Never Look Down

by Warren C Easley

  I poured myself a glass of Rémy, sat down, and opened up the report on Farnell Timmons. It was probably old news, but it was the only thing I hadn’t scrutinized up one side and down the other. Like anything prepared by Esperanza, the report was thorough and well documented. It covered Timmons’ education, where he’d lived, where he’d worked, his marriages, credit reports, anything newsworthy about him, and so on. I began to slog through the report, noting first that he had no criminal record, which is what he’d told me that night as he herded Kelly and me back to the Arsenal.

  I must have been five or six pages into the report when I stopped reading and moved my face closer to the page, as if that would somehow verify what I was seeing. I leaned back in my chair, then came forward and whacked the table hard with the ball of my fist. Archie sprang to his feet and began barking wildly.

  “Of course!” I shouted. “That’s it. It has to be.”

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Cal

  I stayed up late that night planning a way forward, then got up early the next morning and took Archie for a brisk run. The good weather was holding, and the walkway along the west side of the river was jammed with Portlanders starved for sunshine. At a little past nine I walked into Harmon Scott’s office. He looked up from a desk covered with papers and frowned. “Uh oh, why do I have this feeling I’m not going to like this, Claxton?”

  I sat down and showed him what I had and laid out my proposal in detail. He countered with a barrage of questions, all of which I answered. I finished up by saying, “This will work, Harmon, I know it.”

  Scott took off his glasses and polished them on his shirtsleeve, his forehead lashed with deep furrows. “Goddamn it, I thought this was going to be a quiet day.” He exhaled a long breath. “This is touchy shit, you know. Stings always are. I’ll have to sell it up the line.”

  I nodded my understanding but felt a little anxious. Scott bought my plan, but would his more politically attuned higher-ups give us a green light? I had my doubts.

  I met Picasso at a little before eleven as he was opening up his gallery. I had a double cappuccino in one hand and handed him a green tea with the other. He took the tea and smiled. “My favorite hot drink. This must be serious business, Cal. Come on in.”

  We went inside, and I told him what I needed. When I finished he stroked his chin a couple of times and nodded. “That’s definitely in my wheelhouse. I’ll need some good samples to work from.”

  “No problem with the samples. How long will it take you?”

  “One page? A day or two to practice and one day to make the document.”

  “Good,” I told him. “Stand by. I’ll be in touch.”

  Next, I drove across the Hawthorne Bridge to the Bridgetown Arsenal. The parking lot was deserted except for a single, extended cab Ram pickup. Roz Jenkins got out of the cab when I drove up. “Hello, Cal,” she said, taking my offered hand. She gave me a strong grip and a strong smile, but I could see a tinge of sadness in her eyes. “I figured we could meet here since I have to go through some files today anyway. The cops and ATF have finally finished with the building.”

  “How bad a hit are you going to take? I asked.

  “Oh, I’m gonna lose everything I put into this business.” Her gaze shifted to something past me and became wistful. “It’s not the money so much. Hell, I still got plenty. I wanted to build something I could be proud of, you know?” I nodded and she snapped her gaze back to me. “Well, come on, let’s hear what you have to say.” I followed her through the showroom, which echoed with emptiness. She waved a hand. “Confiscated. Everything.”

  “Even the Thompson submachine gun?”

  “Oh, yeah. ATF took Arthur’s complete gun collection, just like that. Jack Pfister’s trying to get our personal items back, but he told us not to hold our breath.”

  “How is Jack?”

  “Oh, he’s fine, but he’s feeling a lot of heat. He thinks he’s a suspect in this deal.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Jack? No way.”

  I followed her up to her office, noting that she was no longer wearing her Timmons boots. Her office was bare, the drawers of the filing cabinets open with a few folders left here and there. When I finished explaining what I had in mind, she leaned back in her chair with a kind of dazed look on her face. “Well, I’ll be damned to hell. You think he’ll actually buy it?”

  I looked her straight in the eye. “Yes, I do, Roz. If anyone can pull this off, it’s you.”

  Later that afternoon, ATF Special Agent Richie Truax dropped by my office at my request. He surprised me with a bottle of Springbank single malt Scotch. When I thanked him he said, “Least I could do, Cal.” He laughed, “You’re a meddlesome bastard, but we couldn’t have taken that operation down without your help.” We huddled for a while, and before he left Tay and Kelly dropped in, and I introduced them.

  My ducks were now in a row.

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Cal

  Scott must have done a good selling job, because three days later we got the green light to set the plan in motion. I said “we,” but that wasn’t quite true. With the exception of some coaching of Roz Jenkins and liaison with Picasso, the Portland brass decreed I was not to be involved. Scott told me it had to do with liability, but we both knew it was about who was going to get the credit.

  In any case, I was pissed. I wanted to be there.

  It was another six days before the sting actually went down. Tay, Kelly, and I sat in my office at Caffeine Central that day anxiously awaiting for a call from Roz Jenkins with news. At two fifty-eight that afternoon the call came in. I listened and then turned to Kelly and Tay, “They got him!” Over the din of the two of them dancing around like crazy people, I invited Roz to join us for a celebration.

  Roz arrived later that evening bearing a cold bottle of Dom Pérignon. “I thought we could toast that bastard’s demise and hoist one for Arthur, too.” She hugged Kelly, and after I introduced her to Tay, said, “You should have seen the look on that ATF agent’s face when the cops moved in. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”

  I said, “I knew you could sell it, Roz. Were you nervous?”

  “Well, maybe a little when we made the exchange. He gave me a briefcase with the money. I looked it over, hundreds and fifties just like I’d asked for, lots of them. I gave him the letter. I figured if he was going to try something that would be the time. But the cops had him covered six ways to Sunday, he just didn’t know it.” She patted the side of the blazer she wore and smiled. “I was packing, too.”

  I poured a round of champagne—just a taste for Kelly—and after a toast, Roz sat down and said, “I only got bits and pieces of this story, Cal. How did you figure it was Truax?”

  I chuckled. “I was totally focused on Jack Pfister because of his relationship with Manny Bonilla. But one thing bothered me about Truax—he always showed up to talk to me alone, which seemed a little off. But I didn’t think too much about that until I read a background report on Farnell Timmons. Turns out he was an outstanding football player in high school and wound up being recruited by the University of Southern California in the eighties, although he never became a starter. Well, that’s the same team Richie Truax played on during the same four years. I knew that because Truax was a big star during that period. So I had a connection. I figured Truax could have recruited Timmons to set up the straw buyers and provide drivers from around that part of rural Oregon. And this could explain how Timmons knew Kelly and I were at the Arsenal that night, something that baffled me. After all, Truax had followed me on a couple of occasions. Why not that night?”

  There was another loose end,” I continued. “If I assumed Jack Pfister wasn’t involved, then how did the deal with the cartels get set up? I thought all along that Manny was used as a conduit to Javier Acedo inside Sheridan.” I glanced over at Tay. “Tay h
elped me with that.”

  She shrugged. “All I did was remind Cal that Manny was gay, that he could have been seeing Acedo for more, uh, personal reasons. An ATF agent like Truax would be capable of setting up the deal without Bonilla’s help, or even Acedo’s help for that matter.” Tay looked at Roz. “So Manny Bonilla showed up at the Arsenal for a legitimate job as your driver, Roz.”

  “Right,” I said. “And Arthur knew from Jack Pfister that Manny was an excellent mechanic, someone he could use in the expanding production of the drop-in triggers. So, he turned him with the promise of easy money. I mean, why not? The guy was an ex-felon, and the work would have been right up his alley.”

  “Then Manny tells his case manager, Claudia Borrego, what he’s gotten himself into, and she convinces him to pull away,” Tay added. “But by then he knows too much, and when he tries to back out,” she dropped her eyes, “Well, we know the rest.”

  Anguish washed over Roz’s face and she shook her head. “God, I have such mixed feelings about Arthur.”

  I glanced at Kelly. “The man’s a hero in my book. He wound up doing the right thing.”

  Roz showed a wisp of a smile and nodded. “Thank you, Cal. You’re right, I suppose, but he was such a damn fool. For Arthur it was all about money and ego. He wanted his goddamn little triggers in all those AR-15s. He obviously didn’t care one wit where the guns wound up, as long as they made money, which he turned around and plowed back into the legit business” She looked at me, her smile laced with bitterness. “The Starbucks of shooting ranges. That’s all he could think about, you know? Hell, we were doing fine. We didn’t need those damn triggers. Now he’s dead and so’s the business. Like I said, what a damn fool.”

  The room fell silent. Finally, Tay said to Roz, “How is your daughter holding up?”

  Roz exhaled a deep sigh. “Oh, the shock and the humiliation have taken their toll, but Melanie’s a strong woman. The only saving grace is that Arthur’s last act saved lives, including mine. She’ll get through this.” She took a sip of champagne and forced a smile. “Tell me how you handled bringing the police in, Cal. That must’ve been ticklish.”

  “I figured my chances of selling the idea to the Portland Police Bureau were fifty-fifty at best. Anyway, I took what I had at that point to Harmon Scott and managed to convince him to let Kelly have a shot at recognizing Truax’s voice. Then I invited Truax to my office and arranged to have Kelly drop in. Scott and his partner, Ludlow, were upstairs watching the video feed from a hidden camera.”

  Roz looked at Kelly. “What did you think when you heard Truax speak?”

  Kelly’s eyes got big, and she brought a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God, I just about fainted, but there was no doubt in my mind.” She looked at me with a mock glare. “He just had Tay and me walk in. He didn’t warn me or anything.”

  I raised my hands in defense. “Scott and Ludlow insisted on that. We had to be certain, and telling her in advance would have compromised the test.” I winked at Kelly. “Anyway, I knew she could handle it.”

  Roz slapped her knee and laughed.

  Tay joined the laughter and turned to Kelly. “She lost a lot of color and had this look like she just swallowed a bad clam or something. I was afraid Truax might suspect something, but he didn’t. When Truax left, Kelly turned to Cal and me and said, “That’s him! That’s The Voice. I’m positive.”

  Roz said, “Oh, I want to see that video, but it still wasn’t enough, right?”

  “Right,” I said. “Not even close for an arrest. But Kelly was so confident that she convinced Scott and Ludlow, and they sold the sting up the Portland Police Bureau chain of command. The case was dicey, because it crossed jurisdictional lines. We needed a solid story to go after an ATF agent.”

  Roz nodded. “That’s where your artist friend comes in. He did one hell of a job on that letter. Truax never questioned the authenticity of the thing.”

  “Yeah, well, Picasso’s as good as they come,” I said. “I knew Truax wouldn’t have time to authenticate it anyway.” I looked at Roz. “How did that first phone contact go?”

  Roz sipped some champagne and settled back in her chair. “Oh, that went well, thanks to your coaching. I told Truax that Melanie knew everything that he and Arthur were up to, but when the killings started, she became afraid for Arthur’s life. I said she had him write a letter stating that the whole gun running scheme was Truax’s idea, and that Truax was making sure things ran unimpeded by the ATF. The letter also stated that Farnell Timmons had told him Truax was directly involved in the murder of a homeless man, Rupert Youngblood, at a granary in Portland. The idea was that if anything happened to Arthur, the letter would go to the police.”

  “Mentioning the Youngblood murder was key,” I chimed in. “As far as Truax knew, the only two people who could put him at the scene were Timmons and Arthur, and they were both dead. So I figured the letter would look like the genuine article to him.” I turned and smiled at Kelly. “But he was wrong. There was another witness.”

  Roz raised her glass to Kelly before continuing. “Anyway, I told Truax I didn’t personally care if he beat a homeless man to death, but I thought the cops and the ATF might. I said that Melanie and I thought it was only fair that since he tanked the family business he should buy the letter back. After all, he must have a lot of cash stashed away.”

  “But Truax wasn’t sold. He said, ‘If Arthur supposedly wrote this letter for protection, why the hell didn’t he threaten me with it?’ I laughed out loud at that and told him, ‘You know Arthur, for Christ’s sake. He was too damn chicken to confront you. Melanie must have asked him a dozen times to man up and tell you about the letter.’ That seemed to do it. Truax paused on the line for a while, then said he wanted to see the note. The rest was easy.”

  Tay raised her glass and said, “Bravo, Roz,” and Kelly and I followed suit. Then Tay said, “One thing I’ve been wondering about—how did Arthur and Truax get together in the first place?”

  I shrugged, but Roz managed a laugh. “Funny you should ask. About eighteen months ago, Arthur told me he was playing with a trigger design he wasn’t sure was legal. I told him to check it out with the ATF. I didn’t want any trouble with the Feds. I was pulling back from the day-to-day operations then, so I didn’t give it another thought.” She looked at me somewhat apologetically. “I didn’t think of this until I was driving over here, Cal.”

  “So, the ATF agent that showed up was Truax?” I said.

  She nodded. “Yep. That’s the way I figure it. The bastard saw the potential for illegal sales and pointed it out to Arthur.” She shook her head emphatically. “No way it happened the other way around. Arthur wouldn’t have suggested something like that to an ATF agent. He didn’t have the balls for it.”

  ***

  After Roz said her good-byes, Tay, Kelly, and I gathered up Archie and Spencer and took a long walk along the river. The reflection of the city in the river shimmered in a gentle breeze, and the cars up on the Marquam Bridge looked like a chorus line of fireflies. Kelly was full of energy and went dashing up and down the greenspace with the dogs leading the way, barking and straining at their leashes. She laughed and shouted, acting like, well, a happy sixteen-year-old girl. It was good to see that.

  Tay and I continued walking, not saying much, both lost in our thoughts. I felt at peace for the first time in a long time. I set out to simply help a friend find his fiancée’s killer and bring a young tagger in from the cold, and look what happened. Looking back, it felt a lot like turning over a rock only to find way more snakes than I expected. But at least some bad actors were off the board and fewer automatic weapons would fall into the hands of the wrong people. Was I trying to bail the ocean with a thimble? Perhaps, but from where I sit, that’s the human condition. Do what you can. Make a difference in the small space around you. That’s as close to a philosophy as I can get.

 
We stopped to gaze at the spectral lights that decorated the Morrison Bridge. Tay took my hand, gently squeezed it, and said, “I’m glad I met you, Cal Claxton. I think we make a pretty good team.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I told her. Then I stopped, took her in my arms and kissed her. For real this time.

  Kelly laughed and called out to us, “Hey, you guys, knock that off or get a room.”

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Cal

  Six months later

  Spring in Oregon is more than anything else a celebration of light. After months of bullying by a gray, joyless cloud cover, the sun begins to assert itself again with more than just token gestures. Not that the rain isn’t appreciated here. Without its abundance Oregon simply wouldn’t be the place that it is, and we Oregonians get that. But the sun, the light in spring—ah, that’s a welcome treat.

  From my deck at the Aerie it seemed like you could see forever down the Willamette Valley, which stretched to the south between the Cascades and the Coastal Range, a patchwork quilt of greens, golds, and ochres. Closer in, a few hawks circled over the vineyards, where just a few moments earlier a bald eagle had graced us with a fly-by that allowed a clear view of its snow white cap and fierce yellow beak.

  Tay, Kelly, and Nando had joined me for a cookout to celebrate the approval by DHS of Tay as Kelly’s foster mom just the day before. I was busy barbecuing corn in the husk and a slab of Chinook salmon on a moist cedar plank, while Tay chopped veggies for a salad she was building. She was fascinated with cooking and had quickly mastered the handful of kitchen tricks I knew.

  Nando was bringing us all up to date on Richie Truax’s legal situation. “So, the man is looking at enough federal gun charges to keep him in jail the rest of his life.”