No Witness Page 6

  Timoteo went ahead, and Carlos lingered at the doorway. In a low tone he said, “My wife thinks the cartel killed Olivia by mistake, that they were after me. She told me she would never, ever forgive me.” He sighed deeply, his dark eyes laden with sadness. “If she’s right, I will never forgive myself.”

  “I can’t say what the investigation will reveal about that, Carlos. The only thing I can promise you is that I’ll be focused on getting at the truth, no matter what it is.”

  “I know. And that is what I want you to do.”

  After the father and son left, I looked at Archie and shrugged. “Okay, that was impulsive, but how could I say no?” He raised his chin off his paws and looked at me with a knowing expression that in my agitated state seemed to say, Here we go again.

  Chapter Ten

  “Shit,” I hissed, shaking my hand after pinching my thumb between two large chunks of basalt. I was laying the first aboveground course of my wall and thinking about what I’d heard from Timoteo and his father that morning. The cartel revelation was a shocker, and it introduced an unexpected layer of complexity, to say nothing of personal exposure. I knew very little about how the cartels operated, except that their tentacles reached over the border, they had a ton of firepower, and they were ruthless to the core.

  That’s just dandy, the cautious corner of my brain said—the corner that habitually resorted to sarcasm.

  At that point, it also occurred to me that I hadn’t broached the subject of compensation. The Fuentes family wasn’t well off, but I sure as hell couldn’t work for nothing. I shrugged and looked at Arch. “Easy come, easy go, right, Big Boy?”

  After my thumb stopped throbbing, I put my glove back on and wrestled the last rock out of the wheelbarrow and into place. I went back to the rock pile and sorted through it for a while before selecting the next candidates and reloading. Did I think the cartel was behind Olivia Fuentes’s murder? I hefted a nice block of basalt and struggled to put it in place. Despite the cartel’s vow of unrelenting revenge, that seemed a stretch, given the time that had elapsed. Maybe it was about settling some personal score, something Carlos Fuentes had held back from me and his son? That would make more sense. Assuming the worst, would the cartel have used one of their own hit men from across the border or would they contract it out? Probably the latter, I decided, which meant the killer might still be around. Would he try again? I tended to agree with Carlos that that wasn’t likely, but it was certainly a possibility.

  I stacked two thinner slabs next to the last block I’d laid in and stepped back, admiring the look. There was the issue of the padlock—an inside job? Detective Tate would be all over that, but since the grape harvest was in, many of the workers at Angel Vineyard were off to other jobs. Good luck locating them without inside help.

  What about Luis Fuentes? Something seemed off about that story. Why did he bolt? It seemed just as likely that he was the intended victim, not his father. Was that the reason? Perhaps he felt guilty, too, like his father. The company he was keeping—the men Timoteo disparaged—were of interest, along with the man he’d fought with. How to approach them? I would need help for that, too.

  I was getting a little better at spotting the right piece of basalt, and the next dozen or so placements went somewhat faster. Sweat dripping from my brow, I stood back again to view my handiwork. Clearly, I’d underestimated the task. As I worked, my mind finally turned reluctantly to Olivia Fuentes. Was she really murdered by mistake?

  As I turned that question over, I heard someone clear their throat behind me. “Nice wall. Is Mexico going to pay for it?”

  I turned to a smiling Zoe Bennett. Archie woke from a snooze, sprang up, and went over to her. “I asked, but they said no.”

  She laughed and knelt down to greet my dog, who was obviously pleased to see her. “What’s going to hold it together, the wall, I mean?”

  “Gravity and the ingenious placement of the rocks,” I said. “I’m still working on the second part.”

  “What are you going to put inside the wall?”

  “Herbs. You know, parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.” That brought a smile. “Right now, I grow them out of pots on the porch. Not ideal.”

  “What will keep the deer away?”

  “Deer don’t like most herbs, and there’s plenty of natural feed around here.” I glanced at my dog. “And every time a deer sets foot on the property, Archie’s on it. He just wants to herd them, but they don’t know that.”

  “What’s your favorite herb?”

  I paused for a moment, a chunk of basalt in my hands. “Depends on the food. Basil for anything tomatoey. For savory foods, rosemary, I guess. Yours?”

  She rubbed the back of her neck and smiled with a hint of sheepishness. “I’m not sure, come to think of it. I mean herbs are wonderful, but I can’t pick them out in a dish. My palate’s not refined enough.”

  I laughed. “You know a good pinot when you taste it. How’s Gertie?”

  “Good. Getting her attitude back.”

  “Lucky you.” I waited, sensing something was on her mind.

  “Do you happen to have a cedar plank I could borrow? I’m cooking some salmon on the barbeque, and Gertie insisted I use one. She said to ask you.”

  “Sure. A plank makes the best salmon ever.” I swiped my brow with a forearm and tossed the chunk of basalt back into the wheelbarrow. It wasn’t going to fit where I needed it, anyway. Archie led us into the house, and after I extracted a nice, fragrant red cedar plank from a cabinet above my refrigerator, I said, “Ever cook with one of these?”

  She shook her head. “Above my pay grade.”

  “It’s easy. Have a beer with me, and I’ll explain it.”

  “Great. I’ve got some time. Gertie’s napping.”

  I popped the caps off two Mirror Pond longnecks, and we went out on the side porch. A light breeze stirred the Doug firs, and the colors in the valley whispered autumn. “Okay,” I began after brushing the maple leaves and fir needles off two chairs at my weathered, wrought-iron table, “soak the plank at least two hours, fully submerged. Then bring your barbeque to medium heat. Brush the plank with olive oil before you put the salmon on it. I usually just coat the fish with olive oil and then sprinkle on salt, pepper, lemon juice, and brown sugar.”

  Zoe waited, and when I didn’t continue, looked incredulous. “That’s it?”

  I drank some beer and chuckled. “Cook it slowly. At medium heat the plank should begin to char about the time the fish is done. The fish is cooked when little white globules of fat begin percolating to the surface. The thin end of the fillet will cook faster, so cut through and take the salmon off a section at a time. That way, it’ll be evenly cooked.”

  Zoe showed a look of almost childlike enthusiasm. “I think I can do that. What’s the plank for, anyway?”

  “Flavor and moisture. It adds both. The Columbia River tribes cook their salmon this way.”

  “They should know,” she said, then sipped some beer as the breeze ruffled her hair. She studied me for a moment, and her look grew softer. “How are you coping?”

  I took a long pull on my beer. “Better. I decided to get involved after talking to Timoteo and his father this morning. That seemed to help, you know?”

  “Doing rather than stewing?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “I’m curious. What convinced you to get involved?”

  “The local police are in a weak position. I won’t say they’re going to get stonewalled, but they’re sure as hell not going to get the full cooperation of the migrant community here. I’m thinking I can use Carlos and Timoteo to run interference for me. Maybe I can fill in some blanks, help find the bastard who did this.”

  “That’s noble,” she said with no hint of sarcasm, “but it sounds tricky. I mean, you’ll be working kind of a shadow case and with people who�
��re in this country illegally.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be walking a high wire between client confidentiality and the need to turn evidence over to the investigating team. The family isn’t under any suspicion, so that makes it easier.”

  “Did you learn anything this morning?”

  I took another drink of beer and regarded her for a moment. She sat erect, her slender neck thrust forward and her facial features drawn up in rapt attention. She had Gertie’s forthright manner, and I sensed her curiosity sprang purely from a desire to help or at least to understand. “I did,” I answered, “but there are confidentiality issues.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’m curious how you go about something like this. And maybe I can help in some way, you know, from a psychological standpoint.” She showed a smile, but it was clear the offer was serious.

  I turned the exchange over in my mind. Something about Zoe Bennet intrigued me. She seemed insightful, and in view of the impact of the murder on the Fuentes family as well as me, having a clinical psychologist in my corner might not be a bad idea.

  I said, “Well, I do have a certain amount of flexibility to discuss the case with people I think can be of assistance.” She pursed her lips and waited. “You’ll have to agree to hold what I tell you in confidence.”

  Her eyes got big. “Of course. I’m a PhD psychologist. I’m fully aware of the need for confidentiality.”

  After a playful handshake on the deal, I began sketching in the basic facts of the case gleaned from my discussion with Timoteo and his father. I finessed the cartel revelation, saying simply that there was always a chance someone from Carlos’s past was involved.

  When I finished, she leaned back and did that thing with her eyes again, doubling their size. “My God, this is complex. Who was the intended victim—the father? The son?”

  “Or the daughter?” I added.

  Her blue eyes flashed at me. “No.”

  I shrugged. “I haven’t ruled out anything yet.”

  “And the mother’s poised to blame the father because of something in his past?”

  “Potentially.”

  Her face clouded over. “That’s so sad but not very surprising. Tragedies like this can destroy a family. That bullet wounded them all.”

  I exhaled a sigh. “Yeah. I guess I’m hoping the father wasn’t the target. Things are bad enough as they are.”

  She studied me for a moment. “You can’t control the outcome, Cal.”

  “I know.”

  Zoe said, “I’m worried about the mother. A shutdown like she’s experiencing can be permanently disabling, even life-threatening. Her grief’s magnified by the trauma associated with the violence of her daughter’s death. The technical term’s traumatic bereavement. It’s insidious.”

  “She’s apparently refusing to talk to the priest,” I said.

  Zoe nodded. “She’s probably mad at God as well as Carlos.”

  “What would you advise him and Timoteo to do?”

  “Get professional help, but failing that, keep the lines of communication open, get her moving by coaxing her out of her room, and above all, remind her that Olivia would not approve of her giving up. Her love for her daughter is her greatest enemy right now, but it can also save her.”

  “Thanks. I’ll pass that on.”

  Zoe glanced at her smart watch. “It’s late. I better get back.” She brought her eyes up to mine. They were steady and clear. “I’m glad you took the case, Cal. I hope I can be of help.”

  Always the gentleman, Archie got up and escorted Zoe to the edge of our property. I watched as they moved across the field, my dog in a pony trot with his tail up, and Zoe moving with strong, purposeful strides, the cedar plank grasped in one hand. “Bon appétit,” I called out. She turned and waved the plank in response.

  I sat back and drained my beer, surprised as always, at what the universe serves up. I may have stretched the bounds of client confidentiality a bit, but I had a new colleague now, someone I felt I could trust.

  Chapter Eleven

  I skipped my cognac and music therapy that night, which was apparently a mistake. I slept restlessly, and not that long before dawn, dreamed I was back in L.A., having arrived home after a day at the Parker Center. I entered the house and a feeling of dread came over me, because I knew what I would find up in the bedroom. But instead of my wife Nancy’s lifeless body, I found Olivia’s. I woke up sputtering “No, no,” over and over again. Archie came over to comfort me, and I finally fell back to sleep with him standing next to the bed with his head resting on the mattress.

  That morning, a Sunday, I forced myself into a hard jog followed by a hearty breakfast. After I showered and dressed, I called Timoteo and asked him to meet me down at the office. “No, that’s not necessary,” I told him when he asked if he should bring his father. “He should stay with your mother. You’re point man. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and I’d like to get started right away. Be sure to bring the worker information your father gave the police.” I paused, adding, “And ask him to mark the names of the workers he said he didn’t know well, the ones who had access to the key. We’ll start there.”

  After I hung up, I felt a pang of impatience mixed with anxiety. I wasn’t kidding about having a lot of ground to cover, and I knew that murder cases tended to grow cold very quickly. I was getting in late and didn’t like it.

  ***

  “Thanks,” Timoteo said twenty-five minutes later at the Red Hills Market as the waitress set our coffees down on the counter along with a doggie treat for Archie. I couldn’t help noticing the lingering look the young waitress gave my new assistant. A handsome young man by any standard, his cheeks bore a day’s growth, the whiskers shading the dimple on his chin. He was unaware of her obvious interest. It was cool but sunny, so we sat outside instead of walking back to the office.

  He pushed an envelope across the table. “This is the worker information and a copy of the police report you asked for. My father said some of the addresses are bogus. He asked around and wrote in where he thinks we might actually find these people.”

  “Good,” I said, pushing the envelope aside. “Let’s talk business first. Cases like this can get expensive, and I don’t want—”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Timoteo said, looking anxious. “Would it help if I worked on the investigation for free? I’ll do all the follow-up and whatever else is needed.”

  I took a sip of coffee and chuckled. “That’s where I was headed. Of course, I’ll pay you as we agreed for your routine work in the office.” He voiced his assent. I named a discounted hourly rate and told him I didn’t need an answer at that moment. “Discuss it with your father and let me know.”

  “Thank you, Cal, that’s a generous offer. The funeral was very expensive. He usually takes my financial advice. I’m, um, not going to mention the price is discounted. My father’s a proud man.”

  “I understand. Don’t get hung up on the money,” I said as an image of Gertie rolling her eyes flashed in my head. “We’ll manage it.” I paused, grateful to have that out of the way. “Now, any word from your brother?”

  He grimaced in frustration. “Not directly. He let his best friend know that he wanted to be left alone for a while.”

  I felt relieved. “Good. He’s safe, then. But it’s critical that I talk to him.”

  Timoteo shook his head and smiled bitterly. “Olivia would know where he is. Luis told her everything.”

  “Who did Olivia confide in?”

  He shot me a look. “Right. Mariana. She might know something. I’ll call her right now.” A few moments later he had her on the line. When he finished the call, he looked up. “She told me Olivia mentioned an older woman in McMinnville that Luis was seeing.” He opened his hands and flashed a questioning smile. “An older woman? I didn’t know anything about this. Anyway, she thinks he c
ould be there. She’ll have to do some digging to get a name and address.”

  “Good. I’d like to talk to Mariana face-to-face, too. Can you set something up?”

  “Both of us?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll take the lead on questioning her.”

  “Sure, I’ll call her back.”

  “And the bar Luis started hanging out in—I want to go there, see if anyone will talk to me. Maybe something happened there that he didn’t tell you about.”

  “It’s the Tequila Cantina on the Pacific Highway in Lafayette.”

  “I know the place. Good takeout, especially the fish tacos.”

  “That’s the one. There’re pool tables in the back.” Timoteo paused for a moment. “I should go with you.”

  “Of course.”

  We agreed to go the following night.

  I opened the envelope next and scanned the worker information. “So, we’ve got fourteen workers your father doesn’t know or particularly trust.” I pointed to the bottom of the page. “What about these last three names? There are no addresses listed.”

  “They were hired late in the season and never gave my father their addresses.”

  “Okay, let’s see how many of the eleven we can find this afternoon.”

  “Excellent,” he said, then hesitated for a moment. “How do you plan to approach them?”

  “Straightforwardly. I’ll ask about their work, then the key. Maybe one of them noticed something unusual. If they don’t speak English, you’ll translate.”

  Timoteo wrinkled his brow. “One of them might be in on it.”

  “True. He’ll lie, then. Maybe we’ll pick up the lie.” I shrugged. “It’s a long shot, Timoteo, but we have to start somewhere.”

  He scratched his cheek and looked hesitant again. “You, um, you should let me talk to them.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes. They won’t even open the door, even if I’m with you. These days, undocumented people are being told not to answer the door if they’re unsure who’s knocking.” He looked at me. “No offense, but they’ll suspect you of being ICE because you’re white.”