Never Look Down

by Warren C Easley

  I was halfway across the 405 overpass when I glanced back at the Victorian mansion and noticed a metallic gray Chevy Malibu maybe a block and a half behind me. I’d seen a similar car on the way over. The only reason I noticed the Malibu was because my neighbor and accountant, Gertrude Johnson, owned a similar model. Coincidence. The car, which contained a single, male driver behind tinted glass, drove by and continued on SW Columbia.

  It was a pleasant evening, so when I got back to the South Park Blocks, I took a seat on a bench next to a rousing bronze statue of Teddy Roosevelt leading the charge at San Juan Hill. I was in the middle of trying to think of how to re-approach Gunderson when there he was, striding toward me with a backpack on. He hadn’t seen me yet, so I got up and put the statue between him and me. When he passed, I followed him to a coffeehouse on Market.

  I loitered outside, and after he bought a coffee and took a seat in the back, I entered and slid into the chair across from him. He looked up with surprise. I said, “I’m sorry to bother you, Brent, but I’ve got to talk to you about Manny Bonilla. I’m a lawyer. Whatever you tell me will be held in strictest confidence.” Okay, that wasn’t necessarily a true statement, but I needed this guy to talk to me.

  A ripple of emotion crossed his face, a mixture of sadness and fear, but he kept his seat. “I, uh, just heard about his death three days ago. I don’t know anything. Why are you involved, anyway?”

  “I’m investigating the death of his caseworker, a woman named Claudia Borrego.”

  “She’s dead, too?” His hand went to his face, which had gone a shade paler. “She helped set up my interviews at the FRC. I don’t keep up with the local news. What happened?”

  “She was shot to death not far from here a week ago. Manny drowned a short time later. His death has been ruled suspicious. The crimes might be related.”

  He took a sip of coffee as if to calm himself, rattling the cup against the saucer when he replaced it. “Oh, my God. They’re both dead,” he said, half to himself. “Manny, he, uh…”

  When he didn’t finish his sentence, I said, “Go on, Brent, tell me what you know about this.”

  “Nothing,” he snapped. “I don’t know a thing.”

  I leaned in. His blue eyes betrayed his anxiety. “Look, Brent, you’ll feel a lot better if you get this off your chest.”

  His eyes welled up, and a single tear broke loose and followed the arc of his cheek. “We became friends after I interviewed him for a project I’m working on. We were, um, talking about him moving in with me when he was released. He told me he was going to come into some money when he got out and that he had a great job lined up. I didn’t care about the money.”

  “Where was the money coming from?”

  “He didn’t say.” Gunderson paused, and I waited. “Then, like last Thursday, Manny calls me and says that he has to leave town for a while, that he’s not taking the money, and can’t afford to move in with me. I told him it didn’t matter, that we’d work something out.” Gunderson dried his eyes and took a sip of coffee. “Then he says something like, ‘I’m involved in some bad shit, Brent, and I’m trying to get out of it. You need to forget you ever knew me.’ I told him I’d help him, but he said, no, it was too dangerous, and that if anything happens to him, I shouldn’t get involved. You know, like he was trying to protect me or something.”

  “Did he say anything about Claudia Borrego?”

  “Yeah, he did. He said she was helping him do the right thing.”

  “Have you told anyone about this?”

  Gunderson dropped his eyes. “No. I’m such a coward.” He looked back up and forced a smile. “I, um, I’m only out here in Portland. I’m from Utah, and the rest of my family doesn’t know I’m gay. I figured this might blow it, and, besides, Manny scared the crap out of me.” His gaze dropped back to the table. “Now he’s dead.”

  We talked over a second cup, a decaf for me. I didn’t get anything else. By this time Gunderson was visibly relieved, as if he’d just shucked off a huge weight. I gave him Harmon Scott’s number, and he promised to call him as soon as I left. As I stood to leave he smiled and shook my hand. “Who knows?” he said. “Since I’m making phone calls, maybe I’ll call home, too. I’ve got some things that need saying.”

  It was dark as I walked back to Caffeine Central, but that damn gray Malibu was still back there. I spotted it in the streetlights on Tenth, a block behind me in the left-hand lane. I crossed the one-way street and stepped behind a covered Trimet bus stop. When the Malibu pulled up to the stoplight I stepped out and rapped sharply on the driver’s side window.

  The window rolled down, and a man looked up at me with a very annoyed look on his face. “Hi,” I said, “I’m Cal Claxon. What can I do for you?”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Cal

  The man in the car shook his head and smiled, seemingly in spite of himself, then reached into an inside breast pocket and produced a badge. “Special Agent Truax, ATF. Since you made me, you might as well climb in. And hurry. The light’s about to change.” The badge looked legitimate, so I took him up on the offer.

  Truax was my size with thick forearms covered with wiry black hair and large hands with no jewelry except for a plain wedding band. His face bristled from a two-day growth, and he had deep-set eyes the color of good bourbon. The funny thing was he looked vaguely familiar.

  “Where are we going?” I asked him.

  “Well, shit, I might as well just take you home. You’ve had a long walk tonight.”

  “I wouldn’t have noticed you, but you’re driving the same car as my bookkeeper.”

  Truax shrugged. “Just my luck. Surveilling someone who’s on foot’s a bitch in the best of situations.”

  “Are you going to tell me why you’ve been following me?”

  He gave me a pained “oh, please” look and then turned his attention back to the street. “You’ve been busy lately, Claxton. What’s the deal?”

  “Deal?”

  “Oh, come on. I’m a federal agent. What the hell are you up to?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose you’re referring to the Claudia Borrego murder. She was my best friend’s fiancée. He’s a PI here in Portland—Hernando Mendoza.” Truax nodded, suggesting he knew about Nando or at least the name. “He’s understandably upset about her death. I’ve been helping him run down some potential leads, you know, trying to help the investigation.”

  Truax barked a laugh. “I’m sure Portland PD’s just thrilled about that. And…?”

  “And what?”

  “What’ve you learned?”

  I laughed. “Very little. Look, I’m just going through the motions here, trying to help a friend cope with his loss.” Since Truax wasn’t sharing anything with me, I saw little reason to open up to him.

  After driving in silence for several blocks he pulled up to the curb in front of Caffeine Central and left the engine running. “That apartment you just visited on Columbia—who did you talk to?”

  “Oh, that was on an unrelated matter. Turned out I had the wrong address.” I didn’t want to drag Gunderson into this after he bared his soul to me.

  Truax looked at me and held his gaze for several beats. “Look, Claxton, I’m sure you and your buddy Mendoza mean well, but you need to cut this crap.”

  “What crap? We’re not breaking any laws, and anything we learn will go straight to the team investigating the murder.”

  He exhaled a breath and shook his head. “You’re mucking around in something you know nothing about. Maybe there’s more here than meets the eye. You get my drift?”

  “No, I don’t. Maybe you should give me a little more infor-

  mation.”

  Truax placed both hands on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. His knuckles shown white through tufts of dark hair. “Goddamn it, Claxton. Maybe you’re going to find your ass
between a rock and a very hard place, too.”

  I smiled, nodded, and clicked the car door open. “I’ll keep that in mind.” After I got out I leaned back in and said, “I finally figured out why you look familiar. You’re Richie Truax, aren’t you? You were a linebacker at USC back in the Ted Tollner era.”

  A smile got loose on his face and faded just as fast. “That was a long time ago. Talk to Mendoza, Claxton. Tell him what I said. Rein it in, cowboy.”

  After the Malibu pulled away I stood there feeling uneasy. What had Nando and I been up to over the past week that would worry the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms? Whatever it was, Truax wasn’t about to tell me. Maybe I should have leveled with him, but hell, I didn’t have anything anyway.

  One thing was certain, though—the investigation that Nando and I were carrying out seemed to be upsetting an awful lot of people.

  Chapter Thirty

  Cal

  The week following Claudia Borrego’s funeral did not go well for her ex-husband, Anthony Cardenas. I was back at the Aerie on Tuesday when Nando phoned. “Calvin,” he began, “I have good news. Kyle Kirkpatrick has admitted that he was with Sheri Daniels the night of Claudia’s murder.”

  “So, Cardenas’ alibi’s busted? That’s great, Nando. Did you have a hand in this?”

  He chuckled. “Yes. I convinced him Sheri Daniels was about to crack. To his credit I think he wanted to come forward all along. He is a man of conscience.”

  “What about Daniels?”

  I told her and her lawyer the police were more likely to believe Kirkpatrick than her, and that if she cooperated she could probably work a deal. If not, she was looking at serious jail time.” He chuckled again. “Addicts are not fond of jail time.”

  The development made The Oregonian under the headline “Witness retracts statement in murder case.”

  Archie and I came back to Portland on Thursday of that week, and as I was opening up Caffeine Central, a Portland unmarked pulled up in the yellow zone in front of the building. Harmon Scott got out and glanced at the half dozen people already queued up. He looked tired and annoyed. “Mind if I jump the line, Claxton?”

  I turned to my waiting clients. “Uh, this gentleman’s a police officer. I’m going to speak to him first this morning. There are plenty of seats in the waiting room. I’ll get to you just as soon as I can.”

  Scott followed me into my office, slumped in a chair, and began polishing his glasses on his shirtsleeve. I closed the door and looked at him. His skin was pale, even for an Oregonian, and the hollows under his eyes seemed deeper and a shade darker. “You look overworked, Harmon. Don’t you ever take a break?”

  He puffed a derisive breath and shook his head. “I’ve got the caseload from hell. I’ll take a break when I’m dead.”

  I flashed back to my days in L.A. when I carried a similar attitude like a badge of honor, but I knew better than to say anything to this proud, hard-working cop. “Congrats on breaking Cardenas’ alibi.”

  His laugh had a trace of bitterness. “You know full well who I have to thank for that.”

  I flashed an innocent smile. “Who might that be?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Just tell Mendoza he’s done enough, okay? You both have.”

  I nodded. “Are you close to an arrest?”

  He chuckled without any mirth. “The case sucks. We think that tagger K209 saw the shooting. I need the kid to close this thing.”

  I opened both hands. “I’ve tried, Harmon. He’s elusive. Either that or the killer caught up with him, and the body hasn’t turned up yet.”

  Scott shook his head. “No reports of missing teens, but I guess we can’t rule that out. You, uh, asked Picasso, right? Told him how important this is?”

  “Yeah. He’s checked all his sources. Nothing. Do you have anything else?”

  He shrugged. “We got an intact .22-caliber round from the murder weapon. Brain tissue, it turns out, has a lot of stopping power. But we got no weapon to go with it. It’s probably rusting somewhere in the Willamette.”

  “What about the kid from the Federal Re-entry Center, Manny Bonilla? Is he tied into this thing?”

  Scott met my eyes and his narrowed slightly, giving me the impression he knew I’d been snooping around. “Just find K209 for us, okay Claxton? We can handle the rest.”

  ***

  I had a series of court appearances in McMinnville the following week that kept me at the Aerie with my head down, busy doing the kind of work that allows one to pay the bills. It was just as well because I was out of ideas and, to be honest, out of enthusiasm as well. It looked like Scott and Ludlow were closing in on Cardenas and whatever the hell was going on at the Bridgetown Arsenal, and how Manny Bonilla figured in might be better left to Richie Truax and the ATF. Sure, I still had a score to settle with the one-boot cowboy, but my bruised ribs were starting to heal. As for K209—it would be great to find him and seal the case against Cardenas, but maybe the kid didn’t need rescuing. Maybe he had good reasons to stay hidden, reasons I didn’t understand.

  On the Thursday of that week Arch and I walked down to the mailbox to get the paper. It was a crisp, cool autumn morning, and the breeze off the valley smelled sweet and clear. The article was on the front page:

  Suspect arrested in Old Town murder

  In a dramatic development a police spokesman announced today that Anthony Cardenas of Portland was arrested for the murder of Claudia Borrego, also of Portland. Borrego’s body was found on SW Everett St. near 3rd Ave. early on October 17. She had been shot in the head twice with a handgun.

  Borrego had been employed as a counselor at the Federal Re-entry Center in Southeast Portland. Cardenas lists his occupation as professional gambler and is the ex-husband of Borrego. The police stated that physical evidence found at the crime scene has been linked directly to Cardenas but declined to provide details. Cardenas’ attorney, Melvin Steinberg, said his client vehemently denies any involvement in the crime and looks forward to presenting his side of the story.

  I put the paper under my arm and called Nando immediately, but the call went to voice-mail. When I finished up a hearing later that day in McMinnville, I swung back by the Aerie for Archie and headed for Portland. I still hadn’t connected with Nando, so I drove directly to his detective agency. Looking sharp in a silk blouse, pencil skirt, and spike heels, Esperanza flashed a brilliant smile. “Hello, Cal. You heard the news?”

  I gave a thumbs-up. “Sure did.” She told me to go on in. Nando was at his computer with his back to me, centered between two pictures up on the wall—one of President Obama and the other of Raul Castro. I said, “So, Cardenas is in jail.”

  Nando spun around and flashed a smile that made Esperanza’s look dim by comparison. “Yes, we got the bastard.” He was clean-shaven and wore sharply creased wool slacks with an expensive-looking pearl-colored V-neck sweater.

  I sat down and faced him across the desk. “What broke it?”

  “The science of ballistics, Calvin.”

  “You mean they found the murder weapon?”

  “No. Not exactly. Let me explain. A tip came in some while ago stating that Cardenas owned a second car, a vintage Thunderbird, which he kept in a garage further down on NE Thirty-third. Cardenas, it seems, had failed to mention this to the police, an unintentional oversight according to his attorney. A search warrant was executed, and a subsequent search of the rented space turned up a Sparrow silencer threaded to fit a Walther P-22. The silencer was stashed in the wheel well of the T-Bird. It was known, of course, that a .22 was used to kill Claudia. The search and what it turned up were kept quiet. Not even I had heard about it until the news broke today.”

  “They found a silencer but no gun?”

  Nando smiled and nodded. “Yes, that is what my source told me.”

  “A silencer can’t leave a ballistics signature, ca
n it? Even I know it’s bored-out to a larger diameter than the gun barrel so it doesn’t touch the bullet.”

  Nando smiled again. It was clear he was enjoying this. “What you say is true, but this particular silencer has a defect. It was made slightly out-of-round, which leads to the bullet touching the silencer as it leaves the gun. The scientific term is baffle strike.”

  “So this baffle strike leaves a unique mark on the bullet?”

  “Yes. And the ballistic work showed that the strike pattern exactly matched the one on the bullet that killed Claudia. The silencer found in Cardenas’ garage was the one used in the murder of Claudia, Calvin. It is a proven fact.”

  “So the actual gun’s superfluous?”

  “In this case, yes.”

  I leaned back in my chair and frowned. “Why would Cardenas toss the gun but not the silencer?”

  Nando’s eyes flashed impatience. “Because he had no idea whatsoever it could incriminate him, that’s why. It took a ballistics expert to do that. And silencers are not that easy to come by these days, even for criminals. Perhaps he wanted to hang on to it. It is understandable.”

  “Stupid is more like it.”

  “Any man who gambles for a living is stupid, Calvin.”

  I sat back in my chair. “Well, that’s absolutely incredible. What a break! And from an anonymous tip.”

  Nando sat back as well. “Yes. I am pleased with this outcome.” He ran a hand through his hair and his face clouded over momentarily. “But it doesn’t bring my Claudia back.”

  That night I joined Nando for dinner at Pambiche. As usual, I got there first and had to wait as he made his customary entrance and worked his way through the tables. The going was particularly slow because everyone wanted to discuss the recent turn of events and hear Nando’s take on them. After all, this was what they all wanted. Justice. Closure. Hands were shaken, cheeks were kissed, and even though the news was good, there was hardly a dry eye in the place. Such was the love that the Cuban community felt for my friend and for the woman who was to have been his wife.