He smiled without showing his teeth. “Luis was not killed because of his business. This I can tell you.”
“What happened then?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. He told me he had a driving job. Very easy and good money. Next thing I know, he’s shot through the head.”
My pulse went up a notch. “Driving job? What kind?”
“All he told me was it was easy money.”
“Who was he driving for?”
“He didn’t say.” El Burro shot me an annoyed look. “He didn’t tell me everything about his life, man.”
I nodded. “Sure. Uh, would anyone else know what the job was or who he was driving for?”
He turned to face me, and the dome light revealed his eyes, a couple of hard, black beads. “Juan Cruz told me I could trust you to keep my name out of this.”
“You can. This is just between you and me.”
He paused and stroked his chin, his yellowish nails standing out against his dark beard. “Luis met a woman not too long ago. Her name is Isabel. She might know something.”
“Last name?”
He shrugged again. “Take Tenth, toward the river. Her house is on the right, just before the tee. I dropped him there once.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “A small house set far back. This is all I remember.” He glanced at his watch, snapped the car door open, then paused before getting out. “You can tell the police this, if you want. Maybe it will help them catch the cabrón who killed my friend.” He wagged a finger at me and scowled. “But remember, no El Burro.”
Ice was beginning to stick to my windshield, but I wasn’t that far from Tenth and, as it turned out, there was only one house near the tee that was set back from the street. I pulled into the long gravel drive and parked in front of a squat house with faux cedar siding, zero landscape shrubbery, and an empty carport. A dim porch light shone and an even dimmer interior light gave off an eerie reddish glow, providing some hope Isabel might be home. A name—Isabel Rufino—was scrawled on a piece of tape stuck to the mailbox confirming I had the right place. I rapped on the front door, and to my surprise it swung open. The air in the house was warm and stale and carried a faint, acrid odor. The reddish glow seemed to come from a room off a short hallway—the kitchen, I guessed.
Was something smoldering? A fire? I called out again, and when no one answered, entered cautiously to have a look.
The interior light was coming from the kitchen, where an electric burner on the stove glowed a bright cherry red like a big, angry eye. The surrounding walls were hot to the touch, and the paint near the stove had yellowed. A small teapot with water in it sat at the ready on the sink next to the stove.
I turned off the burner, and the kitchen became as dark as the rest of the house. I had no business being there, but what the hell, I was already inside. I switched on the flashlight feature on my phone. There were a couple of dirty dishes and a glass in the sink, a few canned goods in the cupboard, and a lightly stocked refrigerator.
The walls were bare in the living room, the furniture undisturbed, and I saw no personal photographs or books. The medicine cabinet in the bathroom was bare except for a canister of dental floss and a squeezed-flat tube of toothpaste. The closet in the bedroom was cleared out except for a couple of tattered dresses drooping from hangars in the corner, a pair of high heels with one heel broken off, and a worn pair of sneakers. I almost missed two small photographs lying facedown in the top drawer of a nightstand next to the unmade bed, the type of photos used for applications. A young woman stared back at me. She was pretty, her gaze direct, and her smile laced with innocence.
The only other thing of interest I noticed was a menu lying on the top of a battered, mostly empty chest of drawers in the bedroom. It was from a small restaurant in Newberg called Picante’s. Next to the menu I noticed a set of finger marks in the fine layer of dust on the chest. The marks looked fresh. Too fresh to have been made by Isabel? I couldn’t tell, but the thought set the back of my neck tingling. Maybe I wasn’t the first person to look the place over.
I assumed the woman in the photos was Isabel and pocketed one of them. A menu in the bedroom was a little unusual, and there was no mention of take-out on it. She might be a waitress at Picante’s and had used the menu to memorize the dishes, I decided.
After scraping a skin of ice off my windshield, I sat in my idling car in front of her place and mulled things over. Chances were Isabel’s hasty departure was related to Delgado’s murder. It could have just been a panicked reaction, or she might’ve run because he told her something she knew might get her killed. If El Burro was right, that Delgado was not the victim of a drug squabble, then his murder could certainly be tied to Lori Kavanaugh’s.
How far did Isabel run, I wondered, and what were the chances of finding her? I didn’t have a clue, but I did have a distinct feeling of being drawn into something, and that little voice in my head—the one I hardly ever listen to—said watch yourself.
Chapter Ten
I awoke on Sunday when the furnace clunked on at six-thirty a.m. and set the radiators clattering. Archie took my movement as a signal the day was beginning, and after stretching from his pad in the corner, came over and gave me his customary greeting—a couple of slobbery kisses. I got up, dressed, and followed him down the back staircase. He looked at me expectantly, so I fed him, then made a cappuccino and stood sipping it while looking out the window over the kitchen sink. Tendrils of ground fog hung at every low spot like deflated clouds. But a couple of shafts of sunlight penetrated the cloud cover, and I took that as a good omen.
I called the Dundee-Newberg police and told them I had information about the Luis Delgado murder. The sergeant on duty told me the case was assigned to the Yamhill County Major Crimes Response Team and gave me a number to call. Next thing I knew I was talking to Detective Hal Ballard again. Yamhill County, after all, wasn’t that big a place. I told Ballard what I’d learned, leaving El Burro out of it. When I finished, he said, “Let me see if I’ve got this. An anonymous source tells you that Luis Delgado’s murder was not a drug hit, told you where to find his girlfriend, and when you went to talk to her, she had apparently left her place in a big hurry.”
“That’s right. The woman’s name is Isabel Rufino. I think she left because she feared for her life. Maybe she knows something about Delgado’s murder.” I hesitated for a moment. “He was killed a short time after Lori Kavanaugh. I think the two crimes may be related.”
Ballard chuckled. “I knew that was coming. Look, Delgado was a known mule, and he was killed in the time-honored fashion of professional drug hits north of the border—a small caliber round to the head. The girlfriend probably figured she was next. Don’t blame her for running.”
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt to find her. I think she might be working at a restaurant in Newberg called Picante’s.”
“Sure, and it wouldn’t hurt if I knew the name of your source, too.”
We ended the conversation on that happy note. I knew Ballard wouldn’t warm to the idea I suggested, and I figured not much energy would be expended to find Isabel. I decided to do that myself, so that night I drove over to Picante’s, a small taqueria claiming “authentic Mexican cuisine and local, craft beers.” I sat at the bar, and when the bartender brought me a Mirror Pond I asked, “Does Isabel Rufino work here?”
He paused and studied me for a moment. “You’re not ICE, are you?”
“No.” I fished a card from my shirt pocket and handed it to him. “I’m an attorney from Dundee. She might have information that could help a client of mine. I’d just like to talk to her, that’s all.”
“She was working here. I guess it was four days ago, now, she didn’t show up for work. Haven’t seen or heard from her since. Is she in some kind of trouble?”
“No, nothing like that. If she comes back in to pick up a check or something, have her ca
ll me at the number on the card.”
I left Picante’s disappointed. Even if Isabel came back in, I knew she wouldn’t call me. Why, I asked myself, would she get mixed up with a scumbag like Delgado? Sure, I was reading a lot into that smile of hers. A memory of one of my daughter’s first boyfriends flashed back to me, a scruffy kid who’d dropped out of school to perfect his video gaming and get closer to his marijuana habit. It took me a while to figure out that he was Claire’s “project,” that she firmly believed her love could save him. Maybe that’s how Isabel saw Delgado. Maybe she had that nurturing instinct like Claire. Or, maybe she wasn’t all that innocent.
In any case, she was on the run from someone. I hoped I would find her first.
***
Jim’s arraignment was first on the docket on Monday morning at the Yamhill County Circuit Court, which adjoined the Sheriff’s Department and the County Jail. Judge Clarence Whitcomb presided, a good judge whose opinions were seldom overturned. More importantly, I was pretty sure he knew Jim Kavanaugh by reputation. This would be important for the bail hearing I was going to request. Jim was charged with criminal homicide by Yamhill County’s top prosecutor, Helen Berkowitz. She was small, almost frail-looking, but possessed a steel-trap mind, a rapier wit, and a pair of dark eyes that could flash lightning bolts. I knew attorneys who had turned cases down when they learned Berkowitz would be at the other table.
Jim pleaded innocent, of course, and we learned that Berkowitz intended to seek a grand jury indictment, which got scheduled for the following Tuesday. I asked Whitcomb for a bail hearing as soon as possible, citing the criticality of Jim’s work, something that the judge would understand. If that fell before the grand jury proceedings, that was okay, I figured, as long as I got Ballard’s and Rodriquez’s notes, and any witness statements and lab reports in time to prepare for the hearing. Whitcomb put us on the docket for the following Thursday.
After the hearing, Eddie pumped my hand and thanked me. “So, this grand jury hearing—how big a deal is it?”
I shook my head. “It’s a done deal. He’ll be indicted for sure. Grand juries are supposed to be a check on the government’s prosecutorial powers, but in this county, and hell, in this whole state for that matter, indictments are almost a certainty, a rubber stamp for the prosecution.”
Eddie’s face fell like a landslide. “Won’t you be arguing the case?”
“No. I won’t be involved and neither will Jim. The prosecutor and the investigating detectives simply lay out their evidence to the jurors, and they decide whether to indict or not.”
“Will an indictment hurt his chances at trial?”
“No. All an indictment means is that five out of seven jurors agree that there’s enough evidence to take Jim to trial. Guilt or innocence doesn’t really enter into it. Trouble is, people don’t really understand that. They hear someone’s indicted and they think the person was convicted or will be as soon as the case goes to trial.”
Eddie swallowed and shook his head. “Could that tank the business? I mean, who’s going to buy wine made by a man indicted for killing his wife?”
“Well, not everyone’s misinformed, but it’ll test Le Petit Truc’s brand loyalty, for sure.” That’s the best spin I could put on it. The situation was dire, and now Eddie knew it. He left looking like I just stacked a couple of feed sacks on his back.
I met with Jim an hour later at the jail. “So, what’s the game plan for the bail hearing?” he asked when they brought him in.
“I just filed a discovery request for copies of the police report and supporting documents. After I look over what they’ve got, I’ll make a determination as to whether we can go on Thursday or whether we need more time to prepare.”
“More time? Come on, Cal, Thursday already puts me behind the curve. Fermentation’s not just about dumping some yeast in and taking alcohol and sugar readings, you know. And the beginning’s crucial. I have to be there to see it and smell it and touch it. It’s an art.”
I put a hand up, which was becoming a familiar gesture when it came to Jim. “I know. I’ll work as fast as I can, but I won’t go into court half-cocked, either.”
He lowered his eyes, resignation flooding his face. “So what happens at the hearing?”
“Two things. First we’re going to show that you’re a pillar of the community, that you don’t represent a flight risk or a threat to anyone. Second, and this is the tough part, we need to convince the judge that their proof is not evident, that the prosecution’s presumption is weak.”
“It’s like a trial?”
“Sort of, but more informal. We’ll want to call some witnesses to vouch for your character and then raise some questions about their case. I’ll have more to say about that after I see exactly what they’ve got.” I hesitated for a moment. “Look, Jim. No promises. Most people charged with murder don’t get bail in this state. It’s a rarity.”
He nodded and put his hands up. “Yeah, yeah, I got the fucking message.”
I left that day with another set of notes for Juan and Candice, as well as the names of four community leaders Jim felt might be willing to attest to his character at the hearing, including the head of the local food bank and the chairwoman of a court-appointed, special advocacy program for kids. I didn’t know Jim was involved in either program, but that didn’t surprise me. He wasn’t one to call attention to himself. What did surprise me was his choice of special advocacy, a demanding volunteer job. “Where do you find the time for that?” I asked him.
He smiled with modesty. “I make the time.”
When we finished up, he locked onto me with his blue lasers. “Thanks, Cal. I’m counting on you, buddy.”
I nodded and gave him what I hoped passed for a confident smile. But I didn’t feel confident at all. What I really felt was a ton of pressure not to let this good man down.
Chapter Eleven
I received a copy of the police report by special courier the next morning. It took me two and a half hours to read through the complete file. Lori Kavanaugh had been killed by blunt force trauma, two blows to the head, one of which was fatal. A lug wrench of the type used in Jim’s Grand Cherokee was found one hundred seventy-two feet below the turnout on a steep embankment, suggesting the assailant tossed it there after the murder. It was found the next day after conveniently coming to rest against a small tree in plain view. The wrench had blood, tissue, and hair on it belonging to Lori, as confirmed by DNA analysis, and the geometry of her head and facial wounds was consistent with the wrench being the murder weapon. A search of the Jeep and the barn where it was normally parked was negative for a lug wrench.
A core temperature taken at the scene and a liver temperature at the autopsy set the time of death between nine and ten, which put Jim’s arrival, by his own admission, squarely within that interval. Of course, we knew this since Lori’s blood hadn’t coagulated by the time Jim discovered the body.
Her purse and wallet were found intact on the floor of the car. The wallet contained several credit cards and forty-three dollars and twenty-eight cents, ruling out robbery.
It was noted that the suspect said he received a phone call from the victim at around nine thirty on the night of the murder, but Lori’s cell phone showed no record of such a call. An incoming call was noted on Jim’s phone at 9:32, but it was from an untraceable mobile phone.
The wrench recovered at the scene was also smeared with traces of a lubricant and had several fibers stuck to it. Microscopic analysis showed the black fibers were trilobal nylon, consistent with the fibers from the floor mats in Jim’s Jeep. The lubricant was identified by atomic spectroscopy as Chem Arrow 2000. This matched the chemical signature of the material in the can taken from his barn.
I felt some relief that no fingerprints were found on the murder weapon. If prints could have been traced back to Jim or any of his employees, it would have proved
beyond any doubt that it was the wrench from his Jeep. The fact that no prints were found was interesting. The killer obviously wore gloves, so it could have been that his handling of the weapon obscured any usable prints. A lucky break, if that were the case.
The transcript of Lori’s mother’s statement was pretty much what Jim had feared. She described the relationship between her daughter and Jim as “stormy” as evidenced by the numerous times Lori had called home in tears to complain about Jim’s behavior. Many of Lori’s complaints were centered around Jim’s obsession with his work and his lack of business sense, which made her feel financially insecure. Several e-mails culled from Jim’s computer painted essentially the same picture. As with the lack of fingerprints, I was relieved that there was no mention of the lunch date where Jim had put his bad temper on public display.
In sum, it was damaging testimony, but couples fight all the time, and there was no indication that Jim had ever physically abused his wife.
I had to force myself to examine a series of eight-and-a-half by eleven, high definition photographs of the crime scene. Lori’s head was pitched to her left, resting against the driver’s side window. Blood spatter could be seen on the headliner, the windshield, and even in the backseat. The coroner’s notes indicated the first blow was to the bridge of her nose, and the second to the right side of her head. The blows were delivered by a right-handed person sitting next to her. It was noted that Jim was right-handed.
Jim wore a light-colored wool sweater and jeans to the crime scene. The pictures of him, both close-ups and full-body shots, showed dark stains on his sweater, jeans, hands, and even his face. The stains were identified as Lori’s blood. It was clear from the patterns on his chest and thighs that he had wiped his bloody hands on his sweater and on his jeans. I sat looking at the pictures for a long time. Then I slammed a fist down and fetched a magnifying glass from a bottom drawer in my desk. Archie got up from his mat in the corner with his ears down and gave me a worried look.
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