Dead Float (21 page)

Chapter Forty-four

I drove back to the Aerie and found Hiram in the kitchen with a mug of coffee and a Richard Dawkins book he'd taken off the shelf in my study. He looked up and smiled. “You're back with no bleeding wounds. Was the foray a success?”

I shrugged. “I'm not sure. It didn't exactly go the way I drew it up.”

We chatted for a while. My friend didn't ask for details, and I didn't volunteer any. Before he left, he agreed to meet Claire and me for lunch later that day.

After Claire got up and had breakfast, she, Archie, and I took a walk down to the mailbox. Claire used her crutches, making it down and back without incident. I didn't look at the newspaper until we were back in the kitchen. There we were on page two of the Metro section, father and daughter human interest story. The article and photo had been picked up from the wire services with some modifications to play up the local angle. Mercifully, the paper left out the fact that I was a person of interest in a grisly murder and had recently been arrested for assaulting a police detective.

Later that morning Claire was out on the deck, catching some sun. “You want to venture into the metropolis of Dundee?” I asked. “I've got some work to do at the office, then we could grab lunch at the Brasserie. Bettie's dying to see you, and Hiram said he could join us.” Bettie was a dear friend. She owned the Brasserie Dundee and was crazy about my daughter.

“Sounds like a plan. It would be fun to see Doc, and Bettie, too.”

At a little past one, Claire swung herself into Bettie's restaurant as I held the door. The Brasserie was always inviting. Sunlight streamed in from high windows, mingling with a barrage of good smells—sage, garlic, chops and fish on the grill—and the low buzz of conversation amidst fresh flowers and white tablecloths. I saw several folks I knew. I'd handled a zoning dispute with the county for Mervin and Aurora Thompson. They looked up from their menus, smiled weakly and dropped their eyes. Teddy Wilcox was chatting up an anorexic-looking redhead. I'd handled his second divorce. He pretended not to see me. Only Gus Foster, another ex-client of mine, looked up and smiled with genuine friendliness. Maybe he didn't gossip or read the newspaper.

Claire and I made our way back to the booths in the bar area. Hiram was already there, talking to Bettie. When they saw us Hiram stood up, and Bettie met Claire with a warm hug. Then, holding her at arm's length she said, “You're lookin' good, hon. How's that leg of yours?”

“It's feeling better every day. Look, I can even wiggle my toes.” We all watched as she made good on her boast.

Bravo, Claire,” said a beaming Hiram, who moved in for the next hug. “We're so relieved to see you, child, but we didn't doubt for a moment that you would return to us unscathed.”

“That's the truth,” I chimed in, although I realized Hiram was being generous in his use of the word “we.” After all, it was his optimistic tone that kept my doubts from overwhelming me during Claire's ordeal. And, come to think of it, Daina had a lot to do with that, too.

“Come. We're anxious to hear about digging wells in the Darfur and all the rest of it,” Hiram continued.

“Sit yourselves down,” Bettie said. “I need to check on lunch. I'm cooking us something special.”

We settled in around my daughter and listened as she retold her story, with gentle probing from Hiram. Claire was a very private person, and I wasn't surprised when she left out the part about being nearly raped.

We talked and laughed and devoured Bettie's lunch—pan-seared sea bass served with apple-cranberry chutney, thin-cut French fries, and an arugula salad with goat cheese, pears, and walnuts. We washed it down with a bottle of Argyle reserve chardonnay. I sat there looking at my friends and my daughter, and for the first time in a long time my life seemed…well…as close to normal as it gets.

I had my phone on vibrate, and I nearly spilled my wine when it went off. I'll never get used to that feeling—like having an angry bee in your pocket. I excused myself and took the call by the bar.

“Cal? It's Philip. Can you talk, buddy?”

I could tell by his tone that this was business. “Yeah, I can talk. What's up?”

“I managed to corner Oliver Dan and his boys this morning. Man, I worry about those kids on the Rez.”

“What happened?”

“First off, I didn't like their attitude. All of sudden, they don't want to talk to me. I had to remind them I knew about them boosting the F-150.”

“And?”

“Oliver called me a ‘fucking apple', you know, red on the outside, white on the inside. Can you believe that? I mean, I love my mother, but I'm red
all
the way through, man.”

I tried to suppress a laugh, but part of it escaped through my nose. At the same time, I was alarmed. “Tell me you didn't scare them off.”

“I came close to mopping the floor with them, but I kept my cool. I told 'em I needed them to make an ID, that if they didn't cooperate, I was going to their parents. I know every one of them.”

“So, you showed them the picture of El Cuchillo?”

“Yeah. I showed them.”

I was losing my patience.
“And?”

“Not a sure thing, Cal.”

“Shit. So, what exactly did they tell you, Philip?”

“First off, Oliver was the only one who really got a look at him. He said the build was about right, and the face
could
have been a match. But the guy was a ways off and wearing a hood.

“Did he say anything else?”

“No. That was pretty much it.”

“Okay. So we can't prove Cuchillo was at the Barlow Northern train yard, at least not yet,” I said, fighting back the disappointment. Without Dan's corroboration, I could hardly go back to Escalante. “So be it. If he's still in the area, we need to figure out how to flush him out.”

“You got a plan?”

“I know someone who knows where Cuchillo's holing up.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope.” I went on to tell him about CJ Manion, the woman at the martial arts studio, and my intention to look her up in Portland later that afternoon.

“Sweet. Take good notes, because I'm dying to meet that son of a bitch Cuchillo. And Cal, watch your step. This is getting dicey.”

***

It was after four when I headed out for Portland. I'd dropped Claire off at my neighbor, Gertrude Johnson's, place. I promised to be back at Gertie's for dinner, a treat I never missed.

I parked a block and a half down from CJ's place. The bungalow had charm once but was losing the fight against time and the wet Oregon climate. Hanging by a single hinge, the front gate opened to a brick walkway encrusted with moss and bristling with weeds. The front steps felt spongy and sagged under my weight, and after ringing the doorbell several times, I gave the door a couple of sharp raps. No response. She's got to be home, I told myself. The lights are on, and the newspapers I'd seen the other day are gone.

Maybe she's in the back somewhere. I followed the driveway around the house to a one-car garage that was listing to the right about 15 degrees. I peeked in a side window. It was empty except for a Kawasaki motorcycle and some gardening tools. I approached the back door of the house, which was slightly ajar. I knocked again, harder this time. Nothing.

Through a window in the back door, I could see another door that led into a darkened basement. She's either down there, in the shower, or asleep, I concluded. I glanced at my watch, and grumbling all the way, headed back to the car, determined to wait her out.

Twenty minutes later, I stood at the back door again, after getting no response out front. I rapped hard and waited. Still no response. With frustration mounting, I eased the unlatched door open slightly and yelled into the house, “Hello in there. CJ? It's Cal Claxton. I'd like to talk to you.” That's when I heard the faint, rhythmic drone and occasional clink of a load of clothes being dried, the sound drifting up from the basement.

Laundry day.

Through the window in the back door, I could see the top of the stairs disappearing into the darkened basement. I called out again to no effect, then stood there, a bundle of indecisiveness as visions of the NanoTech disaster danced in my head. But sometimes there's no way out except through. I sighed, let myself in, and called down the stairs. “CJ? Are you down there?” Nothing came back except the sound of the dryer, louder now. But as my eyes adjusted, I saw a shadowy form lying on the steps, maybe halfway down. I flipped on the wall switch, and there she was, sprawled head first down the steps, one leg tucked under her, an arm flung to the side. The blood from CJ Manion's ravaged neck was dark but still had a reddish cast. A fresh kill.

I heard a strange noise, then realized it was my own voice. “
No. Oh, no.”

No question CJ Manion was dead. My only question was how fast could I get out of there. Being implicated in a second throat-slashing would not help my standing with Escalante and Dorn. I literally backed out, desperately wiping down the surfaces I remembered touching. Did I get all my prints? Who the hell knows?

I let myself out the door. As I came around the house a woman walking a border collie stopped and shot me a curious look. I avoided eye contact and walked past her, trying to assume an air of casualness, but I could feel the heat of her gaze on the side of my face.

You can't just leave her body lying there, my better angel argued as I drove away. The hell I can't, my self-preservation instinct countered. Pretend you weren't there. Let someone else handle it. You're in enough trouble. But no, I couldn't do that. I pulled off the I-5, bought a burner phone at a discount electronics house near the freeway, and called in the crime through the triple-folded sleeve of my windbreaker. I told them I was a neighbor who stopped by, and no, I didn't want to give my name.

I should have felt better, but I didn't. I couldn't get the image of that young woman out of my head. The viciousness of the attack, the savagery of it, was numbing. And something else bothered me even more. I felt like the slippery slope I was on just got steeper, that my life was spinning out of control.

How many more sketchy choices was I going to have to make, anyway?

Chapter Forty-five

I arrived at Gertrude Johnson's at about six-thirty. Claire met me at the door, and when I walked into the kitchen, Gertie looked up and frowned. “Good grief, Calvin. You're as pale as a ghost. Sit down and let me get you a beer.” I tossed the first beer down and asked for another. I had to summon up every scrap of willpower to hide the shock of what I'd seen in CJ Manion's basement. I kept seeing her nearly decapitated body, and the realization sank in that El Cuchillo hadn't gone anywhere. There was the guilt, too. I couldn't get away from the thought that CJ had died because of me, because of my snooping around at the martial arts studio, and I'd just left her body lying there. It was like a fresh bruise on the unhealed wound that was my conscience, or what was left of it.

Then there was the crime scene. Like a wave of nausea, the thought that I might have left behind a fingerprint, or something else incriminating, kept returning. The woman I'd encountered on the street was even more worrisome. She could probably pick me out of a lineup in a heartbeat. And what about Spiky Hair? When he hears about CJ, will he give me up?

My neighbor and friend, Gertrude Johnson, was a semi-retired forensic accountant who did the books for my law practice more out of pity than need for money. A fifth-generation Oregonian, she loved a good joke, straight Scotch, and a rough and tumble argument. She could cook like a wizard, too. So having dinner with her would ordinarily be high on my list of enjoyable things to do, but on that particular night I must have been dreadful company and insisted on leaving before she had served the pie and coffee. We said awkward good-byes and made our way home on foot across the set of fields connecting the two properties.

“Are you okay, Dad?”

“Yeah. Sure. I just drank a bit too much is all.”

“I can
see
that,” Claire said in a tone that reminded me of her mother. “I meant you seemed totally preoccupied tonight. Is something wrong?”

“Nothing,” I reassured her. “Just need some sleep.”

I slept fitfully that night, the beer triggering a pounding headache that three aspirin couldn't subdue. I got up early and went down to get the paper. There was no mention of the murder yet. Claire and Archie accompanied me to my office in Dundee, where I caught up on some paperwork while she read and Archie snoozed. I felt better that afternoon, managing to rid the garden of some weeds and throw together a more than passable dinner.

The headline in the Sunday paper read:

Woman Found Brutally Slain
in Brooklyn Neighborhood

Next to photographs of CJ and her bungalow was a composite sketch of a white male who looked an awful lot like me. The text beneath the drawing asked, “Have you seen this man?”

Anxiety spread out from the pit of my stomach like water on a dry sponge. I made a cup of coffee and drank half of it before I went back to the paper. I looked at the drawing again and felt slightly better. After all, I told myself, the sketch looked like a lot of white males out there with dark, graying hair and a full mustache. I had no prominent scars, birthmarks, or tattoos, thank God. And the sketch showed an elongated face. I had a much rounder face, like all the males in the Claxton family.

I read the article carefully. There was no specific information about the time of the murder, just the time when the body was discovered. I figured CJ must have been hit
after
she'd loaded the clothes dryer and was on her way back up from the basement. El Cuchillo probably lay in wait at the top of the stairs. Since the dryer was still going when I arrived, the murder occurred probably no more than sixty minutes earlier, at the most. That seemed consistent with the blood I'd seen, which hadn't darkened and congealed.

So, the lady with the dog could put me smack at the scene within the window of time that CJ was murdered.

I leaned back and raked the fingers of both hands slowly through my hair. I had unwittingly set myself up to be blamed for another murder, and far worse, I knew El Cuchillo was still out there, taking care of business. One thing was crystal clear—time was running out. Even if Escalante and Dorn weren't faithful readers of
The Oregonian
, I knew the composite sketch would be on its way to the Jefferson County sheriff's office. I wondered how long it would take them, or for that matter someone else who knew me, to make the connection with that sketch.

My first impulse was to put the paper away before Claire got up. Then I realized how absurd that would be. Instead I left it out on the kitchen table with my simulated mug shot in clear view. It would be a good test.

She breezed in a half-hour later, sat down, and pulled the paper to her. I watched her across the kitchen as I cooked some oatmeal. She read the front page headlines and wrinkled her nose in what I took to be a negative reaction to the grim image they conjured up. Then she went on to skim the rest of the front section. I breathed a little easier. When I served breakfast she closed the paper, glanced at the front page again, and then looked up at me.

“Now I know what you were doing yesterday afternoon,” she said, looking me square in the eye.

I stood there like a post, trying to smile while fighting back an urge to swallow.

Finally she laughed brightly. “Look at this dude, Dad. I mean, if it weren't for the skinnier face he'd be a dead ringer for you.”

I leaned over the paper and pretended to look closely at the drawing for the first time. “Are you kidding me? I'm
much
better looking than he is.”

We both had a good laugh as I sat down and we tucked into our oatmeal. Claire failed to notice that mine went uneaten.