Never Look Down
Page 1
Never Look Down
A Cal Claxton Oregon Mystery
Warren C. Easley
www.WarrenEasley.com
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2015 by Warren C. Easley
First E-book Edition 2015
ISBN: 9781464204678 ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
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Contents
Never Look Down
Copyright
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
More from this Author
Contact Us
Dedication
To Jackson, Virginia, and Joaquin,
the hope of the future.
Acknowledgments
Very little that I write sees the light of day without first passing through my wife, Marge Easley. This manuscript was no exception. I’m not sure which is more beneficial, her unwavering encouragement or her skillful proofreading.
Once again, my editor, Barbara Peters, provided guidance that significantly strengthened this work, and the upbeat staff at Poisoned Pen Press gave strong, cheerful support. As always, much credit goes to my amazing critique group, Alison Jaekel, Debby Dodds, Janice Maxson, LeeAnn McLennan, Kate Scott, and Lisa Alber—writers of the first order, all. They keep me honest while making writing even more enjoyable. Thanks to Karen Bassett for insight into how federal re-entry centers work. A special shout-out to Guy Donzey, alpine guide extraordinaire, who introduced me to the joys of mountaineering back in the day.
Finally, I wish to extend my thanks and admiration to the teaching staff at New Avenues for Youth for their steadfast commitment to homeless youth, and to their courageous students, who are a continuing source of hope and inspiration to the author.
Epigraph
People say graffiti is ugly, irresponsible, and childish…
but that’s only if it’s done properly.
—Banksy
The city is many things to many people, but for me, right now, it is a total revelation. It is a newly discovered mountain range.
—Alain Robert
Chapter One
Cal
It’s hard to pinpoint when a story begins. Who knows when that butterfly flapped its wings, churning up the atmosphere enough to send a new tangle of events careening your way? If I had to choose, I’d say this story started early last fall when, for some reason, I woke up feeling unusually good. Not that I normally wake up feeling depressed. As a matter of fact, I’ve learned to keep myself in a fairly tight band—not too low, not too high—and take each day as it comes, and above all, not look for trouble.
But that particular morning there was something about the light suffusing my bedroom and the happy chatter of a gang of unruly crows out in the Doug firs. Or it could have been that the Trail Blazers had dismantled the Lakers in a home basketball game the night before. I’m from L.A., but when I moved up here to Oregon, I left my allegiances behind. Better for a clean start, I figured. As I stretched myself awake, Archie, my Australian shepherd, eyed me from his mat in the corner, his soft whimpers a not-so-subtle request for me to get out of bed, and his big, coppery eyes promising a good day. Of course, for Arch, every day was good.
After feeding him, I ground some coffee beans and loaded my espresso machine. I drew a double shot, added milk I’d steamed to a froth, and carried the cappuccino out to the side porch. The sun was blood-red through the firs and already busy dispatching the last tendrils of fog lurking in the valley. The sky promised that dazzling clarity peculiar to cloudless days in the Northwest, and the outlines and contours out on the horizon were already turning from violet to blues and greens.
It was a Thursday and I was heading to Caffeine Central, which is what I called my law office in the Old Town section of Portland, because it used to house a coffee shop by that name. I spent some Thursdays and most Fridays there giving legal advice to the down-and-out. It was a far cry and a welcome diversion from my one-man law practice here in Dundee, a town of eight thousand that lies twenty-five miles south of Portland in the heart of the Oregon wine country.
Normally my office was a forty-five-minute commute from Dundee, but traffic on the I-5 suddenly congealed on the edge of Portland, affording me a leisurely view of Mt. Hood to the east. Floating on a low cloud bank, the massive white cone was beautiful, to be sure. But it seemed to wink at me that morning, as if to say “I’m an active volcano, too, a Trojan horse less than seventy miles from the heart of your city.”
It wasn’t until I parked in my designated slot that I noticed the graffiti two stories up on the Caffeine Central building, on the side that faces a vacant lot. Stenciled in large black letters, the words ZERO TOLERANCE were enclosed in a red circle. A red diagonal line cut across the words, the universal symbol of rejection. Below the image the tagger had stencil
ed K209 in red letters against a black diamond, a nickname or moniker of some kind.
The image sat at least fifteen feet off the ground, suggesting the tagger had either used a ladder or managed to hang down from the roof somehow. I walked around to the back of the building, but of course there was no sign of a ladder. Nothing of value is left sitting around in the city. The other side of the building was jammed against an equally old six-story structure that had once been a tannery and now housed luxury loft apartments. The gap between the two walls was too narrow for anyone to have used it to work their way up to the roof.
K209 must stand for human fly, I decided.
I stood back, looked at the piece again, and chuckled. I was no fan of spray can vandalism, and judging from the dearth of graffiti around town, Portland’s strict zero tolerance policy on graffiti seemed to be working. But I had to admit that the kid who did this had verve—to say nothing of athletic ability.
I walked away wondering how he’d managed it.
I had a light schedule that day and had just wrapped up my last appointment when Hernando Mendoza called. A friend and business associate, Nando also owned the building that housed Caffeine Central. That wasn’t an altogether easy arrangement, since he was notoriously tight with a buck, but he made up for it by being the best friend a person could have.
“Calvin,” he began, “how was the do-gooder business today?”
“Just great, but it got kind of chilly this afternoon. I thought you were going to send someone over to look at the furnace? It hasn’t figured out how to fix itself yet.”
He gave me his patented basso profondo laugh. “Actually, I did send someone over, and we are, uh, awaiting parts.”
“By raft from China? It’s been a month, Nando.”
“Okay. I will check on it. Tell you what, why don’t you join me for dinner tonight? It will be my treat.”
Nando was tightfisted in his business dealings but generous in his personal life, and he didn’t skimp on food…or clothes, or cars, or jewelry, come to think of it. I accepted his offer, and we met at a Cuban restaurant in Northeast called Pambiche. It was housed in a turn-of-the-century Victorian landmark, painted canary yellow and turquoise with fuchsia trim and a swirling, eye-popping three story mural on a side wall. Hardly what the Victorians had in mind, but very much in line with buildings in Havana, or so Nando had told me. He arrived shortly after me, but it took him a good five minutes to work his way through the outside and inside tables before reaching me. The Cuban community in Portland was small and tight-knit, and Nando knew them all. The man could work a crowd.
An imposing figure at six feet four with thick shoulders and an ample girth, Nando wore a long-sleeved black silk shirt buttoned at the neck, cream-colored slacks, and hand-tooled Italian loafers with woven tops. But what people remembered most about my Cuban friend was his incandescent smile and thick, arching brows that moved up and down above a set of dark, expressive eyes.
He greeted me and crunched my hand. “Ah, the smells in this place remind me of home. I am so hungry I could eat two horses.”
After advising me on what to order, Nando started off by complaining about problems with his janitorial business and the low billable hours at his private detective agency. An avowed capitalist, he had rowed a boat of his own making from Cuba to the Florida Keys when he was a young man. His PI firm tended to cut corners and play fast and loose with the law, which didn’t sit well with the Portland Police Bureau. That’s where I frequently came in, and my legal work on Nando’s behalf hadn’t won me many friends among Portland’s finest, either. It was a bit of a Faustian bargain on my part.
When I told him about the graffiti on the building, he said, “Ah, those punks with their cans of paint. American kids have no respect for private property. I will find someone to remove it.”
I shrugged. “Might be pricey.”
His eyebrows dipped and a couple of vertical creases appeared on his forehead. “Then I will leave it there.”
“The city won’t like that. You could get fined for not removing it.”
“Fined? Surely you are joking, Calvin. It is my property.”
“It may be, but once the graffiti has been reported, you’ll have ten days to remove it, or they’ll issue you a ticket.”
Nando rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Es loco. Always the hand in my pocket. Okay, okay, I will take care of it.”
Our dinners arrived, and Nando speared a jumbo prawn in the mojo sauce on his plate, took a bite. “Madre mía. Qué rico.” He closed his eyes. “These camarones could have been cooked by my grandmother.” I could only nod in agreement since I was chewing a bite of red snapper bathed in a piquant sauce done up with West Indian spices.
Nando opened his eyes and smiled broadly. “I have something to tell you, Calvin.”
That phrase usually signaled an incoming financial zinger. “I can’t afford another rent increase,” I shot back preemptively.
He laughed, and his eyes lit up. “No, no. This isn’t about money. I have met someone.”
I rested my fork on my plate and leaned forward. After all, despite Nando’s reputation as a ladies’ man, he was the prototype of a confirmed bachelor. “You have?”
“Yes. Her name is Claudia Borrego. I met her at a salsa club.” He paused for a moment as if savoring the memory. “At first it was just her dancing. She is a magnificent salsa dancer. But then I got to know her.” He shook his head in reverence. “She is wonderful.” He fished a photo from his shirt pocket and handed it to me. Caught in a dramatic salsa move, she and Nando faced each other, their eyes locked together. Claudia’s back was arched with an arm and leg extended behind her in dramatic fashion. Framed in flowing black hair, her head was tilted up, exposing a finely sculpted face, large almond-shaped eyes, and voluptuous lips.
“She’s beautiful, Nando. How long has this been going on?”
He smiled so broadly I swear it increased the light in the room. “Oh, a month or so. Long enough to know she is the love of my heart. We have already begun to talk about the engagement. I am shopping for a suitable diamond ring.”
I sat back and looked at my friend. Hyperbole was his stock in trade, and I loved him for it, but it was clear he was genuinely smitten by this Claudia Borrego. “I can’t wait to meet her.” I told him. And I meant it. The woman who could reel in Hernando Mendoza must be some woman, indeed.
Later that night I took Archie for a walk along the Willamette River, which divides the city east from west. The river caught the light of the buildings and the bridges in perfect reflection until a breeze kicked up. I zipped up my jacket and pulled my hood up as the lights on the water began to tremble. I kept thinking about that starstruck look in Nando’s eyes as he talked about Claudia. I was happy that he’d finally found someone, and Claudia sounded like a jewel. At the same time, a fragment of concern nagged at me like a splinter under my fingernail. I knew Nando would fall in love the way he did everything else—with total commitment and reckless abandon.
Claudia Borrego now held my friend’s heart in her hands. I hoped she’d treat it with care.
Chapter Two
Kelly
Three weeks later
Old Town, Portland
Kelly Spence sat in the shadows of the alleyway. The wind had apparently shifted because she could smell the dumpster down the alley now. The smell nudged her out of a light sleep. She thumbed her cell phone to life and checked the time. 1:05 a.m. From the side pocket of her backpack she extracted a dog-eared, paperback copy of Camus’ The Stranger and began reading by the light of her phone. It was slow going but better than just waiting in the dark. She was halfway through the book and had decided to give it one more chance. But after twenty pages more she put it back in her pack, knowing she would never finish it. That guy Meursault just made her mad. Why so frigging passive, dude? I mean, get a life.
Sh
e wasn’t like Meursault. She was angry and had stuff she wanted to say.
After she played a couple dozen games of Osmos on her cell, it was 2:20. Time to start. She was hungry but glad she hadn’t brought anything to eat. You climb best on an empty stomach, her dad always told her. She never really understood why that would be the case, and he never explained his reasoning. When it came to climbing, whatever her dad said was gospel.
She wondered what he would think of her now, if he’d approve. He never said much about anything except climbing, but he’d lived his life on his own terms, for sure. She was trying to do that now, and you know, make a difference somehow, or at least stick it to the man, which was the same thing, wasn’t it?
Kelly missed her dad, and that empty space he’d left in her heart began to ache.
She took her climbing harness out of her pack, pulled it over her jeans, and cinched it up. She still felt guilty about having boosted it, but she was broke at the time and had outgrown the last harness her dad had given her. She took inventory of the contents of her backpack one more time—two neatly folded stencils, nine spray cans—four black, two blue, two red, and a white—spray caps, duct tape, fifty feet of climbing rope, and a black scarf she always used as a mask. Since she’d be changing spray caps to go from broad to fine work, she moved them from her pack to a small haul sack attached to her harness.
Her objective was to tag the wall of a six-story turn-of-the-century warehouse that was now an office complex in Portland’s Old Town. The blank wall beckoned to her like an immense, empty canvas, but it would be no easy task to gain access to the roof where she could launch her assault.
A gap of maybe three feet separated the six-story building from an adjacent four-story structure that was more accessible. She put on her backpack and moved down the unlit alleyway to the corner of the lower building, where a vertical course of wide, rough-hewn granite cornerstones promised a tough but manageable fifty-foot line up to the roof. Cool to the touch, the cornerstone seams were reasonably spaced and, most importantly, dry. Kelly stretched her arms up, found a seam with her fingertips, and lifted off—the soft soles of her climbing shoes sticking firmly to the granite. Holding herself with her right hand, she slowly extended her legs and found the next seam with her left hand, then reversed the process. Like a crawling insect, she reached the top of the building and pulled herself over the low retaining wall onto the flat roof in a matter of minutes.