10 Tahoe Trap Read online

  I proceeded to ask Robert Whitehall the same questions that I’d asked the others. He gave me the same answers that the others had.

  Five minutes later, I’d learned nothing. I stood to go. I saw movement outside the windows. Whitehall turned. On the far side of the swimming pool, an older man was pushing a younger man in a wheelchair.

  “Oh, here come Andrew and Martin. Please come outside and I’ll introduce you.”

  Whitehall pushed open one of the huge glass doors in the glass wall, and we went out into the crisp air of fall in Tahoe.

  The man pushing the wheelchair looked to be approaching seventy. In the chair was a younger man. They came around the end of the pool and over to us. As they got close, I saw that the older man’s snug, patterned outfit was an athletic uniform, a skin-tight, shimmery stretch fabric emblazoned with bright graphics and a large number 67 on the front. The man was thin and muscular.

  “Andrew and Martin, I want to introduce Owen McKenna and Paco. This is Dr. Andrew Garcia and his son Martin.”

  Andrew and I shook hands. He said hello in a pleasant but quiet voice. I went to shake Martin’s hand, but as I got close I could see that his smile was more of a painful grimace, and he wasn’t moving his arms. He nodded but said nothing.

  “As you can guess from his clothing, Andrew is a marathon runner, and he is in constant training. What was it that you said your current schedule is?”

  “Ten and ten,” he said with a bit of embarrassment.

  “Oh, yes, that’s right.” Whitehall turned to me. “He runs ten miles every morning and ten every evening. Can you believe it?”

  I said to Andrew Garcia, “Yes, I believe it. But I can’t imagine running like that myself.”

  “You look pretty fit to me,” he said.

  “Andrew and Martin live in my guesthouse,” Whitehall said. He pointed toward what I thought was the neighbor’s cabin. It was maybe the last of the original cabins on the lake shore of Incline Village. Most of the others had been torn down and replaced with mansions.

  “Andrew and Martin are vegetarians,” Whitehall said. “We had Cassie make a single delivery of her wonderful vegetables for both of us, and we split it each week.” He turned back to Andrew and Martin.

  “Andrew and Martin,” Whitehall said, “Mr. McKenna is an investigator, and he has very sad news. It turns out that Cassie has died.”

  Andrew Garcia looked shocked. “My Lord,” he said. He turned to Paco. “Paco, I’m so sorry.”

  “Mr. McKenna is asking if we have heard or seen anything unusual about her recently.”

  “Are you implying that Cassie didn’t die a natural death?” Garcia asked.

  “She was murdered,” I said.

  “My God!” Garcia’s face contorted with stress. He began to tremble. He looked down at Paco.

  “That is such terrible news,” he said. His eyes got red and moist.

  “Tell me about your contact with Cassie Moreno when she made her deliveries?” I asked.

  Andrew Garcia nodded. He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t really know what to say. She was dedicated to her business. Her vegetables were the best. And she was so kind. Of course, if you know Cassie, you know that she was all about being efficient and businesslike. But she was also kind.”

  “As Mr. Whitehall commented,” I said, “I’m wondering if you ever heard Cassie say anything that might reflect on her death.”

  Andrew Garcia paused, then shook his head.

  “Have you heard anybody else make any reference to her or her business?”

  “No,” he said. “It was very exclusive, from what I understood. Just a small list of clients who can afford the best in fresh produce.”

  “Did you ever see Cassie outside of her role of delivering produce?”

  Garcia shook his head again.

  “But you talked to her during some of her deliveries?”

  “Yes, especially one time. I mean, we barely knew each other. But I’m... Well, it’s embarrassing to admit, but I don’t get out much, and Martin and I don’t have time for socializing. So once when Cassie came, I rather talked her ear off. But it turned out that we had a connection of sorts. I’m a retired veterinarian, and Cassie told me that when she was a little girl, she always wanted to be a vet.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “From what I’ve learned, Cassie was such a dedicated organic farmer that I assumed that had always been her long-term dream.”

  “She told me that she used to earn her living as a house cleaner,” Garcia said, “and that she had no way to finance an education. But she was able to get into farming on a crop-share basis with no upfront expense. Strange as it may sound, there is a kind of base-level similarity in what we did. As I understood it, Cassie pursued the scientific side of farming, developing new types of tomatoes. And of course, veterinary work has a science foundation. So we both worked in and around biology.”

  “I’m looking for anything she may have said that indicated that she was in trouble. Does that ring a bell for either of you?”

  Both Whitehall and Garcia shook their heads.

  Garcia looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, we must leave. We have a doctor’s appointment in Reno, and I still have to change.”

  Garcia looked down at Paco. “Again, Paco, I’m so sorry.” Garcia reached into a little pocket on the back of Martin’s wheelchair and pulled out his business card. He handed it to me.

  Dr. Andrew Garcia

  Veterinarian, ret.

  At the bottom of the card was his email address.

  “If you think of any questions that I can help with, please contact me.”

  I handed him my card. “Call if you think of anything.”

  “I will.” He gave Paco a gentle pat on his shoulder, then wheeled Martin away.

  After they left, I asked Whitehall, “Where did Garcia practice?”

  Whitehall frowned. “It slips my mind. I’m at that age where I can’t trust that any memory will be there when I want it. I know that I’ve heard him refer to doing work in both Tahoe and Reno, but I can’t recall where his practice was.”

  “If I may ask, what is Martin’s disability?”

  “As I understand it, he’s got stage four cancer of some kind,” Whitehall said. “He’s in pain, and he has to take quite a regimen of drugs. The drugs keep him from being very lucid. I get the sense that it’s very serious, but Andrew’s not the type to give up the fight. He’s a sweet man. I hate to see what’s happening. The cancer is devouring him just as surely as it’s devouring his son.”

  I nodded. “What about you? Are you retired?”

  “God, no,” Whitehall said, his eyes wide. “I have many colleagues who made good money and then sold their businesses. They thought the money was what made life exciting. Why work after you have it, right? But after retirement, they quickly discovered that the excitement was gone, and now they’re stuck with nothing to do but play golf and walk on the beach and fly to Hawaii in the winter. They learn the hard way that an easy life is not a rewarding life.

  “Fortunately for me, they had set the example before it came time for me to do the same. I’m not even married, so I would have little to do were I to quit. Running my business is what I find interesting and rewarding. My foundation is even more rewarding to me. So I will keep at it as long as my brain functions.”

  “You run your business from home?”

  “Yes. My company makes medical devices. Our plant is in the Bay Area. Not far from downtown Hayward. My job can be done from any place with phone, email and teleconferencing ability.” He pointed to a corner of the house. It had the same concrete-and-glass walls as the rest of the building.

  “It suits me to have my office there.” Then he turned and pointed at the lake and the mountains in the distance. “From inside my office, I look out at that view. And if I want to lunch with some of my colleagues, there are several of them who have houses on this same beach.”

  “Smart decision,” I said.

  “I
think so.”

  “Someone was mailing Cassie cash every week in return for travel information about her clients. Do you have any thoughts about that?”

  Whitehall looked very concerned. “I don’t understand. Are you saying that this woman was profiting from providing information about my movements?”

  “Your movements along with those of her other clients.”

  “How would that work?”

  “I don’t know. My only guess is stock market fluctuations. Perhaps you traveled someplace relative to your business. Whatever you did or whomever you saw could possibly correlate with a subsequent bump or dip in your company’s stock price. Or another company’s price. Does that seem possible?”

  “Yes, of course. But if someone traded on that information, that would be illegal insider trading.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. If your travel information could be found out by anyone doing basic research, then it’s public information. Perfectly legal.”

  Whitehall stared off at the lake. “I was down in Tucson a few months ago. We were looking at acquiring a publicly-traded manufacturing facility. Its stock has risen thirty percent since word got out that we are interested. If someone had been confident about that possibility, they could have made a fortune.”

  “Can you think of any way that Cassie might have found out your travel plans for Tucson?”

  He shook his head. “As I said, I never met her. She came and went by herself with Paco and only spoke to Andrew now and then.”

  “Maybe you left something out that she could see. A hotel brochure. A Post-it note. Maybe you told Andrew, and he mentioned it to Cassie.”

  He made a slow nod. “Yes, maybe I did do one of those things.”

  I thanked Whitehall for his time, and we left.

  “You had my back,” I said to Paco when we were back in the car. “Thanks.”

  Paco frowned, not understanding.

  “My six o’clock,” I said.

  Paco nodded.

  “Do you have any thoughts on these people?” I asked him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m looking for some connection, some information that would give us a clue about why Salt and Pepper are after you. Has anything any of these people said seemed unusual to you?”

  Paco paused, then shook his head.

  I wrote on my list.

  6) Robert Whitehall – Medical devices – and tenants Andrew and Martin Garcia – retired vet and son with cancer. Andrew knew Cassie some, they shared interest in biology.

  THIRTY

  We had just three more names on our list. One was Anthony Vittori, CEO of a major software company. He lived on the lake out on Dollar Point. Paco showed me where to turn. I was surprised that a billionaire didn’t have a fenced estate. But the house was no less grand for it. Video cameras watched as we stood at the door and rang the bell. No one answered.

  7) Anthony Vittori – Software exec – Unavailable.

  We continued on through Tahoe City and turned left on 89. The road goes immediately over Fanny Bridge where people line up to bend over and watch the trout just below the dam that holds in the top six feet of Lake Tahoe and regulates it like a reservoir.

  Michael Schue lived in a townhouse development a few miles south. He was the founder and chairman of a national restaurant chain of which no franchises were located in the Tahoe Basin. I wondered if that was why he chose to live here. My research had also discovered that Schue owned a sister company to the restaurant business, a produce distribution company.

  I followed the instructions on the keypad at the entrance but got no answer from the auto-dialer. I could wait until another resident drove up and then follow them in through the gate. But once inside, I would probably find the condo vacant.

  They had a little turn-around for people like me. I pulled back onto the highway.

  A red Audi came toward us. Paco spun in his seat as it went by.

  “That’s him,” he said.

  “Michael Schue?” I slowed and pulled over.

  “No. The guy who came over to the hothouse and wanted to buy Cassie’s Amazements.”

  I was about to pull a U-turn, but a truck was coming. It went past. I turned a fast U and hit the gas.

  The Audi was pulling through the townhouse gate. I cranked the wheel and pulled into the entrance, but the gate was already closing. We came to another stop.

  “You know that guy’s name?”

  Paco shook his head.

  “Kind of a coincidence that he pulls into the place where Michael Schue lives. Did he ever say anything that made it seem like he was connected to Michael Schue?”

  Another head shake.

  “When you delivered to Michael Schue, did you ever see that guy?”

  “No.”

  I pondered that while we waited. While it was entirely possible that the guy who wanted to buy the rights to Cassie’s tomatoes just happened to live in the same development as one of Cassie’s customers, my instinct said they were connected. My hope was that the guy in the Audi was going to Michael Schue’s townhouse.

  We pulled off the road and waited fifteen minutes just in case the Audi-tomato guy was meeting Schue at Schue’s place. I drove back up to the gate and once again dialed Schue’s number on the gate keypad. Still no answer.

  The keypad had a scroll feature that showed the residents’ first initials and last names.

  “I’m going to read off the names of the people who live here,” I said. “It only shows the first initial, so it won’t sound normal. But I want you to listen anyway and tell me if any of them sound familiar.”

  Paco nodded.

  I started reading the names aloud. A furniture delivery truck pulled in behind me. I kept reading. There were a lot of names. The truck honked. Paco turned around to look.

  “Try to ignore the truck,” I said.

  Paco faced forward again.

  I kept reading. The truck honked again. I made finger motions at the keypad like I had found the combination. Soon, I was done reading.

  “You didn’t recognize any name?” I said.

  Paco shook his head.

  I jockeyed Street’s Beetle back and forth, got it turned around and out of the truck’s way. The truck driver pushed a code on the keypad. The gate opened. I pulled behind the truck and followed it into the townhouse development.

  There were several buildings, each with its own underground garage. All the garage doors were shut.

  “How did Cassie and you get in to make your delivery?”

  “Garage door opener,” Paco said.

  I drove around and looked at the outdoor parking areas. No Audis.

  It didn’t leave me many options. I could dial everybody’s phone from the gate keypad. That would take a day or two. I could stake out the front gate and wait for the Audi to drive back out. But it could be hours. Or days. Or next spring.

  We left.

  8) Michael Schue – Restaurant business – Unavailable. Audi-driving tomato hustler at same residential complex. Maybe connected. Maybe not.

  Further south down the West Shore, Paco directed me to turn into a long drive, marked only by No Trespassing signs. The drive wound through thick forest as it crawled toward the lake. It brought us to a wrought-iron fence with pointed spikes along the top. In the distance, we could glimpse the sprawling home of the comedian-turned-TV talk show host, known to all Americans and watched by millions.

  There was no bell at the gate, no keypad, and no house number. Just cameras. Lots of them. On the fence and in the trees.

  “Cassie have a transmitter for this gate, too?”

  Paco nodded.

  “When you got to the house, did the transmitter open the door to let you inside?”

  “No. The butler let us in the house.”

  I nodded. I waved at the cameras, backed up, turned around and left.

  9) TV talk show host – Unavailable.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “We need to get some food and fi
nd a place where Spot can run,” I said.

  Paco nodded.

  “You okay with a deli sandwich in place of a burger?”

  “Yeah.”

  I went north. Before we got to Tahoe City, I turned into the Tahoe House Gourmet Bakery and got some custom deli sandwiches. Then we headed around the north end of the lake to the Mt. Rose Highway and turned up the mountain.

  We cruised up the mountain, past the jaw-drop views at the vista overlook and climbed on up to the Mt. Rose meadows at close to 9000 feet. Clouds cloaked the summit of Mt. Rose, but the sun was out on the meadow.

  I found a place to park, and we let Spot out of his back seat prison.

  He showed his enthusiasm by running off into the snowy meadow. Paco and I ate another meal on the hood of Street’s car. When Spot smelled us opening our sandwiches, he came running and joined us.

  When Paco was done, he got back in the Beetle, reclined his seat back and went to sleep. When Spot was done with his sandwich, he went back into the meadow.

  I looked again at my notes about Cassie’s customers whose travel information she’d sold to the anonymous John Mitchell.

  1) Rob Tentor – Nasa inventor – Out of town. Housekeeper Bridgett Jordan was Cassie’s main contact. Envious of Cassie’s business success. No travel discussed.

  2) Jayleen Swanson – Romance novelist – Unavailable.

  3) Ball Player – Unavailable.

  4) Rock Star – Unavailable.

  5) Mike Kalili – Documentarist jerk – Probably a trust fund baby or has additional income from something other than filming documentaries.

  6) Robert Whitehall – Medical devices – and tenants Andrew and Martin Garcia – retired vet and son with cancer. Andrew knew Cassie some, they shared interest in biology.

  7) Anthony Vittori – Software exec – Unavailable.

  8) Michael Schue – Restaurant business – Unavailable. Audi-driving tomato hustler at same residential complex. Maybe connected. Maybe not.

  9) TV talk show host – Unavailable.

  Other than the red Audi, no information came up that gave me a clue about where I should look next.