No Witness
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2021 by Warren C. Easley
Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Ervin Serrano
Cover images © Luca Jedelhauser EyeEm/Getty Images, FotografiaBasica/Getty Images, David Trood/Getty Images, Xinzheng/Getty Full Prime RawImages, Full Prime Raw/Shutterstock
Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Easley, Warren C, author.
Title: No witness / Warren C Easley.
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Poisoned Pen Press, [2021] | Series: A
Cal Claxton mysteries ; book 8
Identifiers: LCCN 2020048788 | (trade paperback) | (epub)
Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3605.A777 N613 2021 | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020048788
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Excerpt from Matters of Doubt
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
This is for Barbara Peters and Robert Rosenwald,
with deepest gratitude and admiration.
“I have always found that mercy bears richer fruits than strict justice.”
—Abraham Lincoln
“We asked for workers. We got people instead.”
—Max Frisch
Chapter One
Dawn arrived as a gray streak in the dark pool of the eastern sky. I sat up in bed to watch the soft light fill the room, thinking about what happened the night before. I felt that old familiar feeling, a sense of loss, a sense that I’d screwed up a relationship one more time.
Tracy Thomas—a woman with warmth, intelligence, and drive—and I had called it quits after a year. A Portland city councilor, she’d been tapped by the governor to head up the Oregon Department of Human Services and decided to take the job. This didn’t cause the breakup, mind you, but in that swirl of reexamination, it dawned on Tracy that our relationship was lacking. I had to agree. In truth, the lack of growth was more my fault than hers, so I was beginning to wonder whether the relationship I had with my deceased wife, Nancy, was a high-water mark. After a decade of starts and stops, it was beginning to look like it.
Archie, my dog, stayed in the corner on his pad, respecting my silence. Finally, I sighed, swept off the duvet, and swung my feet over the edge of my bed. Arch was there immediately, whimpering softly and thrusting his muzzle beneath my folded hands, his customary morning greeting. I stroked his broad back before putting on a sweatshirt and pants. When I fetched my jogging shoes from the floor of the closet, he gave a couple of sharp yelps and wagged his entire backside. He was obviously much more enthused about the upcoming run than I was. Then, again, Australian shepherds need a job, and Archie’s job was to keep me in shape. He took his work seriously.
He led me down the back staircase of our old farmhouse, through the kitchen into the hall, and out the front door. I walked our long driveway and began jogging once we reached Eagles Nest Road, a stretch of worn pavement dimpled with potholes that teed into Worden Hill Road a quarter of a mile later. We headed north at the junction and up a steep incline to a pioneer cemetery at the crest of the hill.
Breathing hard at the summit, I pulled up for a moment, both hands on my hips, and turned to take in a view I never took for granted. The sun was up, and the Willamette Valley, framed by the Coast Range and the Cascades, stretched to the southern horizon, the muted patchwork reminding me of a Paul Klee painting. In the foreground, recently harvested vineyards fell away in undulating, vermillion-dappled profusion. It was fall in the Oregon wine country, and despite my failed relationship, the center seemed to be holding.
I gulped in a lungful of sweet air and clapped Archie on the back. “Okay, Big Boy, let’s kick it home.”
***
An hour and a half later I sat in my law office in Dundee, a small town twenty-five miles southwest of Portland. Perched adjacent to the Willamette River and named after the Scottish city by early settlers, Dundee was first a port and then a railway stop in the early decades of the last century. Now its fortunes were tied to the burgeoning wine
industry, which had gravitated to the gently rolling hills west of town, where reddish, iron-rich soil favored viticulture, especially for the pinot noir grape.
I was expecting a client at ten o’clock, and in the meantime was busy slogging through paperwork, including more than a month’s worth of filing that teetered in disorganized stacks on a corner of my desk and atop a filing cabinet. Not my favorite task by a long shot. Meanwhile, Archie lay in his favorite corner, patiently waiting for a walk, which usually amounted to a dash across the busy Pacific Highway to get a snack or lunch. It was nearly ten when a tentative knock sounded on my office front door, even though a sign on it read We’re open. Come on in.
“It’s not locked,” I called out over the low hum of traffic out on the highway.
A young man entered wearing a white shirt with a pen in the pocket, a solid blue tie, and a nervous look. He wasn’t the client I was scheduled to meet with. Arch stood up, cocked his head, and eyed our visitor.
“Are you Calvin Claxton?”
“I am. And you’re either a salesman or a Mormon missionary,” I said, showing a grin.
“No, neither one.” He flashed a tentative smile to let me know he got the joke. “I’m Timoteo Fuentes.” He offered his hand, and I stood and shook it. “I was, um, wondering if there’s any chance you need some help around here?”
“What kind of help?”
“An office manager or something like that? I’d be glad to fill out an application.”
“An application?” I had to chuckle. “This is a one-man operation.” I motioned toward a chair facing my desk. “Have a seat.” A few inches shorter than me, he had a crop of wavy black hair, neatly faded on the sides, dark eyebrows arched over luminous brown eyes, and a squared-off, slightly dimpled chin. He sat down as a look of disappointment spread across his face.
“What made you think of this particular law office?”
His face became animated, and he squared his shoulders. “I read about the case you handled for that kid from Coos Bay, Kenny Sanders. I admire what you did, Mr. Claxton.”
He was referring to an effort that resulted in the exoneration of a young man serving a life term for a murder he didn’t commit. “It’s Cal. Thanks. We caught a couple of breaks on that case, for sure, and I had a lot of help.”
Timoteo leaned forward in his chair, his hands planted firmly on his knees. “I want to be a lawyer, Mr. Claxton. I want to do work like that, to defend people and help change the criminal justice system for the better.” The words may have had a ring of naivete, but his jaw was set, his voice firm.
I smiled again, out of surprise this time. “Change the system from the inside, huh?”
“Yes, that’s where I want to start.” He allowed a modest smile. “Maybe politics down the road.”
I chuckled. “Well, that’s a well-worn path. Are you going to school?”
“I’m trying to finish up at Chemeketa in McMinnville. I want to get my associate degree and transfer to the University of Oregon next year. Poli-sci, then law school.”
“How are your grades?”
“Mostly A’s so far, high school, too.”
“Good work. Sounds like an excellent plan.”
“I need to save for tuition.” He leveled his eyes at me. “I’m tired of flipping burgers. I want to get some experience in the field I plan to work in.”
I leaned back in my chair and glanced at the ugly stacks of unfiled papers, but thoughts of off-loading such tasks were quickly intercepted by the practical voice residing in the corner of my brain. Help around the office would be nice, it said, but this kid has zero experience. And besides, the voice went on, after paying your bills, there usually isn’t much money left over.
The truth was, however, I hardly ever listened to that voice, and, damnit, I liked the kid’s chutzpah. “If I had any work—and I’m not saying I do—it wouldn’t be glamorous, like what you see on TV. Most lawyering is tedious, detailed work. The law’s a thing of beauty, but she’s also a complex bitch.” I stopped there to gauge his reaction.
His eyes lit up. “I don’t care. I want to learn the job from the bottom up, Mr. Clax, er, Cal.”
It was then that my ten o’clock arrived. I asked my client to take a seat and turned back to Timoteo. “Tell you what. Let me look at my caseload and see if there’s anything you could help me with.” As if to confirm my judgment, Archie sidled over to the young man, who scratched my dog’s head absently, his eyes locked on mine. “No promises, okay? And it won’t be a full-time job.”
Failing to suppress an excited smile, he said, “I’ll take whatever I can get.”
“Okay, then. Give me your contact information.”
He pulled a wallet from his back pocket, extracted a business card, and handed it to me. “Um, when do you think you might let me know?”
“I’ll need a couple of days.”
As he left, I glanced at the card, which was made of thick stock and sported embossed lettering. It read—
Timoteo Fuentes
Dreamer and DACA Recipient
College Student and Future Lawyer
503-555-4785
Chapter Two
The weather held that afternoon, so I closed up early and headed back to the Aerie, the name my daughter gave to my five-acre refuge up in the Red Hills. I was anxious to continue building a rock wall on the east side of my farmhouse using chunks and slabs of blue basalt I spotted at a landscape supply yard. The rocks had just been delivered. On an impulse—which was the way I did a lot of my buying—I purchased the whole damn pile on the spot, thinking of the dry-stack stone walls I’d seen on a trip Nancy and I had taken to New England before Claire was born. I was drawn to the aesthetic of those walls, and I’d always wanted an enclosed herb garden but had never gotten around to it. Why not do it with a cool-looking rock wall built with my own hands? The project had been on my to-do list for years, and a distraction was just what I needed.
After tapping a keyboard most of the day, the heft and rough-hewn texture of the rocks felt good in my leather-gloved hands, and the challenge of selecting and arranging them stimulated a less-used region of my brain. I’d previously finished the trenching and leveling and was halfway through laying the base course. As sweat poured off me, the gloom stemming from another failure in my love life slowly bled off, leaving my mind as calm as a pond on a windless evening.
It must have been two hours later when a piercing caw from a crow overhead stirred Arch from a doze and brought me back. I realized I’d been softly humming a Beatles tune. As the light began to fade, my dog and I headed for the house.
“Hey, Cal,” I heard a voice call out. I turned to see my neighbor to the north, Gertrude Johnson, a retired forensic accountant, and my faithful bookkeeper, who repeatedly claimed she was the reason I wasn’t living on the street. I waved and walked across an acre of field to the fence line separating our properties.
“How’s the dry-stack coming?” she asked with a wry smile as I approached. Wearing a faded flannel shirt, jeans, and boots, she stood with one hand on a hip and the other on the shaft of a rake. She’d made it clear when I started the project that low rock walls were, well, more a New England than a Northwest thing. She should know, I suppose, as a fifth-generation Oregonian. Gertie’s family had come across on the Oregon Trail just after the Civil War and settled right here in the Red Hills. It was the only home she’d ever known, ‘My pine box estate,’ she called it once. When I looked puzzled, she explained, “Someday they’ll carry me out of here in one.”
I glanced back in the direction of my afternoon’s handiwork. “I’m getting the hang of it.” I had to smile. “Not as easy as it looks.”
She laughed, crinkling the corners of her robin’s-egg-blue eyes and pushing back a lock of silver-streaked hair. “You mind splitting a few logs for me? The nights are getting cold, and I’m about out of fir
ewood.”
I agreed, of course. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for this woman—my friend, my financial advisor, and my go-to for advice on virtually anything. I led Archie through the gate, and we followed her around the barn to where she stored her firewood. Cedric, Gertie’s big, ornery barn cat, took one look at Arch and bolted. My dog ignored him, having realized long ago that a chase was exactly what the cat wanted. Normally a fast walker who covered a lot of ground with her gait, Gertie moved a bit slowly. When I teed up the first log—one I’d cut for her the year before from a fallen cedar—I noticed her face had an uncharacteristic pallor.
“You okay?” I said as I brought the ax down, sending the two halves careening in opposite directions.
“I’m fine,” she snapped back. “Just a little tired. Old age isn’t for wimps, you know.”
I laughed at that, and, as I worked the stack of rounds, I told her about Timoteo Fuentes. When I finished describing his visit, she said, “The good news is you’re starting to recover from that stint in Coos Bay, and your cash flow’s improving. The bad news is you still owe Mendoza over three thousand dollars for his work down there.” She was referring to my Portland private investigator, Hernando Mendoza, better known as Nando. He’d worked with me in the Coos Bay case and taken a bullet in the process. He hadn’t pressed me for the money or complained about getting shot, come to think of it. That’s the kind of man and the kind of friend he was.
“If you keep the kid’s hours below, say, twenty a week, you should be okay.” She laughed. “If you can train him to keep better track of your billable hours, he’ll pay for himself.”
“Creative minds like mine balk at scut work, Gertie,” I said, suppressing a smile as I put my back into a swing that halved another round.
She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Right. Trouble is, scut work puts cash in the till.”
I teed up another chunk of cedar. “Okay. Point taken. He seems to be a smart kid. He’s a Dreamer.”
Gertie looked at me. “They all are at that age.”
“No, I mean he’s undocumented, but he grew up here in the States.”