Dead Float (24 page)

Chapter Fifty

Like a burial at sea, I finally slid off into merciful sleep, sinking to a place where light and sound no longer penetrated. It was peaceful there, until the dreams started. Visions of genocide in Darfur played across my mind like an endless documentary. Claire would appear periodically, holding a shovel and saying, “I came here to dig wells, not bury people.”

Then I was fishing in the Deschutes. The nearly decapitated bodies of Bruckner and Manion floated by. I vomited into the clear water. Next, I was leading the NanoTech execs up a steep ravine adjacent to the river. They were grim-faced and silent, riding pack animals. I stopped and pointed to a sign at the top of the ravine, like the famous icon in the Hollywood Hills, except the sign read,
Fac Ut Gaudeam.
I looked back and realized Pitman and Hannon were riding sleek, muscular horses, but Streeter was on an old, broken-down mule that could barely support him.

I awoke at a little after four. It was like coming out of a coma. I snapped on the light and sat slouched on the edge of my bed, scratching my head with both hands. The dreams had been stark and vivid, like black and white movies. And I couldn't get that last one out of my head. It had to mean
something
. But what?

Why the hell was Streeter riding a mule, while the other two were on horses? And the Latin? What was that all about?

I sat there, sifting back through the last dream and getting nowhere, haunted by the feeling I was missing something. I needed somebody to talk to, and it wasn't going to be Claire. I'd already told her more than I wanted to.

I thought of someone but still wasn't sure I wanted to risk it. As if he'd read my mind, Archie came over, put his chin on my knee, and looked up at me with his big, coppery eyes. I stroked his head and scratched him gently behind his ears. “You trust her, don't you, big fella.” He whimpered a couple of times and wagged his tale. I sat there turning that over in my mind, absently running my fingers through the fur of his broad back.

He looked up at me again. “Okay,” I said, “you win.” I picked up my cell phone and called Daina.

“Hullo,” she answered on the eighth ring, her voice thick with sleep.

“Daina, it's Cal. I'm sorry I woke you.”

“That's okay.” Something about her tone made me feel as if my call was not unexpected. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. Listen, does your offer to help me still stand?”

She chuckled. “Yes, but I'm not filching any more files for you.”

“No, no, nothing like that. Uh, I've had a helluva night, and I need help sorting it out.”

“I'm glad you feel like you can talk to me, Cal. What's happened?”

“I had a chat with Mitch Hannon at a little bar in Newberg last night.”

“How did
that
happen?”

“Alexis told him to call me. She says they're all business now, no more hanky-panky. Anyway, I question whether Hannon would ever hurt his uncle.” I paused here to see if Daina would comment.

She went silent for a few moments, and I could hear her breathing. “Well, I can tell you that Hannon seemed genuinely grief-stricken over his uncle's death. To tell the truth, Alexis was distraught, too. It's hard to fake something like that.”

And put it by
you
, I said to myself. I went on to tell her about the discussion at the bar, Hannon's suspicion that Duane Pitman was behind the murder, and his offer to hire a detective to work with me.

“I'm not surprised Hannon wants this wrapped up,” Daina responded when I'd finished. “The NanoTech public offering is hanging in the balance.”

“What about Pitman? Are you in Hannon's camp?”

She sighed deeply. “All I can tell you is that when I'm around him, my skin crawls. He broke into my house, Cal, I'm sure of it.”

“Yeah, well, Hannon thinks Pitman broke into his office, too.”

She laughed. “I'll bet you didn't tell him what really happened.”

I had to chuckle. “Yeah, I let Pitman take the fall for that. Collateral damage. But there's more to the story.” I went on to tell her what I'd learned about El Cuchillo and the trap I'd almost stepped into when I left the bar.

“Oh, Cal, that was close. Thank God that man's a nicotine addict.”

“The wind was blowing in the right direction, too. Hannon had done a fair job of convincing me he wasn't the inside man. But all bets are off now, despite what you and Alexis think.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I'd like to hunt him down tomorrow and confront him, but that probably wouldn't advance my cause. I need to link him to Cuchillo
,
and I need to do it fast.”

“I'll have Rusty Musik go back over his e-mail to see if the name El Cuchillo comes up.”

“Not likely, but it's worth a shot. Thanks.” I heard her yawn, so I added quickly, “Uh, there's something else. Don't think I'm bat shit crazy, okay? I had this weird dream, and I think it means something. I thought you might be might be able to help me interpret it.”

“All right, tell me about it.”

When I got to the part about the Latin sign, she interrupted me. “
Fac Ut Gaudeam?
Where have I seen that?”

“On Streeter's desk. It means ‘Make My Day' in Latin.”

She laughed. “Oh, my God, you're right, that's where I've seen it. Why do you think you put
that
in your dream?”

“Beats me. Maybe it was my subconscious making sure I noticed him. He's fond of Latin. I found another phrase in his Rolodex. Uh, let's see, it was
Nemo Me Impune Laccessit.
It means ‘No one attacks me with impunity
.
'”

“The second phrase
s
ounds militaristic, like something from his Citadel days. I think you're right, though. The Latin probably shows Streeter was on your subconscious mind. Okay, go on.”

When I finished describing the dream, she said, “Okay, you were leading Hannon, Pitman, and Streeter up a trail. You were walking. They were riding.”

“Right. Like I said, Hannon and Pitman were on these chestnut-colored horses, sleek, beautiful beasts. Streeter was on a swayback mule that looked like it was on its last legs. After I pointed up to the sign, I woke up.”

“Nobody spoke?”

“No. It was like a silent movie.”

“That mule set Streeter apart in your mind. Did you notice anything
different
about him on that trip? It couldn't simply be his Southern accent or his flabby build, could it?”

“No. It has to be something else.”

“How he acted? His equipment? Did he have inferior fishing gear? You know, a cheap fly rod or something? What set him apart?”

I think it was the word “cheap.” I sat there for a moment, frozen.
“Could it be that simple?”

“What, Cal? What is it?”

“Streeter's
phone.
What kind does he use?”

“Uh, a smartphone, of course. Why?”

“That first day on the Deschutes, he was using a cheap phone, not a smartphone. I saw it when we were up on the tracks.” He didn't notice me, but he was definitely hiding the phone from the others. At the time, it just didn't register.”

“Okay, but—”

“That phone must have been the communications link. It was most likely a prepaid. That's how the killer knew exactly where Bruckner was sleeping. That's how he knew to take my coat and use my knife and then toss it on the gravel bar. Streeter gave him last-minute directions using that phone.”

“Oh, a burner. Right. Can't be traced.”

“
Exactly
. It's the only way someone would have communicated with Cuchillo. No way Streeter's going to use his own phone. Blake saw someone go up to the tracks when everyone was turning in. It was Streeter on his way to call in the final instructions.”

“Maybe he lost his phone before the trip and picked up the burner as a stopgap?”

I chewed that over a few moments. “No. I don't think so. First off, if he'd lost it, he would have bitched and moaned about it, right? I mean he's as attached to his phone as the next person. And, besides, it probably takes just as much time to buy a disposable phone as it does a new smartphone. And if he'd lost his phone, why didn't he want anyone to see the phone he was using?”

We both fell silent. Daina said, “Well, Streeter certainly has a motive. If Hal would have fired him, he would have missed out on a multimillion-dollar payoff when the IPO takes place.”

“For sure.”

“Do you have anything else on him?”

“I learned from Alexis that he's a user, cocaine. I managed to track down his dealer, a man named Reynaldo. I'm checking to see if Reynaldo has cartel connections. El Cuchillo's
a favorite of the Zetas cartel according to my sources.”

“You
talked
to this Reynaldo guy?

“Yeah, well, I've had to take a few risks here.”

“Maybe Reynaldo told Streeter about you, and Streeter sent Cuchillo to follow you.”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“So your guy Musik can't bust into Streeter's e-mail? I'd love to know who he's been talking to.”

“Nope. Rusty's good, but not that good. We'll have to find another way.”

“Well, I've got some checking on Reynaldo to do. Maybe I'll get lucky.” A ghostly visage of El Cuchillo waiting for me in the shadows of that parking lot popped into my head. “I'm running out of time, Daina.”

“Cal, surely you have enough to go to the police?”

I thought of the witness who'd described me for the composite sketch. She'd identify me in a heartbeat, and I'd be up for CJ's murder, too. “Not yet.”

After going over everything one more time, we decided to call it a night. I didn't know how to thank Daina, but I tried. She said, “I was worried things were broken between us, Cal.”

“Someone put a good word in for you.”

“Who?”

“Archie. He's an excellent judge of character.”

She laughed, and I heard that girlish ring. “Well, you can tell him thanks for me.”

The phone fell silent for a few moments, and I could hear the sound of her breathing again, soft and rhythmical. It occurred to me I could listen to that sound all night, and if I get out of this mess, I promised myself that's exactly what I was going to do.

Chapter Fifty-one

At eight sharp the next morning I called Hiram to arrange for Claire to stay with him. I'd considered having her stay at Gertie's, but that was too close to home. I wanted her completely out of the picture until Cuchillo was off the board. Hiram was delighted to help out, no questions asked, of course, and offered to come pick Claire up.

I made an espresso and sipped at it while standing in front of the kitchen window. The Cascades were obscured by a bank of low clouds, but closer in, the valley popped with color and a narrow thread of the Willamette glittered in the sun. My conviction that Streeter was the inside man had been tempered somewhat by a few hours of sleep. After all, I really hadn't eliminated Hannon, or even the possibility of the two of them working together. No question, I needed something more on Streeter to close the deal in my mind.

As it turned out, I didn't have long to wait.

I'd gone back upstairs to change when my cell chirped. It was Nando. “I do not know what your interest in that bag of scum Reynaldo is,” he said after we exchanged greetings, “but my sources in Drugs and Vice tell me he is a major drug supplier in Portland.”

“Any known cartel affiliations?”

“Yes. Most certainly Los Zetas, the worst of the worst. They have oozed up into the Northwest from the border. The veneer of civilization is showing some cracks, my friend.”

I was stunned. As far as I was concerned, the picture was now complete. Streeter had to be the inside guy. I had no clue how to take Cuchillo down, but Streeter would be an easier target. What I needed now was a way to smoke him out.

I'd just finished dressing when I glanced out the second-floor window and froze. Two blue-and-whites and an unmarked were coming up the drive. I grabbed my cell phone and the Glock and dashed downstairs to the study, where Claire was working on her laptop. I cupped her face in both hands and locked onto her eyes. “The police are in the driveway. Tell them I left earlier this morning to play golf with a friend, and you don't know who or where. Hiram's coming to pick you up. Stay in the house till he comes. I'll explain later.”

I wanted to assuage the fear and confusion that clouded my daughter's eyes, but there was no time. I burst out of the sliding door and ran full tilt to the hole in the fence leading to the quarry. Archie was right on my heels. I whirled around and pointed toward the house. “Stay, Archie. Stay with Claire.”

Stands of stunted cedars that had been missed by the strip-mining provided the only cover in the quarry. I picked my way down and across, dashing from one stand to the next, hoping I wouldn't be observed from above by the cops. I finally reached the lower edge of the quarry and took refuge in a dense cluster of trees next to the dirt entry road. I allowed myself a breath of relief, which was followed immediately by second thoughts about what I'd just done. But that show of force coming up the drive meant I was going to be arrested for certain. I was so close to busting this thing that I couldn't let that happen.

But what the hell was I going to do now?

I didn't debate it this time. I called Daina and asked if she'd be willing to come pick me up. Not wanting to explain the situation over the phone, I told her only that it was a dire emergency. She agreed to help me without hesitation. I felt bad about dragging her into this even more, but at this juncture, at least, I could claim I didn't know I was a wanted man.

I gave her directions to my hiding place, and she said she'd be there in thirty minutes. I was tempted to call Claire but decided against it. The cops might still be at the Aerie.

When Daina's VW pulled up I hopped in, slouched down, and said, “It's Streeter. I'm sure of it.” I explained what Nando had told me and then came clean about finding CJ's body and the witness who'd seen me at the scene.

She said, “Cal, this has gone far enough. You've got to go to the police. You have enough to clear yourself.”

“I want to do that, believe me, but I don't have enough hard evidence yet. Trust me on this, Daina.”

We were still discussing the issue when my phone rang. It was Claire. “Dad, what's going on? The police just left. They said you're wanted for questioning in the murder of that woman in southeast Portland. They said you're supposed to surrender yourself to the nearest police station. Was that drawing in the paper really you, Dad?”

“Don't worry, it's all a mista—.” I heard what sounded like a car go by.
“Where are you?”

“I'm walking out to the road with Archie to meet Hiram. I was upset and needed to get out of the house.”

“
No
, Claire. I don't want you out on the street. Turn around and go back.
Now.
” My voice was harsh, but I didn't care. I was frightened and angry she'd blown off my instructions.

“Okay. Okay. We'll head back. When are you coming home?”

“Right away.”

We were nearly back to the Aerie when my cell rang again. “Calvin? It's Hiram. I'm at your place. Where's Claire?”

“She's out on the road walking with Archie. You probably just missed her.” I forced down a sense of panic and told myself nothing was wrong. After all, she was with Archie.

“Okay, then. I'll turn around and pick them up.”

I punched off and looked at Daina. “What is it?” she asked.

“Claire's not at the house.” I scrolled down to her name. Her cell went immediately to voice mail. I tried again and got the same result. My chest tightened, making it suddenly difficult to breathe. I flipped my phone shut and said, “Hurry, Daina. I don't like this.”

We arrived at the Aerie a couple of minutes later. Hiram's Saab was in the driveway. I immediately saw he was the only one in the car. I jumped out, hoping Claire had gone inside to get her things. “Where is she?” I asked.

“I don't know, Cal. I didn't see her out on the road, so I came back. I checked inside. She's not there.”

“Look, check over at Gertie's. Maybe she popped in there. We'll go up toward the cemetery. Call if you find her.”

We tore down the driveway ahead of Hiram, hung a right on Eagle Nest and another right at the highway.

Halfway to the cemetery I screamed out, “Stop! That looks like Archie
.”

Daina slammed on the brakes, and I jumped out of the car. Archie was lying in the ditch on the side of the road. I ran over to him and dropped to my knees at his side. His eyes were closed, the base of his right ear swollen and badly cut, leaving his head covered in blood. I put my hand on his ribcage and thought I felt him breathing weakly, but I wasn't sure. I gently picked him up. Daina opened the back door, and I got in while holding his neck and head steady. In his good ear I said, “Stay with me, Arch. Keep breathing, big boy.”

To Daina, I said, “Keep going toward the cemetery. Maybe they got separated, and Arch was hit by a car.” But I knew that Arch would have never willingly become separated from Claire. When we were well past the cemetery with no sign of her I said, “Go back to Gertrude's.” Claire wasn't there either. Hiram examined Archie, taking his pulse on the inside of his rear leg, and announced that if my dog didn't get immediate medical attention, he wouldn't make it. We transferred him to Hiram's car and I watched through tear-stained eyes as they drove off for the Animal Care Center.

Moments later my phone rang again. I recognized the high-pitched, grainy voice immediately. I'd heard it out on the Hood River. “I've got your daughter, asshole,” El Cuchillo said. “If you want to see her alive again, you need to do
exactly
what I tell you. If you even think about contacting the police or the FBI the deal's off, and I'll slit her throat slowly, while you're listening. Got that?”

“I got it. Can I—”

“Good,” he interrupted. “I'll be in touch.”

The line went dead.