Tahoe Killshot Read online

  “Good. Can I see you?” Unless they were watching Diamond’s house, they wouldn’t know that I was in his old car.

  “Of course. Come to the front of the lobby?”

  “Give me twenty minutes.”

  I pulled into Caesars and parked behind a white stretch limo and next to a silver Rolls Royce. The bellhop stared at Spot and me in Diamond’s little orange car. Street ran out. She reached in and hugged Spot, careful not to bump his wound, then crawled over him and wedged herself behind my seat with her legs draped over Spot. She caressed him with a touch so soft I wondered if he could even feel it. But his eyes closed in bliss.

  I drove off, leaving a blue cloud of exhaust swirling around the Rolls and the limo.

  We went to Nevada Beach, a large stretch of sand near Roundhill. Spot lay down in the hot sand. Street and I sat facing the water. Waves lapped at our feet. Across the blue water was Mt. Tallac. A snowfield glowed brilliant white on its northeast side.

  I told Street about our night at Diamond’s and about the man who’d called me twice.

  She asked about the voice. I did my best to describe its robotic quality.

  Street frowned. “I once met a man who’d had throat cancer. They’d done an operation that took out his voice box. He couldn’t speak normally. But he had a little device like a remote control that he held against his throat. It made it so he could talk.”

  “He sounded like a robot?” I said.

  “Yes. I don’t know how it worked. Some kind of sound generator.”

  “So my caller could be a throat cancer victim.”

  “Didn’t you say the man who came in your office with the stick never uttered a word?”

  “Yes,” I said, raising my eyebrows, “I did.”

  An hour later, confident we hadn’t been followed, I dropped Street off at Caesars and headed over to the hospital. Doctor John Lee was on duty in the ER, but the desk man said he’d be taking lunch in less than half an hour. I waited.

  “Feeling better?” Doc Lee said when he saw me from behind the check-in counter. He hung up a clipboard, took off his white coat and came through the door.

  “Yes, much, thanks.” I walked with him outside.

  “I’m just going to lunch. Want to come along?”

  “Sure.” Across the parking lot, Spot craned his head out the window and watched me get into Doc Lee’s little black Mitsubishi sports car. Doc Lee had it revving by the time I crammed myself into a passenger compartment that was even smaller than that in the Orange Flame. He raced out of the lot and down the street.

  “Serious G-forces in this crate,” I said as my head bobbed with the acceleration.

  “Zero to sixty, four seconds. Top speed, one forty-five.”

  “Which is useful on our curvy mountain roads.”

  “Useful in the Washoe Valley,” he said as he raced up to a stop sign, braked, then shot out onto Highway 50, tires squealing as he shifted into second. He ran the engine up to about 7000 RPM, a powerful whine coming from under the hood. Just as I thought he’d go airborne, he hit the brakes and turned into a fast food joint.

  “Burger for lunch okay?” he said, jerking to a stop.

  “I didn’t think a scientific-type, health professional would suck down saturated fat and salt for lunch.”

  “Salt and fat is why it tastes so good. What’s wrong? The carnivore has turned into a tofu boy?”

  I thought of Wheels calling me a shuttle boy. “Still a carnivore,” I said. “Unabashed. I eat tofu boys for lunch.”

  “Sweet,” Doc Lee said, giggling. “I could be your tofu boy.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” I said.

  “So I figured. But it never hurts to ask, right?”

  “Right.”

  We went in, ordered and took our food to a little round table. “Anyway,” he said, chewing a mouthful of burger and fries, “if this fat gives me heart disease, I’m in the right business.”

  “Which is why I stopped by.” I told him about the man who’d called and spoke in the robot voice. “Street said she’d once met a guy who had throat cancer and he used some kind of device to speak. Do you know about that?”

  “Electrolarynx,” he mumbled as he sucked on the straw in his chocolate shake. “Hold it to your throat for sound generation. The sound resonates in your oral cavity just like sound from vocal cords. Well, not exactly just like. More like a robot. Anyway, you make speaking motions to form words.” Doc Lee swallowed. He held his fist against his throat and silently mouthed a series of words. “Like that,” he said. “But most laryngectomees get implants or learn esophageal speech.”

  “What are those?”

  “We can implant an artificial voice box, a tube that makes sound when air goes through it. It’s like having a saxophone reed in your throat. Otherwise, patients can learn esophageal speech, which is swallowing air, then making words as you belch it back out.”

  I set the rest of my burger down. “Maybe I won’t take up cigars after all.”

  “Good idea.”

  I sipped some Coke. “A normal person could use an electrolarynx, right?”

  “Just to sound funny? I don’t see why not.”

  “Where would you buy one?”

  “Lots of places. Medical supply houses. The Internet. Or steal one from a hospital.”

  I thanked the doctor for his time and he dropped me back at the hospital.

  I drove over to the Lake Tahoe Community College. In spite of summer, the lot was jammed as always. The Orange Flame backfired as I turned it off, kicking out a loud cloud of blue smoke. I leashed Spot to a Jeffrey pine with a large area of shade.

  Diamond’s young cousin Juanita was working at the Admissions and Records counter.

  “Oh, Mr. Owen,” she said, beaming, her teeth white and a little crooked in her pretty, pixie face.

  “Hi, Juanita. I came here to ask a science question.”

  “Oh,” she said. Eyes wide. Grin wider. “I’m sorry. I know accounting. And computers. I’m very good at computers. But science... I’m not good at science.”

  “I was thinking of a science teacher. Physics or chemistry.”

  “Oh, of course,” she said again, blushing. Oh was her favorite word. “I thought...,” she turned to the computer. Her face was approaching the color of a tomato. She tapped a few keys. “Mr. Johansen teaches chemistry. But not during the summer. Same for his lab tech. Oh, here we are. Mr. Kebler. Physics. He teaches in the summer. Oh, but he’s in class until 11:30.”

  I looked at the clock. “I’ll wait. Where is his classroom?”

  Juanita told me and I thanked her.

  “Bye, Mr. Owen,” she grinned.

  I was outside the classroom when a dozen kids streamed out. The only two adult students stayed behind to ask questions. The difference between school by default and school by choice.

  When they were done, I introduced myself.

  “Bill Kebler,” he said. “Good to meet you.” He was a scrawny, bald man with a pleasant smile and squinty eyes. He wore baggy khaki trousers that bunched around his waist where they were held in a strangle-hold by a belt made of leather loops.

  “I’ve heard of you,” he said. “From your reputation, I would have predicted you’d be an out-sized individual. The observation verifies the hypothesis.” He laughed nervously.

  “I wonder if I can ask you a question.”

  “Of course. I work for the state. Your tax dollars at work. Ask away.” Another nervous laugh.

  “I’d like to ask about explosives.”

  “Really! Didn’t see that one coming! Should we sit down? This could be fun!”

  We sat on student chairs.

  “I witnessed a boat explosion on the lake,” I said.

  “Yes, of course. A girl died. Terrible.”

  “It was a powerful explosion. It blew the boat into splinters. There was a fireball, and the shock wave overturned the boat I was in. I’m wondering what kind of explosives could do that.”


  Kebler frowned. “Not really my area. I just teach the basics. I start with Newton’s laws of motion, go to gravity, electro-magnetism, the properties of matter and energy, then touch on thermodynamics, relativity and so forth. But explosives? Probably best if I don’t go there with kids, don’t you think? But back to your question. I suppose any type of high explosive would do it. Dynamite. Nitro. A plastic military explosive like C-four. Even a homemade bomb using the right combo of fertilizer and some hydrocarbon like oil or gas. I could look it up and get back to you, if you like.”

  “Would any of those explosives be untraceable?”

  Kebler shook his head. “Can’t imagine that. All explosives would leave behind their reactive by-products.”

  “When you say ‘high explosives,’ what exactly do you mean?”

  “Again, explosives aren’t my area. But some are really just very combustible materials that are tightly compacted. Pack them into a container like a pipe and you get a crude but effective bomb. When they are ignited, you get extremely fast combustion that generates a great amount of hot gas. The combination will explode the pipe with a large release of energy.”

  “What do you mean when you say very combustible?”

  “I wasn’t thinking specifics. But I suppose something like the powder in firecrackers. Even match heads might do the job. You’d have to get the right amount of air mixed in to make it effective. But a bomb made with those materials wouldn’t cause the destruction you describe.”

  “High explosives are different?”

  “Yes. High explosives don’t simply burn fast. Instead, they consist of organic nitrates that are self-oxidizing and hence inherently unstable. When they are exposed to a very strong shock, such as what you get from a blasting cap, the chemical undergoes an exothermic reaction. The resulting shock wave travels through the explosive at very high speed.” Kebler gazed up at the ceiling. “We’re talking a shock wave that travels at maybe tens of thousands of miles per hour. In effect, all of the material undergoes the reaction at once. Because of the high velocity shockwave, and because of the amount of energy released, a high explosive is much more powerful than other explosives.” Kebler stopped, frowned as if he were examining what he just said, then nodded with satisfaction.

  “The way I described the boat explosion, do you think a high explosive would be necessary?”

  Kebler thought a moment. “A large boat blowing into splinters? Yes, a high explosive seems the likely candidate.”

  “The Coast Guard collected the remaining boat splinters that were floating on the water. They sent them to a lab for analysis and all that was found were traces of gasoline. No explosives of any kind. That’s why I asked if any explosives were untraceable.”

  Kebler shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. They’d find traces. A gas tank blowing up couldn’t do that to a boat. Not even a smallish boat. And you said this was a big boat, right?”

  “Yes. Thirty-some feet long. A good-sized cabin.”

  “Something’s wrong. The lab made a mistake.”

  I said, “Could the splinters they pulled out of the water have soaked too long?”

  “No. That’s the thing about explosives. The force of the blast drives explosive residue into any materials nearby.” Kebler was still shaking his head. “The lab has to be inept. That’s the only explanation.” He stood up. “I’m running out of time. I have to meet someone for a noon appointment.” He started walking toward the door. “I’m sure the Coast Guard would use a qualified lab.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Kebler reached the door and stepped out into the hall. I stayed at his side.

  “You’re certain they only found gasoline?”

  I nodded.

  Kebler and I rounded a corner, went past a coffee counter and down another corridor.

  “Just gasoline,” Kebler muttered. He stared at the floor. “It’s basic physics. Every explosive would leave by-products. Testing for them is not complicated. The lab would... Wait!” Kebler jerked to a stop and swung his arm out sideways. His hand hit my forearm. “I’ve got it!” He rubbed his hand.

  “What? A high explosive that leaves gasoline traces?”

  “No! A mist bomb!”

  “What is that?”

  Kebler turned and stepped in front of me. “I remember reading about mist bombs long ago. The military developed them. The way it works is that you have a device that sprays gasoline mist in just the right manner with the exact gas-to-air mixture.”

  “Like what happens when the fuel injectors spray gas into the cylinders of an engine,” I said.

  “Yes. But they no doubt tinker with the gas and air, probably upping the oxygen level. Although they couldn’t use pure oxygen because it would spontaneously combust. I don’t know how a mist bomb is containerized. But the main thing is that when a mist bomb is ignited the shock wave travels not like bombs made of highly combustible material, but much faster.”

  “Like a high explosive.”

  “Yes.” Kebler held his hands out in front of him, palms facing each other about a foot apart. “Take an ordinary hydrocarbon, mist it just so and... Kaboom!” Kebler threw his hands apart. A woman walking by ducked, then scurried away.

  “How would one go about making a mist bomb?” I asked.

  “Well, it wouldn’t be as simple as taking auto parts and hooking them up. Like most things, the effectiveness is in the details. The military guards its secrets pretty well. But let’s say you could steal the device from the military and put it on some kind of radio control. Maybe the container would fit in the cabin or bilge. Or maybe the device just fills the bilge and cabin with mist. The boat is out on the lake. The result is still like that of a high explosive. And all that is left behind are traces of gas in the wood splinters.” Kebler’s enthusiasm was unsettling.

  “If the misting device was made of metal, it would sink to the bottom along with the engine,” I said.

  “Yes! Divers could search and bring it up!”

  “Except that the explosion was out where the lake is sixteen hundred feet deep. It would never be recoverable.”

  Kebler was disappointed. “Even so, I believe that is your answer.”

  I thanked Kebler and left.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Back in the college parking lot I sat on the grass next to Spot and called Agent Ramos.

  “A mist bomb,” I said after explaining why I was calling. “A professor named Kebler at the college knows about them. He said the military developed them. The device atomizes gas such that it explodes very much like a high explosive. He believed such a bomb could be what blew up Faith Runyon’s boat.”

  “That would fit the shape-shifter’s tendency for the unusual.”

  “Yes, and the one-use concept as well. But it would have to be stolen from the military. Does the FBI keep that kind of data?”

  “I’ll check into it,” Ramos said.

  “Will you let me know if you find out anything?”

  “Thing is,” Ramos said, “the military is very tight about breaches of security. They don’t like to admit that thefts occur.”

  “Right. Makes them look lax. But two shooters tried to kill me last night at Deputy Martinez’s home in Minden. I’d appreciate any information.”

  “I heard about that,” Ramos said. “And the caller with the strange voice.”

  “Yes. I spoke to Doc Lee over at the hospital. He said it could be an electrolarynx. Either someone who has had throat cancer, or someone who just uses it to make strange speech so they wouldn’t be recognized.”

  “The man who used the handrail on you at your office didn’t speak, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “So we could have someone who is mute. Or it could be part of the shape-shifter’s M.O.”

  “Or someone impersonating the shape-shifter,” I said. “One more thing. Diamond Martinez and I put together most of the bits of paper the Coast Guard pulled out of the water when Faith’s boat blew up. The
y make a picture of a nine-hole golf course. Does that sound familiar?”

  “No.”

  I said goodbye and called Wheels Washburn.

  “Hello?” More of a grunt than a spoken word.

  “Wheels? Owen McKenna. Remember I was wondering where you got the idea about the location of where Glory went off the trail?”

  “Yes. Good little detective that I am, I called Spider just after you and I got down from the mountain. Told him that I had two bees in my bonnet. One was that I knew the accident happened about a half mile down the trail from the Marlette Lake dam. The other was thinking the man with Glory was her boyfriend, not her bodyguard. Thorough, aren’t I?”

  “Spider have an idea?”

  “Yeah.” Another grunt. “He said it was Bob Metan who knew about the accident. Soon as he said it, I remembered Bob talking about the singer Glory and some prostitute named Faith who died in that boat explosion. Seemed to know all about their deaths.”

  “How do I get hold of Bob?”

  “He works up at Squaw. I forget the name of the shop. Near the cable car. Only don’t ask for Bob Metan. He’s becoming well-known in snowboard circles and uses a professional name. Bobby Crash.”

  “Thanks, Wheels. I’ll be in touch.”

  I hung up and made several phone calls trying to track down Bobby Crash. Eventually, I got routed to the marketing department of Company Twenty-Five. They said they weren’t at liberty to give out contact information. Next, I went through Information to contact sports shops in Squaw Valley. After many calls, I finally happened on the shop where he worked.

  “Bobby Crash? I can’t tell you where he is,” a high, shrill female voice said. “Can you tell me? I’d sure like to know. Didn’t show up yesterday, didn’t call, neither. His shift started today at one, but it’s a quarter after and he isn’t here.”

  “Can you give me his home phone?”

  “No way, mister. There’s rules about that.”

  I dialed the Herald and asked for Glenda Gorman.

  “Owen,” she said, her voice tense, “I heard the police report about the shooting. Is Spot...”