Never Look Down Page 9

  “Americans probably aren’t any more violent than other groups of people on this planet. My guess is the violence gene’s spread pretty evenly.” I shrugged. “But your mother has a point about the guns. We’re swimming in them in this country. Maybe that’s the difference.”

  Nando smiled bitterly. “You know I am fond of guns. I remember when I bought my first one, a Sig Sauer P226. It had a stainless steel body and a mahogany handle with a knurled inlay. He closed his eyes and smiled again, with pleasure this time. “It was beautiful, balanced in my hand perfectly, and shot like silk, hardly a recoil. I’d been here only a year or so, and, of course, I didn’t need a gun. But this was America, right?” He shook his head. “I even bought a box of hollow-point bullets. More stopping power.”

  “Stopping power for what?”

  “Precisely. For what? And I bought all of this out of the trunk of a car.” He shook his head. “¿En qué estaría tensando?”

  “You were young. The gun represented something you couldn’t have in Cuba. It’s understandable.”

  He studied the hardwood floor and continued like he hadn’t heard me. “So now, after seeing what those bullets did to my Claudia I’m not so sure about all this gun freedom.” He looked up and met my eyes. “That beautiful Sig Sauer was made for one thing—killing people.”

  Our discussion was cut short by a call from Esperanza that sent Nando scurrying off. It was just as well. It was now the fourth day since Claudia was shot and no arrests had been made.

  Philosophy was fine, but we both had work to do.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cal

  The weather was decent so I leashed up Archie and we headed off to Jewel, the bistro in the Pearl District where Manny Bonilla had worked. Arch tugged at his leash and stretched out in front of me like he owned the street. Once a seedy warehouse district just north of Old Town, the Pearl was now dotted with coveted loft apartments, tony shops, and upscale restaurants. Jewel was a small place with a menu promising “fine dishes from local ingredients and a full selection of Oregon micro-brews.” I left Arch leashed to a chair outside and went in. I didn’t worry about leaving my dog on the sidewalk. He was friendly enough, but he was also eighty pounds of solid muscle and there was no way he’d let someone walk off with him.

  The bistro was maybe a quarter full. The bartender called the manager, a thin, thirty-something sporting a narrow mustache and an appropriately ironic gray fedora with a black band. Yes, Manny Bonilla had worked there, and yes, they had heard what happened and had been visited by the police already. And no, they didn’t wish to talk to me about anything.

  At least the walk was good exercise.

  The weather was holding, and it was only a short hop over to the gallery where Picasso worked. I decided to pop in to see if I could catch him. Arch and I found him painting a large canvas in the back of the gallery—a geometric abstract in primary colors. He worked intently with his back to us. His art had broadened and matured, but it still had the punch and brashness of the outdoor murals he was well known for.

  “I like it,” I said. “And I’m sure I can’t afford it.” Picasso turned around, and Archie whimpered a couple of times and went to him, wagging his backside.

  He set his brush and palette down, wiped his hands with a paint-stained cloth, and began petting Arch and talking to him in a low voice. When he looked up at me, he smiled. “You get the bro discount, Cal.”

  I laughed. “Still can’t afford it. We were just passing through. Anything new on K209?”

  He shook his head. “I’m stumped, man. Nobody seems to know who the dude is. The pieces only go back a year or so, so it’s someone new on the scene.”

  “Any more thoughts on the profile?”

  “Not really. A feisty, angry kid.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Know the type. Used to be one.”

  I nodded. “You used to tag before you got into mural painting. What’s the attraction, anyway?”

  Picasso paused and tugged at his eyebrow ring for a couple of beats. “Rebellion, man. Telling a kid he can’t tag a wall is like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Identity’s huge, too. Most taggers don’t have much, so their moniker becomes really important. You know, it’s their mark on the world. If society condemns it, that’s all the better. More recognition.” He tugged some more on his ring. “For the hard-core types who become obsessed it goes a lot deeper. A crazy-strong artistic urge—like for me—or, you know, a protest about how screwed up things are, which is where K209 seems to fit in. I mean, look at our national politics. It’s a wonder we have any blank walls left in this country.”

  I had to laugh. “Maybe these angry kids are paying more attention than we give them credit for.”

  “You read about it, Cal, they live it—abusive parents, underfunded schools, no jobs, no respect.”

  I nodded and chuckled. “I remember Claire’s rebellious stage, alright. It left her mother and me cross-eyed.”

  “Sure. And your daughter eventually channeled all her frustration into getting a PhD in environmental science, which you’re paying for, Cal. Most of the kids we’re talking about won’t get that chance, or they’ll have to borrow a crippling amount of money to do it.”

  “Okay. I get it. But I still don’t like it when I see graffiti on bridges and highway signs.”

  Picasso laughed. “Me neither, man.”

  I thanked Picasso and left feeling frustrated. If he couldn’t find K209 then it was clear the tagger had pretty good cover. That wasn’t all bad, I decided. The shooter was probably in this hunt, too, and I sure as hell didn’t want him to find K209 first.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kelly

  The day after finding Rupert’s body was hell for Kelly. The morning broke clear, but then the sky grayed over and it started to rain, only to clear and start the cycle again. Just like the weather, Kelly swung between a desire to hide in her room and never come out again and a burning urge to see if she could somehow find out more about Macho Dude and The Voice. But then the image of them slipping away from the mill would pop into her head, melting away all her courage and resolve. They were out there now, she told herself, looking for me.

  That afternoon, Veronica managed to coax Kelly out of her room. Standing with a cigarette smoldering between her fingers, she said, “I picked up some KFC. Thought we could have some dinner together.”

  The fear, the anxiety, the lack of sleep slammed together in Kelly like a perfect storm. “Fried chicken? Really? We’re supposed to have vegetables, and, and, whole grains, and stuff like that, not friggin’ fried foods. Have you been living under a rock or something?” She pointed at the cigarette in Veronica’s hand. “And have you ever heard of secondhand smoke? Sheeze, Veronica.”

  What happened next took Kelly by surprise. The expectant look on Veronica’s face crumbled, she burst out crying and dashed to her bedroom, slamming the door. As Kelly stood there trying to process what just happened, it occurred to her that she hadn’t seen Veronica with a drink in her hand in quite a while. And that had to be the first time Kelly ever made her cry. What’s going on, she wondered? She felt awful about blowing up like that but couldn’t bring herself to apologize. Veronica didn’t deserve it, she told herself.

  As Kelly made her way to school on Monday morning she felt jumpy and hollow inside, but she was determined to show up again like nothing had happened. Before catching the bus she scanned the paper in the coffee shop and found the article in the Metro section, just eight or ten lines with the headline “Homeless man found beaten to death”. The article concluded, “…the murder appears to have resulted from a dispute between Mr. Youngblood and possibly other homeless individuals squatting in the abandoned Albertson’s Mill on NW Naito Parkway.”

  Kelly fought back tears, anger, and a wave of shame for having left Rupert in that awful place. Not now, she told herself. No more tears.
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br />   Later that morning Kelly sat at a computer terminal trying to concentrate on a set of algebra problems when the door connecting the education center with the rest of the complex swung open. She looked up as her case manager, Monica Sayles, came through the door followed by the tall, sandy-haired cop who, along with his partner, had stopped her and Kiyana in the park. He was carrying what she immediately recognized as her backpack, the one she ditched the night of the shooting. In all the excitement, she’d forgotten about it. Blood drained from Kelly’s head so fast that she saw little black dots dancing in her field of vision like a swarm of gnats.

  Chill, she told herself as she took a deep breath. She knew she hadn’t left anything in the backpack that could be traced to her. She made that a strict rule when she tagged. But what if someone recognizes the pack itself?

  “Hey, guys,” Monica said in a cheery tone to the whole class, “this is Detective Ludlow from the Portland Police. He wants to take just a minute to show you something.”

  Ludlow stepped into the middle of the room and held up the backpack. It was a dark blue, low-cost REI model. Lots of kids at the school and on the street carried that model because the school distributed dozens at last year’s Christmas party. That’s where Kelly got hers.

  “Good morning. Sorry to interrupt your studies, but I’m hoping you folks could help us locate the owner of this backpack. Now I want to stress that this person is not in any trouble. We just want to talk to the owner about a crime that occurred early last Friday morning over on NW Third between Davis and Everett.”

  Kelly figured Kiyana might recognize the backpack but knew she wouldn’t say anything even if she did. When Kelly glanced Kiyana’s way she saw that her friend’s brows were knitted.

  She was more worried about Zook. She glanced at him, and to her relief it was clear he wasn’t paying the least bit of attention. Boys. So unobservant.

  One of the students called out, “This is about that woman that got shot, right?” The room started buzzing with conversation and nervous laughter.

  Ludlow held up a hand for silence. “Yes. This involves a murder investigation.” He rotated the pack slowly so everyone got a good look at it. Then he set it down, unzipped the top, and extracted a book. “This book was in the pack.” He held it up. “It’s called The Stranger, by Albert Camus.” Ludlow scanned the students’ faces expectantly, unaware that Camus was not pronounced Cam-us. “Ring any bells?”

  I’m okay, Kelly thought. She bought the book at the used bookstore on Sandy the day before the shooting. The only person who might have seen her with it was Veronica.

  A couple of kids giggled at the mispronunciation, but no one said anything. Kiyana shot Kelly a glance and smiled, but Kelly looked away. Her mouth was dry and she had difficulty swallowing.

  Ludlow put the book down and pulled out a can of spray paint and Kelly’s harness. Laughter and a couple of cheers rippled through the group. Ludlow held a deadly serious look. “There were a half dozen spray cans in the pack plus this climbing harness. We think the person owning this backpack is a tagger who uses the moniker K209. Now, we don’t condone graffiti tagging in Portland, but that’s not our interest here. If this person comes forward, there will be no questions asked about the tagging.” No one moved or spoke.

  Kelly scanned the faces of those in the group she could see without being obvious about it. Things looked cool until she got to Digger, the kid who’d shot his mouth off about Rupert. She should have known. Short, with a nasty attitude, Digger fancied himself a hardcore skater. But Kelly had seen his moves, and the truth was he had more bluster than skill.

  He studied the backpack, glanced at Kelly, then back at the pack. He might have smiled. She wasn’t sure. He was always hanging around Kelly. “Like a dog in heat,” Ki had observed. Maybe he recognized something, like the frayed pocket on the left side. Kelly held her breath and prepared for the worst, but Digger didn’t say anything.

  Ludlow held up the backpack again. “Anyone?”

  Kelly looked straight ahead. The room fell absolutely silent. The cops weren’t a big favorite with this crowd. After what seemed an eternity to Kelly, Ludlow shrugged, thanked the group, and turned to leave with a should-have-known look on his face. Before he left, he pinned a photo of the backpack and one of his business cards on the bulletin board.

  When class ended, Kelly, Kiyana, and Zook drifted off toward O’Bryant Square. When they were out of earshot of the rest of the students Kiyana whirled around to confront Kelly. “What the hell, girl? That was your backpack that cop had, wasn’t it? How did that happen?”

  Zook looked shocked. “No shit? That was yours, Kel?”

  Kelly waivered for a moment. She wanted to unburden herself to her friends in the worst way. But she’d gone to Rupert and look what happened to him. She shrugged. “I, uh, don’t really know. If it was mine, looks like whoever ripped me off got tangled up in that murder. Thanks for not saying anything, Ki.”

  Kiyana smiled and nodded. “No problem.” Then she locked onto Kelly’s eyes and drew her face into that don’t-bullshit-me look she was famous for. At the same time Kelly could feel Zook’s eyes on the side of her face, boring into her like a laser. Ki said, “I don’t know about that taggin’ shit, but that book by Camus, that’s your kind of reading. You sure there’s nothin’ goin’ on, Kel? This is serious shit.”

  You’re telling me? Kelly wanted to blurt out. Instead, she dropped her eyes, swallowed and tried a smile, but it didn’t take. “Hey, everything’s cool. I just lost my backpack, that’s all. Give me a break.”

  Kiyana left for work, but not before she made it clear she had her doubts about Kelly’s story. Zook and Kelly sat for a while on the rock wall at the edge of the park. It was cold, and as they conversed their breath mingled to form a thin, gray cloud before vanishing a moment later. Zook ran a big hand through his hair, then rubbed the stubble—peach fuzz, really—on his cheek. “You seem upset, Kel.” He grinned crookedly. “Did Veronica’s dog die or something?”

  Kelly folded her arms across her chest. “Very funny.”

  “Seriously, it’s okay at home?”

  “Sheeze, why does everybody ask me that?”

  Zook leaned away from her. “Excuse me for breathing.”

  This only made Kelly madder. “I’m surprised you even noticed. You’re so hammered most of the time.”

  Zook turned to face Kelly, his eyes wide with surprise that turned quickly to pain. He hopped down from the wall and stomped off, saying over his shoulder, “Fine then. See you around.”

  Kelly sat there blinking away the tears, but it was no use. They flooded her face, mingling with the rain that had started up again.

  She hadn’t felt this alone and this afraid since her Dad died.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kelly

  Kelly sat on the rock wall in O’Bryant Park trying to stop crying. The events of the last few days had left her dazed and shaken, her plans blown to bits. If she had finished the piece on Everett, her next project was going to be the Fremont Bridge. She wasn’t clear on what she might do beyond climbing it, but that high, arching span drew her like a magnet. That dream’s over now, she told herself. Get a grip. You’ve got other priorities now.

  She unzipped the pouch on her new backpack and pulled out a bulky, legal-size envelope that was stamped and addressed to the Portland Rescue Mission on Burnside. Inside the envelope Kelly had stuffed two thousand dollars in cash and a note that read:

  To whom it may concern,

  I’m sure you know Rupert at the mission. He’s been hanging out at the Burnside Bridge for a long time. His full name is Rupert Louis Youngblood and he was born in Los Angeles on Jan. 6, 1960. He told me once that you do good work at the mission. You probably heard that he got murdered the other day. This money is to make sure he has a nice funeral with lots of flowers. I don’t know where they took his body
, but I think you can find out. You can keep any money left over.

  A friend of Rupert’s

  Kelly dropped the envelope into a mailbox at the corner of the park. Next she caught the #33 bus and, once she found a seat, called Hanson’s Granite Works, where she worked two afternoons a week, sometimes more. When the owner, Phil Hanson, answered, she said, “Hey, Phil. I, uh, won’t be able to come in until Friday. I have too much homework, you know, GED exams and stuff.”

  “Kind of short notice, Kel,” Hanson answered in a slightly irritated tone. Hanson was a climber who knew Kelly’s dad by reputation, which explained how she got the job. He was a good man, and Kelly hated herself for lying to him.

  “I’m sorry, Phil. I’m, uh, kind of behind. Didn’t realize how much I have to do this week. I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Well, your studies come first, young lady.” He paused before adding, “Are you okay, kiddo? You sound a little teary.”

  There’s that question again, she said to herself, biting back an urge to scream. “I’m fine, Phil, and I’m sorry. I’ll see you Friday.”

  She got off the bus near the Hawthorne Bridge on SE Water Street, a light industrial area that ran below the I-5 freeway along the east side of the river. Housed in a low, nondescript building, the Bridgetown Arsenal was a block and a half down Water, sandwiched between an old firebrick foundry and a sheet-metal fabricator. The Arsenal announced itself with a large circular sign bearing the screaming eagle logo. Kelly was on the opposite side of the street when she saw the sign, but she stopped dead and her stomach took a half-turn. Suddenly she felt very conspicuous. After all, there weren’t a lot of young kids in this neighborhood. In fact, there was hardly anyone on the street.