Chapter Twenty-six
Kelly
Earlier that same Friday
A big drop of sweat broke loose from Kelly’s forehead, seeped through an eyebrow, and blurred her vision. The next handhold’s a bitch, she told herself. If you don’t make it, you’re coming off. Just as she stretched out, a voice boomed up from below, “Hey, get the hell off there.” The tips of her fingers caught the block, but without enough purchase to arrest her fall. Her dad’s favorite saying—gravity never sleeps—flashed through her head as she plunged downward.
The belay caught her about six feet off the gym floor with a jarring snap that made Phil Hanson laugh. Hanson owned the climbing gym from whose wall—the one for advanced climbers—Kelly had just fallen. “Good timing,” he said, still chuckling. “Now get to work, young lady. We open in an hour, and the floor needs sweeping.” Kelly did odd jobs around the gym for minimum wage and climbing privileges off-hours, which helped her stay sharp.
“Damn eager beavers,” she mumbled, as someone began rapping on the front door. She unlocked the door and prepared to tell the person that the gym didn’t open until eight-thirty. But instead of an early climber, Kelly stood looking at one of the cops who’d stopped her and Kiyanna in Tom McCall Park. He was the older one with the friendly eyes, although they weren’t so friendly now. Kelly fought to quell the blood rushing from her head. Stay cool, girl, she told herself.
The cop held his badge up. “I’m Lieutenant Harmon Scott of the Portland Police. Is your boss in?”
Kelly tried to smile, but her face turned to granite. “Uh, yeah, he’s, uh, in the back, in his office.”
“Can you take me to him, please?”
As they were walking through the gym, Kelly in the lead, Scott said, “You look familiar, have we met?”
Without turning, Kelly said, “Maybe, but I’ve been told I have a familiar-looking face.” Lying to this cop didn’t seem like a smart thing to do.
He didn’t respond, and when they reached Hanson’s office at the back of the gym, Kelly knocked twice before opening the door and announcing Scott. As he entered the office Scott took another, more careful, look at her.
Kelly went back to her sweeping, pushing the broom as fast as she could. Get the hell out of here, she told herself. But before she could finish Hanson yelled out, “Hey, Kel, come on back here for a minute.”
She had an urge to bolt, but she knew that would be stupid. When she entered the office and closed the door behind her, both men eyed her with interest. Hanson said, “The lieutenant here is looking for a witness to a crime over in Old Town. A woman got shot early last Friday morning.” Kelly nodded, and although she kept her eyes on Hanson she could feel the pressure of Scott’s gaze. “He thinks the witness is a teenage boy or young man who likes to tag and knows how to climb, too. You know anyone fits a profile like that?”
She shifted her eyes to Scott, then quickly back to Hanson. “No.” That was the truth. She didn’t, but even if she did, no way she’d set the cops after him, even if it meant less heat on her.
“You sure?” Hanson persisted. “What about that Davidson kid, the one who’s always challenging you on the wall?” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Scott lean forward slightly.
She forced a smile. “Him? He’s an okay climber, but he’s no tagger. I think he’s an Eagle Scout or something.”
“What about that skinny blond kid’s been coming in the last month or so? What’s his name?”
“Charles something. I don’t know his last name. He, uh, can’t even do the beginners’ wall yet.”
Hanson tossed out a couple more possibilities, and Kelly managed to find fault with each of them. Scott took a few names down but didn’t seem particularly interested. Finally Kelly said, “Can I go now? I’m going to be late for school.”
Scott said, “Hasn’t school already started?”
“I go to an alternative school. The academic program doesn’t start till ten.”
Scott snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “That’s where I saw you. Out on the parkway last Saturday. You were with a tall black girl.”
“Oh, yeah,” Kelly said, feigning recollection, “I remember now.”
Scott handed Kelly another card, his eyes lingering on her longer than she would have liked. “Thanks for the help, Kelly. If you think of anything else, anything at all, give me a call. We want this killer off the street.”
Kelly’s pulse didn’t come back to normal until she was on the bus heading over the river. All Scott had to do was check her juvenile record and he’d know that she fit the “profile.” But the thought, unsettling as it was, caused her to smile. She could tell that detective couldn’t imagine a girl doing K209’s tags. Hanson couldn’t either, for that matter. Men. They’re so clueless.
Kelly arrived at school, where she found Zook standing outside the entrance puffing a cigarette. “That stuff’ll kill you,” Kelly said as she walked up.
He took a deep drag and flicked the smoldering butt into the gutter. “I thought it was demon weed gonna do that?”
“Both. What’s up at PSU?”
Zook’s face brightened, and his mouth stretched into that lopsided grin of his. “They love me, man. Want me on the practice squad. When I can get my GED, I’ve got a shot at a scholarship next year.”
Kelly’s face broke into a radiant smile. “That’s great! Uh, they gonna make you pee in a cup?”
“Yeah, I think so, one of these days.”
Kelly met his eyes and frowned. “How’s that going to work?”
Zook looked aside and ran a big paw through his hair. “No worries. Three days clears it.”
Kelly shook her head. “Not the way you use.”
Zook forced a grin. “Hey, I got this.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out a small plastic vial containing a yellowish liquid and held it up. “I just got this from Billy Porter. He hasn’t smoked in a year.”
Kelly made a face. “Ew, how disgusting. They aren’t stupid, Zook. You’re gonna get caught. Why don’t you just quit?”
He showed the grin again. “I got it covered, Kel.”
The scare at the climbing gym left Kelly uneasy, but fortunately Zook needed help with his math. Helping him was never a chore—it was how their relationship began—and that day it was a welcome distraction as well. Zook was a bright kid who could read and write at a high level, but he cowered in fear at the very mention of the word algebra. “Look, Zook,” Kelly said at one point, “using the quadratic equation is pretty simple. Just lay the problem out, determine the constants, plug them into the equation, and do the arithmetic to get X.”
He ran a big hand through his hair, scratched his head, and scowled. “Simple for you, maybe.” He turned to face her. “Why did they have to make the GED math test even harder, man? I mean, I had a shot at passing the old test, but not now. Wasn’t putting it online enough? Did they have to make it harder, too? I’m screwed, Kel.”
“No, you’re not screwed,” she told him. “Now shut up and do the next problem.” He dropped his eyes back to the math book, but she could tell his heart wasn’t in it.
That afternoon, after Zook went off to practice at PSU and Kiyana to work, Kelly walked over to the library on SW Tenth Street to get her homework done. But it was hard to concentrate. That cop’s last words bore down on her—“We want this killer off the street.” Was she a bad person for not coming forward? A now familiar feeling of indecision settled on her like an itchy blanket. It would be such a relief to put the burden down, a small voice in her head suggested. Let someone else handle this. You’re in over your head, Kelly Spence.
Then she thought about Veronica, the desperate look in her eyes when she pleaded for Kelly to stay out of trouble. What would happen to Veronica? And foster care? You’ll be back in the system in a heartbeat, she reminded herself. That thought made her shudder.
Late that afternoon, Kelly was back at her perch across from the Arsenal. It was a cold, gray day, and even though it wasn’t raining she could smell dampness in the stiff breeze coming off the river. The shadowy image of the man she saw at the Arsenal the other day was seared into her memory. She needed another look at closer range. She figured she could spot that walk either coming or going.
In any case, if he showed again she had a plan, sort of.
Hastened by the thickening cloud cover, night was coming on when a lone panel truck turned in the drive and parked at the loading dock. Kelly watched as two men got out. The one she could see best—short and borderline obese—opened the back doors of the truck and walked into the building. The other man stood next to the car, frustratingly shielded from Kelly’s view.
She scrambled down the girders, and was over the back fence and out on the street a few moments later. She stood there in the gathering darkness and took a deep, trembling breath. They don’t know me, she repeated to herself several times and then, after stashing her binoculars in her backpack, started across the street.
She followed the sidewalk and turned at the driveway along the side of the Arsenal. With any luck, she might get a better look at the man shielded by the truck. The other man suddenly emerged from the building carrying a large, rectangular box. He stopped abruptly when he saw her. “What the fuck do you want, kid?”
She was ready for the question. “Uh, Tyler Tea?” She knew it was up the street. “You know where their building is? It’s around here somewhere, on Water Street.”
His hands full, he nodded in the direction of Water Street. “Up about six blocks on the right. Now beat it.”
The man behind the truck didn’t move or say a word. Just my friggin’ luck, Kelly told herself. The other guy’s standing there like a statue, and I can’t even see him. What a dumb-ass plan. The man holding the box kept glaring at her. “Thanks, mister,” she said as she began to retreat. A car suddenly swung into the driveway, bathing her in harsh light. She moved aside, flattening herself against the building. Gravel popped beneath the tires as the car moved slowly past her. She saw the dark, indistinct shape of the driver from behind heavily tinted glass, his head turned to appraise her. For reasons she couldn’t explain, an involuntary shiver passed through her at the sight of that man’s outline.
The car pulled to a stop, and she heard the car window retract. Kelly turned and began walking toward the street. From behind her she heard the man call out, “What’s taking so long? You need to get your ass out of here.”
Her breath caught in her throat, and she stopped dead for a moment. That voice. I’ve heard that voice before! The realization hit like a slap to the face—that’s the man she saw with Macho Dude the night Rupert was killed, the man in the shadows. What had he said? “…at least take that fucking jacket off, you idiot.” The words reverberated in her head with a tone and texture that meshed perfectly with what she’d just heard. That’s The Voice. I’m sure of it.
She stole a quick glance back at the car, but it was dark and The Voice didn’t get out. With rubbery legs she kept walking toward the street while repeating her mantra—They don’t know me, they don’t know me—which was the only thing keeping her from breaking into a dead run.
She walked for three blocks before stopping again. In her panic to get out of there, she hadn’t gotten the plate number of either the van or the car. If you go back now, she told herself, you might have a shot.
But that option closed when The Voice’s car, followed by the truck, pulled out and headed south on Water, away from her. As Kelly walked toward the bus stop, she fought back a stiff wave of disappointment. What a joke, she told herself—a shooter you can only recognize by his walk and a voice you can’t put a face to. You’ve got nothing.
But she was pretty sure of one thing—she wasn’t wasting her time. The gun shop she’d been watching seemed to be at the center of something….
Chapter Twenty-seven
Cal
Claudia Borrego’s funeral service was held the next day at St. Mary’s Cathedral in Northwest Portland. I found a seat on the aisle toward the back of the church where I could keep an eye on things. Nando had been asked to sit in the front with Claudia’s family. Anthony Cardenas filed past me and took a seat three rows behind him. I’d warned Nando about Cardenas but got no indication of how my friend might react to the ex-husband’s presence. I figured Cardenas would keep his cool, and I could only hope Nando would as well.
The cathedral was filling up fast when Tay Jefferson walked by me looking for a seat. Realizing there were none closer in, she turned, and I pointed to the space next to me. Her eyes widened in recognition, but her face continued to register nothing but pain. When she slid in beside me, she rolled her eyes and exhaled a long breath. “Thanks, Cal. God, I hate funerals.”
I nodded, knowing exactly what she meant and how she felt. “Me, too.”
I don’t remember much about the service, except when the priest talked about what a giving person Claudia was. To make the point he asked, “How many people in this room feel they were a special friend of Claudia’s?” Tay and half the room of well over a hundred people raised their hands. Enough said. Oh, and the casket was closed. Two bullets in the head will spoil even the prettiest face.
Tay and I were toward the front of the long line that had formed after the service to offer condolences to Nando and the family, who were gathered outside the church. A private burial was to follow at Riverview Cemetery on the Willamette River. Nando’s face was taut, like a drum skin, and watching him there I realized it was the longest I’d ever seen my friend go without smiling when surrounded with people. Cardenas left the cathedral by a side exit rather than filing out the front. I exhaled. Confrontation avoided.
Tay and I found ourselves walking together as the crowd dispersed. There’s something therapeutic about walking, and we both needed therapy after that service. Neither of us said anything for several blocks. It seemed natural, walking with Tay. Finally, she said, “That was too close to home. My brother’s friend’s casket was closed, too. Now this.” She sighed. “Oh, Claudia, I miss you already.”
The comment broke loose a flood of memories for me, none of them pleasant. I said, “My wife’s casket wasn’t closed, but I wished it were.” Then I caught myself. I wasn’t going down that well of self-pity, no matter what the excuse. I glanced up. Tufts of cottony clouds drifted against a cobalt sky like boats without rudders. “The pain never completely leaves, but it gets bearable somehow.”
She nodded and we walked some more in silence. We stopped at a little bar and grill on Twenty-first and got drinks, a Mirror Pond for me and a glass of sauvignon blanc for her. A new convert to Sancere wine, she was miffed that the bar didn’t stock the label and told them so. We took a table near the back of the place and talked about nothing in particular. We were at a lull in the conversation when she said, “Have you talked to Brent Gunderson?”
I chuckled. “It’s on my to-do list for later today, as a matter of fact.” She was pushing me. I liked that. “Anything on Bonilla’s prison contacts?”
She frowned and sipped her wine, her eyes dark in the low light. “I got a call yesterday, but I didn’t get much. Nobody seemed to know what was up between them, business of some kind or, uh, something more intimate.”
I nodded. “Okay. So maybe business or maybe sex.”
She laughed. “Or both. Anyway, my source is still digging.”
“That’s good. But, listen, Tay, make sure your name doesn’t get used. That could be dangerous.”
She met my eyes, and for a moment hers softened as if touched by my concern. Then they narrowed back down and her lips compressed into a straight line. “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing. I owe this to Claudia.”
We finished our drinks, and I walked Tay back to her car. As if it was the most natural thing in the world we hugged each other before she got in. It was the kind of hug that two friends give each other as a show of strong support.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Cal
I took Arch for a well-deserved walk that afternoon. When we returned he gave me a baleful look and whimpered a couple of times when it was clear I was leaving again without him. “Guard the castle, big boy,” I told him.
Brent Gunderson lived near the Portland State campus, close enough that I decided to walk. I crossed Burnside and made my way to the South Park Blocks, a twelve-block strip of green that cuts through downtown and terminates at the PSU campus. The sky had cleared to a deep blue, and the elms, maples, and oaks lining the greenway were lit with fall colors. Half the city, it seemed, had found an excuse to congregate there.
Gunderson’s apartment was on SW Seventeenth, just off Columbia Street, in a once-proud, now shabby, Victorian two-story. Gunderson lived on the first floor, according to a hand-scrawled note tacked to the wall next to the mailboxes in the entry. I rang his bell, a charming three-note chime that must have been the original doorbell. He buzzed me in.
An inner door opened, and a young man peered out at me, backlit by a table lamp. A bit on the plump side, he had short, neatly parted black hair and clean-shaven cheeks that glowed healthily. “Oh, God, you’re not selling something, are you?”
I chuckled. “No. If you’re Brent I just want to talk to you.”
The smile faded. “About what?”
“I’m Cal Claxton.” I handed him a card, which he took without glancing down at it. “I was wondering if we could chat a few minutes about Manny Bonilla?”
His cherub face hardened. “Oh,” was all he said before shutting the door in my face.
“Crap,” I uttered under my breath. “That was a long walk for nothing.” I knocked on the door again and said in a louder voice, “Brent, I just want to talk, that’s all. Open the door, please.” But all I heard on the other side was the sliding of a deadbolt and his receding footsteps.
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