Never Look Down

by Warren C Easley

  Kelly pushed her hand away. “Keep your money. I’ll see you later.” As she started down the stairs, she added over her shoulder, “Don’t let him sleep over, Veronica. It’s the first date.”

  Kelly went back out on the street. It was clear, but nightfall had sharply chilled the air. She fished a light fleece jacket from her backpack, put it on, and walked around the building to the alleyway. Three blocks down, she had to duck into the shadows to let a giggling young couple pass by. Then she was up and away, her hands and feet welcoming the cold, dry touch of the granite cornerstones of her refuge. As she climbed the cares of that day began to melt away.

  She summited a couple of minutes later, her breath smooth and deep and her mind clear, although she was still pissed at Veronica. As she sat watching the Friday night traffic on Sandy Boulevard, she thought about the contact she’d made with the lawyer, Claxton, and began planning what she would tell him the next day. The more she thought about the exchange, the better she felt. Kiyana was probably right. She could trust the lawyer, but there was no way she was giving him her name. That’s not going to happen, she vowed, no matter what he promises.

  Her thoughts turned to Zook, and she began to feel anxious. She needed to find him and apologize for her outburst. Maybe it’s not as bad as you think, she told herself. Maybe he’s just working his way through a rough patch. When she did find him, she would invite him over for dinner. And Veronica could clear out and go to a damn movie. Yeah, that’s what she’d do.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Cal

  After the K209 messages went silent, Tay and I sat in my office reading back through the e-mail string. Tay gave me a now familiar skeptical look when we finished. “You know, you didn’t get all that much proof that that was K209.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, now that the excitement’s wearing off, I see your point. The only new thing I learned about Claudia’s shooting was the fact that the tagger got away by hiding in the dumpster behind the building. There’s a dumpster back there, all right, but that’s no secret.”

  Tay smiled, a vestige of skepticism still visible. “I hope somebody’s not laughing up their sleeve at you.”

  “I doubt it. The connection to Youngblood’s murder is pretty compelling. I mean, why would someone lie about that?”

  “Good point. I wonder how Youngblood got mixed up in this?”

  “That’ll have to wait until tomorrow. See if anything else comes in.”

  She straightened up in her chair. “Mind if I sit in?”

  I figured that question was coming. I shifted in my seat and leaned forward. “I’m, uh, in an awkward legal position here, Tay. Even a lawyer’s required to come forward in this situation. My out is that I don’t know whether this is legit or not.”

  “And you promised the kid you wouldn’t reveal anything.”

  “I said I’d do what I can to keep it confidential.”

  She fixed me with those honey-brown eyes of hers. “You can trust me, Cal. And I’ve got some skin in this game, too, you know.”

  I told Tay to come back the next day and we would see what happens. I knew I could trust her. That wasn’t the reason for my hesitancy. I had a sense this thing could get dangerous, and I didn’t want her to become more exposed. But there was no way I could say no to this strong, willful woman, and frankly I was glad she was in my corner.

  After seeing Tay off I followed Archie up the stairs to the apartment. He was hungry, and come to think of it, so was I. I fed him and then cut up some carrots, new potatoes, sweet onions, and red bell pepper, slathered them with olive oil to which I added rosemary, garlic, and salt and pepper, and tossed them into a hot oven. Twenty minutes later I seared a small steak in a cast-iron skillet and served it up with the veggies and a glass of Carabella pinot noir. Dinner.

  I took Archie out afterward, and, of course, he headed straight for the river, his favorite place in the city. The air was crisp and still, and the river held the reflections of the city lights with such clarity it was impossible to tell where the city left off and the river began. Just as we reached Caffeine Central on the way back, a black Ford Taurus like the one I saw earlier that day pulled up to the curb. A passenger-side window slid down and ATF Special Agent Richie Truax nodded to me.

  I turned and leaned into his window. “Like your new ride.”

  He cracked a minute smile. “Well, you know how the government is. The budget money just flows in abundance. Why don’t you park your dog and get in?”

  I dropped Archie’s leash and told him to sit and stay, and got in the Taurus. Truax wore gray slacks and a blue blazer he’d outgrown fifteen pounds ago. His deep-set eyes regarded me with perhaps a little less hostility than our last encounter. The minute smile showed again. “I saw that Portland made an arrest in the Borrego murder. You and your Cuban buddy must be pleased.”

  I smiled. “A fine example of our tax dollars at work.”

  His brow grew a few creases. “So, it’s all good, right? No more mucking around?”

  I nodded emphatically. “Right.” I had a good idea what he was driving at, so I added. “One good thing has come out of this. I’ve discovered that the firearms market offers a real business opportunity for me. I’m planning to add gun trusting to my practice out in Dundee. Working up a business plan right now.”

  Truax shook his head. “Oh, wonderful, just what we need—another fucking gun trust lawyer in the world.” When I gave him a questioning look, he said, “The federal regs have a huge loophole that allows gun nuts to buy restricted weapons through a trust. You didn’t know that, Claxton?”

  I shrugged. “I’m, uh, still doing my due diligence.”

  He shook his head. “Well, it’s a real pain in the ass for us. Dealers aren’t even required to do background checks on representatives of a trust when they buy firearms. It’s fucking insane.”

  I let Truax vent, and we tossed a few questions back and forth. Finally, he handed me a card. “Look, Claxton, you see anything weird going on out there, just call me at this number, okay?

  I said I would, and as I got out turned back to him and said, “I remember the California-USC game in eighty-five. You must have made sixteen, eighteen tackles that day.”

  He smiled ruefully. “Yeah, well, we still lost that game. Don’t tell me you’re a Berkeley grad.”

  “Boalt Law School.”

  He laughed, a sharp clap. “That explains a lot.” Then he drove off.

  “Well, big guy,” I said to Arch, “do you think he bought it?” Maybe I should have told Truax everything I knew at that juncture, but I didn’t have anything conclusive. And something in my gut told me to hold back until I had a better picture of what the hell was going on at the Bridgetown Arsenal.

  ***

  Tay strolled into my office the next day wearing jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and a bright smile. Tough and sexy looking without even trying. “Well, do you think K209 will show?”

  “I’m hoping.” While Tay watched my computer screen, and Archie watched her from his corner, I went upstairs and made us cappuccinos. We sipped our coffees and waited, and at 10:13 a message pinged into my inbox:

  Hello Mr. Claxton. I’m here now. Sorry I can’t tell you who I am. But I promise to tell you the truth about what I know.

  I replied:

  Okay. Fair enough. Start with the Claudia Borrego shooting. What did you see?

  What followed was a detailed account of what K209 saw that night, then this exchange:

  Did you report this to the police?

  Yes. Rupert Youngblood phoned it in to the cops for me. I was too freaked out to do that.

  Did Rupert tell the police that the shooter used a silencer?

  Yes, I think so. I told him about the silencer.

  So, the shooter had a medium build, wore a ball cap and cowboy boots, and had a distinctive walk. Is that a
ll you remember?

  Yes. I think that’s it.

  Did you see a picture of the man arrested for the shooting in the paper? Was this the man you saw?

  I saw the picture. Sorry. I’m not sure if it’s him. I only saw the shooter from the back. I think I could recognize him if I saw him walking around. He has a macho strut like he’s Mr. Cool or something.

  Tay groaned and I said, “Crap. He can’t ID Cardenas.”

  Okay. No problem. Now tell me about the Rupert Youngblood murder.

  Tay and I put our heads together and read the account. Our attention was riveted, of course, by the disclosure that the shooter had worn a jacket with the Bridgetown Arsenal logo on the back.

  Are you sure about the logo on the jacket?

  Yes. Positive.

  Did you report all this to the police?

  I called 911 with a burner phone. I told them I was cutting through the parking lot and heard screams coming from the building. I said I didn’t want to get involved. I didn’t say anything about the other murder. My bad.

  That’s okay. You’re doing a great job. Just to be clear: The man who shot Claudia has a distinctive walk you think you might recognize, but you did not see his face. And you did not get a good look at the other man who was present at the granary, but you think you could recognize his voice. Is this right?

  Yes. There is something else. I watched the Arsenal for a while from a hiding place. I think I saw the shooter there once but I’m not sure. The other guy was there once, too. I’m sure I heard his voice.

  Did you get a look at the other man?

  No. Sorry. It was dark.

  “Oh, man, I said to Tay, “I don’t like that one bit.”

  I strongly advise you not to go near the Bridgetown Arsenal until this gets cleared up. And I urge you again to come forward. Your life may be in danger. Come to my office here at Caffeine Central and we’ll talk about how to handle the police.

  As soon as I hit the send button I wished I could have the message back. “Hope I didn’t overplay my hand.”

  Sure enough. Tay and I sat staring at the computer for a long time, but no other messages came through. I said, “Damn it,” and bounced a ballpoint pen off the office door across the room. Archie got up, looked at me with concern, and whimpered a couple of times. “Should have kept him talking.”

  Tay said, “Don’t worry. I think you played it about as well as you could have. The kid’s very cautious. Must have a pretty good reason for not giving a name. I have a feeling it’s more than just the fear of being prosecuted for tagging.”

  “I agree. What else did you pick up?”

  “Very bright, writes coherently, mid-teens, my guess, fourteen to seventeen, maybe.” She stopped here and gave me that sly smile. “And I think you’re looking for a girl.”

  “A girl? How come?”

  “Just the overall tone, Cal, and the line—‘macho strut like he was Mr. Cool’ gives it away. And she’s very observant, too, something teenage boys aren’t known for. Trust me on this.”

  I paused for a couple of beats as her words sunk in. My mind flashed to Claire, my daughter, who shared some of the qualities I sensed in K209, and I felt a twinge of embarrassment mixed with shame. How could I have been so blind? “Of course, Tay. I think you’re right—a smart, observant girl who’s also athletic and gutsy as hell.”

  She nodded back. “That’s what I think. What about her story?”

  “Well, K209’s not going to make a good witness in court, that’s for sure. Recognizing someone by the way he walks or by his voice wouldn’t hold much water in a court of law. So that’s disappointing. But connecting the guy who shot Claudia to the Bridgetown Arsenal is huge. This thing’s a big circle, and that damn gun shop’s smack in the middle.” I rubbed my ribs, which were still a little sore and discolored. And I may have met the shooter, too.”

  Tay looked at me with surprise. “You have?”

  I went on to describe my encounter with the one-boot cowboy in Claudia’s apartment and to explain that K209’s description might fit, although it had been too dark for me to recognize my attacker.

  She gave me that one-sided smile. “I wondered what happened to you. Anything else you haven’t told me?”

  I shook my head and smiled back. “No, partner. You know what I know now.”

  Her smile turned from sardonic to warm. “Okay, so if Cardenas is the shooter, then he must be somehow connected to the gun shop, right?

  “Yeah, but there’s no evidence of that. Could be he’s the other guy, the one who helped kill Youngblood.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I’m having a hard time picturing Cardenas wearing a jacket with a logo on the back. Definitely not his style. The guy’s into looking cool. And I don’t think he was the one who tried to disembowel me. More likely he hired the man in the jacket to shoot Claudia and then went with him to beat the identity of K209 out of Rupert Youngblood. That is, if he’s involved at all.”

  Tay shot me another half-smile. “Still doubt that, huh?”

  I shrugged. “I’d feel better if I could find a connection between him and what’s going on at the Arsenal. Whatever the hell that is.”

  Tay nodded, then sighed deeply. “God, the thought of them torturing that poor man Youngblood. And to think he didn’t tell them who the tagger is. What an act of heroism!”

  I nodded. “You can understand why K209 doesn’t want him forgotten. But what bothers me most of all is that she’s still out there, and so is at least one of the killers. And the killers probably think she knows more than she really does.”

  Tay’s eyes flared and she moved a hand to her mouth unconsciously. “Oh, my God, you’re right, Cal. We’ve got to find her.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Kelly

  Kelly left the library with her head down and her stomach tied in a knot. She had told Claxton everything she knew about both murders and answered all his questions. But apparently that wasn’t enough, because he kept telling her to give herself up. Can’t he just go to the cops now and tell them that the dude, Cardenas, helped kill Rupert? she asked herself. Wouldn’t that make it easy to catch the other guy, The Voice? What part of “I’m not giving you my name” did he not understand?

  And he tried to scare her, too. Was someone else still out there trying to find her? “Well, they haven’t found me so far,” she blurted out with enough volume that a young man passing on the street turned to look at her. But the truth was, she spoke with more bravado than she felt deep down.

  It was getting late, but there was something else she needed to do. Kelly walked over to NW Everett, caught the number 44 bus at Fifth, and got off on Killingsworth in North Portland, a block from where she last saw Zook. The sky to the west had darkened to a purplish-gray like spoiled fruit, and she could smell rain in the air. The house where Sprague was squatting was dark by design. Squatters always made sure no light could get in or out of the windows in the rooms they used. The place was small, one story, and set back on the lot behind shin-high weeds and a couple of maples that had shed their leaves.

  Kelly followed a pocked asphalt driveway to the rear of the house, took the back steps, and tried the door. It was open and warm, and the smell of urine stung her nostrils. She could see a dim light somewhere toward the front of the house. “Zook,” she called out. “Zook, it’s Kelly. Are you in there? Is anybody in there?”

  She heard the floorboards creak and someone say something low and unintelligible. “Zook?” she called out again. She heard the muffled voice again. She wanted to turn around and get out of there but was determined to find Zook and make it right, or at least talk to him. She followed a darkened hallway past the kitchen on her left, which was stripped bare and littered with beer cans, pizza boxes, and fast-food wrappers. A door to a bathroom on her right was open, a hole in the floor markin
g where the toilet had been. She could smell sewer gases. Ahead on her left a light shown through the gap in a partially open door that probably led to the dining room.

  “Zook. Are you in there? It’s Kel.”

  She heard a noise, maybe chair legs scraping the floor. Somebody was in there.

  Kelly opened the door and stepped in. Black garbage bags were taped on the windows, and an anemic propane lamp flickered in a corner, illuminating a couple of backpacks, rolled up sleeping bags, and a long skateboard propped against the wall. The longboard looked familiar. Johnny Sprague stood across the room, partly in shadow. Kelly sucked a half-breath when she saw him and forced a smile. “Hey, Sprague. Um, have you seen Zook?”

  The corners of his mouth tilted up slightly. “He’s around here somewhere. Probably loaded, as usual.”

  Kelly felt a rush of relief, but it was cut short when the door closed behind her. She spun around and found herself face-to-face with Digger. “’S’up, Kelly? Zook’s, uh, sleeping it off upstairs. Maybe Sprague and I can be of service.”

  Sprague laughed. “Yeah. There must be something we can do for you, little girl.”

  “No thanks. I, uh, just wanted to talk to him. Upstairs, huh?”

  Sprague said, “Oh, he left strict orders for us not to disturb him.”

  “Okay.” Kelly took a step toward Digger, who remained standing in front of the door.

  Digger’s only movement was to cross his arms at his chest. “What’s your hurry, Kel? We got beer, weed, you can shoot up on the house, anything you want. You and me never had that party, you know.”

  “Move, Digger, I’m leaving.”

  “Oh, come on,” he said, “you know you want to party.”

  Anger and fear rose in Kelly in equal measure, and she struggled to keep her voice from wavering. “Get out of my way, please.” She took another step, felt a hand on her shoulder, and spun around. “Don’t touch me, Sprague.”

  “Whoa, the little girl’s got a temper. That’s such a turn-on, isn’t it, Digger?”