Tahoe Ghost Boat (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller) Read online

  I turned to Spot. “Show him we mean business,” I said.

  Spot wagged a slow one, two.

  “Show him, Spot!” I said in a hard whisper.

  Spot growled. It wasn’t the deepest, loudest, longest version, but it was scary enough, and Ellison’s eyes strained and rolled. Spot moved forward, lifted his exposed teeth up toward Ellison’s neck, and upped his growl toward a deep roar. Ellison started shivering.

  “Okay, Spot.”

  He stopped growling.

  I tightened my squeeze on Ellison’s throat. Tears came out of his eyes.

  “Where did you get the money?”

  I loosened my grip on his neck a bit.

  “A man wrote me an email. He got my email address off my website. Said he knew Gertie was my niece because I put a picture of her on my business’ social media pages.” Ellison gasped for breath, his throat wheezing. “He said I could make two thousand dollars cash for telling him where Gertie goes to school and where she lives. He said if I didn’t tell him, he would come and cut me up. There was a picture in his email. It was like one of those snuff pictures with a real body all bloody and dead and a knife sticking out of its throat. At least, it looked real.”

  “So you emailed him the info about where Gertie lives and goes to school.”

  Ellison attempted a nod. “After I hit send, his email disappeared. It was gone from my inbox. And my reply to him was gone from my sent box.” Ellison’s tears were flowing harder. “I didn’t take Gertie,” he whined. “He’s the one who took Gertie. All I did was give information. And he forced me to do it.”

  “When was this?”

  “A few days ago. Four. Maybe five.”

  “How did you get paid?”

  “He sent me directions to a garbage can in this park. I went there, and the money was under the garbage. All there in cash.”

  “Gertie told me that you were her favorite uncle.”

  He cried.

  “And you sold her out for two thousand dollars, and then you happily went to collect your pay.”

  His eyes were shut, tears streaming.

  “You are scum of the lowest order. If that man hurts Gertie, I’m going to come back and find you. Do you understand?”

  He tried one more nod. The small movement flicked tears off his chin.

  I gave him a shove into the bushes. He collapsed hard.

  “Guard him, Spot,” I said, pointing at Ellison.

  I stood over him as I dialed 911.

  “Sacramento Emergency,” a man’s voice answered.

  “This is Owen McKenna, Private Investigator from Tahoe calling.” I gave them my license number. “I’d like to report a probable kidnapping.”

  The man had lots of questions for me, which I answered with the limited information I had. I carefully explained for the recorded call that they could get background from Special Agent Ramos at the FBI’s Tahoe office as well as Sergeants Martinez and Santiago from the Douglas and Placer County Sheriff’s offices.

  “I also have a suspect in custody at the State Capital Park. I believe he has engaged in child trafficking. I’ll wait here while you send a unit over.”

  I gave him my location and hung up.

  Ellison made a move as if to sit up.

  I touched Spot on the throat. Already primed, he growled.

  Ellison dropped back down to the dirt.

  Sirens grew from the north side of the capital. Two patrol units pulled into one of the wider access paths. They stopped at a gate. Two cops jumped the gate and came trotting up. I said my name, and showed them my license.

  One of the cops said, “I’m Sergeant Cutler.” He stared at Spot.

  I pointed to Ellison.

  “His name is Ellison O’Leary, uncle of the missing child Gertie O’Leary.” I held up my phone. “I have a recording of him admitting that he sold information on her whereabouts for two thousand dollars. The likely purchaser is an unknown suspect who is blackmailing the girl’s mother out of life insurance proceeds on the death of her husband, the girl’s stepfather. Special Agent Ramos in Tahoe can give you more details.”

  I played the recording for the men. Ellison squirmed as he lay on the ground.

  “You pat him down?” Cutler asked when he heard the recording.

  “No. He’s too slimy to even carry a nail file.”

  “Check him,” Cutler said.

  I pulled Spot back so the other cop could step past. The man hoisted O’Leary to his feet.

  “Arms out, hands on that tree, spread your legs.”

  He patted O’Leary down, pulled O’Leary’s hands behind his back, cuffed him, and read him his rights.

  “We’ll need that recording.” Cutler pointed at my phone.

  “I’ve got critical calls that may come in. I’ll email you the recording while you watch. A voice expert can substantiate O’Leary’s identity at a future time. The email time stamp will match your report.”

  Cutler thought about it. “Okay,” he said.

  He gave me an email address and watched as I sent it.

  “When do you want to come in to make a statement?” he asked.

  “Now isn’t good. Can I call later and set up a time?”

  “Yeah.”

  They took my card and left with Ellison.

  Ellison turned back to me and said, “You said if you believed me, you’d let me go.”

  “I lied.”

  TWENTY

  When Spot and I got back to my Jeep, I was breathing the hard breaths of anger. The human species had a subgroup of scum parasites that scientists had not yet named. On the scale of revolting, they were just one notch behind murderers and rapists and other violent offenders.

  And Gertie was gone.

  I got Nadia on the phone.

  “Are you driving?”

  “Yes, but I’m on hands-free,” she said.

  “Can you pull over? I’d like to talk.”

  “Okay, hold on.” Thirty seconds later, she said, “Okay, I’m in a little parking lot.”

  “I don’t know for certain and I could be wrong,” I said to her. “But it looks like Gertie may have been kidnapped yesterday afternoon.”

  “What?!” she shrieked.

  “I spoke to Gertie yesterday, and then talked to Merrill last night. Again, we don’t know for sure. Gertie told me that she was thinking of running away. She even said she might go that afternoon. But I think it was just a story. I have reason to believe someone took her. You will probably get an email notice from the blackmailer. And you should know that Merrill’s lovely brother Ellison sold her out. He took two thousand dollars in exchange for telling the kidnapper where to find her.”

  “I can’t... I can’t believe...” Nadia was crying.

  “I’ve got some leads to pursue,” I said, stretching the truth. “I’ll call you as soon as I learn more. You should take some deep breaths. Then drive to your hotel and get some rest.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Okay?” I said.

  “Okay,” she finally said.

  As soon as I hung up, my cell rang.

  “Owen McKenna,” I said.

  “This is Special Agent Ramos calling.” Always more formal than he needed to be.

  “Glad you called,” I said. I told him the news about Gertie O’Leary and explained that the Sacramento cops would probably be in contact for information.

  “Got it,” Ramos said, betraying no emotion. “We’ll talk more about the girl later. I’m calling about the body that was tied to the anchor. You told me about The American Dream writing on her arm. I’ve learned something that you should know. Sergeant Diamond Martinez is going to meet me at my office at two this afternoon. Any chance you can come by at that time?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “See you then.” Ramos hung up.

  I dialed the Placer County Sheriff’s Office and asked to be put through to Sergeant Santiago.

  After a minute came a deep voice, crisp with en
unciation. “Santiago.”

  “Owen McKenna calling,” I said. “You and I met last fall.”

  “How could I forget,” he said. “You pulled that fingerprint evidence trick in the Tahoe City restaurant. We used it to arrest the guy who wore the cowboy boots and tight-crotch jeans. The Neo-Nazi militia case.”

  “Good memory. I’m calling about the drowning death in Hurricane Bay about two weeks ago, Ian Lassitor.”

  “That was a crazy one. Gotta wonder what kind of guy takes a little boat out in a gale. I heard about another strange death on the lake. Douglas County found a woman’s body under water.”

  “I was there,” I said. I told Santiago about Amanda Horner. Then I explained that Lassitor’s wife Nadia had contacted me. I also explained about Gertie. “Her disappearance may be connected to Ian Lassitor’s death.”

  “You’re saying that the step-kid of Ian Lassitor was kidnapped yesterday in Sacramento.”

  “I believe so, yeah.”

  “And this is an effort to pressure the kid’s mom – Lassitor’s widow – into paying the blackmail, which will now be ransom.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Me either,” I said.

  “Thanks for letting me know,” he said.

  We hung up.

  When I got back to Tahoe, I had a few minutes before my meeting with Diamond and Agent Ramos. I stopped by Street’s lab.

  “Any news?” Street’s face was heavy with sadness and worry. “Do you know for sure if Gertie has run away or if it’s something worse?”

  Spot stood next to Street, looking at me with a wrinkled brow, mirroring her worry.

  “I learned this morning that it’s likely she’s been kidnapped.”

  Street puffed air and moved back as if she’d been hit in the diaphragm. Her back hit the counter, and she reached sideways with her arms and grabbed the counter’s edge as if to keep from sliding down to the floor.

  I stepped next to her and put my arm around her shoulder.

  I told her what Gertie’s uncle Ellison had admitted to me.

  Street was outraged. “That is so sick!”

  “And Gertie looked up to him,” I said.

  Street shook her head. She reached for a tissue, wiped her eyes, blew her nose.

  Street’s concern for all victims of predators was profound, and it came from both her natural empathy as well as her miserable childhood and a father who beat her brother to death. With all other crimes, she talks about rehabilitation over punishment, education over retribution. But if she were in control of the fates of predators, she would probably let them fry.

  We talked until I had to go meet Agent Ramos and Diamond.

  When I left, Spot was in a deep sleep, crammed up against Street’s laboratory wall so that his shoulder caught a corner of the square sunlight beam coming in the window. I left him with Street and walked to Ramos’s place.

  They’d moved the South Shore’s FBI office. It was now just a short distance from both my office and Street’s lab, on the south side of the highway. No wonder Ramos and I were so chummy. We were practically next-door neighbors.

  I saw no Douglas County vehicles nor Diamond’s Green Flame Karmann Ghia nor the ongoing rust-experiment pickup that I’d returned to him, a vehicle he sometimes drove when he wanted to recall the life of the migrant lettuce picker he once was. So I waited.

  A minute before 2 p.m., a county patrol unit pulled into the lot. It parked and Diamond got out. We gave each other the imperceptible nod like two taciturn cowboys coming from different directions and different cultures to meet the head rancher and join forces to help root out a band of rustlers.

  We walked up under the cameras, and Diamond hit the button.

  A speaker crackled. “Yes?”

  “Hola, amigo,” Diamond said. “Your humble Douglas County sergeant and rogue private gringo cop reporting, sir.”

  A buzzer buzzed, a lock released, and Diamond opened the opaque metal door.

  “Rogue private gringo cop?” I said as we walked into the glass-walled inspection chamber where we were probably photographed and recorded and irradiated with X-ray and MRI waves. On the other side of the glass, I saw Ramos push back his desk chair and stand up.

  “Sorry,” Diamond said. “Was it rogue or gringo or private that sounded pejorative? If rogue, I meant it in the solitary and unpredictable sense, like a large wave to watch out for. If gringo, the Spanish and Portuguese etymology makes it clear that it bears no ill will and just refers to an English-speaking wanderer. If private, you know how enamored I am of your job, the tough-guy gunslinger for hire. Except, of course, you have a thing about not slinging a gun.”

  “So you meant it as a fawning description of awe,” I said.

  Diamond made a serious nod. “Always the awe when I think of you.”

  Ramos pulled open the door. “Come in, please.” He waved his hand toward a circular group of four chairs and made just the tiniest of bows. Not a bow of respect, but a bow of invitation. Ramos had always erred toward ceremony. His manner was as careful and scrupulous as the cut of his hair and mustache. He wore a white shirt with a narrow navy tie that matched his navy dress slacks. His cuffs were folded back twice and smoothed just so. His nails were trimmed with care.

  We three sat. I spoke first.

  “Before we discuss the body of the dead woman and the writing on its arm, I need to tell you about a girl I met named Gertie O’Leary. She is Nadia Lassitor’s daughter by a previous husband. I believe she was kidnapped yesterday in Sacramento.”

  I gave Ramos and Diamond all I had.

  When I was done, they looked troubled. Kidnapping of children was one of the most nightmarish crimes that people in law enforcement ever face.

  They asked a few questions. Ramos said he’d be in contact with the Sacramento police.

  After a minute, he said, “What I’m about to tell you may connect to this child. I learned something about the writing on the left arm of the body you pulled out of the water.”

  “The American Dream,” Diamond said.

  “Right,” Ramos said. “It turns out that there are some ugly antecedents to this. If the connection we’ve found holds, we may be dealing with a significant adversary.”

  “There have been other killings with the same words written on the victims?” Diamond said.

  “Six of them ten years ago, one seven years ago, and two of them three years ago. Nine murders. The first eight were on the East Coast. The last was in the South.”

  “So we’re dealing with a serial killer who’s moved to the West Coast for his tenth victim,” Diamond said.

  “Probably,” Ramos said. “It could be a copycat, but I looked at pictures of the various victims’ arms from years ago, and it looks like a match. The media got pictures of one of the victim’s arm, but it was fuzzy. A copycat might have been able to get close, but the writing on the woman’s arm is closer to the earlier examples than one would expect from a copycat who had only seen the one photo in the media.”

  “What do we know about this killer?” I said.

  “We think we know nearly everything about his past. This is all information we got from past interviews, especially two neighbors who have since died. But we know nothing about what name this killer is currently using, where he lives, or who his contacts are. We were never able to link him to the crimes other than motive on the first six victims. We had nothing with which to charge him. And over the last few years, we’ve learned nothing else.” Agent Ramos leaned back in his chair.

  “Here’s what we think happened based on some interviews the FBI conducted years ago,” Ramos said. “Twenty years ago a young family emigrated from Russia. They were Cossacks. A professor of mathematics, his wife, and their three children, two boys, Petro, sixteen years old, and Mikhailo, twelve years old, and Kateryna, a girl six years old. They moved to Brooklyn where the professor got a job teaching at Brooklyn College. In less than a year, the man caught a
sudden lung infection and died. After such a short period of employment, there was no death benefit for his family, and he had not purchased any insurance. His wife ended up cleaning houses to support her family.

  “From the moment they arrived in America, the oldest boy did well. He was big and strong and amiable, and he got along well in his high school. But the younger twelve-year-old Mikhailo was skinny and shy and awkward, and he suffered taunts for his skinniness, his accent, his lack of sociability, and his artistic bent. Mikhailo was always drawing little sketches, and he was bullied for it relentlessly.

  “In particular, there was a group of school children who were a kind of ruling clique. Most of these kids came from upper middle class families. For some reason, this clique of kids took a special dislike for Mikhailo, and they hounded him. Among other insults, the bullies would taunt Mikhailo by saying that he’d come to our country for the American Dream and, as they would strike him, they’d say, ‘Here’s your American Dream, Rusky boy.’”

  “Ain’t children sweet,” Diamond said.

  “They learn from their parents,” Ramos said. “One winter Saturday, Mikhailo was watching his little sister Kateryna while their mother cleaned a house that belonged to the family of one of the bullies. Mikhailo and Kateryna were walking along a small creek that flows through the nice neighborhood. The group of bullies happened upon them. They started throwing rocks. Mikhailo and Kateryna tried to run away. But the bullies jumped them, pushing Kateryna down a steep bank toward the creek and then beating Mikhailo severely, hitting him with rocks.

  “Kateryna tumbled down, struck her head on the frozen ground, and fell into the creek where she drowned.

  “Mikhailo was hospitalized. After he recovered, he was able to give a full and complete report of what happened, and he provided the names of the bullies. The police launched an investigation, and two of the boys, including the one who lived in the house that Mikhailo’s mother cleaned, were charged with voluntary manslaughter. However, both of those boys had well-to-do families who hired good lawyers.”

  Diamond took an audible breath and sighed. No doubt this story was resonating with some previous experience he’d either had or heard about.