“Health food,” I said, holding a covered platter in one hand and a half-full bottle of Pascal Jolivet Sancerre in the other. “Washington cod sautéed in a bit of butter and white wine, rice pilaf, and a tomato and cucumber salad.”
While we ate, we discussed the case. “Well,” Gertie commented, “you’ve certainly identified an interesting cast of characters. And they’re all connected in one way or another to Prosperar and our friends who work the vineyards and fields around here.” She paused, smiling sardonically, when we came around to Gavin Whittaker. “Don’t know much about him, but my grandfather knew his grandfather, the timber baron. Can’t say I ever heard anything good about the Whittakers. How desperate do you think he is for money?”
I shrugged. “We’re trying to get a fix on that. According to Nando, his cannabis business isn’t the first he’s flown into the ground.”
She smiled approvingly. “You’re smart to follow the money.”
After we finished eating, Gertie changed the subject. “Zoe has become quite involved with the Fuentes family, hasn’t she?”
“To her credit, yes. She’s making real inroads with the mother, as you probably know.” I eyed Gertie carefully to judge where she was going with this. Was she disapproving of my getting her niece so involved in the case?
She smiled. “I’m proud of her and not surprised in the least. Zoe’s that kind of person.” She met my eyes. “But she’s vulnerable, too. She’s been hurt too many times.”
I held her gaze, now getting her drift. “I understand that, Gertie.”
“She’s very fond of you.”
I nodded. “She’s a wonderful person.”
My friend’s eyes narrowed, and I felt she was looking straight into my soul. “But she’ll never measure up to your wife, the woman you’ve got on a pedestal. Don’t hurt her, Cal.”
A knot tightened in my gut, and I swallowed an urge to defend myself and my intentions. Who was I kidding? She was right, and I knew it. “It’s not that kind of thing, Gertie. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt her.”
We said our good-nights shortly after that. As Archie and I crossed the field, the moon slid behind a cloud, and the great horned owl was mute. I asked myself whether I would ever escape Nancy’s ghost. The answer came back—probably not. And I was left with a feeling of emptiness.
Chapter Forty-One
With the help of my old friend Rémy Martin, I set about reconstructing more names and addresses from the scraps of paper I’d gathered at Eduardo Duran’s apartment. I wasn’t nearly as adept as Zoe, but I had two more to add to the list when she called. I let it go to voicemail, then listened to it: “Hey, it’s me. Had a really good session with Elena. I’m encouraged, Cal. Thanks for covering dinner for me. Gertie said it was great. If you want some help with the puzzle tonight, give me a call. Ciao.”
I sat there in the kitchen for a while, staring at the wall with Gertie’s words echoing in my head. Finally, I poured another glass of Rémy and went back to work. I’d pieced together three more names when Timoteo called. “Just checking in with a surveillance update. Sent you an email with photos. Got some interesting stuff, I think,” he added, his voice tinged with excitement.
I carried my cell phone into the study and logged on to my computer.
“Drake left the holding center at four thirty-five, drove south on the Pacific Highway, and turned left on Fulquartz Landing,” Timoteo went on. “We didn’t follow him in. No traffic on Fulquartz. Too risky.”
“Smart,” I said. “He was probably on his way to see Whittaker. There’s nothing else in there except crop fields and his estate.”
“That’s what we figured. Anyway, we waited near the intersection in the hopes he would come back out. Ten minutes later, guess what? Robert Harris tools up in his Z4 and turns onto Fulquartz, too.”
“Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,” I said. “Nice work.”
“It gets better. An hour and ten minutes later, Harris comes back out and heads north on the highway. After another ten minutes, Drake comes out and heads south. We followed him to the Half Moon Lounge in McMinnville. Only a handful of people came and went during the time he was in there. There was a light in the entryway, so I got some decent photos.”
I examined the photos and saw nothing of interest until I came to a shot of Drake leaving. “Who’s the blond kid?” I asked.
“Open up the next email.” I did, and Timoteo continued, “After two boring hours, he came out with that guy, early twenties at the most. They got into Drake’s car and drove to the Grant Motel further down the highway. He waited in the car while Drake rented a room. They both went in.”
I looked at the attached set of photos. They showed the two of them entering the room and leaving it. The photos were clear, the facial features well-defined. “When did they leave?”
“Fifty-eight minutes later. A quickie. What do you think, Cal?”
I exhaled a breath. “I think it’s significant there was an apparent powwow at Whittaker Landing. The fact that they would chance a meeting like that suggests they could be worried. That says we’d better be on guard. Harris saw me leaving Sofia Leon’s office today, and they might know we tried to contact Eduardo Duran. He might be missing, by the way.” I went on to explain that Darci Tate had found his car but not him.
“Holy shit, you think Duran’s been killed, too?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“You think Drake was soliciting a prostitute? He looked like a minor, too.”
“Could be just consensual sex between two adults. Who Drake sleeps with isn’t relevant to this investigation. I’m going to delete the photos.”
“Maybe it’s consensual, but the hypocrisy, Cal. I read that report from Nando. Drake’s the deacon at a church that denounces gays, that says they’re all going to hell.”
“It’s not relevant, Timoteo. We don’t need the distraction. Finding your sister’s killer and getting your father out of jail—that’s what we’re focused on.”
“Yeah, okay.”
***
That Saturday morning broke cold and wet, although the drizzle was light enough that I decided to get a run in. No fan of rain, Archie was a good sport about it, staying out ahead of me as we slogged up the hill toward the cemetery. When we got back, I fed him and made myself a light breakfast before calling Sofia Leon. “I’ve got five more names and addresses for you,” I told her.
I read off the names, and she jotted them down. “Hang on,” she said, “I’ll check these for you now. I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t know how to navigate our patient database. That’s Robert’s domain. But I figured it out.” She came back on a few minutes later. “Yes, all five are on our rolls.”
I said, “It looks like the young Latino man I told you about had a couple of pages of names from Prosperar. Can you think of any reason why he would have something like that?”
“No, I can’t think of any reason. It’s very troublesome. I need to get to the bottom of—”
“I understand that, Sofia. Can you give me some time on this before you get involved?”
She paused. “Yes, I can do that. By the way, Robert stopped by my office after you left yesterday. He was obviously fishing around to learn what you wanted with me.” She chuckled softly. “He’s not a very subtle person.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked about the investigation, how it was going.”
“How did you answer?”
“I told him you didn’t discuss the case, that you had some questions about Olivia, about her contacts in the community. Routine stuff.”
“Good thinking, Sofia.”
“Well, I wanted to ask him about his gambling, but I kept my mouth shut. He went on to warn me about you.”
“He did?”
“Yes, he said I shouldn’t talk to you. ‘Let the police run
the investigation, not some small-time lawyer from Dundee,’ he told me. ‘It could get out of control, wind up hurting our reputation.’”
“What did you say to that?”
I pictured a sly smile forming on her face. “I figured the best thing would be to go along with him. I told him that was a good point, that I hadn’t thought it through.” She paused. “Going forward, don’t come to Prosperar, Cal. Call me when you need to talk.”
I thanked her, and when we disconnected, I sat back and gave thanks for people with good judgment and a moral compass. Sofia Leon had both.
***
By midday, the Doug firs along my property line began to sway, and the light mist turned to a gentle downpour, the kind of rain that soaks in, rather than runs off. Out over the valley, a shaft of sunlight had broken through the cloud cover, igniting the slope on a section of the Coast Range in brilliant emerald green. I watched the light show from the kitchen window while eating a fried egg sandwich and drinking a glass of orange juice. It was this view that had sold me on the Aerie, a view that never got old.
Twenty minutes later, Archie and I were at my office in Dundee. I figured a quiet Saturday meant a chance to get some paperwork done. I just finished lighting the woodstove to get the chill off when I caught a glimpse of a red car turning into my driveway. I opened the back door and watched as Isabel Whittaker got out of her Tesla. Wearing dark glasses and a hooded raincoat, she moved with the fluid grace of a ballet dancer.
“Hello, Cal. Are you busy?”
“No, not at all, Isabel. Come in.”
Archie met her at the door like an old friend, and I watched as they got reacquainted. When she stood back up, she removed her glasses and placed them in a pocket of the raincoat before hanging it up. “I fell in the barn,” she said, gesturing at her face, which showed the faint remnants of a bruise under her left eye. She took my offered seat and glanced around the office at the photos and paintings I’d collected over the years. “This is lovely.” She scrunched up her brow. “So…how do you say it…so rusty?”
I smiled. “Rustic. Thanks. They’re just places in Oregon that I love.” I paused for a moment, and she waited. “What can I do for you, Isabel?”
She exhaled a breath, and her face darkened. “It’s Diego Vargas. Something is going on with him. I’m worried, and I don’t know who to talk to about it.”
Not your husband? I thought but didn’t say. “What’s the problem?”
She studied me for a moment before allowing the hint of a smile. “Why do I feel like I can trust you?”
I leaned forward. “Because you can.”
She looked away before returning her eyes to me, nodding once. “Yesterday I was at the stables rearranging the tack room. I needed to move some heavy shelves. Gavin was busy in his office, so I asked Diego to help me. He came, and we worked for a while, but he looked so…so worried, you know? And sad, I think. It’s not the first time I have noticed this. I asked him what was wrong.” Her eyes flared. “He broke down right in front of me. Tears in his eyes. A grown man. I said, ‘Is this about your son, Tito?’ He said, ‘No, no, it’s nothing,’ and apologized over and over again.”
“What’s wrong with his son?”
“He has a rare form of cancer and is undergoing an experimental treatment at OHSU. Diego learned of the study and convinced the doctors to take his son. The treatment is keeping him alive.”
“What upset him then?”
She inhaled a breath, then expelled it. “His son is undocumented, too. He was brought here by Diego as an infant after his mother died. If they are deported, Tito will surely die in Mexico.”
“Are they in danger of being deported?”
Isabel shook her head. “No. Not at this time, but I think he’s mixed up in something, something that could cause him a bad problem. I think this is what worries him. ” She paused and studied me for a few moments. “I know that you’re interested in him for your investigation, and I know Gavin brought him here for you to question. Can you tell me if you have found anything?”
“The investigation’s ongoing, and I can’t discuss it.” I felt I had to give her something, so I added, “I can tell you that Diego is still a person of interest.”
“I see. I wanted you to know this. I don’t think Diego is a bad man. He would never have hurt Olivia Fuentes, but I think someone is putting pressure on him.”
Is she reluctant to admit she suspects her husband? I asked myself. Or is she in complete denial? I said, “Have you discussed this with Gavin?”
An incredulous look bloomed on her face and faded just as quickly. “Gavin is a judgmental man. I don’t want to cause Diego a problem. He needs the job.” She met my eyes and held them. “This is why I’m speaking to you, Cal.”
It’s not denial, I realized. “Thank you for this information. Every little bit helps.” I paused, holding her gaze. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
She stood. “No, and I have to go now. Thank you for listening.”
I decided it was time to be direct. “Those bruises on your arms and your face, Isabel. Is your husband hurting you?”
Her mouth turned down, and she blanched. “No. It is what I told you.” She turned and headed for the door.
“I think he is, and I can help you. Please stay and tell me about it.” She hesitated for a moment at the door without looking back, then let herself out.
When the door clicked shut, I noticed she’d left a card on the arm of her chair. I walked over and picked it up. It read ISABEL TORRES WHITTAKER in raised gold script and listed a home number and a mobile number below her name. The home number had been crossed out with a pen, a not-so-subtle hint not to use it.
I stood there motionless for several moments, stunned. I suspected that Whittaker was squeezing Vargas, and this suggested how he might be doing it. What better leverage than to threaten the life of a man’s child, particularly a man who can’t fight back because he’s illegal? And Curtis Drake was right there to make the threat palpable. This revelation was a gift from a woman who couldn’t bring herself to directly implicate her husband. Why? Was it something in her upbringing? Was it simply stark fear? I didn’t know.
But one thing I did know—Isabel Whittaker had too much compassion and courage to keep silent.
Chapter Forty-Two
“I have to admit I was a little skeptical about the existence of a hit man from L.A. who uses a motorcycle,” Ned Gillian said, “but I’m a believer now.” He’d dropped by my office later that afternoon after he and Timoteo canvassed the neighborhood where Plácido Ballesteros was murdered. Ned wore a golf shirt, khakis, and boat shoes, his version of dressing down. “Very few people were responding, and we were about to chuck it in, when this teenage kid comes to the door. Most of the conversation was in Spanish, but the gist of it was he was up playing a video game when he heard a bike come by the night of the murder.” Gillian chuckled. “Turned out he was playing a game called Road Rash, which involves motorcycles, no less. That’s why it caught his attention. A point of irony, he said the reason he noticed it was that the bike was heavily muffled, not that it was making a lot of racket. He said very few bikes sound like that.”
“That’s exactly what I thought about the sound of the bike at the Road House the night Luis was attacked.”
“And the timing fits perfectly,” Gillian continued. “He’ll make a good witness, too. He was born here, so he won’t be shy about coming to court. It’s still surprising to me that a pro like this El Solitario would keep moving around on a bike. I mean, talk about high risk.”
“I agree. Maybe it’s arrogance. You know, big-city hit man comes to Podunk Oregon and has no respect for the local constabulary.”
Gillian showed a grim smile. “I hope that’s it. The son of a bitch is in for a surprise.” I then described my conversation with Darci Tate, relating how Eduardo Duran h
ad gone missing and that the DA’s political agenda was a key factor in the prosecution of Carlos. His smile turned bitter. “Why am I not surprised? It’s always about fucking politics. If they find Duran facedown in the Willamette, it will only strengthen our theory of the case. I mean, like Plácido Ballesteros, Duran is another one of Vargas’s boys who knows too much.”
“That’s right,” I said. “And finding that witness is another piece of the puzzle, Ned. Damn fine work.”
He smiled modestly and got up to leave, adding, “You’ve got quite an assistant, you know. Timoteo is one sharp young man. He told me he wants to be a lawyer. He’ll make a damn good one.”
“He’s a DACA recipient,” I said, “a Dreamer. He arrived here with his brother when he was four.”
“I wondered about his status.” Gillian pursed his lips and shook his head emphatically. “Is Congress ever going to get off their asses and protect those kids? Timoteo’s a smart, motivated young man, an asset. Hell, his English’s better than mine. Deport him? Are you kidding me? We need kids like him in this country.”
“We do, indeed.”
He paused at the door and turned back to me. “Oh, yeah. Almost forgot.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a paper bag. “Chanterelles. A client of mine gave me these, freshly picked at the coast. I heard you like to cook. I wouldn’t know what to do with them.”
I took the mushrooms, opened the bag, and smiled. “That makes two reasons I’m forever in your debt.”
***
It was still raining when Arch and I pulled into the Aerie late that afternoon, but the cloud cover was starting to break up, and the sky to the west looked like a bed of hot coals. I started fixing dinner to the accompaniment of some old Lucinda Williams albums. I had an impulse to check in with Zoe but immediately thought better of it. Gertie was right, I told myself for the umpteenth time.
I started warming up some chicken broth and then washed the chanterelles before gently sautéing them in butter along with some garlic and shallots. I stirred in the arborio rice and had just added white wine and thyme when I heard a soft knock at the door, one I’d come to recognize. I had an impulse not to answer. At the same time, I wanted to see her. Shit. I finally resolved the conflict by reminding myself to just stick to the business at hand. After all, Zoe had become an integral part of the investigation. That’s as far as it will go, I told myself.
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