Never Look Down (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

Kelly

As Kelly hurried to class the next morning Digger rolled up next to her on his longboard, hopped off, and appraised her with beady eyes set deep and close on either side of his nose. S'up, girl? You goin' to class today?”

Kelly kept up her brisk pace, trying not to look at his zit-ridden forehead. It was hard to do, like not looking at a car wreck. “What's it look like, Digger?”

“Why not cut? I've got a couple of blunts. We could hang out at my cousin's place. He's, uh, at work.”

Kelly stopped and looked at him, her face drawn up in genuine amazement. “You're kidding, right?”

His smile slimed over. “No. I thought we could, you know, have some kicks.”

Kelly felt her skin crawl. She knew she should probably not provoke him, but she had little skill in letting people down easy. She turned and faced him full on, her anger engulfing her. “Digger, I'd rather eat a bowl of maggots than go anywhere with you.”

His face hardened, and his eyes seemed to recede into their sockets like burrowing animals. “Yeah, well, I thought we could talk about your backpack and that bitch that got snuffed, too. You must know a lot about that.”

Kelly deflected the comments without changing expression. “You don't know what you're talking about. That wasn't my backpack that cop had. Old Town's full of those blue bags and you know it.”

“So where's yours, then?”

“It got ripped off at a bus stop, you dick wad.”

“Sure it did.”

“If you don't believe me, that's your problem. Now run along on your kiddie board.”

Digger tried to smile, but it morphed into a sneer. “Okay,
bitch
, have it your way.” He mounted his board and pushed off, but not before calling Kelly every ugly and abusive term he'd learned on the street.

Kelly stood there for a moment in shock. What would the little creep do now? Would he go to the cops, or worse, Macho Dude? Or, maybe he bought her story. After all, she didn't cave in to his threats. That had to count for something, didn't it?

She must have been still visibly shaken, because when she ran into Kiyana and Zook at the park Ki said, “What's happened, baby girl? You're white as a sheet.”

After Kelly described the encounter with Digger, Zook said, “That little turd. How 'bout I bust his longboard over his head?”

Kiyana laughed. “Don't do that unless I'm there to watch, Zook.”

Kelly's heart swelled at Zook's words.
Maybe he did care, after all
. She wanted to hike up on her tiptoes and kiss him, but she resisted. The last thing she wanted was for Zook to add more fuel to the fire by confronting Digger. She said, “Hey guys, let's just cool it, okay? I can take care of myself.”

Maybe Digger was bluffing. She could hope, anyway.

Chapter Twenty-three

Cal

I was planning to swing by The Sharp Eye to talk to Nando after I left the Arsenal, but Esperanza told me he'd left for the day. I caught him by phone and by the time I reached Caffeine Central had filled him in. The tagger, K209, was still MIA. When I mentioned the lawyer, Jack Pfister, Nando said, “Yes, I know of this Pfister. His foundation helps ex-offenders find employment. Two employees in my office cleaning business were recommended by him.”

“Yeah, well, Pfister arranged a pretty decent job for Bonilla as a driver for a wealthy woman named Rosalind Jenkins. She owns a chain of gun shops on the West Coast. The one in Portland's called Bridgetown Arsenal. But Bonilla turned the job down at the last minute with no explanation. That strikes me as a little strange. I visited Pfister and the Arsenal today. All I can tell you is that both Pfister and the guy who runs the gun shop seemed to get a little heartburn when I brought Bonilla's name up.”

“Perhaps they are worried about the publicity.”

“Could be. There's something else, too. I met the woman who owns the chain. She had on a handsome pair of cowboy boots. Guess who made the boots.”

“Not the bootmaker from Estacada?”

“None other.”

Nando paused several beats. “So all roads seem to lead to this gun shop.”

“It would appear so. What about Bonilla's cause of death? Have you heard anything?”

“I checked this morning. There is a woman in the ME's office who I used to, uh, see. At the moment, the death is classified as suspicious on account of some unexplained bruises, but they have not ruled out suicide. He could have jumped off the Fremont Bridge.”

“Good work, Nando. Maybe this thing's starting to give a little. Keep digging on Cardenas, and I'll keep working the Bonilla-gun shop angle. If there's a connection, we've got to find it.”

“There's a connection, Calvin, I assure you.”

***

I spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone talking to clients and one judge with whom I was having a running dispute over a change of venue. I have to admit it felt good doing some real work—the kind that results in a check payable to me. When Archie got restless I took him out for a walk, and when I returned Tay Jefferson was standing in front of Caffeine Central.

“Hi,” she said. Her honey-brown eyes looked darker in the weak autumn light, but her smile seemed to light the street. You can tell a lot from a smile, and Tay's seemed to derive from a kind of inner peace I could only envy. Archie made a beeline for her, and she knelt down, hugged his neck, and scratched him behind the ears. “
Oh
,” she said, as she ran her finger along the ridge of a whitish scar that peeked through his fur at the base of his right ear, “what happened to cause this?”

“He, uh, was hit with a tire iron. A friend of mine who's a vet saved him. The guy that hit him is serving a life term for murder.”

When I finished the story she took Archie's head in both hands, looked him in the eye, and said, “Well, I'm not surprised you pulled through, big boy. You have a lot to live for.” Then she smiled up at me. “Esperanza told me I might find you here, Cal. You weren't picking up, so I thought I'd drop by to see if I could catch you.”

“Sorry. I was on the phone most of the afternoon. What's going on?”

She stood up and faced me. “I've done a little sleuthing myself. Thought maybe I could buy you a drink and tell you about it.”

I looked down at Arch. “I've got to feed this guy. Tell you what, why don't you join us for dinner? You like pasta?”

She accepted my invitation and followed me up the stairs to the apartment. I poured us each a glass of wine and after confirming she liked spicy food, set to work chopping garlic, cloves, onions, red peppers, Kalamata black olives, and basil on a cutting board. I was curious to hear about her “sleuthing” but saw no need to rush the conversation and apparently neither did she. After a couple of sips of wine she closed her eyes. “Umm, this is a good white. Bone dry, just the way I like it.”

I smiled and held up the bottle. “Sancerre. From the Loire Valley. They invented dry.”

She nodded. “Where did you learn to cook?”

I put a pot of water on the stove for the penne. “Self-taught. Uh, after my wife passed away I had no choice. I'd grown accustomed to good food.”

“Sorry to hear about your wife. Did that happen in L.A. when you were a DA?”

“Yeah.” I poured some olive oil into a big skillet and began heating it. “I came up here after.” I forced a smile. “You know, a new direction and all that. Where are you from?”

“I'm an L.A. refugee, too, South Central. I got a masters at UCLA and worked in counseling down there. Came up here eight years ago to take the FRC job.”

“Family down there?”

“A younger brother. He's a high school teacher.” She smiled a bit wistfully. “Our mother died of cancer when I was twelve. My brother and I wound up in foster care.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

She waved a hand. “Oh, it worked out okay. The foster parents turned out to be wonderful people. My brother and I are still very close to them.”

I poured the penne into the boiling water and sautéed the spices in hot olive oil. I then added red wine, a pinch of brown sugar, and crushed tomatoes to the sauté and let the sauce begin to simmer.

Soon the kitchen was filled with a tangy tomato aroma. Tay got up and used a spoon to taste it. “
Yum
. What do you call this concoction?”

“Arrabbiata. It's about as spicy as it gets in Italy.” While the penne cooked and the sauce simmered, I made a quick salad, sliced-up half a baguette, and opened a bottle of Sokol Blosser pinot that I'd stashed away for an undefined special occasion. A dinner with this interesting woman seemed to fit the bill.

When we were finally eating, I said, “So, tell me about this sleuthing.”

She finished chewing a bite before answering. “Well, there's been a lot of talk at the center about both Claudia and Manny, as you can imagine.”

“Is anyone connecting the two deaths?”

She shook her head. “No. I haven't heard anything like that. The police have been back asking more questions, though. Thanks to you and Nando, I'm not involved in that discussion. But I was talking to a Hispanic resident yesterday, and he let something slip.”

I stopped my fork halfway to my mouth and waited for her to continue.

“He said he wasn't surprised Manny's dead. He said when Manny was inside he was seen mixing with some bad dudes.”

“Did he give you any names?”

“One. A guy named Javier Acedo. He's known as Javi, a local banger with mucho cartel connections. Runs a lot of bad stuff from inside Sheridan.”

“How was Manny involved?”

“Don't know. My source shut up after that, like he'd already said too much. Whatever it was it wasn't obvious. He never would have gotten into the FRC program if that came to light. I have some good contacts at Sheridan. I'll do some more digging.”

I nodded. “Good.”

“There's more. Manny had another contact you should know about—a graduate student at Portland State named Brent Gunderson. He conducted a batch of interviews with some of our residents at the FRC for a project he was working on, but it seemed like he spent most of his time with Manny. I noticed it and so did Claudia.”

What kind of interviews?”

“Oh, something about correlating elements in offenders' backgrounds with their offenses. I don't know much more than that. Gunderson's working on a master's degree, I think.”

“Any idea why he zeroed in on Manny?”

“No clue. But he might be willing to talk to you.”

I jotted the name down. Tay said, “Did I hear you right? Manny was going to be the driver for some woman who owns a bunch of gun shops?”

“Yeah, it's a chain. Bills itself as family friendly. They want to be the Starbucks of gun shops. One on every corner, I guess.”

Tay groaned. “I hate guns. South Central L.A. is an armed camp.” She smiled bitterly. “I think drive-by shootings were invented there.” Her face clouded over. “A friend of my brother's got hit. He wasn't a gangbanger or anything. He was just walking down Alameda Street after school.” She closed her eyes, shook her head, and grimaced. “He, uh, the shooter used some kind of assault rifle, an AK-47 or something. James took three bullets in the neck.” She looked at me, her eyes bright in the overhead light. “It, uh, nearly decapitated him.”

“Jesus, Tay. I'm sorry.”

Her look turned angry. “A military weapon, Cal. How does a kid on the street get a military weapon? Why can't we stop that?”

I shook my head, because I didn't have a lot of answers. “Yeah, it seems like a slippery slope to me. The more we arm in this country, the more we feel we need to arm. That can only be good for the gun industry.”

The bitter smile again. Her eyes had gone from warm honey to molten rock. “Maybe that explains why the NRA stonewalls every sensible curb on ownership. Market share.”

I nodded. “Full disclosure here. I own a gun. A Glock that Nando gave me when I felt like I needed some protection. But I barely know how to load the damn thing.”

“A Glock's a handgun, right? I have no problem with someone owning a handgun. That's not the issue. Never has been as far as I'm concerned.”

We sat in silence for a long time, but it didn't seem uncomfortable. Finally, I said, “No significant other?”

“There was, but it's over now.” She gazed at the space between us for a couple of beats then looked up with an expression that made it clear the subject was closed. “What about you? Family?”

“A daughter, Claire. She's in graduate school down in the Bay Area.”

Tay raised an eyebrow. “Stanford?”

I laughed. “I won't take that personally. No. Berkeley.”

“Of course. What was I thinking? You must be very proud of her.”

“Yes, I am. She's an amazing young woman.”

Tay gave me a teasing look. “Significant other?”

“Nah, not really. I was dating a woman living in Seattle, but she, uh, it turned out she was here illegally and got deported to Russia.”

“Deported? My God, what happened?”

I waved a hand, shaking the question off. “It's a long story. Too long.”

I made us both shots of espresso and served them with squares of dark chocolate. We sipped, nibbled on the chocolate, and talked a while longer. When I walked her to her car and she turned to face me, I offered my hand. “Thanks for joining me for dinner, Tay, and thanks for the information. Keep your ear to the ground at the FRC.”

She took my hand, thanked me, then smiled and leaned forward. Her kiss was warm on my cheek. “It was my pleasure, Cal.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Kelly

Kelly returned to her perch in the building down and across from the Bridgetown Arsenal later that week, armed with a pair of cheap binoculars she'd bought at the army surplus store on Grand. A brisk east wind sifted through the building's exposed girders, making low whistling sounds as it twirled a sputtering mist in the gray light. She was cold and wet and for the first time began to question why she was doing this. The two previous afternoons, she saw nothing familiar except the family in the dark SUV with the little blond girl. They were apparently intent on honing their familial shooting skills.

As the afternoon light faded, Kelly began to work her way down the steel framing. Halfway down she saw a flash of headlights and stopped to watch as two unmarked panel trucks came down the street, pulled into the gun shop driveway, and stopped at the loading dock. She worked her way forward on a crossbeam, found a gap in the cladding that had been left unfinished, and focused her binoculars. Two men got out of the first truck, climbed the loading dock, and disappeared into the building. Two other men got out of the second truck. One came around to the back of the truck, leaned against it, and lit up a cigarette.

The other followed the first two into the building. Kelly watched him walk up the stairs at the loading dock. Her breath stopped and her spinal column began to hum like a high-voltage line. The man wasn't wearing a Bridgetown Arsenal jacket, but there was
something
about that swagger. Was it him? Was it Macho Dude? She was pretty damn sure. She waited anxiously for him to reappear.

The other three men loaded the two trucks with boxes, and the man with the swagger didn't reappear until they were done. But it was too dark by then. All Kelly saw was a shadowy figure descend the steps and get into one of the vans.
Damn, damn, damn.

After both vans pulled out, she climbed the rest of the way down and slipped away.
Was it him?
She must have asked herself that a thousand times as she sat slouched on the bus. She wasn't sure, but how else could she explain her reaction when she saw him?

***

When Kelly arrived back at the apartment Veronica called out, “That you, Kel? I'm in here.” Kelly was shocked to smell something good, something that reminded her that she hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. She followed the smells into the tiny kitchen. Veronica was turning meat in a frying pan as a pot on the stove belched steam. The mutt was curled up in a corner and when Kelly entered opened its eyes and yawned.

“Wow, smells good. What's the occasion?”

Over her shoulder Veronica said, “No occasion. I got to thinking about what you said the other day, you know, about the way we eat around here.” She turned around and smiled. “I'm frying a couple of chops and, get this, steaming some broccoli. I—”

“Look V, I'm sorry I blew up the other day,” Kelly cut in. “I was having a crappy day.”

Veronica's thick hair was pulled back and tied off, and she looked younger without her usual overdone makeup. She met Kelly's eyes. “Are you okay? Ever since that night you didn't come home, you've been a little off. I don't mean just your arm and leg, Kel.”

Kelly dropped her eyes. “I'm fine. Really.”

Veronica laid the spatula down and exhaled a breath. “Look, Kel. I hope you're not in some kind of trouble. I mean, if you bring the cops around here, we're both screwed. Don't do that to us, okay?”

“Don't worry. That's not going to happen. It's all good, V.”

The pork was a little dry and the broccoli a bit on the limp side, but they both ate with pleasure and lingered at the table afterward to talk. By this time the mutt had climbed into Veronica's lap. Kelly had to make up stories to explain why she'd been getting home so late the last several days. Finally Veronica brought up what was on both their minds. She said, “Know what day tomorrow is?”

Kelly nodded. “October twenty-fourth. The day Dad was supposed to summit.”

Veronica grimaced and shook her head. “God, I had a bad feeling about that mountain. Damn climbers, they just keep trying until they find something they can't handle, something that kills them.”

Kelly winced. “I figured he was invincible. Never dreamed he wouldn't come back.”

Veronica stroked the mutt's head. “Yeah, well, you were, what, eleven?” She sighed. “Look, Kel, I'm sorry about the way I handled the whole thing.” She studied the scratched surface of the table for a while. “I never should have taken off like that. I…I just fell apart.”

“You ran away with a tweeker, V. That's what you did.”

Veronica dropped her eyes this time. “I know. Can you ever forgive me?”

Kelly's mind flashed back to her foster home—that old bastard coming into her room that night. “I'm trying,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. She willed the tears back. “I just wish Dad were here and it was like it used to be. You know, the three of us.”

Veronica couldn't hold her tears back. “I know, Kel. I know.”

Kelly lay in her bed later that night with ten thousand thoughts and emotions careening around in her head like bumper cars. It was still drizzling outside, so a trip to her refuge was out. Veronica seemed to be trying a lot harder, she told herself, but could she trust her? She wanted to, but V ran out on her before. She could do it again. And what about the mess she found herself in? Veronica could get busted, which would mean Kelly would wind up back in foster care.
You can't let that happen, no matter what
.

Her mind kept coming back to the Arsenal and the man she saw that afternoon. Had she really recognized Macho Dude, or was she kidding herself because she wanted so badly to find him? And the crazy thing was, she'd only be able to recognize him from behind, when he was walking. She imagined a police lineup, where each subject was instructed to walk away from her. She giggled at that, despite herself.

She had no answers yet and more reasons to feel afraid than optimistic. But when she finally fell asleep that night, Kelly Spence dreamed she was off somewhere in a vast expanse of snowcapped mountains, climbing with her father.