Tahoe Killshot Read online

  PRAISE FOR TAHOE HEAT

  “WILL KEEP READERS TURNING THE PAGES AS OWEN RACES TO CATCH A VICIOUS KILLER...”

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  “A RIVETING THRILLER... HARD TO PUT DOWN”

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  “BORG HAS WRITTEN ANOTHER WHITE-KNUCKLE THRILLER...A sure bet for mystery buffs waiting for the next Robert B. Parker and Lee Child novels”

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  “AN ACTION-PACKED THRILLER WITH A NICE-GUY HERO, AN EVEN NICER DOG...”

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  PRAISE FOR TAHOE AVALANCHE

  “BORG IS A SUPERB STORYTELLER...A MASTER OF THE GENRE”

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  WINNER BEN FRANKLIN AWARD

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  “A WONDERFUL BOOK...FASCINATING CHARACTERS, HARD-HITTING ACTION”

  Mystery News

  PRAISE FOR TAHOE ICE GRAVE

  “BAFFLING CLUES... CONSISTENTLY ENTERTAINS”

  - Kirkus Reviews

  “A CLEVER PLOT... RECOMMEND THIS MYSTERY”

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  PRAISE FOR TAHOE BLOWUP

  “RIVETING... A MUST READ FOR MYSTERY FANS!”

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  PRAISE FOR TAHOE DEATHFALL

  “THRILLING, EXTENDED RESCUE/CHASE”

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  “HIGHLY LIKABLE CHARACTERS”

  - San Jose Mercury News

  TAHOE KILLSHOT

  By

  Todd Borg

  Published by Thriller Press at Smashwords

  Copyright 2004 Todd Borg

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Thriller Press, a division of WRST, Inc. www.thrillerpress.com

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real locales, establishments, organizations or events are intended only to give the fiction a sense of verisimilitude. All other names, places, characters and incidents portrayed in this book are the product of the author’s imagination.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from Thriller Press, P.O. Box 551110, South Lake Tahoe, CA 96155.

  Library of Congress Card Number: 2004100749

  ISBN: 978-1-931296-14-4

  Cover design by Keith Carlson.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  TAHOE KILLSHOT

  PROLOGUE

  The shooter lay hidden under the thick low boughs of a red fir, twenty feet from the Flume Trail. He had a clear sight line to the path that once held a flume, a wooden aqueduct that floated logs. The flume was now gone, and the narrow ledge, 1600 feet above the east shore of Lake Tahoe, was used as a mountain bike trail.

  The shooter held a small custom crossbow, constructed to fire stones. Like a short-barreled handgun, the crossbow was not accurate at any distance. But at close range it was devastating. Unlike a gun, it was silent and left no bullets or shell casings to trace.

  Three miles south, two mountain bikers labored up the canyon that runs north from Spooner Lake near Highway 50. In front was the pop star Glory, in Tahoe to perform two shows on Friday night, two more on Saturday.

  Following so close behind that his front tire almost brushed her rear tire was Tyrone Handkins, Glory’s bodyguard and trainer and reputed lover. Although she was in front, he set the pace.

  “Downshift one gear, girl,” he called out. “Pick up your cadence. A little faster. Perfect! Hold that pace. Remember, deep breaths. Nice and easy.”

  Glory shifted and pedaled faster, her latte legs blurring into a circle beneath tight turquoise bicycling shorts. The air rushed around her gold wrap-around sunglasses. Her black ponytail stretched out behind her golden helmet.

  “In twenty yards, the trail gets steeper. Just after the curve to the left,” Tyrone said as he raced behind, his taut skin flashing ebony in the morning sunlight. “I want you to lean into the turn, then grab a gear and bring your cadence back up where it was before. Your body is a machine. Your legs are pistons. Okay, here it comes. Ready. Heads up. Go.”

  Glory leaned hard to the left as the trail arced around a house-sized boulder. She shifted again, legs churning. She drew deep breaths in a smooth rhythm, the intense Bay Area training paying off now that she was at high altitude.

  Tyrone timed his pedaling to Glory’s. He matched every nuance of her climb up the mountain. Their feet moved up and down in unison, their breathing at the same rate, their tires just inches apart.

  The sniper lay on a ridge at 7900 feet of elevation. Behind him was Marlette Lake, tucked up high in a wrinkle of the Carson Range and sparkling through the pine and fir. In front stretched the vast blue of Lake Tahoe.

  The man had been watching Tahoe for wind patterns. At dawn, the 22 mile-long lake was smooth as a mirror. Two hours later, barely a ripple marred the surface. The conditions were a sniper’s dream. The sun was hot, but the typical thermals of August hadn’t begun to kick up. The air was so still that the cries of seagulls could be heard all the way up from Sand Harbor.

  The crossbow was loaded and cocked. Fired at the victim’s face or neck, the stone would deliver a deadly blow. Perfect for a bike rider on a cliff trail. The stone had been handled with gloves, and the crossbow was designed to leave the projectile clean.

  The crossbow would be disposed of in the lake. There would be no murder weapon, no clues to trace.

  The shooter lay waiting, silent, hyper-alert.

  Glory and Tyrone came to the crest of the trail and stopped, side by side, to take in the view.

  “God, it’s beautiful,” Glory said, gazing down at Marlette Lake and Tahoe beyond. “I wish I could camp up here on the mountain. Sleep in a tent like normal people.” She had a contralto voice, radiant and warm.

  “Normal people don’t win Grammys and have major label recording contracts and fill showrooms with fans.”

  Glory turned to Tyrone. “But it’s like prison. Do you know I’ve never slept in a tent? I could wake up to this view. Instead, I pace in hotel rooms, scared to death that I’ll screw up my next performance. I want out.”

  “Listen, kid. The gift of your pipes comes with a responsibility to share it with the world.” He moved his elbow out to give her a gentle bump on her arm. “Besides, we need the money. We’ve got serious overhead to cover. You don’t want to go back to waiting tables in Oakland.”

  “It’s not something to joke about, Ty. I’ve thought about this. I don’t want to continue. I like to sing, but not where I throw up every time before I walk through that curtain.”

  “It’s just nerves, girl. You’ll rock the crowd as always. Now focus on this route. Exercise always makes you feel better.” Tyrone pointed down the mountain. “The trail goes down to Marlette Lake and follows it around to the far side. There’s a little dam where the mountain drops away. From that point on is the Flume Trail. I don’t want to scare you, but it’s narrow and you can’t afford any mistakes. Don’t think about singing or anything else.”

  “I know, I know,” Glory said. “Concentrate on where I’m going.”
/>   “Exactly. I’ll be right behind as always.”

  “Okay, I’m off.” Glory pedaled away and flew down the trail.

  The shooter heard the sound of voices first, then the soft grinding hum of knobby mountain bike tires on gravel and rock.

  Glory was in the lead as they carved through a curve in the trail, their legs pumping at high speed, perfectly synchronized. The trail was a ledge, only three feet wide in some places. On one side the mountain rose up above. On the other side, thin air.

  The shooter lifted the crossbow and took aim. He took a breath, let it out, and was squeezing the trigger when screaming chatter erupted from a red squirrel on a branch four feet above. The man jerked with surprise as his crossbow fired.

  The stone struck Glory on the shoulder and spun her sideways. It wasn’t a deadly blow. But the cliff was high, and there was nothing below but rocks. The angry red squirrel ran out across the path as the woman and her bike shot off the cliff and into the air.

  ONE

  I’d been rearranging the art in my office on Kingsbury Grade when the phone rang. The Hopper was retired to the corner and my new favorite painting went opposite the window wall. It was a print of an oil by Turner, a maelstrom of wind and snow and a boat being tossed about by huge waves under ferocious storm clouds. I leaned back in my desk chair, looked at the Turner and answered the phone.

  “McKenna Investigations.”

  “Hello, my name is Faith Runyon,” the woman on the phone said. Her voice was shrill and tense. “I’m frightened, Mr. McKenna.” She sounded desperate. “I’ve heard of you. I don’t know who else to call.”

  “What are you frightened of?”

  “I think I’m in danger. I overheard something about Glory’s death.”

  “The singer who died yesterday. I thought it was an accident.”

  “No, it wasn’t. Can we meet? I need to talk to you.” She was speaking fast.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Faith Runyon. I live in Squaw Valley, only I can’t meet you here. I’m calling on a borrowed cell phone because I think my phone is monitored.”

  “Why don’t you drive down to the South Shore? We can talk at my office.”

  “No, I can’t drive to meet you. Someone could follow me. I’m being watched. The only place I can be alone and away from prying eyes is out on the water. Do you have a boat? We could meet on the lake.”

  “Faith, I’m sure we don’t need to go to that length. Can’t you just tell me about it on the phone?”

  “No.”

  “You can call me from a pay phone if you’d like.”

  “No. If they saw me using a pay phone then they’d know for sure that I was telling someone.”

  “Who is ‘they’?”

  “I can’t say!” She sounded frantic. “Someone could be listening.”

  “What kind of business are you in?”

  “I do personal consulting. Don’t worry about your fee. I can afford it.”

  “Faith, you should tell me about it now.”

  “No.”

  “At least give me your phone number.”

  “I can’t! If you had it and they traced...”

  The woman was making no sense. “Faith, listen to me. You need to...”

  “What I need,” she interrupted, “is to tell you in person! I have something you need to see!”

  She sounded like she was going to crack if I didn’t agree to her request.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll get a boat. When do you want to meet?”

  “This afternoon? I’m running out of time.”

  “I can’t get a boat that fast. Maybe tomorrow.”

  She sighed with frustration. “Tomorrow noon?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “We’ll meet out in the middle of the lake away from other boats so I can see if anyone comes close to us. What kind of boat will you have?”

  I thought of Jennifer Salazar’s speedboat. “It’s a big powerboat, I don’t know the make. It has an open cockpit, no cabin. White with blue striping.”

  “Mine is a thirty-three foot cruiser. A Bertram,” she said. “It’s white with a red design on the side, kind of like a couple of Nike swooshes. Where is a good place?”

  “Why don’t we meet off Glenbrook?” I said. “About a mile straight out? We can each wave a flag or something.”

  “I know where that is.” She took a couple of deep breaths. “Mr. McKenna?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I just want you to know that things are... It’s just that I was finally getting control of my life. Believe me, it’s been a long road. And now, everything is at stake again, but this time I have something to lose. Please don’t stand me up.”

  “I’ll be there, Faith.”

  After we hung up I sat and wondered about Faith Runyon and her distress and my lack of work and Turner’s snowstorm.

  It had a long title:

  “Snowstorm – steamboat off a harbour’s mouth making signals in shallow water and going by lead.”

  I’d had the print framed in a simple wood moulding with a wide double mat, off-white over off-white. The frame shop woman said it was a subtle approach, words that sounded just right to a six-foot, six-inch ex-cop with a 170-pound Harlequin Great Dane. I could use subtle wherever I could get it.

  “What do you think, your largeness? Maybe I should move it down a couple inches so it doesn’t look like I tried to line up the top of the frame with the top of the door? More artistic, huh?”

  Spot was lying in front of the door, his front legs splayed, neck and jaw stretched out on the carpet. He rolled his eyes up toward me for a moment, then shut them and appeared to go to sleep.

  I took that for approval. I got my hammer back out of the bottom drawer, lifted the painting off the wall and moved the hook down a bit. What a sophisticate.

  I dialed Jennifer Salazar, thinking she would still be on summer break from Harvard. The caretaker answered, said she wasn’t in and offered to put me through to her voice mail. So I left a message asking if I could borrow her powerboat.

  Next, I called Street Casey at her insect lab. Her machine answered, so I tried her condo.

  “Hello?” Only one word, but still her voice gave my heart rate a boost.

  “Street, my sweet, I’m about to head home and fire up the barbecue.”

  “Owen, hon, I...”

  “I was thinking of something simple like garlic bread, T-bone steaks, new potatoes, corn on the cob. However, if you were to join me I’d open a Berenger Private Reserve.”

  “You know I’d love to, but I’ve got another three or four hours of work to do on my latest bark beetle report for the Forest Service.”

  “Well,” I said, “if you can’t join me, we could just have phone sex and I’ll still open the Private Reserve.”

  “Aren’t you getting a little old for that?”

  “With a voice like yours?”

  “Owen...”

  “Aced out by bugs again, am I?”

  “Sorry.”

  I told Street about Faith Runyon’s phone call and asked if she’d like to join me for a boat ride at noon the next day. She said she was going to be at the Forest Service at the same hour. We spoke some more, traded I-love-yous and hung up.

  TWO

  Jennifer called back early the next morning while I was still on my first cup of coffee and trying to decide how much time it would take to get down to the Zephyr Cove Marina and rent a boat.

  “Sorry I didn’t get back to you right after you called, but I’m in India and it was the middle of the night here when you left your message.”

  “India?”

  “Yeah, and Owen, India is so cool! I’m doing a research internship studying elephants.”

  “Is that part of the animal intelligence thing you were working on last year?”

  “Yes. Elephants are fantastic! Did you know that they... Oh, here I go, flapping off at the mouth. You said you wanted to use the boat? Of cours
e. You are always welcome.”

  “Is Alicia living at the house?”

  “No, mom got a place of her own. She couldn’t stand the idea of living in the family manor. So I’ll let the caretaker know you’re coming.”

  “Thanks, Jen. You are great. How are the elephants, anyway?”

  She spoke with great excitement, telling me how they communicate at long distance by using low-frequency sound and how their social structure is complex and matriarchal. Then she interrupted herself, saying, “Anyway, I’m coming home for a few days at the end of the month. Maybe I could get together with you and Street?”

  “We’d love to,” I said. “Give a call.”

  When I’d finished another couple cups of coffee, I leaned out the deck door.

  Spot was standing guard on one corner of the deck. A Steller’s jay landed on the deck rail four feet away and screamed at Spot. He barked. The bird flew away. Goes to show how effective a watch dog can be.

  “Wanna go for a boat ride?” I called out.

  Spot turned and wagged so hard his entire body moved. Then he did the little bounce thing on his front feet. Maybe jays aren’t that exciting.

  We headed south down the East Shore with the windows open and Spot hanging his head out. I pulled in at the grand gated entrance to the Salazar residence and pushed the button on the call box. The caretaker answered and the gate opened inward. We followed the long curving drive under towering Jeffrey pines, passed the caretaker’s house, came around a curve and parked in front of the forty-room French Renaissance palace. A cool breeze off the lake wafted across the expansive lawn.