Not Dead Enough by Warren C Easley Page A

phone.
    â€œGreat,” I told him. “I’ll call you back as soon as I figure out where to put this thing.” The white plastic casing would be too visible attached to a tree. I opted, instead, to wedge it securely between two large rocks at the cliff edge, positioning it so that the beam would aim up and cut across the only clear access through the trees to a spot affording a clear view of my place. Then I arranged some smaller rocks and a dead branch to hide it. I stood back and appraised my work. “Not bad at all.”
    I backed out of the trees, called Santos back, and then followed the path a shooter would most likely take. The sensor was off to my right, essentially invisible. I heard another satisfying buzz when I crossed the path of the beam.
    â€œDamn,” I muttered, “this just might work.”
    I had just scrambled back over the locked gate when my cell chirped. “Mr. Claxton? This is Deputy Sheriff Grooms.”
    â€œYes, Deputy Grooms. How are you?”
    â€œWell, I’ve been better. I’m down here at the Portland Police Bureau in Southeast. We were wonderin’ if you could come in for another interview.”
    â€œWhy? What’s the problem?”
    â€œCecil Ferguson’s dead. He was murdered in that retirement home last night. You were apparently the last one to see him alive.”
    I told Grooms I’d leave for Portland right away and punched off. I stood there for a while, rocked by the news. It felt like something was gathering momentum. Trouble is, I had no idea what it was.

Chapter Sixteen
    I explained the afternoon chores to Santos and left him out in the garden, hoe in hand, and when Archie started to follow me to the car, told him to stay, a command he was starting to understand. After hearing the news about Cecil Ferguson, I didn’t feel so foolish about rigging the alarm system over in the quarry. Somebody was taking witnesses off the board and like it or not, I was a witness.
    I decided not to call Winona until I knew more about what had happened to Ferguson. I was beginning to wonder just how far this thing would spread. Is it conceivable, I asked myself, that she’s in danger, too? I knew she didn’t know much about what the hell was going on, but was it safe to assume the murderer knew that as well?
    There was little traffic, and forty-five minutes later the Portland skyline loomed in front of me as I came out of the Terwilliger curves on I-5. A gondola from the city’s brand new aerial tram dangled over the freeway in front of me like a piece of silver fruit. I wondered what the tram cost and thought of kids in the city schools who were going without computers.
    I was learning the traffic patterns in Portland and took the Hawthorne Bridge to the east side instead of chancing I-84, which was frequently jammed like an L.A. freeway. I worked my way up to Burnside and found a parking space on SE Forty-sixth, pleasantly surprised by the lack of parking meters on the east side of the river. I spotted Grooms slumped in a chair halfway down a dimly light corridor. She smiled wearily and stood up as I cleared the metal detector.
    â€œThanks for comin’ in, Mr. Claxton. You made good time.”
    â€œNo problem, Deputy Grooms. Shame about Ferguson. He knew a lot more than he told me.”
    She looked at me with steel gray eyes. “Who’s next on your visit list?”
    I shook my head. “Yeah, I’m feeling like the angel of death here. Find anything that points to our boy with the cowboy hat?”
    Her smile let me know she wasn’t going to tell me anything I didn’t need to know. “Portland wants to talk to you first. This is their murder. When they finish, I want to tie up some loose ends with you. Come on, I’ll take you up there.”
    The two detectives who interviewed me were cranky and generally pissed off. A murder on a pleasant Sunday will do that to you. I went through the whole