Never Look Down (5 page)

At the top she sat on the edge of the flat roof, hung her legs over, and breathed in the night air. As the sweat cooled her body she watched the traffic down on Sandy and began to relax.

Trouble waited for her down there on the street, but up in her domain Kelly ruled.

Chapter Eight

Cal

I love the city of Portland, but I always look forward to getting back to my Aerie in Dundee. Except for the crows, the odd coyote, and the wind in the Doug firs, it's quiet up there, and after a couple of hectic days in the city I'm ready for quiet. But that Friday night I stayed at Caffeine Central as a show of support for Nando. We were both anxiously awaiting news from Picasso. If he could tell me who K209 was, maybe we had a shot at helping find Claudia's murderer.

I changed into my jogging gear, leashed up Archie, and had nearly reached Johns Landing along the river when my phone went off. I managed a “Hello” as I struggled to catch my breath. I'd set a fast pace to clear my pipes.

“Cal? It's Picasso. You okay?”

“Yeah. I'm jogging, man. What's up?”

“I took a look at the piece over on Everett and compared it with the one on your building signed by K209. No question they were both done by the same person.”

“Good.” I waited and when he didn't continue, added, “Still no idea who it is?”

“No, not yet. Nobody I talked to knows, but they know the work. Some of the tags are pretty funny, and they're all in tough-to-reach places. My guess is you're looking for a teen—smart, angry, and a damn good climber.”

“That's got to narrow the field some. So he's a tagger, not a writer, huh?”

“Oh, he's no scribble monkey, that's for sure, but, you know, he has to produce a body of work to earn a writer designation.” Picasso chuckled. “K209's working on it. A red middle finger up on the Portland Police Bureau building, a big thumbs-up below the word graffiti about eight stories up on a brick wall near Powell's, a rifle with its barrel tied in a knot over near the Lloyd Center. That one's beautiful. I think Caffeine Central got tagged because of your reputation, Cal. You were being sent a message.”

“I like the kid's spirit, but I'm no fan of defacing public buildings.”

“Yeah, well, these kids don't have any options. Everything's off limits in Portland, man. San Francisco, Seattle, Tacoma—they all have free walls where kids can express themselves without getting arrested.”

“I doubt some free wall in Portland would've stopped that middle finger from going up. The location was the whole point.”

Picasso chuckled. “Probably, but it's hard to say.”

I sighed. Already suffering from outrage fatigue, I had no interest in another cause. “Okay, so the Portland taggers and writers are being persecuted. But right now, I want to focus on one thing—finding this kid.”

After promising to call immediately if he heard anything, Picasso rang off. When Archie and I got back to Caffeine Central I gave him his dinner, and it dawned on me how hungry I was. So I showered and we headed over to Fong Chong for some dim sum, the best in the city. The streets of Old Town bustled with energy that night, the result of the crisp, clear, and decidedly dry fall weather. It was as if the entire city was saying “Enjoy it now, the rains will come soon enough.”

Archie was in full city-dog mode, lying next to my chair at the outside table we'd scored, showing casual indifference to the goings-on, including a parade of his fellow beings and the admiration of several human passersby. I'm biased, for sure, but it's hard to beat the looks of an Aussie tricolor.

Nando called just as I finished eating. “Has Picasso located the graffiti witness?”

I sensed the strain in his voice, like he was trying to sound all business. “Not yet. But he's sure it's the same person who wrote on the wall at Caffeine Central.”

“I see. I just learned the police cut Cardenas loose.” The voice was especially deep, the words thickened by the Havana Club.

“How do you know?”

“Sources. I am told a woman came forward who claims she spent the night with him.”

I groaned. “Let me guess. Rent an alibi?”

“Indeed. I am working on getting her name.”

“And?”

“I will make an independent assessment of whether or not she can be believed. Of course, Cardenas could have hired someone to make the hit. Another avenue of inquiry. One way or the other, I will put the nail in the bastard.”

“What I keep wondering is why Claudia ever agreed to meet whoever this person is in the first place? Maybe that's another way into this thing.”

We both fell silent for a few moments. “Calvin, I appreciate your help in locating the graffiti tagger. Perhaps it would be best if you also looked at this question?” His voice broke a little. “It would be too painful for me to delve into Claudia's life right now, and maybe there are things I do not want to know.”

A small warning flag popped up in my head at this point. After all, I had a habit of agreeing to things before I really knew what I was getting myself into. But what could I say? This was for Nando, my friend.

“I'll see what I can find out,” I told him.

We spent the rest of the phone call discussing Claudia Borrego. I learned she had a mother and brother in Miami, where she earned bachelor's and master's degrees in sociology. She moved from Miami to Portland seven years earlier to take a job as a counselor at some kind of halfway house for federal prisoners.

When I asked how she was viewed in the Latino community, Nando replied, “Everyone loved her. She sang in the church choir, campaigned for the immigration bill, and the salsa dancing…” his voice broke…“ah, I was honored just to step on the same dance floor with her.”

What emerged from my friend was the portrait of a beautiful, committed human being who loved life. It's a pity life hadn't loved her back.

It was still light when I got off the phone, so Archie and I walked over to the scene of Claudia's murder, which was eerily close to Fong Chong. The cops were gone, the crime tape down. I walked into the pitted parking lot and found the chalk outline that marked where the body had lain. I looked up at the unfinished graffiti. To the right I could just make out the divots in the brick that marched up the wall, five of them. If the shooter hadn't missed, another body would have been found there. A young kid, probably. I stiffened at the thought.

The message—THERE IS NO PLA—was obviously incomplete. I was pretty sure what the finished message would have been and filled in the missing letters in my head—THERE IS NO PLANET B.

I was thankful K209 had apparently gotten away and wondered just how much the young tagger had seen that night. Could he identify the shooter, or his car perhaps? I stood there wondering about these questions, but what nagged at me most was the thought of this young person witnessing such a brutal act.

Chapter Nine

Kelly

Kelly awakened the next morning and lay staring up at the cratered, yellowed ceiling in her bedroom as she mulled over her options. She had slept fitfully and awakened feeling agitated and weighed down, as if someone had stacked a load of bricks on her chest. She could hide out in the apartment until the cops either caught the killer she'd dubbed Macho Dude or he gave up looking for her. Her sudden absence from the Old Town street scene on a Saturday would look suspicious.

It was a no-brainer. Like Rupert had advised, she would go about her business as if nothing had happened. Of course, that was a joke. Too much had happened, and she felt like she'd never be the same now.

She forced herself up and into the bathroom, which was free because Veronica had already left for the little diner on Sandy Boulevard. Veronica worked there as a waitress, but to hear her tell it she ran the place. But Kelly knew she only made minimum wage and the tips, well, they didn't amount to much, either.

Kelly stood in front of the mirror, ran a comb through her shoulder-length hair, and sighed. She hauled a dirty sheet out of the laundry basket and dragged it to the bathroom where she spread it on the floor. Then she took a pair of scissors from the bureau and began cutting her hair, the auburn strands falling onto the sheet in thick clumps. Midway through the haircut she threw down the scissors in frustration. “
Oh, this really sucks!”

She ran to her bedroom, Googled “Riot Grrrl
”
on her ancient laptop, and began scrolling through the rock bands until she found a hairstyle on some obscure bass guitarist she thought she might be able to duplicate. She carried the computer into the bathroom to use the image as a guide. Twenty minutes later she had something between a pixie and a buzz cut she could live with. To her surprise, she kind of liked the look.

Emboldened by her new look, Kelly decided to go to Old Town. She would check out the latest rumors on the street and then look up Rupert. In a gesture that surprised Kelly, Veronica had replenished their supply of bandages and antiseptic cream. To Kelly's relief she seemed to have bought the bus accident story. Kelly changed her bandages and topped up the dog's water dish on the way out. She got a growl from him for her effort.

On the way to the bus stop on Burnside, she slipped into a coffeehouse to check out
The Oregonian
. An account of the murder was in the left-hand column of the front page. Kelly's chest tightened as she read the article. If the reality of the horror she'd witnessed had receded somewhat overnight, it came back in full force. The victim now had a name, Claudia Borrego, and worst of all, a face, a beautiful face, that had been full of life and hope.

The article made no reference to a witness or a suspect. She was sure Rupert had phoned in the information. The cops didn't want Macho Dude to know all the details of what she'd seen, she decided. Then it hit her—it wouldn't just be this person looking for her. The cops would be, too. She dropped the paper and stepped back into the street.
This is really messed up,
she told herself.

An east wind from the Gorge joined the sun that morning, buffeting the bus as it crossed the river on the Burnside Bridge. She looked downriver, past the Steel and Broadway bridges, catching a fleeting glimpse of the rainbow arch of the Fremont Bridge, taunting her, it seemed. A bridge just begging to be climbed. She pushed the thought down, smiled grimly, and said under her breath, “You'll get your chance.”

The outdoor market that erupted every Saturday and Sunday along the river was booming. Tents and stalls spilled across Ankeny Plaza like multicolored islands in a sea of humanity, but Kelly saw no one she knew at the fountain. She made her way farther down the parkway to the Battleship Monument, where she saw Zook and Kiyana standing off to the side of a ragged circle of kids lounging on the grass. The thick, oily aroma of burning marijuana drifted on the breeze. Her friends were talking to a kid Kelly guessed to be a new arrival. He was bent by the weight of a huge backpack, carried a gnarled walking stick, and looked way past down-and-out, or as Rupert said, broken on the wheel of life.

The kid walked away as Kelly approached. Kiyana's eyes enlarged when she saw her friend. “What'd you do to your hair, girl?”

Kelly shrugged. “It was either this or dreads.”

Kiyana laughed. “You in dreads?
Sure
. Seriously, I like it. Shows off those pretty eyes of yours.”

Zook, who held a basketball on his hip nodded in agreement. “Cool. The Angry Fem look. Very Portland.”

Kelly shot him a look, then decided he wasn't being sarcastic. At least he noticed. “Low maintenance,” she said, and nodded at Zook's ever-present basketball. “Shoot-around today?”

“Yeah. One of the assistant coaches at Portland State invited me to come to their practice. An informal thing. I think they want to get a look at me.”

Zook was a great basketball player, but lacked both a GED and the money that would allow him to go to PSU. And he needed to stay clean. “That's great, Zook,” Kelly said, glancing at the circle of kids and waving her hand as if clearing smoke. “Um, you better stand clear of these fumes or you'll be too messed up to dribble.”

They laughed and moved upwind of the smoke. Kelly let the small talk continue for a while before asking, “You hear anything more about that woman who got murdered?”

Zook switched the basketball to his other hip. “The cops were already here. They're looking for that tagger, too.” He shook his head and whistled. “I wouldn't want to be that dude.”

“Did anyone tell them about the other guy who's asking around?”

Zook and Kiyana laughed in unison. Kiyana said, “Are you serious? Nobody's gonna do that.”

“Yeah, well, nobody seems to know shit about the tagger anyway,” Zook added.

Kelly shifted her weight to her other foot. “Have you seen Rupert?”

“Saw him doing his tai chi routine this morning,” Zook answered, “But I'll bet he's gonna be hard to find.”

“Why's that?”

Zook shook his head. “I heard Digger told the cops they should talk to Rupert, that he knows everything that goes down in Old Town. I gave the old man a heads-up, and he was pissed at what Digger told them. He wants nothing to do with the cops.”

Struggling to keep her face calm, Kelly nodded. L
eave it to that douche Digger to shoot off his big mouth
, she thought to herself. If the cops were tipped to Rupert, could Macho Dude be far behind?

As Zook headed off to practice, Kelly said under her breath, “Can you believe it, Ki? He didn't call me Sprout.”

Kiyana laughed. “I think he got the message. And I think he likes you, too.”

Kelly pushed her friend, but she couldn't contain a grin.
“Shut up.”

The two friends hung out at the monument for a while, then headed upriver to watch the kids play in the Salmon Street Fountain. It was one of their favorite pastimes. Kids playing. Parents watching. Happy families. Halfway there, two men cut them off. The older man, who carried a folder in one hand, flashed a badge with the other and introduced himself as Harmon Scott. Kelly's heart and breath stopped simultaneously.
Don't freak out.
They can't know who you are.

Scott had sympathetic eyes and didn't look like a cop. His partner was younger and trimmer with short cropped sandy hair, wraparound shades that blocked any hint of his eyes, and a stiff bearing that said nothing but “cop.”

Scott wiped his brow and smiled as a breeze ruffled his wispy hair. “You young ladies look like you know this part of town.” He opened the folder to display two large photographs. “Have any idea who did this graffiti? The tagger uses the name K209.”

Kelly struggled to find her breath as Kiyana leaned in to look at the photographs. Kiyana said, “Seen that one on Couch Street, but I don't know nothin' about who did it.”

Scott's eyes swung to Kelly, suddenly not so friendly. “How about you?” His partner shuffled his feet but kept his face like stone.

Kelly willed a blank look and shook her head. “Nah. Sorry.”

Scott looked disappointed. “We don't care whether the graffiti's legal or not. This is part of a murder investigation.” He handed them each a business card. “If you hear anything related to this tagger, please give us a call.”

As Scott and his partner strode off, the sweat that had formed in Kelly's armpits broke loose and snaked its way down her rib cage. Kiyana eyed Kelly skeptically. “You think Rupert knows who the tagger is? If we see him let's ask him.”

Kelly forced a smile. “If he knows he won't tell us, Ki.

Rupert was nowhere to be seen that afternoon. But Kelly was pretty sure she knew where to find him, at least after it got dark. She needed reassurance, and Rupert was the only person on the planet who could give her that.