No Witness

by Warren C Easley

  He recrossed his arms and leaned back, struggling to appear unconcerned. “That’s all I got. Sorry.”

  As I exited the Prosperar building, I replayed the encounter in my head. I could understand a bit of defiance on Harris’s part, even the nervous tells he exhibited, seeing as how this was his third interview on a subject that was painful to him.

  But what I didn’t get was what I saw in his eyes—abject fear. Robert Harris was afraid about something, and the fear was so strong I could almost smell it.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “What’s up?” Timoteo said, returning my call as I headed back to Dundee from Prosperar. “I was giving my father a hand and didn’t have my phone on me. He’s, um, upset about his boots, but he said you told him not to worry about it. He’s not a suspect in the Ballesteros murder, is he?”

  “The police know he’s got a strong motive, but it’s clear Plácido was dead when your father discovered his body. There shouldn’t be anything to worry about, except that a cold-blooded killer’s still out there. I haven’t had a chance to ask, how’s Luis?”

  “He’s on the mend, and they’ve settled in at the house in Carlton.”

  “That was quite a drawing he sent your father. He’s got talent.”

  “I know. You should see his paintings. They’re amazing.” Timoteo went on to tell me the visit from Zoe had gone better than he’d anticipated. “She was great, Cal, and I think Papi might be okay with another visit.” He chuckled. “Particularly if it means getting a clean kitchen thrown in.”

  I told him about the potential connection between Diego Vargas and Prosperar through Gavin Whittaker, and, after I finished describing my second encounter with Robert Harris, the line when quiet for a couple of beats.

  “Is he still at Prosperar?” my assistant asked, his voice tinged with excitement.

  “Probably. He said he had a lot of work today, budget issues.”

  Timoteo exhaled. “The more I think about Olivia cozying up to that guy, the more I think he’s got to be involved, you know? I mean, she wouldn’t waste her time. And what you just told me makes me think that even more. Let me follow him, Cal, find out what he’s up to.”

  I paused. I’d gone back and forth with myself on that very idea because it had merit but could be dangerous. “I don’t like the risks at all.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Olivia was my sister, Cal. Let me do this. I’ll be careful.”

  I sighed. “Harris seemed rattled by my visit. He might do something careless. It’s worth a try, but you—”

  “I know, I know, I’ll watch it. I can cover his lunch break and when he gets off work today and tomorrow. I’ve got classes the next day, but I should be able to get to Prosperar before they leave for the day.”

  “Let’s see how it goes today, okay?” I described Harris’s silver Z4. “If he sees you, he’ll know we suspect something. Take the truck, it’ll blend in. Stay at least four car-lengths back. Get the addresses of any stops he makes, and, if possible, make note of anyone you see him talking to. Use your cell phone camera if you can.”

  He laughed. “I can do better than that. Luis has a Nikon 3500 with a telephoto lens. I’ll use that if I see anything interesting. Luis won’t mind.”

  “Sounds like you’re well prepared, not that it surprises me. Stay safe.”

  ***

  The rain didn’t materialize, so I finally suited up for a jog, much to Archie’s delight. Once we were outside, he tore down the driveway a hundred feet or so, then spun around and sat on his haunches to wait while I stretched. When I finally began jogging, he let out a high-pitched squeal, spun back around, and took off, barking with every stride.

  Out on the road, we ran into Zoe, who was also taking advantage of the sunbreak. “I heard you coming,” she said, smiling, “so I waited.” She wore a ball cap with her hair threaded through the gap in the back and rain gear.

  I laughed. “Everyone in the Red Hills heard us coming. Archie’s squeals can damage your hearing.” I pointed in the uphill direction. “We usually head up to the cemetery. Join us?”

  She agreed, and we started off with Archie leading the way. I let Zoe set the pace and stayed abreast of her. However, I quickly found her pace was at the upper range of what I could sustain, particularly after we cleared the relatively flat portion of the run and began the steep, two-and-a-half-mile climb to the summit. It wasn’t a race, but something close to it, and by the time we reached the Pioneer Cemetery, my lungs were burning, and we were both laughing.

  “Oh, so we’re stopping here?” she said, panting.

  With a hand on each knee, I managed to say, “Only to take in the view. I’m not winded, are you?”

  We both laughed, and she looked around. “I’ve been up here before. There’re some old graves in this cemetery.”

  “Yeah. The first white settlers arrived here around 1850. Free government land, although it really belonged to the Native Americans. You know, manifest destiny and all that.”

  “But the Native Americans got their casinos,” Zoe deadpanned.

  I smirked. “Of course. Such an even trade.” I looked out at the undulating hills that fell away to the south, their fall colors muted by a leaden sky. “Lots of farming was tried up here—sheep, prunes, hops, hazelnuts, you name it. But they didn’t call it the Red Hills for nothing. Volcanic soil isn’t all that fertile. Dundee never flourished until some vintners from California decided to try growing pinot noir in the early seventies.”

  “Why pinot noir grapes, anyway?”

  “They’re the grapes that made the Burgundy region’s wines legendary. Turns out the climate and soil here produce wines that rival anything made in France. Oregon pinots have a wonderful complexity.” I gave her a mock accusing look. “Like those 2012s you’re pilfering from your aunt.”

  She pushed me hard and took off down the hill. “You lie,” she shouted over her shoulder. Archie began to follow her but suddenly stopped and looked back, yelping frantically a couple of times. He was a herding dog, and his flock was becoming separated.

  “Okay, Big Boy,” I said, “I’m coming.” I began jogging just in time. If I’d waited much longer, I would’ve never caught up to Zoe Bennett that afternoon.

  ***

  I was in Gertie’s kitchen, and the Yukon Golds, carrots, and onions were browning nicely in the skillet. I sprinkled on some flour and added a cup of sauvignon blanc. The wine hissed—a sound I never tired of—and began to simmer. At the end of our jog, Zoe had begun fretting about preparing dinner. “I have some chicken thighs,” she’d said, “but I don’t know what to do with them.” I started riffing on the possibilities, which led her to finally ask, “Would you like to be our guest tonight…and do the cooking?” I told her I’d be right over as soon as I showered and fed Arch.

  I put the pre-browned chicken thighs back in the skillet along with some chicken stock, thyme, and smoked paprika, covered the pan, and placed it in a hot oven. Meanwhile, Zoe worked on a salad. While the braised chicken and vegetables roasted, I sketched in the events of the last several days for her and Gertie.

  When I finished, Gertie eyed me with the same look of despair I’d seen on Sofia Leon’s face. “Another murder in the Red Hills? And what’ve you got at this point? A madman riding around on a motorcycle, a suspicious bean counter at Prosperar, and the chauffeur of one of their board members, who’s the pied piper to some weird group of young Latinos? What the hell’s going on? It makes no sense.”

  I ran a hand through my hair and exhaled. “I know the first murder was carefully planned, and Ballesteros paid the price for having supplied the vineyard key. The attempted kidnapping of Luis Fuentes and the subsequent attempt on his life suggests he was the intended target for the first murder.”

  “But you can’t rule out Ol
ivia,” Zoe chimed in. “After all, she sent Luis to the cantina, suggesting she knew or suspected something.”

  I chewed my cheek for a moment. “That’s right, I can’t.” I swung my gaze to Gertie. “That brings me back to Prosperar. I’m looking for something big enough to motivate this kind of violence and risk-taking. I just don’t know what it is yet.” The other possibility—that the whole mess had been triggered by Carlos Fuentes’s previous cartel association—went unmentioned, of course.

  The discussion of the case wound down over dinner, which turned out pretty damn good, if I do say so myself. It didn’t hurt that I paired the chicken and vegetables with a young Carabella pinot I’d brought from my cellar. After dinner, Gertie retreated to her bedroom to watch a British whodunit on PBS.

  Zoe and I cleaned up, and then she accompanied me and Arch, who’d been dozing on the back porch, to the gate. The moon shone hazily behind a veil of clouds, and as if on cue a four-note call drifted from the Doug firs lining the east side of my property.

  “Is that an owl?” Zoe asked.

  “Yep, a great horned owl. It’s got a wingspan like this,” I said, spreading my arms as wide as they’d go. “It took up residence in those trees about the same time you showed up.”

  “A good omen,” she quipped, craning her neck as if to see the bird. The pale moonlight managed to just play off one of her pearl earrings. She’d put the pair on after our run. But who’s noticing? She turned back to me, and her demeanor became serious. “This attack on the Fuentes family is frightening, Cal. Whoever’s behind this might turn on you. I mean, you seem to be making more headway than the police. That won’t go unnoticed.”

  I shrugged in false indifference. I was worried about that, too, but the death of Olivia Fuentes touched me deeply. There would be no turning back. “Not much headway from where I sit,” I responded. “I’ve uncovered some facts, but I can’t see a pattern yet. It’s frustrating.”

  She took my hand in both of hers and squeezed. “Be careful, okay?”

  I nodded and started across the field with my dog, trying hard to ignore what had just happened. When her hands touched mine, I felt something unexpected, but this is no time for that, I told myself.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Harris likes to gamble,” Timoteo said over the phone just as I reached my front steps. “I followed him to an apartment building over by the Michelbook Country Club. I assume that’s where he lives. An hour later he came out with a woman, and they got in the Z4. The light was low, but I got a couple of decent shots.”

  “The woman was probably his girlfriend,” I said.

  “Right. Anyway, they drove off.” Timoteo laughed. “He may own a Z4, but he doesn’t drive it like a sports car. I had no trouble keeping up with him in the pickup. They drove down to the Spirit Mountain Casino.”

  “That’s interesting. Nando reported that his credit score was in the crapper.”

  “Makes sense. I put on shades and a ball cap and followed them in. Mariana went in separately, so Harris—”

  “Wait a minute, you followed him into the casino? With Mariana?”

  “Yeah. We were going to hang out before this came up and, you know, when I mentioned what I was going to do, she wanted to come along. I, um, I figured it would be better cover, you know, a couple, and she’s not going to tell anyone.”

  I paused for a moment. “Look, Timoteo, that was not a good idea. Taking someone with you? And I told you to stay in the car.”

  “Um, sorry,” he said, his voice contrite. “So Harris bought a stack of chips and—”

  “Don’t leave your car again, okay?”

  “Got it. Sorry,” he repeated. “Anyway, Harris started in at a blackjack table, the high-stakes one. His girlfriend played the slots. They left two hours later, when he’d lost all his chips. He didn’t look like a happy camper, believe me.”

  “Okay, duly noted.”

  “We’ll pick up the trail tomorrow when he gets off work. We can study while we’re waiting, so no worries.”

  After we disconnected, a shudder ran through me. Nothing can happen to those kids, I said to myself. Should I shut the surveillance down? I thought about that. No, I decided. That ship had sailed. On the bright side, I was glad Timoteo was seeing his sister’s best friend. Perhaps they could help each other heal.

  ***

  The next day, a Monday, began with a minor victory when Ned Gillian called at nine a.m. to tell me his client had taken the Chihuahua deal I’d offered. “He’s not happy about it, but I finally got him to agree.”

  “Fine. I’ll draw up the papers and send them over to you.”

  “Okay. Like I said, Cal, I owe you for this.”

  I laughed the comment off at the time, but it turned out that I would, indeed, need Ned Gillian’s help.

  The morning flew by, and at half past noon, I was having a quick sandwich over at the Red Hills Market when a call came in. “Cal Claxton? This is Gavin Whittaker. I had a message from Sofia Leon to call. What can I do for you?” He had a deep, resonant voice, and his tone was brusque.

  I swallowed a bite hurriedly. To be honest, I hadn’t expected to hear from Whittaker. “Thanks for calling. I, uh, was wondering if you could spare a few minutes. I’m working with the Fuentes family, whose daughter was murdered recently. I—”

  “Sofia said this was about my driver, Diego. I’ve already spoken to the police, but if speaking to you will further clarify the situation, fine. Diego Vargas is a good man and had nothing to do with that ghastly murder or the drive-by, I can assure you. I’m working from home today. You’re welcome to stop by. I’m free between one thirty and two.”

  ***

  An hour later, after dropping Archie at the Aerie, I turned off Riverwood Road at the Whittaker residence. The entrance was marked by massive stone pillars and an equally imposing wrought-iron gate that had Whittaker Landing scrolled across its intricate latticework. The landing was one of two large estates along that stretch of the Willamette River, both of which harkened back to the Gilded Age, if not in longevity then certainly in ostentatiousness. I announced myself at the intercom attached to one of the pillars, and the gate parted in the middle and silently swung open. Following a long drive lined with overarching alders, I came to a fork in the road. I stopped and glanced around, but there were no signs to guide me. The left fork led toward the river, which seemed the more likely route to the manor house, so I took it.

  I realized my mistake when I rounded a tight turn and came to a large, red barn with a half dozen stables and an adjacent paddock, where three sleek chestnut horses looked up at me with curiosity. Beyond the paddock, white fencing enclosed a wide field stretching to the trees along the river, where a small, brightly painted shed marked a path to the river. A set of black-and-white-striped poles, maybe twenty feet apart, sat at either end of the field—polo goals, I surmised. I pulled into a muddy parking area next to a red Tesla Model 3 and was halfway turned around when I head a woman’s voice.

  “Can I help you?” I recognized her immediately as Whittaker’s wife, Miss Chile, although she was much more beautiful than the photographs I’d seen in the newspaper. Wearing a checkered shirt with sleeves rolled up and jodhpurs tucked into well-worn riding boots, she regarded me with an appraising yet friendly expression.

  I stopped and got out smiling at her. “I, uh, think I turned the wrong way at the fork. I’m Cal Claxton. I’ve got an appointment with Gavin Whittaker.”

  Her radiant dark hair was pulled back, her soft brown eyes expressive, and the syringe she held in her latex-gloved right hand caught my attention. She returned the smile, which rivaled Nando’s in candlepower, and after confirming she was indeed Isabel Whittaker, said, “Yes, the house is to the right at the fork.” As I thanked her and started to get back in my car, she added, “Since you are here at the stables, could you spare me a few moments?” She br
ushed a lock of hair from her forehead and held up the syringe. “I am trying to vaccinate a very nervous young horse, and it is not working. I need another pair of hands. It won’t take long, I promise.”

  I noticed a line of deep bruises on her left arm that seemed to attest to her plight. “Of course.” I followed her into the barn and down to the last stall.

  “This is Emilio,” she said by way of introduction as she rolled her sleeves down and buttoned them. “He is a four-year-old quarter horse, but I am not training him to race.” Emilio eyed me suspiciously with big liquid eyes and snorted loudly. Laying the syringe on a low bench, Isabel reached into a bag and extracted a big carrot. “All you must do is hold his halter firmly and allow him to nibble this carrot. Just allow him little bites. It will calm him.”

  “Okay,” I said, and she showed me where to grip the halter before retrieving the syringe. She slapped Emilio’s neck twice and on the third stroke inserted the needle. His head kicked up, but I caught it and offered the carrot, and when he began to nibble, Isabel depressed the syringe plunger.

  “Bravo,” she cried, her eyes flashing delight. “It is done. Thank you so much.”

  She walked me to my car and, after I got in, eyed me with curiosity. “Do you mind my asking what your business is with my husband?” The question was direct and somewhat unexpected.

  I sensed an opportunity. “I’m working with the Fuentes family in connection with the murder of their daughter, Olivia. I—”

  Isabel gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth involuntarily. “Oh, my God, that was so horrible. Who would do such a thing?”

  I shook my head. “I’m working with the family to help the police in the investigation. A sort of bridge between them and the immigrant community, you might say. There’s not a lot of trust these days.”