Never Look Down

by Warren C Easley

  “How was Manny involved?”

  “Don’t know. My source shut up after that, like he’d already said too much. Whatever it was it wasn’t obvious. He never would have gotten into the FRC program if that came to light. I have some good contacts at Sheridan. I’ll do some more digging.”

  I nodded. “Good.”

  “There’s more. Manny had another contact you should know about—a graduate student at Portland State named Brent Gunderson. He conducted a batch of interviews with some of our residents at the FRC for a project he was working on, but it seemed like he spent most of his time with Manny. I noticed it and so did Claudia.”

  What kind of interviews?”

  “Oh, something about correlating elements in offenders’ backgrounds with their offenses. I don’t know much more than that. Gunderson’s working on a master’s degree, I think.”

  “Any idea why he zeroed in on Manny?”

  “No clue. But he might be willing to talk to you.”

  I jotted the name down. Tay said, “Did I hear you right? Manny was going to be the driver for some woman who owns a bunch of gun shops?”

  “Yeah, it’s a chain. Bills itself as family friendly. They want to be the Starbucks of gun shops. One on every corner, I guess.”

  Tay groaned. “I hate guns. South Central L.A. is an armed camp.” She smiled bitterly. “I think drive-by shootings were invented there.” Her face clouded over. “A friend of my brother’s got hit. He wasn’t a gangbanger or anything. He was just walking down Alameda Street after school.” She closed her eyes, shook her head, and grimaced. “He, uh, the shooter used some kind of assault rifle, an AK-47 or something. James took three bullets in the neck.” She looked at me, her eyes bright in the overhead light. “It, uh, nearly decapitated him.”

  “Jesus, Tay. I’m sorry.”

  Her look turned angry. “A military weapon, Cal. How does a kid on the street get a military weapon? Why can’t we stop that?”

  I shook my head, because I didn’t have a lot of answers. “Yeah, it seems like a slippery slope to me. The more we arm in this country, the more we feel we need to arm. That can only be good for the gun industry.”

  The bitter smile again. Her eyes had gone from warm honey to molten rock. “Maybe that explains why the NRA stonewalls every sensible curb on ownership. Market share.”

  I nodded. “Full disclosure here. I own a gun. A Glock that Nando gave me when I felt like I needed some protection. But I barely know how to load the damn thing.”

  “A Glock’s a handgun, right? I have no problem with someone owning a handgun. That’s not the issue. Never has been as far as I’m concerned.”

  We sat in silence for a long time, but it didn’t seem uncomfortable. Finally, I said, “No significant other?”

  “There was, but it’s over now.” She gazed at the space between us for a couple of beats then looked up with an expression that made it clear the subject was closed. “What about you? Family?”

  “A daughter, Claire. She’s in graduate school down in the Bay Area.”

  Tay raised an eyebrow. “Stanford?”

  I laughed. “I won’t take that personally. No. Berkeley.”

  “Of course. What was I thinking? You must be very proud of her.”

  “Yes, I am. She’s an amazing young woman.”

  Tay gave me a teasing look. “Significant other?”

  “Nah, not really. I was dating a woman living in Seattle, but she, uh, it turned out she was here illegally and got deported to Russia.”

  “Deported? My God, what happened?”

  I waved a hand, shaking the question off. “It’s a long story. Too long.”

  I made us both shots of espresso and served them with squares of dark chocolate. We sipped, nibbled on the chocolate, and talked a while longer. When I walked her to her car and she turned to face me, I offered my hand. “Thanks for joining me for dinner, Tay, and thanks for the information. Keep your ear to the ground at the FRC.”

  She took my hand, thanked me, then smiled and leaned forward. Her kiss was warm on my cheek. “It was my pleasure, Cal.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Kelly

  Kelly returned to her perch in the building down and across from the Bridgetown Arsenal later that week, armed with a pair of cheap binoculars she’d bought at the army surplus store on Grand. A brisk east wind sifted through the building’s exposed girders, making low whistling sounds as it twirled a sputtering mist in the gray light. She was cold and wet and for the first time began to question why she was doing this. The two previous afternoons, she saw nothing familiar except the family in the dark SUV with the little blond girl. They were apparently intent on honing their familial shooting skills.

  As the afternoon light faded, Kelly began to work her way down the steel framing. Halfway down she saw a flash of headlights and stopped to watch as two unmarked panel trucks came down the street, pulled into the gun shop driveway, and stopped at the loading dock. She worked her way forward on a crossbeam, found a gap in the cladding that had been left unfinished, and focused her binoculars. Two men got out of the first truck, climbed the loading dock, and disappeared into the building. Two other men got out of the second truck. One came around to the back of the truck, leaned against it, and lit up a cigarette.

  The other followed the first two into the building. Kelly watched him walk up the stairs at the loading dock. Her breath stopped and her spinal column began to hum like a high-voltage line. The man wasn’t wearing a Bridgetown Arsenal jacket, but there was something about that swagger. Was it him? Was it Macho Dude? She was pretty damn sure. She waited anxiously for him to reappear.

  The other three men loaded the two trucks with boxes, and the man with the swagger didn’t reappear until they were done. But it was too dark by then. All Kelly saw was a shadowy figure descend the steps and get into one of the vans. Damn, damn, damn.

  After both vans pulled out, she climbed the rest of the way down and slipped away. Was it him? She must have asked herself that a thousand times as she sat slouched on the bus. She wasn’t sure, but how else could she explain her reaction when she saw him?

  ***

  When Kelly arrived back at the apartment Veronica called out, “That you, Kel? I’m in here.” Kelly was shocked to smell something good, something that reminded her that she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. She followed the smells into the tiny kitchen. Veronica was turning meat in a frying pan as a pot on the stove belched steam. The mutt was curled up in a corner and when Kelly entered opened its eyes and yawned.

  “Wow, smells good. What’s the occasion?”

  Over her shoulder Veronica said, “No occasion. I got to thinking about what you said the other day, you know, about the way we eat around here.” She turned around and smiled. “I’m frying a couple of chops and, get this, steaming some broccoli. I—”

  “Look V, I’m sorry I blew up the other day,” Kelly cut in. “I was having a crappy day.”

  Veronica’s thick hair was pulled back and tied off, and she looked younger without her usual overdone makeup. She met Kelly’s eyes. “Are you okay? Ever since that night you didn’t come home, you’ve been a little off. I don’t mean just your arm and leg, Kel.”

  Kelly dropped her eyes. “I’m fine. Really.”

  Veronica laid the spatula down and exhaled a breath. “Look, Kel. I hope you’re not in some kind of trouble. I mean, if you bring the cops around here, we’re both screwed. Don’t do that to us, okay?”

  “Don’t worry. That’s not going to happen. It’s all good, V.”

  The pork was a little dry and the broccoli a bit on the limp side, but they both ate with pleasure and lingered at the table afterward to talk. By this time the mutt had climbed into Veronica’s lap. Kelly had to make up stories to explain why she’d been getting home so late the last several days. Finally Veronica
brought up what was on both their minds. She said, “Know what day tomorrow is?”

  Kelly nodded. “October twenty-fourth. The day Dad was supposed to summit.”

  Veronica grimaced and shook her head. “God, I had a bad feeling about that mountain. Damn climbers, they just keep trying until they find something they can’t handle, something that kills them.”

  Kelly winced. “I figured he was invincible. Never dreamed he wouldn’t come back.”

  Veronica stroked the mutt’s head. “Yeah, well, you were, what, eleven?” She sighed. “Look, Kel, I’m sorry about the way I handled the whole thing.” She studied the scratched surface of the table for a while. “I never should have taken off like that. I…I just fell apart.”

  “You ran away with a tweeker, V. That’s what you did.”

  Veronica dropped her eyes this time. “I know. Can you ever forgive me?”

  Kelly’s mind flashed back to her foster home—that old bastard coming into her room that night. “I’m trying,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. She willed the tears back. “I just wish Dad were here and it was like it used to be. You know, the three of us.”

  Veronica couldn’t hold her tears back. “I know, Kel. I know.”

  Kelly lay in her bed later that night with ten thousand thoughts and emotions careening around in her head like bumper cars. It was still drizzling outside, so a trip to her refuge was out. Veronica seemed to be trying a lot harder, she told herself, but could she trust her? She wanted to, but V ran out on her before. She could do it again. And what about the mess she found herself in? Veronica could get busted, which would mean Kelly would wind up back in foster care. You can’t let that happen, no matter what.

  Her mind kept coming back to the Arsenal and the man she saw that afternoon. Had she really recognized Macho Dude, or was she kidding herself because she wanted so badly to find him? And the crazy thing was, she’d only be able to recognize him from behind, when he was walking. She imagined a police lineup, where each subject was instructed to walk away from her. She giggled at that, despite herself.

  She had no answers yet and more reasons to feel afraid than optimistic. But when she finally fell asleep that night, Kelly Spence dreamed she was off somewhere in a vast expanse of snowcapped mountains, climbing with her father.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Cal

  After Tay left that night, I busied myself cleaning up. I could mess up the kitchen counters just boiling an egg, so a pasta dinner for two had catastrophic consequences. But I didn’t mind so much because I had plenty to think about. And apparently so did Archie, as he lay under the table in the dining area with his chin on his paws, watching me intently. “No, there aren’t any table scraps tonight, big boy,” I told him. “And you’re lucky you’ve got paws, not hands. Otherwise, you’d be drying these dishes.”

  He lifted his head and wagged his stump of a tail in response.

  I can’t say a pattern began to form in my head, but something started to jell, something with Manny Bonilla and the Bridgetown Arsenal in it. And I had a new lead to chase down—a young sociology student named Brent Gunderson. What could he tell me about Bonilla? I was anxious to talk to him, but it would have to wait. I was booked solid for the next two days at my office in Dundee. The bills have to be paid, after all. I was restless, so I packed up and drove back to the Aerie that night instead of waiting until morning.

  Nando called me at my office in Dundee on Thursday with an edge of excitement in his voice. “I have some news on the witness-front,” he began. “One of the men in the security tape talking to Cardenas’ supposed alibi, Sheri Daniels, is Kyle Kirkpatrick. He’s an administrative assistant to the mayor. The tape only showed his back and partial side, but an associate of mine knew him well enough to pick him out. Kirkpatrick was talking to Daniels just before closing.”

  “Does Scott know about this?”

  “I don’t know, but he and his partner have the original copy of the tape. In any case, I talked to Kirkpatrick last night. He was up very tight, not wishing to become involved for obvious reasons.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him that being with a prostitute was a forgivable offense, but if he lies about it in a murder case and is caught he can kiss his job and his career good-bye.”

  “How did he respond?”

  Nando chuckled. “He told me to, uh, take the flying fuck, but his upper lip had broken out in little pimples of sweat. I am sure he is thinking it over.”

  ***

  On Friday of that week, I headed back to Portland. As I pulled into my space at Caffeine Central, I could see a half dozen people already lined up at the front door. The only thing typical about my clients was that there wasn’t anything typical about them. The first three that morning were the indomitable Thelma McCharles, the elderly woman trying to refinance her mortgage; a young man from Michigan who wanted to fight a ticket he got for camping in Forest Park; and a sixteen-year-old girl who wanted help in becoming emancipated from her crack-addled parents.

  I had good news for Thelma. The bank agreed to a meeting. I told the kid from Michigan to clean himself up before he went to court and to tell the judge he’d pay the fine after he found a job. Chances are the judge would waive it.

  The girl’s name was Kiyana Howard. She was nearly my height with a kind of regal yet unpretentious bearing, like some African princess set down in the middle of Portland. She had an open countenance, big, intelligent eyes, and dreadlocks that looked like they’d been woven by a master weaver. Yes, she could prove a history of neglect by her parents, she told me, and yes, she had an apartment and was supporting herself.

  “Okay, Kiyana,” I said after we went through the details of her story, “I think we’ve got a shot here.” The look on her face made my week.

  Arch and I took a midmorning break when the waiting room finally emptied out. When we returned, there were still no customers waiting for us. I used the lull to answer some mail, but it wasn’t long before the buzzer on the front door announced a new arrival. I looked up through the half-open door to my office to see a man in an elegantly tailored suit enter. He looked familiar, but I had only gotten a fleeting look at him. I got up and swung the office door open. “Can I help you?”

  He turned to face me. “Uh, yeah. You Cal Claxton?”

  I nodded. The swept-back hair and hard-featured face most women would consider handsome rang a bell.

  “I’m Anthony Cardenas,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  I invited him in to my office and closed the door. He was dressed like a banker with good taste—a pinstriped navy-blue suit, paisley tie with matching handkerchief in the breast pocket, and a bit of light blue shirt cuff showing at the sleeve. He took a seat in front of my desk, hunched forward, and shook his head resolutely. “I didn’t kill Claudia, man.”

  I leaned back. “I didn’t say you did.”

  “Yeah, but your buddy Mendoza’s saying that. He and his Cuban buddies are all over Portland trying to put a wire up my ass. I’ve got enough trouble with the cops. I don’t need him making things worse.”

  “As I understand it, you’ve got an alibi. You were with Sheri Daniels the night of the killing, right?”

  He leaned back and opened his hands. “Yeah, right.” He exhaled another long breath. “But you’re a lawyer. You know she’s, uh, got some issues that don’t make her the most reliable witness. And Mendoza’s out there trying to turn her against me. The cops would like nothing better than to hang this on me. You know, the ex-husband’s always suspect number one.”

  “What about Manny Bonilla’s death? Know anything about that?”

  He opened his hands and shrugged. “I saw that, man. The dude’s her cousin. I mean, what the fuck’s going on?” A faint, wistful smile. “He was a good kid, crazy about Claudia. We used to hang out sometimes. I taught him how to play Texas Ho
ld’em and, man, did that piss Claudia off.”

  I sat back and looked at him. “Why are you telling me this? I’m sure you’ve got a lawyer, and he’s not going to be happy about this visit.”

  Cardenas closed his eyes for a couple of beats as if fighting off a wave of emotion. I flashed back to Nando doing the same thing. “Damn straight I’ve got a lawyer. But I call the shots. Look, man, I hear you might have some influence on that crazy Cuban. He needs to back off. I didn’t kill Claudia.” He opened his hands again and looked me full in the face. “I loved that woman just like he did. I wouldn’t touch a hair on her head.” His gaze was direct and unflinching. “That’s the truth, man.”

  I nodded. There wasn’t much I could say and even less I could do. Even if I believed him, controlling Nando would be like trying to redirect a hurricane. I settled for, “I’ll give him the message.”

  He leaned forward again and pulled his face into a sneer. “Don’t just give him the message. I’m asking for your help, man. Convince him.”

  I met his eyes. “Are you asking me or threatening me?”

  “I’m asking you, man. I didn’t kill Claudia Borrego. Tell Mendoza to back off.”

  I stood up. “I got the message. If you didn’t do it, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

  His sneer morphed into a sarcastic smile. “Oh, sure. Our justice system’s such a model of fairness.” When I didn’t reply, he got up abruptly. At the door he turned and pointed a finger at me. “And tell Mendoza that I’m going to the funeral tomorrow to pay my respects. Tell him I won’t be looking for any trouble and he shouldn’t either.”

  I sat there for a few minutes trying to process what just happened. Obviously, Cardenas was worried the alibi provided by Sheri Daniels wasn’t going to hold up. I didn’t blame him for being nervous. I wouldn’t want Nando Mendoza breathing down my neck. I was glad for one thing—the heads-up on the funeral. I would remind Nando that Cardenas had a right to attend and that an ugly scene would serve nobody’s interest, particularly the deceased’s.