No Witness

by Warren C Easley

  Her head tilted back slightly. “Why on earth would you want to know that? As you can well imagine, our client list is highly confidential. Maintaining trust is everything, and there are HIPAA rules, as well.”

  “I fully understand that. All I’m asking for is a yes or no on association. I don’t need to know whether they’re patients or not. I’m trying to connect some dots here. It’s crucial, Sofia.”

  She looked past me and pursed her lips for a few moments. “I don’t know. I’d have to ask my staff.”

  Damn. I was afraid of that. I sat up a little straighter and leaned in. “No one must know about this except you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Is this about Robert? Is there some reason why you don’t want him to know about this?”

  I held a neutral expression as her eyes bored in on me. “I’m trying to keep this line of inquiry as confidential as possible.”

  She held her gaze on me for what seemed an age. Finally, she smiled faintly. “I’ll see what I can do.” She reached for the sheet of paper. “I have your card. I’ll call you.”

  I thanked her and started back down the hall just as Robert Harris emerged from his office. The sight of me seemed to freeze him, but only for a moment. I waved cordially with my best smile, and he nodded before hurrying down the hallway. I could only imagine what was going through his head.

  ***

  Early that afternoon, Ned Gillian stopped by the Dundee office on his way back from a meeting with Carlos Fuentes. He wore a shirt and tie, slacks, and a navy-blue blazer. I had on a pair of jeans, a no-iron shirt with the sleeves rolled, and a pair of well-worn Merrills. Timoteo was working that afternoon, and if he noticed the sartorial contrast, he didn’t let on. Since he was always neatly dressed, I knew he’d opt for the stricter dress code when he became a lawyer, and so he should.

  The three of us fell into a discussion of Carlos’s case. When I told Gillian that the police had canvassed the neighborhood where Plácido lived without finding anyone who heard a motorcycle around the time of his murder, he said, “How thorough was the canvass? Carlos is sure he heard a bike.” The tone of his last statement made it clear he believed his client.

  “Good question,” I said.

  Timoteo said, “There are Spanish speakers in that neighborhood. Maybe the cops didn’t take a translator. And I doubt they were anxious to talk to the police, anyway.” He looked at me and frowned. “Same old trust problem.”

  Gillian turned to Timoteo. “Maybe you and I could go over to Lafayette and try our luck. You could put the neighbors at ease, that this has nothing to do with ICE.”

  “He’s good at that,” I said.

  Timoteo readily agreed, and Gillian said he’d get back to him.

  ***

  Mariana Suarez arrived later that afternoon, the other half of our ad hoc surveillance team. After she greeted us and made a fuss over Archie, I said, “How’s your uncle?”

  She managed a brave smile. It was still luminous. “Thank you for asking. His morale is better, although his hearing has been postponed for at least two months.” She made a face. “So many arrests now, the system is flooded.”

  “What actions has his attorney taken?”

  Her smile brightened. “He’s filing an application for naturalization and will ask the judge to stop the deportation. Now we must show that he has demonstrated exceptionally good behavior and is a good citizen.”

  “That won’t be hard,” Timoteo said.

  She smiled a thank you, then assumed a more serious demeanor as she turned to Timoteo. “Are we on tonight for following Harris?”

  “Well, I think instead we should follow Curtis Drake for a few days, see what he’s up to after hours.” He looked at me. “What do you think?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t like it. He’s ex-military. Probably way more aware of his surroundings than Robert Harris. It’s a risk.”

  Two sets of young, eager eyes bored in on me. Mariana said, “With the telephoto lens, we can stay way back.”

  “She’s right, Cal. We can pick Drake up when he leaves the holding center and stay in the car, of course.”

  “I don’t like you using the same car again,” I countered.

  “We can take mine,” Mariana said. “No problem.”

  I exhaled a breath and showed my palms in a gesture of surrender. “Okay. Let’s see how it goes.”

  Timoteo and Mariana left that afternoon full of hope and determination. A couple of Dreamers, kids who wanted nothing more than to be allowed to create a future here. I sat back and felt a twinge of satisfaction.

  I wasn’t at all sure how this case was going to shake out, but I was damn glad I was in the fight.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  There’s no better way to start a morning in the City of Roses than with breakfast at the Bijou, a small café in Southwest, a couple of blocks off the River. The omelets weren’t made in the kitchen, they were dropped down from the cooking gods in the sky. I was sipping a coffee and perusing the menu the next morning when Nando joined me. “I could eat two horses,” he said, sitting down with his trademark smile in full wattage. “I have been up since six this morning.”

  “That’s early for you.”

  He placed a file folder on the table and rolled his eyes dramatically. “A burst pipe waits for no man. My tenant was struck by panic this morning, and Arnold, my plumber, did not respond to my calls. He is a good worker, but he drinks too much. I had to grab my tools and take care of it.”

  “One of your places in Southeast?” He nodded. I was referring to a series of rental properties he’d acquired in anticipation of the flight from inner-city Portland brought on by relentless gentrification. Nando had read the tea leaves well and to his credit provided decent housing at fair prices.

  After we ordered—an oyster omelet for my friend and a mushroom and cheddar for me—Nando opened the file. “I have taken the deep dive you wanted on both Curtis Drake and Gavin Whittaker.” He cleared his throat. “I will start with Drake. He retired as a staff sergeant in the Army four years ago. Had postings at Fort Bliss and Fort Lewis. Nothing to brag about except being a star player for the Fort Lewis rugby team. He hired on with Immigration Control and Enforcement two and a half years ago.” Nando frowned. “There was a need for people with military experience to strengthen their enforcement arm. He coaches the local rugby team and is deacon at an evangelical church near Salem.”

  “New Faith Bible,” I chimed in. “Gillian mentioned that.”

  “Yes, very devout followers of Christ but not so welcoming to immigrants.”

  “That’s very Christian of them,” I said.

  “Indeed.” Nando paused for a moment. “Here is something I found interesting—New Faith Bible is affiliated with a group called Citizens for Immigration Justice, CIJ.”

  “Gillian mentioned CIJ,” I responded. “He didn’t know much about them, except that Drake was rumored to be involved, and that they were trying to get rid of Oregon’s sanctuary status by ballot measure.”

  “Yes, that is their stated public goal, but they are into violence, too, like busting the heads at immigration rallies. The Southern Poverty Law Center has them on their short list of white nationalist hate groups.”

  “Right here in friendly Oregon,” I said. “Is Drake part of CIJ?”

  Nando nodded. “The identity of their leadership team is held in strict confidence, but I have confirmed Drake is a member. I had to dig for that.”

  I knew better than to ask him how. We kicked the Drake-CIJ connection around for a while without coming to any definite conclusions.

  Our omelets arrived along with generous servings of fried Yukon Golds and fresh coffee. We ate a few bites in silence until Nando said, “You know, Calvin, in Cuba my father used to say ‘The smell of a bad fish taints everybody at the table.’”

  “Drak
e’s a bad fish?”

  Nando smiled with uncharacteristic bitterness. “White nationalists have black hearts. Drake is involved in this case, we just don’t know how.”

  “Now tell me about Whittaker.”

  He sipped some coffee and showed the smile again. “A man who lacks decency. A man who wishes to play in the big leagues but lacks the skill.”

  “Big leagues?”

  “Capitalism, money, power. His father left him a fortune, and he has been busy most of his life squandering it. A string of high-end steak restaurants, a collection of boutique hotels in destination hot spots, an investment company, two acrimonious divorces. All big losers. Now he is betting the ranch on the cannabis industry.”

  “Interesting. I read about the cannabis play. How does it look for him?”

  Nando shook his head. “Not good. Oregon produces more than twice the weed that people use here, and more capacity is coming online. Right now, there is more than six years’ worth of supply sitting on shelves and at farms. Only big players with deep pockets will survive.”

  “Is he leveraged?”

  “Highly.”

  “How?”

  Nando pointed at me with his fork. “That is a good question, my friend. All I can tell you is that he is not financed through conventional channels. It is private money, very private.”

  “Any way to identify the source?”

  “That will be very difficult, even for me.”

  I sipped some coffee and leaned back. “Whittaker’s stretched thin financially. Anything else?”

  “He has no priors but has used nondisclosure agreements, along with generous amounts of cash, to settle at least three sexual assault cases. One involved a young intern working in his investment firm.”

  I grimaced. “What do you know about his current wife, Isabel?”

  He smiled the smile of a man with an appreciation for female beauty. “Miss Chile?”

  I nodded. “She is the daughter of Juan Francisco Torres, patriarch of one of the most prominent families in Chile, but the family has fallen on hard times. High-placed Chilean families tend to frown on marriages to outsiders. Perhaps Torres thought his daughter landed a very rich American.”

  “Or Whittaker thought he married into a wealthy Chilean family,” I said.

  “Or both,” Nando added.

  We laughed at the potential irony, although my heart went out to Isabel. I finished a last bite of omelet and sipped some coffee before saying, “Another bad fish?”

  Nando dabbed his lips with a napkin and eyed me. “Most definitely. There is plenty of badness to go around…but to what end?”

  “That’s the question,” I replied. “What does a wannabe billionaire, an ICE supervisor who’s also a sub-rosa white nationalist, a Latino driver who’s probably undocumented, and the financial manager of a nonprofit serving the immigrant community have in common?”

  My friend and I sat in silence because we had no answers.

  Chapter Forty

  From the Bijou Café I headed across town to Caffeine Central to spend a day doing pro bono work. A queue of a half-dozen people had already formed on the sidewalk, a minute fraction of the sixteen thousand homeless in the city. I tried to stay clear of the divisive politics of the homeless situation over the years, focusing instead on something I knew was needed at ground level—legal advice for a vulnerable population. Sure, it was a finger in the dike, but it was something I could do, something hands-on, tangible. As I parked and let Arch out, Sofia Leon at Prosperar came to mind. Were there enough fingers for all the holes in the dike? I wasn’t so sure.

  Like most Fridays at Caffeine Central I stayed busy until noon, then hung a sign on the front door announcing I’d reopen at one p.m. With Archie leashed up, I’d just crossed Couch Street on my way to grab a bite when I got a call. “Hello, Cal, it’s Sofia Leon.”

  I stopped dead and returned the greeting. I didn’t mention that I was just thinking about her and Prosperar.

  She cleared her throat. “I can confirm that all five names you gave me are in our database.” She paused. “That’s all I can say on the matter. Can you please tell me what this is all about?”

  “All I know at this juncture is that a person of interest in the investigation had a list of names, all Latino, including the ones I gave you. Your information makes an important connection that I really can’t go into. Please trust me on this, Sofia.”

  “Other names? Has our database been compromised?”

  “I don’t know for sure. The list was partially destroyed. I may be able to come up with a few more for you to check.”

  “Would you do that?”

  “Of course. It’ll take some time.”

  She paused. “There’s one more thing, something I probably should have told you earlier.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It came to my attention some time ago that Robert Harris had a severe gambling problem. It was a delicate situation since he handles our finances. I was reluctant to bring this to the attention of the entire board, but I did mention it to Gavin Whittaker since he’s in finance. He suggested I let him handle it. He said he’d talk to Robert, suggest counseling, that sort of thing. I went along with it.”

  “What was the outcome?”

  “It’s fine, now. Robert stopped gambling.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Gavin assured me that was the case.”

  “I see. Why are you telling me this, Sofia?”

  A long exhale. “I don’t know, I just thought you should know. Robert handles our client database. Could this be significant in some way?”

  A Rubicon moment, for sure, but I was confident I could trust her. “I’m not sure how significant it is, but I can tell you that Robert has not stopped gambling.”

  She sucked a breath. “Oh, God. What should I do?”

  “Nothing at this point, please. Just be my eyes and ears at Prosperar and above all don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, least of all Robert. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, I can. I’m counting on you to be as judicious as you can with the information you’re uncovering. Prosperar’s a fragile enterprise. It wouldn’t take much of a scandal to knock us down.”

  “Understood.”

  ***

  Portland’s explosive growth meant Friday afternoon commutes had taken on L.A. dimensions. That Friday was no exception. In fact, the traffic was so jammed up that I got off the 5 in Wilsonville and snaked along the Willamette, joining 99W in Newberg before heading south again. The reveal from Sofia Leon was churning around in my brain. I now knew that one of Diego Vargas’s young men—Eduardo Duran—was connected to Prosperar through the list Zoe and I partially reconstructed. Did Harris give him the list? I also knew that Gavin Whittaker and Robert Harris had a direct relationship. Who was lying about the gambling—Whittaker or Harris or both? Why? The answers weren’t there yet, but the web connecting the players had just gotten tighter, and Whittaker was still in the center.

  On the way through Newberg I stopped in at the police station and was lucky enough to catch Darci Tate behind her desk. “How’s it going?” I greeted her.

  She looked up from a stack of papers and managed half a smile. “Don’t ask. What’s up?”

  With Sofia’s plea still ringing in my ears, I decided to withhold what she told me. “Just checking in.”

  Darci leaned back and absently ran her fingers through her short blond hair, which was showing more dark roots. “We found the Kia Forte but no Duran.”

  “Where was it?”

  “Parking lot at Rogers Landing in Newberg, right next to the river. No sign of him. The driver’s-side door was ajar.”

  I winced. “That doesn’t sound good. You think he’s missing?”

  Darci shrugged. “The river’s cold. Hope he didn’t decide to take a
swim. If he doesn’t turn up soon, we’ll haul Diego Vargas’s ass back in and see what he has to say.” She knitted her brows together in frustration. “This investigation is on a fast track to nowhere.”

  “Nothing on the hair follicle DNA?” I asked, changing the subject to Carlos Fuentes’s arrest.

  “Nada.” She leaned forward and looked at me full-on. “Look, Cal, the DA wants this one bad. He’s getting pressure from the folks who worry about the ‘brown menace.’ You know, these vineyard workers killing each other in Yamhill County isn’t a good look.”

  I felt a wave of anger tinged with something close to nausea. “The murder of a young Latina, who’s a U.S. citizen, doesn’t worry him as much, huh?”

  She cringed a little and shrugged again. “Olivia’s case is dragging on, but he sees Carlos as a quick hit, a way to throw these people a bone. He’s up for election next year.”

  I got up to leave. “Thanks for the heads-up, Darci. I’ll pass that on to Ned Gillian.” If steam actually escaped from human ears, it would’ve happened right then and there.

  ***

  Back at the Aerie I let Archie out of the car while I opened the gate. He bounded into the yard and went straight after two deer up by Gertie’s fence line. The deer, wily veterans of my Aussie’s penchant for herding, waited until the last moment before nonchalantly hopping over the fence. He trotted back like nothing had happened. I’d seen that movie a hundred times but still had to laugh. “When are you going to learn, Big Boy?” He lowered his ears as if I’d embarrassed him, which made me feel bad. After all, I reminded myself, herding’s in his DNA.

  There was a bit of sunlight left, so I got some work done on my wall. Even without Zoe’s help, I was starting the third course and beginning to think I might actually finish the project in my lifetime. After putting my tools up, I went straight to the kitchen. Zoe was spending the evening with Elena Fuentes while Timoteo was on surveillance duty, and I’d promised to make Gertie’s dinner.

  “That smells good,” she said as she let me in her back door an hour later. Her silver-streaked hair had its luster back, and her eyes—those robin eggs—were clear and alert.