He smiled. “Funny, she was always, you know, just my kid sister’s friend, but then I got to know her. She’s pretty amazing. She’s got real substance, Cal.”
I suppressed a smile at his characterization. It was such a mature thing for someone his age to say. “I have a feeling she feels the same way about you.”
“Well, we both have serious goals we want to accomplish, so neither one of us is looking for a relationship right now.” He paused for a moment. “She, um, wanted me to ask you again about her covering this investigation for the paper.”
“You tell her to take good notes, and when we find out who hired El Solitario, she can have the exclusive. But not until then.”
***
The following morning Detective Tate dropped by my office. She looked as tired as I felt. “I figure I owe you this,” she said as she took a seat. “It turned out No Face was packing a thirty-eight and a suppressor. Got the ballistics back last night. It’s the same gun that was used to kill Olivia and in Luis’s drive-by.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“He had no ID on him, and no scars or tats. We’ve requested expedited fingerprint and DNA searches. We’ll see if the LAPD is right in claiming they have the only print of him, won’t we?” She paused, and her look told me a surprise was coming. “We also found an unmarked van tucked in off the road near the overlook. It—”
“That’s how he did it!” I said, breaking in. “Of course!”
She laughed. “Yep. It was locked up, but we lifted a print off a door handle that matched the vic’s, so we got a search warrant to open it. It’s one of those vans with a low ramp. Quick and easy to take a bike off and back on.”
I said, “He stashes the van in some unobtrusive spot, takes the bike to the hit, and then returns, puts it up, and drives off. Not bad. Registration?”
“A company in L.A. with a P.O. box. We’re checking, but it’s probably a front of some kind. We also found a burner phone in the van. Several calls to one unlisted number on it. We’re trying to pinpoint the location of the cell corresponding to that number as we speak.”
“That’s good work, Darci,” I said, then fixed my eyes on her. “He killed Plácido Ballesteros, too.”
She shrugged. “It would be a lot cleaner if he would have used the thirty-eight.”
I rolled my eyes. “What’s it going to take for you to see the light? Gillian went back to the neighborhood where Plácido was living. He found a young man who heard a motorcycle at the time of the killing, a credible witness you missed.”
She held my eyes for a moment before looking away. “Doesn’t surprise me. We didn’t get a lot of cooperation when we covered that neighborhood, you know.” She got up. “It’s not like the old days when the migrant community was more trusting.” With that, she left.
I’d already briefed Ned Gillian on the accident the day before, but I called him back to relay what I’d just heard. “If they take this to court, we’ll annihilate them,” he said when I finished. “We have a rock-solid alternate theory of the case now. Reasonable doubt abounds, baby. They’d be wise to drop the charges.” He sighed. “And I hope to hell they do. Carlos is in despair. I’m worried about him, Cal.”
When we disconnected, I sat there for a while, feeling optimism but tempered by the news about Carlos. It was no surprise, of course. Timoteo had told me the same thing.
Hang in there, Carlos, I said to myself.
***
Nando showed up right on time for an afternoon meeting we’d arranged that morning. “I have sensitive information,” he’d said on the phone, “and I prefer to give it to you firsthand. Besides, I must pay homage to the man who killed El Solitario.”
“Very funny.”
Archie announced Nando’s arrival, and when I let him in the back door, he handed me a magnum of Dom Pérignon and removed a package wrapped in white butcher paper from his briefcase. “This is for Archie, a pound of filet mignon for the hero dog.” Archie had picked up the scent of the meat and was watching the package with keen interest.
I held the champagne up. “Thanks. We’ll drink this when we nail the bastard who hired El Solitario.”
“We will come to that,” Nando said, “but first a treat for my favorite dog.” He took a pearl-handled switchblade from his pocket, opened the package, and cut off a chunk of the steak. Archie caught it on the fly and wolfed it down. Nando looked at me, his mouth agape. “I don’t think he chewed that.”
He took a seat, removed a folder from his briefcase, and crossed his legs. “I have consulted a forensic accountant down in Los Angeles who I use from time to time. He is a good man, very discreet. The finances of Whittaker Investments are, shall we say, interesting. As I told you last week, his forays into restaurants and hotels did not go well. He weathered the bankruptcies and a couple of divorces and then started Whittaker Investments. Nothing much happened for a year or two, and the question was, does Whittaker Investments have any financial clout? Suddenly, it shows up with a two-hundred-million-dollar stake in the Oregon cannabis industry.”
“Not a bank loan, I take it.”
He laughed. “Banks are unwilling to go there because of the conflicts between Oregon and federal laws. Too much risk. The cannabis industry operates primarily on a cash-only basis.”
I felt a pang of disappointment. “Nothing on his backers?”
“A few have been disclosed—wealthy friends of Whittaker’s—but the vast majority of the investment is unaccounted for. My source said that when it is this opaque, one immediately suspects the underworld.”
“Cartel money?”
“It is a good possibility. They are constantly seeking ways to launder their profits. And whatever the source, you can be sure Mr. Whittaker is under enormous pressure to service the debt.”
“Enter the motive,” I said.
“Perhaps. The cash is not flowing, and a hit man is dispatched to remedy a perceived threat to the arrangement. But kill a young woman and a couple of field hands? What arrangement? It makes no sense, Calvin.”
We sat in silence for a while. The workings of the human mind remain a mystery to me. That lurking synapse of mine must have fired again somewhere in the back reaches of my brain, because a hazy picture of the what came to me.
But I wasn’t the least bit sure, so I kept my mouth shut.
Chapter Forty-Five
A lull descended on the investigation until the following Thursday, when Darci Tate called midmorning. “We got a hit on No Face’s fingerprints. One’s a match for the print LAPD uploaded five years ago. Looks like they were right about having El Solitario’s only fingerprint.”
“We have confirmation, Houston,” I quipped. “Have you contacted them?”
“Oh, yeah. They’re excited. They can close that case, and after they compare the ballistics on the thirty-eight, maybe some more. Trouble is, nobody knows who this dude is.”
“I told you you were going to be a hero, Darci.”
She laughed. “Cut it out. Your dog gets all the credit.”
“Nothing on his DNA?”
“It isn’t in the system, but the DNA from the hair follicle we found on Ballesteros finally came in.” She paused for dramatic effect. “They’re a match.”
I sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. “Well, that’s the best damn news I’ve heard in a long time. What’s DA Thornberg’s position on Carlos Fuentes now?”
“I gave him the news, but he hasn’t said yea or nay. Gillian should get on it immediately. Thornberg hates to give up on a case.”
***
You can tell a lot about a person by the orderliness of their workspace. Take me, for example—both my offices were characterized by a kind of organized chaos, where a flat surface, any flat surface, was a good thing, because papers, books, and files could be spread out on it for quick, easy access. I’d like to
think this was less about a disorganized mind and more about a driving desire to get the next task done without wasting time and effort on trivial tasks like picking up after myself.
District Attorney Sheldon Thornberg was my polar opposite. His office was antiseptically clean and dust-free, his statute and court rules law books neatly arranged in a handsome mahogany bookcase, and his desktop held nothing but his folded hands. Appearances mattered to this man.
Since I was a key witness in the El Solitario accident, Ned Gillian asked me to sit in on a meeting he’d called with Thornberg to discuss the disposition of Carlos Fuentes. He wanted me there not to argue on his behalf but simply to underscore the cunning viciousness of the hit man. After all, I’d nearly walked into his trap. It was no stretch to believe that he stabbed Plácido Ballesteros with a pair of harvest shears.
Gillian had just taken us through his reasoning as to why Yamhill County should dismiss the charges against his client. Thornberg unfolded his hands and flicked a piece of lint off the sleeve of his coat. “An interesting argument, Ned,” he said. “Let me remind you that your client had the strongest of motives to kill Mr. Ballesteros and was seen at the scene around the time of the murder. We’re willing to concede that the victim had incidental contact with the hit man, but that—”
“Incidental contact,” Gillian interjected. “How did three of his hairs wind up on the victim’s dead body? That’s more than incidental.”
Thornberg stayed motionless, but his eyes blinked rapidly. “The victim was stabbed with an instrument familiar to Mr. Fuentes. The hit man’s weapon of choice was a thirty-eight semiautomatic.”
Gillian’s face took on some color. “Not in every case. You need to talk to LAPD. Using harvest shears was the whole point—shift the blame to the angry father who works in the vineyards. El Solitario struck at three in the morning. Who’s going to alibi Carlos Fuentes at that time—his family? It was a setup, Sheldon.”
“Nevertheless, Carlos Fuentes was there at the time of the murder.”
“His misfortune. That doesn’t mean he killed Ballesteros.”
Thornberg’s face grew rigid and impassive. “We’ve heard these arguments, and we’re not persuaded. We think this was a premeditated revenge killing, a heinous act.”
“You’re missing another fact,” Gillian said, obviously trying to rein in his temper. “I’ve identified a credible witness who will testify that he heard a motorcycle pass by his house, which is a block and a half from Ballesteros’s house. It was right around three a.m. Your investigators missed him.”
Thornberg’s eyelashes fluttered again. He would make a lousy poker player. The room grew quiet, except for the wail of a distant siren. Finally he said, “We might be willing to discuss a plea, manslaughter one.”
“A plea? Are you kidding me?” Gillian shot to his feet and looked at me. “Come on, Cal, we’re out of here.” He turned to Thornberg. “This is a travesty. See you in court, Sheldon. You’re gonna lose.”
Timoteo was waiting in the lobby of the County Building when Gillian and I came out. “How did it go?” he asked, his face filled with a mix of hope and anxiety.
“Thornberg blinked,” Gillian said. “He’s offering a plea of manslaughter.”
“Manslaughter? Papi didn’t do anything. He’ll never take a plea.”
I said, “We know that. Ned hit him with the witness you found, and Thornberg immediately offered to negotiate. That’s a good sign.”
“That’s right,” Gillian said. He faced Timoteo and grasped him by the shoulders. “We’ll let this marinate and see what Thornberg does. The guy’s a prick, but he’s not stupid. I think he’ll come around. The worst that can happen is that we’ll kick his ass in court.”
Timoteo nodded and tried to smile but failed. He knew all too well how long the case could take to get to court, and the toll the jail time would take on his father was unthinkable.
***
Back in my office later that day, I found myself wondering once again about the Plácido Ballesteros murder. Where did El Solitario get the harvest shears? He certainly wouldn’t have risked procuring them himself. I thought of the cast of characters I’d identified. One of them stood out as the potential go-between—Diego Vargas, the trusted counselor of vineyard workers, who spoke their language.
I filed that away.
That afternoon, a stiff breeze swept in and sent the cloud cover scudding northward. Archie and I headed home, and as I turned off the highway, I tried to push down the memories of the wreck and focus instead on the late-autumn beauty of the vineyards. The vines were shedding their rust-colored leaves and would soon become a vast army of stick soldiers marching in precise formation. The sight buoyed my spirits.
Back at the Aerie, I changed clothes and began working on the wall. The rocks felt like old friends, and I was soon blissfully lost in the process of finding where to put the next one. It wasn’t easy—in fact, it was damn hard—without my spotter, Zoe. When I finally finished the third course, I went up on the deck and looked down at my handiwork. I was pleased with the shape of the wall, the offset ends providing an entry point and suggesting a spiral in the making. I imagined the herbs I would plant within its boundary and how I was going to arrange them.
“This might be worth the effort,” I said to Archie.
I glanced across the field for a final time, hoping to see Zoe heading in this direction, but she didn’t appear. Just as well, I thought.
Chapter Forty-Six
One Week Later
Things went sideways for the next week. District Attorney Sheldon Thornberg continued to dither on Carlos’s murder charge, Luis’s search for more of Vargas’s boys was a bust, and the surveillance of Harris and Drake turned up nothing of importance. At least that’s what Timoteo reported back to me. Even so, I should have felt better at that point. After all, El Solitario was now dead, and I even had an inkling of what Whittaker and his crew were up to. But there were still way too many missing pieces.
I’d just gotten off the phone with a client—the one charged with a second DUI—when Darci Tate called. “A friendly heads-up,” she began. I waited. “I just got word that Thornberg is cutting Carlos Fuentes loose.”
I pumped a fist. “When?”
“Early afternoon, if they can complete the paperwork. I’m sure Thornberg’s office will contact Gillian. We’re going to close the Ballesteros murder on the strength of the hair follicle DNA and the witness that heard the getaway motorcycle.”
“That’s great news, Darci. Carlos and his family will be thrilled to hear this.” I paused before adding, “Any news on the burner phone?”
“Nope. Not yet. Our tech guys aren’t the most brilliant, but they’re working on it. Anyway, since El Solitario’s dead, no trial’s required.” She chuckled. “Thornberg’s not a happy camper. He still likes Fuentes for the murder, but he doesn’t feel he can get a conviction.”
“That figures.” I thanked Darci and immediately called Gillian.
“Yep,” he said, “I just got word. Thornberg’s no hero. He just knew he was going to lose. I’ll be at the jail at one o’clock sharp. You know the family better than I do, Cal. Why don’t you contact them?” I agreed.
“Yes!” Timoteo shouted a few moments later. “I’ll call Luis.” I told Timoteo I’d meet them at the jail.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Zoe said when I called her next. I told her I’d pick her up at twelve thirty.
***
Located a few blocks southeast of downtown McMinnville, the Yamhill County Jail was a nondescript building with very few windows. Marlene Mathews was working, but the rest of Cal’s Army gathered in the waiting area after clearing the security checkpoint. It was a subdued, I’ll-believe-it-when-I-see-it atmosphere with no smiles or high-fives exchanged. True to form, Luis seemed particularly anxious. At one twenty, he looked at Ned Gillian. “What if they
change their mind?”
Gillian shook the question off. “They won’t. The call I got was from the assistant district attorney. It’s official.”
Timoteo said, “The case against Papi was shit, even without the DNA evidence.” He glanced at Zoe. “I’m not sure she’s even missed him, but this will help Mamá’s recovery, right?”
“Oh, she’s aware that he’s gone,” Zoe responded, “but she’s blocked it out because it’s too much to deal with right now. Did you say anything to her about this?”
Timoteo showed his palms. “Oh, God, no. I wanted to make sure, first.”
“Good,” Zoe said. “It’ll be good for her. Maybe it would be best if I broke the news. What do you think?” Timoteo voiced his agreement.
After a period of silence, Mariana looked at me. “Have the police learned anything from El Solitario’s phone?”
“If they have, they haven’t told me about it.” That’s a bitter pill, I thought. I was hoping the phone would lead them back to the perpetrator.
“Why can’t they get search warrants for Whittaker, Vargas, Harris, and Drake? One of them had to be communicating with El Solitario.”
“There’s no probable cause,” Timoteo answered.
“That’s right,” I said. “There’s not enough evidence to convince a judge to sign search warrants.”
The group fell silent again, and I was left with a vague feeling of guilt, like I’d let them down somehow.
At one forty, Carlos Fuentes appeared in the lobby, escorted by a single officer and wearing the clothes he was arrested in. He looked gaunt and tired, but when he saw his boys, his demeanor brightened. They went to their father and held him in a dual hug. It was Luis, the tough guy, who broke down crying. Carlos came to me next and shook my hand with both of his, then he turned to Ned Gillian and smiled. “Thank you for being there for me. I admit I had just about given up. You make me think there is some justice after all.”
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