Never Look Down Page 8

  Arch was right—it was damn good to be home.

  I dragged my body into the house, my battered ribs protesting every step. I sorted through the mail, a check from a client, a couple of bills, and a letter from a woman I knew in Russia. I tucked the letter, unopened, into my briefcase.

  My bed upstairs sang a siren song, but I had a cowboy to chase down. I took a business card from my shirt pocket and read what I’d written on the back: “Timmons’ Custom Boots, 33-3-10.” The name was branded into the sole of my attacker’s boot, next to the heel. The numbers, some kind of product code, were on the inside of one of the boot’s pull straps. I Googled the bootmaker. According to his website, Farnell Timmons made his custom boots near Estacada, Oregon, a small ranch and farming community southeast of Portland. These were boots for the serious, or at least the well-heeled, cowboy with a range of prices topping a thousand dollars.

  I shrugged after jotting down some notes. Surely Scott and his partner, Ludlow, would be all over this. On the other hand, if they bought the random break-in view, then the boot I gave them could very well get ignored in the rush of the murder investigation.

  No way I was going to ignore it. I rubbed my sore ribs and grimaced. This was personal.

  ***

  I woke up that Sunday morning feeling like I’d been dropped from a three-story building. My left side looked like a target in shades of purple, and although I was breathing a little easier, I paid handsomely for even the slightest twist of my torso. On the bright side, the bruises on the side of my face weren’t particularly deep or very sore. The most active thing I accomplished that day was a walk down to the mailbox to get the Sunday paper.

  On Monday morning it took me twice as long as usual to shower, shave, and dress. After feeding Archie, I stood at the kitchen sink sipping a double cappuccino as an ugly mass of gray clouds boiled up the valley. By the time I finished my coffee and polished off some granola, we were being strafed with pea-size hail. The storm front cleared just as Archie and I left for a nine o’clock divorce hearing at the circuit court in McMinnville. He would wait in the car without a fuss. He was just glad to be making the trip.

  After the hearing, I sat in the echoing hallway of the courthouse and used my cell phone and laptop to clear my schedule in Dundee for the next two days. My billable hours were down, so it wasn’t exactly a task I relished. I called ahead to Farnell Timmons’ Custom Boot Shop but only to confirm that it was open. I figured my best shot at finding the owner of my souvenir boot was to make a personal appearance.

  It rained steadily until I turned off I-205 at Route 224, which parallels the Clackamas River. Halfway to Estacada the sun broke through, and the river answered by turning from slate gray to turquoise blue in the blink of an eye. Across the river, second growth Doug firs and cedars crowded the banks, their rich green canopies broken here and there by maples, oaks, and alders whose leaves burned with the colors of fall. I rolled the windows down so Arch and I could drink in the smell of the trees and the river.

  Timmons’ place sat off a two-lane road past Estacada in an unincorporated section of Clackamas County. A small sign next to his mailbox said “Timmons’ Custom Boots,” and below that in smaller letters, “Take the fork to the right.” I drove down a narrow lane through a stand of firs, parked, and after leaving a window down for Arch, entered a low, cedar-sided building with a red metal roof.

  The showroom smelled of leather, and a sign next to a set of swinging doors put me on notice that the proprietor could refuse me service if the spirit moved him. All manner of cowboy boots lined one wall, from the elegantly understated to fancier models with intricate, hand-tooled designs. There were leather gun cases and belt and shoulder holsters on display as well. The biggest rebel flag I ever saw hung on the opposite wall. A couple of framed signs below the flag espoused pro-gun sentiments. One read, “The Second Amendment Is My Concealed Weapons Permit, Period,” signed Ted Nugent; the second, “Free Men Do Not Ask Permission to Bear Arms.”

  Tell me how you really feel.

  A young man battling acne came through the double doors. “Hi. I’m Wade. Can I help you?”

  “Maybe you can, Wade. “I’m a big fan of your boots. Great craftsmanship. I’m curious about that numerical code that you sew in, you know, inside, next to the pull strap?”

  Wade nodded. “Yes sir?”

  “Can you use it to tell who you made the boots for?”

  “Sure. We keep records.”

  “If I give you a number, can you look up a name for me?”

  Wade licked his lips and swallowed. “Uh, you’ll have to ask Farnell about that.”

  “Is he here?”

  “No, sir. He’s at lunch. Won’t be back til two or so.”

  After Wade gave me directions to where Timmons was eating, I said, “How will I know him?”

  “He’ll be in the back, at a table. Just ask for him.”

  A small bar and grill on the outskirts of Estacada, the Trail Away was dimly lit with the smells of deep-frying oil, beer, and the twang of a country song all vying for dominance. Once my eyes adjusted, I noticed everyone in the place had turned to look at me. I asked the bartender for Farnell Timmons, and he nodded in the direction of three men at a back table. “Timmons is in the middle.”

  I stopped in front of the table, introduced myself, and said, “Sorry to interrupt your lunch, gentlemen.” Then, looking directly at Timmons went on, “I was just over at the boot shop, and Wade said you might be able to help me, Mr. Timmons.”

  He nodded, taking the measure of me. “Yeah, Wade just called. Said you wanted some information on a pair of my boots.” He smiled but his heart wasn’t in it. “You don’t look like the type that wears my boots.” The men on either side of him shifted in their seats, and one suppressed a laugh.

  “I want to talk to the man who bought a pair of your boots.”

  Timmons took a long pull on his beer. “Why?”

  “It’s a confidential matter. The number in the boots is 33-3-10. I just want a name.”

  “Can’t help you, partner. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I couldn’t give you a name. I made those boots four and a half years ago. I purge my tax records every three years.”

  “The IRS might frown on that.”

  The eyes flashed at me. “Fuck the IRS. They’re lucky I pay any taxes at all.” He took another long pull on his beer and waved a meaty hand. “We’re done here.”

  I nodded, and as I turned to leave I saw him tip his head in my direction. The two men at the table got up and followed me out the door. I could hear the crunch of their boots in the gravel as we crossed the parking lot, but I forced myself to walk without a limp and willed myself not to look back. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.

  When I got to my car I turned around, an action that sent a stab of pain radiating out from my ribs. I hoped they didn’t see me wince. “Gentlemen, is there something else that needs discussing?”

  The taller of the two, dressed all in black like Johnny Cash, said, “We’re just making sure you get to your car safely. Sometimes people get their asses kicked out here. Damnedest thing.”

  The other man was squat and despite his enormous belly looked powerful. He said, “Yeah. Happens all the time to people who don’t mind their own business.” He chuckled. “Judging from your face, looks like somebody already got after you.”

  I bit back a comment that would have undoubtedly escalated the situation. Instead, I opened the car door. Archie hopped out and sensing the threat immediately, positioned himself in front of me and dropped his ears. Now the sides were even. An eighty-pound dog will do that. Both men stepped back. The tall man shrugged and turned to leave. The short guy followed. I breathed a sigh of relief, clapped Arch on his broad back, and let us both in the car.

  On my way to Portland I called Nando. He didn’t pick up, so I left a voice-mail
telling him I’d failed to get the boot owner’s name. Farnell Timmons had been uncooperative, I told him, and there was a good chance that even a subpoena from Scott and Ludlow wouldn’t yield anything since Timmons said he’d purged the records.

  A couple of minutes later my cell chirped. I was hoping it was Nando, but it was Tay Jefferson instead. “Cal, something’s come up I think you should know about.” When I asked what it was, she said she’d rather talk in person and suggested we meet at a little deli she knew near the Federal Re-entry Center.

  “Does the place have outside tables?” I asked. “It looks like it might clear up.”

  “Yeah, I think they still have them out.”

  “Good. Grab one if you wouldn’t mind. I’ve got my dog with me.”

  I found Tay sitting under a radiant heater in an outside table at Maureen’s Deli on SE Eighty-second. She smiled and waved as Archie and I approached, but her smile faded when she saw my bruised face and the slow, deliberate way I sat down in front of her.

  “What happened to you, Cal?”

  When I told her I’d slipped on my porch steps, she kept her eyes on me for a couple beats before her mouth turned up slightly at one end, a half-smile that was becoming familiar. She had no reason to doubt me and didn’t press it, but it was clear you couldn’t get much past Tay Jefferson.

  Archie introduced himself by plopping his muzzle in Tay’s lap and wagging his entire backside. He got a big hug for his trouble. That dog of mine’s a shameless womanizer.

  Tay wore calf-length leather boots, skinny jeans, and a blazer over a white oxford blouse. Her eyes had a slight Asian tilt that lent her an exotic look. They seemed even larger than I remembered. Her upper lip was shaped in a cupid’s bow that the little cherub himself would have been proud of. “Thanks for coming, Cal. It’s a little nippy, but we can talk in privacy out here. I’ve only got thirty minutes.”

  “Good. So what’s up?”

  “One of our residents at the FRC, a man named Manny Bonilla, was found dead in the Willamette yesterday, near Sauvie Island. I heard about it at work this morning. It was in the paper, too.”

  “I missed it. What happened to him?”

  “Our director didn’t know, and the paper didn’t say. They’ll do an autopsy, right?”

  I nodded. “So why call me?”

  A waitress appeared, and Tay continued after we ordered. “Claudia told me something about Bonilla in confidence.” She hesitated and I waited. “He was, uh, the only son of a cousin of hers. Claudia wanted to recuse herself from being his caseworker, but her cousin begged her to work with him.”

  “So she did?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would it make any difference one way or the other?”

  Tay shrugged. “Not really, but there are strict rules against that kind of thing at the FRC. There can be no prior connection between a caseworker and a resident. The cousin pressured Claudia to get involved. It was a dilemma for Claudia—family versus job. She’s Hispanic, Cal. Family comes first. She didn’t have a choice.”

  I nodded. “You think Claudia’s and Bonilla’s deaths are related?”

  Our coffees arrived. Tay waited until the waitress left before responding. “I don’t know, but the timing’s weird, right? Knowing Claudia, I’m sure she promised her cousin she’d do everything she could to help him.”

  “Have you told the police about this?”

  Tay dropped her eyes to the table. “Uh, not yet. They need to know, right?”

  “Yeah, they need to know right away. It could be very important.”

  Tay shifted in her seat and studied her latte. “Then I need some advice on how to handle this. I don’t want, you know, any blowback.” She looked up and met my eyes. “I like my job, Cal. A lot.”

  I nodded and sipped my cappuccino. “You could go to the police and ask that they not tell your employer, but I doubt they’d promise anything. It’s understandable that you don’t want to get involved. You could do it anonymously, I suppose. The key thing’s the information, not the source.”

  Her face brightened. “How would I do that?”

  “Nando Mendoza could handle it. I can probably arrange something, if you want.”

  She met my eyes. “That would be such a relief, Cal.”

  I nodded and then listened while she told me more about Manuel Diego Bonilla. He was twenty-eight years old, scheduled for release after serving time for a possession-with-intent-to-distribute charge. He’d been working in the kitchen of Jewel, a little bistro in the Pearl District. His dad got deported to Mexico when he was young, and his mother, Sophia Hidalgo, had remarried and was living in eastern Oregon.

  I told Tay I would also try to talk to Hidalgo, and when her eyebrows went up, assured her that I wouldn’t blow her cover. As Arch and I walked back to the car, I couldn’t help feeling a little upbeat, at least mentally. And it wasn’t just from having lunch with Tay Jefferson, although that had almost crossed the line from business to pleasure, at least for me. I’d pass her information on to Nando, who’d make sure Scott and Ludlow got it. But the death of Manny Bonilla intrigued me.

  A random burglary and now a coincidental suicide? No way.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cal

  When I got to Caffeine Central I found Nando out front talking to a man in paint-spattered white coveralls standing next to a beat-up, unmarked pickup. The conversation was heated, part English, part Spanish, and I caught enough of it to realize they were discussing the repair of my furnace. They finally came to some kind of agreement, but the man didn’t look too happy when he left.

  When Nando noticed me, he opened his big hands and said, “What?” in a decidedly defensive tone.

  “That guy looked like a painter. Does he know anything about heating systems?”

  Nando wrinkled his brow in feigned confusion. “He was the low-cost bidder, Calvin, and I got him to throw in removal of the graffiti at no extra charge.”

  “Of course. The low-cost bidder. That explains everything.” Nando looked away, and I studied my friend for a moment. His chinos and long-sleeved shirt looked slept in, his face was a thicket of dark stubble, and his eyes were puffy and seriously bloodshot. “Come on,” I said. “You look like you need a coffee.”

  He followed me to the back of the building and up the narrow staircase to my apartment. Nando sprawled on the sofa while I filled Archie’s water bowl and set about grinding coffee beans to make him a cappuccino. Nando said, “You are walking crooked. How are the ribs?”

  “Tender.” As I readied his coffee, I gave him more details about my encounter with Farnell Timmons. When I finished he said, “So the bootmaker told you he had destroyed the records, but the young man at the shop said they had them.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, but the kid might’ve been referring to records for the past three years, which Timmons said he kept for tax purposes. In any case, Timmons made it clear he wasn’t about to share anything with anybody. And he told me in no uncertain terms to mind my own business.”

  “Why would he feel it necessary to threaten you?”

  “I don’t know. Probably just a general dislike of outsiders. But it might make sense for you to get a line on this guy.”

  Nando nodded. “I will ask Esperanza to run a background check.”

  “What about Cardenas? Anything new on that front?”

  “Yes. I have acquired a copy of the security tape from the Lucky Dragon the night of the shooting. Cardenas was indeed present, but so were a couple of other possible clients for Sheri Daniels, men she was seen talking to. Once I identify these men, I will have the chat with them.”

  “Make sure it’s just a chat. I’ve been put on notice by Scott to keep you on a short leash. We’re both on thin ice here.”

  Nando exhaled a long breath. “If the police would do their jobs, this would not be necessary,
Calvin.”

  I rolled my eyes but didn’t counter. “I have some other information, too.” I went on to describe what Tay had told me about Manny Bonilla and the need to pass the information on to the Portland Police.

  When I finished, Nando massaged his forehead, then rubbed his eyes and frowned deeply. “So Tayshia would like me to fix it so she doesn’t have to say what she knows about Claudia and this Bonilla?”

  “Can’t blame her,” I said. “She thinks it could cost her job. She’s caught in the middle just like Claudia was.”

  He nodded. “This will reflect poorly on Claudia, you know.”

  “I won’t be a party to withholding information from the cops. This needs to get done, Nando, and you know it.”

  He sighed. “Very well. I will make sure Harmon Scott gets this information anonymously.” He turned to face me. “The photo album? You brought it?”

  I got up, opened my briefcase and extracted the book. “Here.”

  He took it a bit tentatively. “Thank you. I can’t look at the pictures. I just wanted it back.” He flexed the slashed cover, looked up at me, and wrinkled his brow.

  “Sorry about that,” I said. “I, uh, had the book in my belt. The bastard’s knife sliced it instead of my stomach.”

  Nando’s eyes widened. “Dios mio,” he uttered in a half-whisper. “You didn’t tell me it was so close, my friend.”

  I shrugged. “A miss is as good as a mile.”

  “Well, please accept my apology for calling you a boy scout. That was uncalled for.”

  I laughed and waved off his apology.

  We fell silent for a long time. Finally Nando sipped some coffee, leaned back, and ran his hands through his hair. “I called my mother in Cuba and told her what happened.” He paused as if to gather himself. “I broke her heart, Calvin. Again. The first time was when I left Cuba. She begged me to come home. She said America is a bad place. Too many guns. Too many violent people.” He turned to face me, his eyes suddenly bright. “Maybe she is right.”