No Witness

by Warren C Easley

  “Hello, Isabel, mind if my dog and I join you?”

  Her outsized dark glasses—which she didn’t remove—rested above a delicate nose and classic cheekbones framed by a perfectly oval face. She looked up at me and smiled. “Oh hello, Cal. Yes, of course. Please sit down.” She looked at Archie and extended a hand for him to sniff. “And who is this handsome creature?”

  I introduced her to Archie, and after learning that she loved dogs nearly as much as horses, said, “How’s Emilio?”

  A radiant smile broke out on her face, but it was gone in an instant. “He’s just fine. Thank you again for the help.” She lowered her left arm to her lap, but I could still make out some faint bruises. “How is the investigation going?” she asked in an intimate tone that seemed to reestablish the inexplicable link between us.

  I shook my head and frowned. “Frustratingly slow, I’m afraid.” She would hear about Carlos Fuentes’s arrest soon enough, so I went ahead and described the situation.

  “My heart goes out to the family,” she said when I finished. She set her jaw and drew her lips into a straight line. “I believe what you say about the father, but I would not blame him if he did kill the man who betrayed him and his family.” She paused for a moment, but I didn’t respond. “Did you learn anything of interest from my husband?”

  I shrugged. “Just that he thinks Diego Vargas is above reproach, although he did offer to encourage him to talk to me.”

  She took a small bite of salad and chewed as if thinking my comment over. Finally, she showed a wisp of a smile. “It’s not my place to mention this, but your visit did cause a reaction.” I lowered my sandwich and waited for her to continue. “Whatever you said to Gavin, it led to a shouting match between him and Diego.”

  I kept a calm demeanor. “Really? I can’t imagine why. What were they shouting about?”

  Her turn to shrug. “I don’t know for sure, but I did hear your name a couple of times. Maybe Diego didn’t want to talk to you.” She smiled again, but it was bitter. “He will probably come to you, now. My husband doesn’t lose arguments.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said before shifting focus. “I understand your husband’s quite the rugby fan.”

  A look of bewilderment. “It is popular in Chile, too, but like American football, it is such a strange game, grown men running around, smashing into each other. But, yes, Gavin is passionate about the sport.”

  “Ever see the coach of the team around, a man named Curtis Drake? He’s tall with a dark mustache and goatee.”

  “Yes, frequently. Why do you ask?”

  I ignored the question. “Does Drake ever interact with Diego Vargas?”

  She paused. “Sometimes. The three of them go places in Gavin’s Land Rover. Diego drives, of course.” She showed a faint smile. “I think Diego prefers soccer over rugby, but I don’t know this.”

  “Where do they go?”

  “I have no idea.” At this point, she looked away, revealing more of her face. Did I see the trace of a bruise under her right eye?

  She noticed the direction of my glance and adjusted her glasses. “Is Archie a Bernese mountain dog?” she asked.

  Sensing it would be counterproductive to press her, I went along with the abrupt change in subject, explaining that people often mistook Arch for a Bernese, that he was a tricolor Australian shepherd and just plain big for his breed. We talked about dogs for a while—especially a pug she had growing up in Chile named Poquito. Once the subject of her home country came up, her demeanor grew somber, reminding me of when she spoke about her horses being her refuge.

  “Do you miss Chile?” I asked, knowing I was probably picking at a scab.

  Her face softened around the edges, and she showed a wistful smile. “Your country is very nice, but yes, I miss Chile and my family.” I started to respond, but she continued, forcing the smile from wistful to cheerful. “But I have a wonderful life here.” With that, she glanced at a jeweled watch and announced she had to leave.

  I stood up. “Nice seeing you again, Isabel, and thanks for the information.” I fixed my gaze on her dark glasses, imagining her expressive brown eyes behind the opaque lenses, and then glanced down at her left forearm. “And, uh, I’m glad to see the bruises on your arm are healing. Those looked pretty angry the other day.”

  She pulled her arm back reflexively and forced another smile to cover her surprise. “Oh, that. It was nothing. Mucking stables is hard work, you know.”

  “Sure,” I answered, fixing her with a look that said I knew better. “Well, if there’s any more help I can give you, you know how to contact me.”

  She patted Archie’s head and hurried off to her red Tesla, having left half her salad uneaten. I sat back down, took a bite of my sandwich, and looked down at my dog. “Well, like the song says, ‘Every form of refuge has its price.’”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Timoteo called just as I got back to my office. “I’ve been over at the vineyard talking to the workers. They said that when Plácido heard Papi was looking for him, he took off like a rocket. He figured Papi knew something, no doubt about it.”

  “Good work,” I said. “Of course, that cuts both ways. We’re saying that Placido left the vineyard and told El Solitario he’d been discovered and that’s what got him killed. The prosecution will say that he ran because he was afraid of your father, who caught up with him at three in the morning.”

  “Yeah, I know. We’re gonna need a lot more, but it’s a start.”

  I gave him Gillian’s cell phone number and told him to relay the information. “Ask him if there’s anything else you can do for him. You’ll see, he’s a good man.”

  Timoteo agreed and went on, his voice suddenly emotional. “I also talked to Chad Angel at the vineyard. He, um, he said no way my father killed Plácido, no matter what. He told me to tell you he wants to help out financially.”

  “That says a lot about your father. I think Gillian’s committed to defending him pro bono, but give him Chad’s phone number and tell him what he said.”

  An hour later, Nando called to say he would stop by on his way down to the Spirit Mountain Casino, where he continued to have business. “Your timing’s perfect,” I told him. “There’ve been some developments, and I’ve got a lot on my mind.” A half hour later I glimpsed his gleaming black Lexus as it turned off the Pacific Highway into the driveway next to my office. Archie needed a stretch, so I took him out the back door.

  Wearing a tangerine blazer, an open-neck floral shirt, tan slacks, and fedora with a black band, Nando bent his large frame for a hands-on greeting to my dog. “Wow,” I said, “Cuban high fashion lives.”

  He looked up and smiled. “I am asking for a bigger contract at the casino. I don’t want them to think I am some communist from Cuba who will settle for a small potato.”

  I laughed at that. “I’m sure your reputation as a staunch capitalist precedes you.”

  He followed me into my office, hung his fedora on my coatrack, and took a seat while I began bringing him up to speed. When I finished describing Carlos’s situation, Nando studied me for a few moments. “You are sure this man did not avenge the murder of his daughter and the attempt on his son’s life? You always talk about the razor of Occam, and this is the simplest explanation.”

  “I know it may seem like that, but I’m convinced he’s innocent,” I answered, trying not to sound defensive. “We’ve already got a theory of how it went down, and Carlos thought he heard a motorcycle in the distance when he arrived that night.”

  A knowing smile creased Nando’s lips. “Of course. But no man could have a stronger motive.”

  A bubble of irritation formed in my gut. Nando was right, and that’s what irritated me. “Look, Carlos has a good lawyer now, and I’m free to focus on the other two cases. Trust me on this, okay?” He nodded his assent, and I began to sketch i
n the bigger picture, saying at one point, “There’s a web of connections, but no discernable pattern, let alone any sort of motive for two murders and one attempted murder. Diego Vargas is a central player. After all, he ran the cantina group, which caught Olivia’s attention in the first place. Vargas is potentially connected to Robert Harris through his boss, Gavin Whittaker. But there’s another player in this—Curtis Drake, field supervisor of the ICE holding facility in Newberg. Drake implied a legitimate ICE team had come after Luis, but that turned out to be untrue. Did he lie to me to hide a kidnap attempt? If so, he’s got to be implicated in whatever the hell’s going on.”

  Nando’s thick eyebrows raised. “How do you know he lied?”

  “Detective Tate told me. She has a reliable source in ICE. Anyway, now I find out that Drake coaches a rugby team that Gavin Whittaker sponsors, and that Drake is a regular at the Whittaker estate. In addition, he may be involved in a militant white nationalist group, although I don’t have a clue how that could fit in.” I stopped and eyed my friend.

  Nando studied his Gucci loafers for a while, then looked up. “Perhaps the spider in your web is Drake or Whittaker, not the employee, Vargas.”

  “Yeah, maybe I’ve been thinking too small. And there’s something else about Whittaker. Aside from a titanic ego, he’s physically abusing his wife, a charming Chilean woman, I’m almost certain of it.” My stomach turned a little just saying it.

  Nando’s eyes grew hard. “A man who does such a thing is capable of other atrocities. What do you want me to do?”

  “Drill down on Whittaker and Drake and an organization called Citizens for Immigration Justice, which Drake may be involved in. Find out everything you can about them. I know it’s costly, but do a complete job.”

  He shot me that look, the same one Gertie gives me. “You are not a charity organization, my friend, and neither am I.”

  I swallowed a caustic comeback. He had a point, after all, and I still owed him money from the Coos Bay case. “I know that. Don’t worry. I’m good for it.”

  “Of course you are,” he said before announcing he had to hurry off to his appointment at the casino. The last thing he said to me was, “If El Solitario killed Plácido, as you claim, he could still be in the vicinity. Error on the side of caution, my friend.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “Oh, like you did when you caught that bullet down in Coos Bay?”

  Nando tried but failed to hold an offended look. “That was different.”

  “Sure it was.”

  ***

  Lo and behold, two walk-ins appeared in my office that afternoon—a local wine merchant who was being sued by a customer who’d fallen in his parking lot and a young woman charged with her second DUI. I cheerfully booked them both at my full rate. I was interviewing the woman when a call came in from Timoteo that I let go to voicemail. When she left, I returned his call. “I’m tailing Robert Harris. He left Prosperar early and headed straight for the Acey Deucey Poker Club on 99W,” he told me. “The guy’s got a gambling problem, for sure.”

  “You’re not going in there, right?”

  “No way. The place’s too small, and I don’t know anything about Texas Hold ’em. We’ll hang here for a while, see if he comes out and goes anywhere else.” He laughed. “This surveillance thing isn’t exactly what I imagined.”

  “Be patient and don’t get careless,” I warned.

  Toward the end of the afternoon, a call from Darci Tate came in. “Dropped the charges yet?” I greeted her.

  “Give me a reason.”

  “El Solitario did it, you’ll see.”

  “I hear Ned Gillian is Fuentes’s attorney. How did you manage that?”

  “My silver tongue, how else? Seriously, Gillian stepped up. He’s taking it on pro bono.”

  “Pro bono? I thought Gillian was all about clients with big bucks.”

  “Not this time.”

  Tate paused for a moment. “I wanted to give you a heads-up. Maybe we can, ah, trade a little info.”

  I figured that was what the call was about. “You go first.”

  “We found some hairs on Ballesteros’s body that don’t belong to him. One of the hairs has a follicle attached. It’s at the state lab now.”

  My stomach dropped a little, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “I’ll advise Gillian this is coming down the pike. It won’t be Fuentes’s DNA.”

  “We’ll see, won’t we? It would be a nice-to-have for us, but we don’t need it to make the case.” Another pause. “What’s new at your end?”

  I grimaced. “Mostly nothing.” I went on to describe the connection I’d found between Curtis Drake, Gavin Whittaker, and Diego Vargas. “Seems significant, but I don’t have the slightest idea why,” I summed up. “Also, we’re quietly checking Plácido’s friends, hoping to locate some more members of Vargas’s boys’ club. And I had a chat with Whittaker. He said he’d ask Vargas to speak to me. I’ll keep you in the loop if that happens, but don’t hold your breath.” I didn’t mention the fact that we had Robert Harris under surveillance.

  The phone went quiet at both ends. Finally, Darci sighed heavily. “Jesus Christ, Cal, we’ve got all kinds of threads but no cloth.”

  “It’s early days. This thing’ll start to make sense. Keep the faith, Darci.”

  The words sounded hollow, even to me, the eternal optimist.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Since when do detectives share information with defense attorneys?” Ned Gillian asked me. I’d called him immediately after disconnecting with Darci Tate.

  I chuckled. “It’s a bit of quid pro quo. She’s also got the Olivia Fuentes investigation. We’re trying to help each other without crossing any ethical boundaries.”

  “Okay, suppose those hairs do belong to Carlos. That doesn’t prove squat. He discovered the damn body.”

  “Agreed, but they’ll argue that the hairs prove close contact, which is inconsistent with his statement. He said he walked in, saw the body, and got the hell out. No way he could have dropped a couple of hairs on Ballesteros. At least that’s what they’ll claim.”

  “Well, if they’re not Carlos’s hairs, that will help our case.”

  “Not necessarily. They’ll simply argue they were acquired randomly.”

  Gillian paused for a moment. “Does a DNA profile of El Solitario exist?”

  “Nope. Only a single fingerprint. That and the fact that he’s tall and thin. We don’t even know his nationality.”

  Gillian sighed into the phone. “Any more good news?” I told him no, and he said, “The arraignment’s tomorrow. I don’t have a date for the bail hearing, but that’s not going to go well. Since Carlos is undocumented, he’ll be considered a severe flight risk, no matter what I tell the judge about his close community ties. The bail’s going to be high.” He paused for a moment. “What in hell have you gotten me into, Cal?”

  “Hey, I never promised you a rose garden.”

  He laughed at that. “The truth is, I haven’t felt this good about what I do for a long time. And I gotta tell you, Carlos Fuentes is a good man. I believe he’s innocent.”

  ***

  Zoe Bennett pointed to a large chunk of blue basalt resting beneath a couple of smaller stones in the pile I was working from. “That one, the one on your left,” she said. “That one looks a lot better.” It was late that same afternoon and she’d wandered over to join Archie in watching me build my rock wall. Well, “build” might be too strong a word. Finding the right stone for the right place in a dry stack was not as easy as the YouTube videos, of which there were many, would have you believe.

  I picked up the suggested stone, worked it into place, and stood back with my head cocked. “Damn, you’re right. That’s a nice fit. How did you see that?”

  “I’m not just a pretty face, you know.” She laughed, a carefree sound li
ke water splashing on rock. I needed that after having just looked in on a morose Carlos Fuentes in jail. “That big, flat one to the right should go next.” Again, she was right on, and again and again.

  At one point, I said, “Hey, can I interest you in a full-time job here?”

  She laughed again. “You can’t afford me.”

  We explored every aspect of the case that afternoon and were closing in on completion of the second course of the wall when she looked at her watch. “Darn, I’ve got to run. Gertie insisted on pizza tonight, which is being delivered, and I told Hillary Angel I’d relieve her at the Fuentes’s house until Timoteo gets home.” She raised her chin slightly. “And I’m preparing tacos and black beans for him and his mother tonight.”

  “Great. Do you need any—”

  She raised a hand with a look of faux defiance. “I’ve got a good recipe and all the fixings. I can handle this.”

  “Right,” I said, failing to suppress a smile. “What could go wrong?”

  Her blue eyes grew large and flashed at me, but with a hint of a smile. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. This cooking thing can’t be that hard.”

  ***

  After a quick dinner that night, an email from Timoteo pinged in, with Surveillance on the subject line. I had to chuckle at his typical thoroughness. After leaving the poker club at 4:18, he wrote, the subject drove to the Quiet Hour Bar and Grill on NW 8th, where he stayed for an hour and eighteen minutes.

  Photos of Harris and other patrons coming and going during this time period are attached. He drove straight home after that.

  The eight attached photos didn’t reveal anything, although I strained to make out the last two, which were taken just after sunset. I was pretty sure the seventh photo was Harris leaving the bar, and the eighth image, another male, was essentially a silhouette. Something about the figure stopped me, however—the shape and posture…Could it be?