No Witness Page 9

  She smiled, a tease tinged with a hint of sarcasm. “The strong, silent types have gone out of fashion, you know.”

  I smiled back in equal measure. “I guess I didn’t get the memo.”

  ***

  I had another dream that night, more vivid than the last one. This time my wife was wearing the hooded sweatshirt. I must have screamed, because when I awakened, Archie stood whimpering next to the bed with deep concern showing in his eyes.

  I thought of Zoe’s borderline sarcastic remark and felt a surge of irritation. Talking’s overrated, I told myself in full defensive mode. Some things you just have to live with.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got anything yet?” I asked Nando the next morning as I sipped a coffee from the Red Hills Market.

  His laugh boomed through the phone. “I am good, Calvin, but not that good.”

  “That’s not the reason I called. I’ve got three more names I’d like your source in Mexico City to check out, if possible. I need to know if any of them have cartel connections.”

  Nando paused before answering. “This source is touchy, especially when it comes to cartel business. Is there one of these three you are most interested in? I think it is wise to ask for only one additional favor.”

  I exhaled a breath and gave him Plácido Ballesteros’s information, adding, “El Tecuan is near Guadalajara, where Carlos Fuentes grew up.”

  “Interesting.”

  I explained what Timoteo and I had learned about the key to the locked gate at Angel Vineyard, and how Carlos had already approached Ballesteros. “I don’t like him as the hit man, but I can’t rule him out as an accomplice.”

  “I see your point,” Nando responded. “Why would Ballesteros have the key copied if he was the shooter? He would have just used it and put it back.”

  “Exactly. But I still want everything your source can find on him.”

  ***

  Timoteo arrived at the office shortly after one that afternoon and promptly started in on what remained of the filing. I was on the phone with Ned Gillian about the fate of Cha Cha the Chihuahua. “That’s my client’s final offer,” I told him, “I’m afraid it’s take it or leave it.”

  Gillian’s response was immediate, his tone grateful. “I think I can sell this. It’s not about the damn dog, of course.” He paused. “Ah, this is off topic, but do you mind if I ask you something, Cal?”

  “Shoot.”

  “I know your sleuthing reputation, but I also understand you have a pro bono practice in Portland. How does that work, and is it satisfying to you?”

  I gave him a helicopter view of my practice at Caffeine Central and finished by saying, “It’s frustrating as hell at times. Some of my clients don’t show up for court dates, or they get busted or start using again, that kind of thing, but I wouldn’t trade the practice for anything.”

  “Yeah, I can see why you’d say that. I, ah, I’ve been too busy trying to make money in my practice, but when I look around these days, I feel like I need to give something back. There’s so much inequity in the fucking system.”

  We discussed the status of the criminal justice system for a while and came up with a couple of pro bono possibilities for him, of which there were many, of course. “If I can help you get started in any way, just pick up the phone,” I told him in closing.

  I had no sooner disconnected when Timoteo’s cell phone chirped. He looked up at me after a brief exchange. “It’s Mariana Suarez, Olivia’s friend. She just got out of class and can meet us for a coffee. She’s at a Starbucks on 99W south of McMinnville.”

  Archie took the back seat, and Timoteo rode shotgun. On the way there, Timoteo said, “Mariana’s a Dreamer like me. She’s studying to be a journalist.” He smiled. “I think she’ll make a good one.”

  “How so?”

  “She doesn’t put up with bullshit, and she’s fearless, like Olivia.” I glanced over and saw his face darken. “Her family’s been through a rough patch.”

  “What happened?”

  “A family friend saw her uncle’s car abandoned on the side of 99E during that big ICE raid in Woodburn. Agents had pulled him over and arrested him on the spot, handcuffs, the whole bit. The next time the family heard from him, he was in the Northwest Detention Center in Tacoma. It turned out ICE was looking for another Jesús Hernandez, who had an outstanding warrant, but once they had her uncle, it didn’t matter. He’s awaiting a deportation hearing. They call it collateral deportation.”

  “How’s he holding up?”

  “Terrible. He’s hardly eating and doesn’t sleep. It’s tearing the family to pieces. He’s an expert in hazelnut cultivation, and the grower he works for is desperate to get him back.” Timoteo shook his head in disgust. “It really sucks. Migrants were encouraged to come here over the years, and now we’re under attack. For what? Working hard and seeking a better life? Sure, laws were broken, but the laws were ignored for the sake of profits. It’s unjust, and it doesn’t make any sense.”

  Timoteo was right. It made no sense.

  We arrived at the Starbucks in fifteen minutes. Archie dutifully stayed in the car with the windows cracked. The place was filled with a youngish crowd—mostly students from the nearby Chemeketa Community College, I assumed. Tim waved to Mariana, who was seated near the back frowning at her laptop. We got our coffees, joined her, and after introducing me, Timoteo said, “Like I mentioned on the phone, our family has hired Cal to, um, look into the murder. I’m assisting him. Thanks for taking the time to answer some questions, Mariana.”

  Her eyes grew wet, and her chin trembled slightly. “Oh, damn it,” she said, dabbing her eyes with a napkin. “I can’t think about what happened without losing it.” Even in sadness her face was lovely, her big, almond eyes expressive and golden brown in color. “I called because I finally found the name of Luis’s new girlfriend, Marlene Mathews. She works at the same restaurant Luis did, the Wine Cellar. She’s, like, thirty or thirty-five.” Mariana shot Timoteo a sly smile. “An older woman. Who knew?”

  I suppressed a laugh. “That’s helpful. We should be able to locate her.” I paused for a moment, shifting the focus from Luis to Olivia. “I know you’ve probably spoken to the police at length, but I have a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  She grimaced. “Okay.”

  “What was going on with Olivia before the shooting? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “The detectives asked me the same question. Only two things I could think of. First, there was a guy at Prosperar she was interested in, but it was early, you know. They were just circling each other.”

  “His name?”

  “Robert Harris.”

  “What’s he do there?”

  “He’s their finance guy, I think. Keeps track of the money, donations, that kind of thing.”

  “Why was this unusual?”

  Mariana shrugged. “I don’t know, she just didn’t seem into the guy, no enthusiasm. I tried to get her to tell me about him, but she was kind of evasive.” She paused, and her gaze moved outside our table as if reeling in a memory. “The other thing was kind of weird. She was excited and secretive about something. I asked her what it was, and she said she wasn’t sure yet, that she was working on it and would tell me when she knew more. I said, ‘Girl, since when do you keep secrets from me?’ She laughed and said, ‘If I told you now I’d have to kill you.’ I pressed her some more, but that’s as much as she would tell me.”

  “When did she disclose this?”

  “Oh, it was maybe three or four weeks before…” Her voice trailed off.

  “What were you talking about when this came up?”

  She brought a finger to her lips for a moment, then showed a faint smile. “I was blowing off steam about my job at the newspaper. I want my boss to give me more responsibility.”


  “Was she doing the same, talking about something at Prosperar?”

  “Maybe. That’s what I told the cops, anyway.” She pursed her lips, hesitating again. “I felt bad about that. Prosperar’s not going to be happy about a bunch of cops showing up, even if they’re friendlies from Dundee.” She looked at Timoteo. “You were smart to hire Mr. Claxton. Those detectives aren’t going to get far in this screwed-up atmosphere. Nobody’s going to tell them shit.”

  Timoteo nodded with a smirk.

  I took Mariana through some more questions, but that was the gist of what we learned that day. Before we left, I said, “Timoteo tells me you want to be a journalist.”

  A smile bloomed on her face. “Yeah. I know it’s like taking a vow of poverty, but that’s what I want to do. I work part-time at the News-Register reporting dumb stuff like car thefts and lost dogs.” The muscles along her jawline flexed. “But, when I get my degree, I want to become an investigative reporter, uncover bad shit, tell people the truth about what’s going on.”

  “Good,” I said. “We need journalists with the courage to do that.”

  When we got to the car, Timoteo was immediately on his phone. “Damn,” he said a few moments later, “there’s a Marlene Mathews in Ashland, but no one’s listed by that name in this area. The White Pages suck.”

  I put a call through to Nando Mendoza. Esperanza answered, and I explained what we were looking for. She promised to get back to me ASAP.

  As I pulled into the entrance to Angel Vineyard to drop off Timoteo, we saw Carlos Fuentes with a group of workers who were exiting the field to our left. He moved slowly and was slightly stooped, as if carrying some invisible load.

  I slowed down and lowered the window. “The grapes are in, but your work doesn’t end, I see.”

  He showed a thin smile. “A vineyard waits for no man.” He looked at Timoteo and back at me. “Did my son earn his salary today?”

  “Always,” I said.

  Timoteo asked, “Who’s with Mamá?”

  “Mrs. Angel.” To me, Carlos added, “Such good people. They have been a blessing.” He leveled his eyes at me. “It looks like the two men who left did not go to Wenatchee.” He frowned. “It will take more time to find them, I am afraid.”

  “Let me know the moment you hear.”

  When I pulled into the Fuentes’s driveway, I fished a card from my wallet and handed it to Timoteo. “This is the contact info for a grief counselor in Salem. A friend who’s a clinical psychologist checked him out. He’s Latino, good reputation, fluent in Spanish. You should give him a call.”

  He thanked me and took the card. “Yesterday, Mamá told Father Mallory she didn’t want him to come anymore. I don’t think a male counselor would get anywhere, but I’ll try.” He looked at me, his eyes suddenly etched in pain and anxiety. “If she abandons her faith, I’m afraid she might try to harm herself, Cal.”

  “Call the guy, talk to him. He might have some suggestions.”

  ***

  Instead of heading to the Aerie, I drove back to the spot above the vineyard on Buena Vista Drive where I thought the shooter parked the night of the murder. A mailbox marked the driveway of the old Victorian mansion I’d noticed earlier. With faded paint and overgrown foundation plantings, the house had obviously been there long before anyone thought of planting grapes on these rolling hills. A gravel drive led up to a rusted, gated fence. I stopped near the gate, and when I got out, a sixty-pound pit bull bounded off the porch to challenge me. His barking set Archie off, and I was treated to an earsplitting dog duet.

  The front door swung open, and an elderly woman with snow-white hair came out, aided by a cane. “Sugar, hush,” she growled. The dog obeyed her, and Archie followed suit. She glared at me for a moment. “You don’t look like a real estate man, but if you are, I don’t want to sell this property.”

  I smiled and showed my palms. “I’m not in real estate. How many acres you got here?”

  “Twenty-five. Been in the family since the 1880s. What do you want then?”

  “I assume you heard what happened at Angel Vineyard.”

  She recoiled at my words. “I already talked to a lady detective about that. Horrible thing. Just horrible. You with the police?”

  “No. I’m an attorney working for the Fuentes family. I—”

  “Well, I already told that detective I didn’t see or hear anything that night.”

  “No cars or anyone on foot?”

  “On foot? It was raining hard that night.” She cocked her head. “Well, there was that damn fool on a motorbike.”

  “A motorbike?”

  “Yep. Buzzed by here twice.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Around six, I’d say.”

  “Did you tell the detective about that?”

  “Nope. Thought of it just now. Should’ve, I guess.”

  “Did you get a look at the driver?”

  “No. Just heard him and caught a glimpse as he went by the second time. It wasn’t real loud, you know? That’s why I forgot, I guess.”

  I thanked the woman and backed down the drive while Sugar the pit bull looked on. I thought about calling Darci Tate but decided to wait. I wasn’t anxious to admit I was investigating a case she was working on. We were friends and all, but I didn’t know how she would take the news.

  As I pulled back out on Buena Vista, I had that feeling of satisfaction when two bits of information come together to form a solid lead. I now knew it was highly probable that the man I was looking for—the man who murdered Olivia Fuentes in cold blood—was skinny, about my height, and drove a black Kawasaki motorcycle.

  It wasn’t much, but it boosted my spirits.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The specters of my wife and Olivia Fuentes stayed in the shadows of my subconscious that night, and as a result, I woke up feeling pretty good. Archie and I were nearly to the cemetery on a jog when my phone sounded. I stopped, and when my dog pulled up, he looked back and gave me the stink eye. I opened my hands in a pleading gesture. “Come on, you know I have to take this.” I caught my breath and glanced at the screen. “Top of the morning, Esperanza.”

  “Hello, Cal. I found an address for Marlene Mathews in McMinnville.”

  I recorded it on my phone and thanked her. “I hear Nando’s back salsa dancing.”

  Her voice brightened, and I pictured a smile forming on her face. She was fond of her boss and watched over him like a mother hen. “Would you believe his new partner is his physical therapist?” Esperanza chuckled. “She was a complete novice but very coordinated and very beautiful. I watched them the other night. Nando’s an excellent teacher.”

  Timoteo was in class that day, and I was looking at an unscheduled morning. A drive by Marlene Mathews’s place wouldn’t hurt, I decided. Maybe I could confirm she lived there, and if I got lucky, see some sign that Luis Fuentes was there as well. The sun broke through after a light drizzle just before I got to the Route 18 turnoff on the Pacific Highway. Ten minutes later I passed her house, a turquoise bungalow at the south end of McMinnville with an attached double garage and a sagging, moss-laden roof. A weathered Prius sat in the driveway.

  I parked a half block down and watched in the rearview mirror for some sign of life. I didn’t have long to wait—not more than ten minutes later, a thin blond woman came out the front door, followed by a small dog and a man I recognized immediately as Luis.

  Bingo.

  They started down the street, the dog in tow. I got out, hesitated for a moment before leashing up Archie. Having my dog along might soften the encounter, I figured. I followed them to Thompson Park, a small green space edged with deciduous trees. Arch and I kept our distance as they made a lap around the park and when they stopped at a water fountain, I made my move.

  “Hello, Luis. Remember me?”

  They b
oth turned to face me as the two dogs met between us in a tense encounter. Luis’s eyes flared slightly before recognition kicked in. “At the velorio. You’re the attorney Timoteo works for.”

  “Yes. Cal Claxton. Can we talk?”

  His sculpted cheeks bore a dark stubble, and his exposed forearms were thoroughly inked. He glanced at Marlene then back at me. “How the hell did you find me?”

  “It wasn’t hard. Your family’s worried about you.”

  He cast his eyes down. “It’s not about them.” Marlene reached over and took his hand. “I have my reasons.”

  “I’m sure you do, Luis. I’m investigating your sister’s murder, and I think you can help.” I pointed toward a bench. “I have some questions to ask you. Can we sit and talk?”

  Despite Archie’s attempts at friendship, Marlene’s dog—a mixed breed that looked like a little fox—growled and bared small, sharp teeth every time my dog got near him. Luis glanced at Marlene again. Clearly his senior and almost too thin, she had straight blond hair on the dishwatery side and an angular face pinched with concern. “Go ahead, baby. Talk to him,” she said.

  Luis shrugged and marched over to the bench and sat down. Archie and I followed him. “You said you had your reasons for taking off after the funeral,” I began. “What were they?”

  He pulled a pack of cigarettes from a shirt pocket, extracted one, lit it with a lighter, and inhaled deeply. After exhaling he said, “I couldn’t stand being in the house. I mean, it was like that coffin was still sitting in the living room. I had to get away, man.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  He took another drag and studied me for a few moments before exhaling. “I, ah… I guess I was worried. Olivia was wearing my hoodie. Was she killed because of me?”

  “Do you think she was?”

  He met my eyes for the first time. “Timoteo thought so.”

  I waved a dismissive hand. “He was distraught. He doesn’t feel that way now, Luis.”