, and I also did some checking around. The blond kid’s a prostitute.” He lowered his eyes. “It turns out Drake didn’t want anyone to know about this, you know, photos like that could get out. He is a deacon in his church and is probably facing a high-profile trial. So my father’s ICE records went missing. It happens sometimes.”

  “I see.”

  Timoteo brought his eyes up and met mine. “I know it wasn’t right, Cal. Are you angry?”

  I put my hand on his shoulder and smiled. “No, Timoteo. I’m not angry. Sometimes in life, we do what we have to do.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Six Weeks Later

  It was a winter day with the sparkle of the finest crystal. Cal’s Army was gathered at the Aerie, not to celebrate and not to mourn losses, but to enjoy each other’s company and acknowledge, perhaps, what had gone right over a course of events that had rocked all our lives. It was Zoe’s idea, and she and Elena were in charge of food preparation. Elena, who was still being counseled by Zoe, was somewhat withdrawn but had returned to the things that brought her joy, and her prognosis was good. When Zoe broached the plan for the gathering, she did so with a warning look. “No comments about my cooking,” she told me. “I’m in good hands with Elena.”

  We were out on the deck around my firepit sharing the Dom Pérignon Nando had given me. Ned Gillian, who had taken on the defense of Diego Vargas, was holding forth. “One thing’s for certain, Vargas is not going to be charged with Whittaker’s stabbing. Whittaker tried to blame the attack on him out of spite, I think, but the DA didn’t buy it for a minute.”

  I winced inwardly at the statement. What really happened in Whittaker’s study would remain a secret between me, Isabel, and Vargas.

  “We’re negotiating with the DA right now to allow Diego to come out of this clean,” Gillian went on, “even though Gavin Whittaker’s trial will not be going forward now.” He shook his head. “That was our biggest bargaining chip. After all, Vargas provided the briefcase that led to Whittaker’s arrest. He’s no angel, but Whittaker had him in a vise over the status of his son.”

  “What are his chances?” Zoe asked. “I mean, his son’s life is hanging in the balance, right? If he’s convicted of a felony, he’ll be deported along with his son.”

  Gillian nodded with a worried look. “We’ll see. We’re fully cooperating in the broader El Seguro investigation, and we’re hoping that will be enough to get his charges dropped.”

  Luis was standing next to Marlene, who had been given credit by the family for softening his brooding anger. The touch of an older woman. “What happened to Whittaker, anyway?” Luis said, turning to me. “Pneumonia?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. Apparently, he contracted some new virus going around called COVID-19, I think. Whatever it was, because of his neck wound, they couldn’t intubate him, and he died alone in an ICU.”

  Feet shuffled on the deck. “Rest in peace,” Timoteo said with a bitter smile. “Roberto Duran’s body was found weeks ago. Anything new on that?”

  I shook my head. “He was found floating off Sauvie Island, which meant his body passed through the city of Portland without being noticed. That’s all I know. It’s assumed El Solitario killed him, but we may never know.”

  “What about Whittaker’s wife? What’s happening with her?”

  “Isabel? First off, she’s not going to be charged for stabbing her husband. The DA agrees it was self-defense. I’m representing her in the settlement of Whittaker’s estate. Her prenup guarantees a tidy sum, and she’ll receive it before the vultures descend on the rest of Whittaker’s assets. She’s pledged every cent of her settlement to buy the building Prosperar’s currently leasing and fund a full-time doctor.” I looked around at the group. This was something I’d been saving. “She and Sofia Leon have decided to name the building the Olivia Fuentes Medical Center.”

  Timoteo said, his voice suddenly husky, “Really? That’s, um, that’s a really beautiful thing for them to do.”

  Marlene took Luis’s hand. He said, “Olivia always wanted to be a doctor. This is a good thing. Something that will last, no matter what happens next.”

  Except for a couple of crows cawing up in the Doug firs, the deck fell silent for a while. Finally, Timoteo said, “What about Whittaker’s financial backing? Anything new on that?”

  “Detective Tate told me the Feds are interested in the question,” I said. “The source of capital that put him in the pot business is a tangle of shell companies, probably cartel in origin. Whatever the source, he was under immense pressure to service the debt. That’ll take time to sort out, I’m afraid.”

  “Did the source send El Solitario?” Timoteo asked.

  “The evidence doesn’t indicate that. The burner phone record shows Whittaker was the only contact to El Solitario. As for Vargas, Harris, and Drake, it’s clear they weren’t directly involved in the murders. It was all on Whittaker.”

  Always keen on the law, Timoteo said next, “Do you think the motion by Whittaker’s legal team to suppress the burner phone evidence would have prevailed had it gone to trial?”

  I paused for a moment. “I don’t think so. Tate was very careful about how she handled the briefcase and the evidence in it.” Ned Gillian nodded in agreement.

  Marlene looked horrified. “You mean Whittaker could’ve gotten off on a technicality?”

  I shrugged again. “It’s moot, now. There won’t be a trial.”

  Timoteo and Mariana were standing together. Eye protection was required when the two of them smiled at the same time. She said, “What’s going to happen to Curtis Drake?”

  “Detective Tate says they’re still developing the case,” I said. “Drake has lawyered up and shows no interest in cooperating, so they’re not inclined to go easy on him.” I smiled. “Your newspaper article was the talk of Yamhill County. Once it published, things have not gone well personally for Drake, that’s for sure.”

  She cast her eyes down in modesty. “I just reported the facts and what Vargas and Harris said about El Seguro. It didn’t take long for Hom
eland Security to fire Drake.”

  Timoteo put a hand on her shoulder with a look of genuine pride. “The News-Register gave her a raise and made her a full-fledged reporter.”

  Luis smiled with relish. “Drake got more than fired. His white nationalist buddies in the CIJ turned on him when they found out he’d been taking money from Whittaker to protect undocumented people from deportation. You can imagine how that pissed them off. He was supposed to be a true believer. They burned his house down and the garage with his truck in it.”

  We all knew that bit of irony, of course, but it was therapeutic to hear it repeated.

  The subject of Robert Harris, the remaining El Seguro player, loomed large but went unmentioned. We all knew that after being interviewed by the police, Harris had gone home and hanged himself. It was a tragedy, no matter what he did. My mind drifted back to Sofia Leon’s call after the news broke. She was in tears. “I’m sick about this,” she told me. “Gavin sucked Robert in. Instead of helping his gambling habit, he must have found ways to encourage it. Robert was hopelessly in debt. And I know that when he went to Gavin about Olivia’s suspicions, he had no idea it would result in her murder. I think that was more than his conscience could bear.”

  The chatter on the deck had moved to happier topics by the time Zoe and Elena called us in to eat. We gathered around my large dining room table. The food kept coming from the kitchen—made-from-scratch salsa and guacamole, chickpea and chorizo tostadas with lime slices, grilled pork tenderloin in charred chile adobo, salmon tacos, and a dessert of churros with a semisweet chocolate sauce.

  After the food was served, and Carlos said grace at Elena’s urging, he raised his glass and managed to show the full Fuentes smile, something I’d never seen him do. “To the memory of Olivia and to all of you who helped bring justice to her, thank you and God bless you.” We all drank to that.

  Sometimes bittersweet is just plain sweet, and that was one of those times.

  ***

  After the feast was over, the kitchen was cleaned, and the guests departed, Zoe and I stood out on the deck as the sun sank in a blaze of gold, and the sky above it faded from blue to violet. Archie lay in the corner watching us, chin on paws. She sighed. “Timoteo’s and Mariana’s Dreamer status is being challenged at the Supreme Court, and the rest of the Fuentes family is still living in limbo. Will this country ever resolve this? I mean with legislation instead of mass deportations and endless conflicts between the rule of law and human compassion?”