Never Look Down (14 page)

Chapter Thirty

Cal

The week following Claudia Borrego's funeral did not go well for her ex-husband, Anthony Cardenas. I was back at the Aerie on Tuesday when Nando phoned. “Calvin,” he began, “I have good news. Kyle Kirkpatrick has admitted that he was with Sheri Daniels the night of Claudia's murder.”

“So, Cardenas' alibi's busted? That's great, Nando. Did you have a hand in this?”

He chuckled. “Yes. I convinced him Sheri Daniels was about to crack. To his credit I think he wanted to come forward all along. He is a man of conscience.”

“What about Daniels?”

I told her and her lawyer the police were more likely to believe Kirkpatrick than her, and that if she cooperated she could probably work a deal. If not, she was looking at serious jail time.” He chuckled again. “Addicts are not fond of jail time.”

The development made
The Oregonian
under the headline “Witness retracts statement in murder case.”

Archie and I came back to Portland on Thursday of that week, and as I was opening up Caffeine Central, a Portland unmarked pulled up in the yellow zone in front of the building. Harmon Scott got out and glanced at the half dozen people already queued up. He looked tired and annoyed. “Mind if I jump the line, Claxton?”

I turned to my waiting clients. “Uh, this gentleman's a police officer. I'm going to speak to him first this morning. There are plenty of seats in the waiting room. I'll get to you just as soon as I can.”

Scott followed me into my office, slumped in a chair, and began polishing his glasses on his shirtsleeve. I closed the door and looked at him. His skin was pale, even for an Oregonian, and the hollows under his eyes seemed deeper and a shade darker. “You look overworked, Harmon. Don't you ever take a break?”

He puffed a derisive breath and shook his head. “I've got the caseload from hell. I'll take a break when I'm dead.”

I flashed back to my days in L.A. when I carried a similar attitude like a badge of honor, but I knew better than to say anything to this proud, hard-working cop. “Congrats on breaking Cardenas' alibi.”

His laugh had a trace of bitterness. “You know full well who I have to thank for that.”

I flashed an innocent smile. “Who might that be?”

He rolled his eyes. “Just tell Mendoza he's done enough, okay? You both have.”

I nodded. “Are you close to an arrest?”

He chuckled without any mirth. “The case sucks. We think that tagger K209 saw the shooting. I need the kid to close this thing.”

I opened both hands. “I've tried, Harmon. He's elusive. Either that or the killer caught up with him, and the body hasn't turned up yet.”

Scott shook his head. “No reports of missing teens, but I guess we can't rule that out. You, uh, asked Picasso, right? Told him how important this is?”

“Yeah. He's checked
all
his sources. Nothing. Do you have anything else?”

He shrugged. “We got an intact .22-caliber round from the murder weapon. Brain tissue, it turns out, has a lot of stopping power. But we got no weapon to go with it. It's probably rusting somewhere in the Willamette.”

“What about the kid from the Federal Re-entry Center, Manny Bonilla? Is he tied into this thing?”

Scott met my eyes and his narrowed slightly, giving me the impression he knew I'd been snooping around. “Just find K209 for us, okay Claxton? We can handle the rest.”

***

I had a series of court appearances in McMinnville the following week that kept me at the Aerie with my head down, busy doing the kind of work that allows one to pay the bills. It was just as well because I was out of ideas and, to be honest, out of enthusiasm as well. It looked like Scott and Ludlow were closing in on Cardenas and whatever the hell was going on at the Bridgetown Arsenal, and how Manny Bonilla figured in might be better left to Richie Truax and the ATF. Sure, I still had a score to settle with the one-boot cowboy, but my bruised ribs were starting to heal. As for K209—it would be great to find him and seal the case against Cardenas, but maybe the kid didn't need rescuing. Maybe he had good reasons to stay hidden, reasons I didn't understand.

On the Thursday of that week Arch and I walked down to the mailbox to get the paper. It was a crisp, cool autumn morning, and the breeze off the valley smelled sweet and clear. The article was on the front page:

Suspect arrested in Old Town murder

In a dramatic development a police spokesman announced today that Anthony Cardenas of Portland was arrested for the murder of Claudia Borrego, also of Portland. Borrego's body was found on SW Everett St. near 3
rd
Ave. early on October 17. She had been shot in the head twice with a handgun.

Borrego had been employed as a counselor at the Federal Re-entry Center in Southeast Portland. Cardenas lists his occupation as professional gambler and is the ex-husband of Borrego. The police stated that physical evidence found at the crime scene has been linked directly to Cardenas but declined to provide details. Cardenas' attorney, Melvin Steinberg, said his client vehemently denies any involvement in the crime and looks forward to presenting his side of the story.

I put the paper under my arm and called Nando immediately, but the call went to voice-mail. When I finished up a hearing later that day in McMinnville, I swung back by the Aerie for Archie and headed for Portland. I still hadn't connected with Nando, so I drove directly to his detective agency. Looking sharp in a silk blouse, pencil skirt, and spike heels, Esperanza flashed a brilliant smile. “Hello, Cal. You heard the news?”

I gave a thumbs-up. “Sure did.” She told me to go on in. Nando was at his computer with his back to me, centered between two pictures up on the wall—one of President Obama and the other of Raul Castro. I said, “So, Cardenas is in jail.”

Nando spun around and flashed a smile that made Esperanza's look dim by comparison. “Yes, we got the bastard.” He was clean-shaven and wore sharply creased wool slacks with an expensive-looking pearl-colored V-neck sweater.

I sat down and faced him across the desk. “What broke it?”

“The science of ballistics, Calvin.”

“You mean they found the murder weapon?”

“No. Not exactly. Let me explain. A tip came in some while ago stating that Cardenas owned a second car, a vintage Thunderbird, which he kept in a garage further down on NE Thirty-third. Cardenas, it seems, had failed to mention this to the police, an unintentional oversight according to his attorney. A search warrant was executed, and a subsequent search of the rented space turned up a Sparrow silencer threaded to fit a Walther P-22. The silencer was stashed in the wheel well of the T-Bird. It was known, of course, that a .22 was used to kill Claudia. The search and what it turned up were kept quiet. Not even I had heard about it until the news broke today.”

“They found a silencer but no gun?”

Nando smiled and nodded. “Yes, that is what my source told me.”

“A silencer can't leave a ballistics signature, can it? Even I know it's bored-out to a larger diameter than the gun barrel so it doesn't touch the bullet.”

Nando smiled again. It was clear he was enjoying this. “What you say is true, but this particular silencer has a defect. It was made slightly out-of-round, which leads to the bullet touching the silencer as it leaves the gun. The scientific term is baffle strike.”

“So this baffle strike leaves a unique mark on the bullet?”

“Yes. And the ballistic work showed that the strike pattern exactly matched the one on the bullet that killed Claudia. The silencer found in Cardenas' garage was the one used in the murder of Claudia, Calvin. It is a proven fact.”

“So the actual gun's superfluous?”

“In this case, yes.”

I leaned back in my chair and frowned. “Why would Cardenas toss the gun but not the silencer?”

Nando's eyes flashed impatience. “Because he had no idea whatsoever it could incriminate him, that's why. It took a ballistics expert to do that. And silencers are not that easy to come by these days, even for criminals. Perhaps he wanted to hang on to it. It is understandable.”

“Stupid is more like it.”

“Any man who gambles for a living is stupid, Calvin.”

I sat back in my chair. “Well, that's absolutely incredible. What a break! And from an anonymous tip.”

Nando sat back as well. “Yes. I am pleased with this outcome.” He ran a hand through his hair and his face clouded over momentarily. “But it doesn't bring my Claudia back.”

That night I joined Nando for dinner at Pambiche. As usual, I got there first and had to wait as he made his customary entrance and worked his way through the tables. The going was particularly slow because everyone wanted to discuss the recent turn of events and hear Nando's take on them. After all, this was what they all wanted. Justice. Closure. Hands were shaken, cheeks were kissed, and even though the news was good, there was hardly a dry eye in the place. Such was the love that the Cuban community felt for my friend and for the woman who was to have been his wife.

It was late when I got back to Caffeine Central, but I wasn't sleepy. I leashed up Arch and started off toward the river. We hadn't gone more than a block when a light rain began to fall. As I pulled my hood up, Arch turned his head and gave me a look. “You've got a thick coat, big boy,” I told him. “You can do this.” He turned and plodded on ahead of me. At the river, a thin mist had formed, and the city lights were a smear on the water like an abstract painting.

I stopped at the Morrison Bridge and tried to clear my head. I should have felt some closure, too, but I didn't. The case against Cardenas wasn't that impressive. He had a motive and threatened the victim, had lied about his whereabouts, and at least a
part
of the weapon used to kill his ex-wife was found in his possession. As a prosecutor I would have preferred the gun, of course. But from what Nando told me, the silencer was strong physical evidence—enough for an indictment, for sure—but no slam dunk for a conviction because nothing put him at the scene. No surprise that Scott was still interested in the only apparent witness to the shooting—the tagger, K209.

But the tagger was nowhere to be found.
Let it go
, I told myself. If it's good enough for Nando and for the Portland Police it should be good enough for you.

But there were enough loose ends in this case to weave a rug. And I hated loose ends.

Chapter Thirty-one

Kelly

Kelly found out about the arrest of Anthony Cardenas as she rode the bus on the way to Granite Works. Someone had left a newspaper on the seat, and there it was—a headline—“Suspect Arrested in Old Town Murder.” She was numb for a few moments, then felt an overwhelming sense of relief. She must have made some kind of squealing noise because a man and woman sitting across the aisle both looked at her with concern. Kelly turned away to hide her eyes, which were brimming with tears. She soaked up every detail of the article and studied the head shot of Cardenas. His long, angular face was a bit unsettling for reasons she couldn't quite explain.
Don't be stupid
, she told herself, you never saw Macho Dude's face.

But her relief was short-lived when she realized there was no mention of Rupert's murder or of a second suspect. Macho Dude acted alone in Claudia Borrego's murder, but Kelly knew that a second person—the one she'd dubbed The Voice—was involved in Rupert's death. Give it some time, she told herself. Maybe this guy, Cardenas, will finger The Voice. If that didn't happen, she knew she'd have to find a way to come forward, some way that wouldn't screw everything up. She owed that to Rupert.

Despite the uncertainty Kelly whizzed through her work at the gym that morning and walked into school feeling better than she had in a long time. Class hadn't started yet, and Kelly spotted Kiyana in a corner of the room talking to the pretty Roma girl named Jaelle, who was clutching her violin case and crying. “Look, Jaelle,” Kiyana was saying, “they can't just kick you out. You have rights, girl.”

Jaelle caught a tear with her index finger. “They said we have to be out in seven days.”

Kiyana stiffened. “That's bullshit. You signed a lease, right?”

The girl, who had an olive complexion and long, flowing hair Kelly could only dream of, nodded.

“You need to go over to Caffeine Central and get some legal help,” Kiyana continued. “Dude over there named Claxton helps people like us and doesn't charge much, if anything.” When Jaelle looked hesitant Kiyana said, “Hey, I know about this guy. Trust me.” A look of pride flickered across her face. “He's helping me divorce my parents, man. Caffeine Central. It's over on Couch.”

The sun managed a showing that day just as break time came around. Kelly and Kiyana wandered over to O'Bryant Square for something to do. An old dude with long gray hair stood in the center of the square playing classical music on an acoustic guitar as an admiring crowd began to gather. Kelly said, “So you're going to do it, the divorce thing?” Kiyana had told her about her plans, but Kelly hadn't taken it too seriously.
I mean, divorce your parents?

“Yeah. The lawyer says I have a shot. It just means they can't boss me around anymore or take my money.”

Kelly knew Caffeine Central had street cred. After all, she'd tagged the building a few weeks earlier, figuring the lawyer there might get the message about the city's stupid zero-tolerance policy on graffiti. “Uh, this guy Claxton, he's cool?”

“Seems like it. We'll see.”

As they were heading back Kelly glanced around hoping to see Zook coming to class, late as usual. But he didn't show. “Know where Zook is?” she finally asked her friend.

Kiyana shook her head, and her face seemed to cloud over. “I heard he's been hanging with Sprague and those jerkwads. Thought he was playin' ball at PSU?”

“He is,” Kelly shot back as Kiyana's words gripped her heart like a cold hand. A known black-tar dealer who bragged about rolling spangers and newcomers just for the fun of it, Johnny Sprague was bad news in every possible way. Digger was in and out of that group, too. Kelly pursed her lips and shook her head. “No way he's hanging out with Sprague and his wannabes. That can't be!”

Kiyana gave her a look but didn't comment. Shortly after that, as if on cue, Digger cruised past on his longboard. He didn't say anything either, but Kelly found the look he shot her unnerving. It was the kind of look a snake might give a cornered mouse, or so it seemed to Kelly at the time.

Zook didn't show at school that day. A driving rain pocked the river as the bus carried Kelly back across the Burnside Bridge that afternoon.
Well, at least I don't have to worry about watching that damn gun shop anymore
, she told herself.
They've got one of the killers now. Surely they'll get the second one.

She wanted to believe that about as much as she wanted to believe that Digger's look didn't mean anything and that Zook hadn't fallen in with the wrong people.

Things had to start looking up, didn't they?