Tahoe Heat Read online

  I went west. Four open doors led to four separate suites. I stepped inside the first two. Each had a bedroom, sitting room, media wall, and bathroom with double sinks, double-sized Jacuzzi tub and double-sized glass-and-marble shower.

  Still no people. No personal stuff lying around. No magazines or half-eaten bags of tortilla chips or cell phone chargers or clothing or crumpled grocery lists. The place was sterile, like a new luxury hotel that had been decorated but hadn’t yet hosted its first guest. I couldn’t even see any foot tracks on the carpet. The only sign of people was the wavy water in the pool, two floors down. Maybe I’d have to go swimming.

  But I still had a floor and a half of suites to check out.

  I went east.

  Except for a laundry room that replaced one of the bedroom suites, it was similar to the west wing. The last door was open. Spot and I walked in. It appeared to be Preston’s room. But still, it looked like a hotel. His clothes were in the closet. His newspapers were neatly stacked in a magazine rack. He had some personal toiletries in the bathroom cabinet, but more were in one of those zip-up carrier bags that hung from the door hook.

  He may have been staying at his lake house, but he wasn’t living there.

  Another trip around the central chandelier resulted in a plainer, simpler top floor, narrower from front to back because of the roofline. The music floating up the stairway was much softer. To the west was a large game room with a pool table, ping-pong table, pinball machine, an elaborate gaming console with a wall-sized screen, and deep leather armchairs.

  To the east were the odds and ends of what people with too much money focus on. One room was Ode-To-Horses, with framed pictures of jockeys sitting astride race horses, or jockeys standing below the horses’ big, beautiful heads. There was an aerial shot of a big, hilly, horse ranch - probably Preston’s foothill estate - with white fences and multiple barns and vineyards stretching into the distance. There were horse books and a big map showing racecourses across the country, and a small wet bar with two barstools made from English saddles. There was a TV screen on the wall and a stack of DVDs nearby and two big easy chairs. It was certainly the most comfortable room I’d seen yet, and it would be a nice place to lose an afternoon drinking Kentucky bourbon and watching reruns of all the Triple Crown winners. Spot eyed the leather chairs.

  The last room on the top floor was also locked, but this time with a simple brass slide bolt on the outside of the door. I looked closely and saw that the brass screws had bright, untarnished marks where the screwdriver had slipped. It was recently installed. The only possible explanation was that Preston wanted to keep someone in the room but didn’t want the trouble or the attention of hiring a locksmith.

  I put my ear to the door, and heard muffled voices.

  I wondered if the door lock was also turned on the inside, making it so the door couldn’t be opened without agreement from the people on both sides. One way to find out.

  I slid the bolt back, turned the knob and opened the door.

  Champagne was lounging on a chair in the sitting room, watching the big-screen TV up on the wall. She wore blue sweats, and her hair was no longer spiky. She didn’t appear to be wearing any jewelry or makeup. But for her beauty, she looked almost ordinary.

  She turned and saw Spot and me and gasped.

  I put my finger to my lips and shut the door behind me.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “Who are you?” Her whisper indicated a hope that I might be on her side regarding her situation. She stared at Spot.

  “Owen McKenna. This is Spot. Friends of Ryan Lear. I was at his party, but we didn’t meet. We’ve come to take you out of here. If you want to go. Judging by the bruise on your cheek and jaw, I assume you’d like out.”

  She reached up and touched her jaw. “I’m not… I mean, he didn’t intend to hit me like that. He tried to pull his punch, but he misjudged.”

  “That’s not true,” I said. “He meant to hit you. They always mean to hit you. He will do it again. Next time it will be worse.”

  She shook her head. “No. He loves me. He really does.”

  “The bolted door?” I said. “You’re being held against your will. That’s called kidnapping.”

  “No, seriously, it’s just a game. He’s actually very sweet. He buys me anything I want. And he’s only locked me in the room this last day because he’s gone. He...”

  I heard thumping noises from down the hall. I held my finger up to my lips, stepped to the side of the door. Spot turned to look at me.

  The footsteps got loud. The door burst open. The man I’d met at the gate came in, saw Spot, frowned in confusion.

  “Joe, look out!” she screamed.

  He turned, saw me to his side, reached to pull his gun out of the holster.

  I grabbed the arm with the Norteños tattoo as he raised his gun toward me. I jerked it down as I raised my leg, and cracked his forearm over my knee.

  He yelled as his arm made a popping snap. The gun flew out of the man’s hand, firing as it left his finger. It made a huge boom in the enclosed space. The round punched a black hole in the flat screen TV.

  He grabbed my shoulder with his other arm. His grip cut like a pliers into my muscles and tendons. He jerked me toward him. I didn’t want him to get his good arm around me.

  I tightened my grip on his damaged arm, and dropped to the floor. He grunted in pain, let me pull him down. I landed on my butt, and got my feet into his gut. I rolled onto my back, and lofted him on a fast trajectory into the wall.

  He hit head-first and dropped to the floor.

  Champagne had jerked herself up into a ball at the explosion of gunfire. Her knees were up, hands over her ears. In a moment, she lifted her head, looked at the gun on the floor.

  “Don’t even think about it.” I kicked the gun into the corner behind the door, then opened the door all the way.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not crazy.” She looked crazy.

  I looked out the door and down the hall, listened for footsteps, pulled my head back inside the room. I reached down to the prostrate guard and turned off the radio on his belt.

  “Does Joe have a pal, here?” I asked.

  She looked at me, hesitating.

  “Does he?!”

  “Willy.”

  “Is he in the house?”

  “I don’t know. A while back I saw him out the window. Down on the boat.”

  “Spot, come here.” He walked over. I pointed to the floor about six feet in front of the door. “Sit.”

  He sat down facing the door. He would draw all of the attention of anyone who came to the door.

  I looked around for a blunt weapon. A heavy candlestick. A baseball bat. A fireplace poker. There was nothing but the other man’s gun, and I’d given up guns a long time ago. Near Champagne was a floor lamp that shined at the ceiling. The lamp was delicate. It would snap in two if you swung it at someone.

  I realized that I didn’t need to swing it.

  I brought the lamp over to the door, plugged it in and turned it on to make certain that electricity was flowing to the bulb. Then I unplugged it, leaving the switch on, and used my pocketknife to take off the glass and wire shield. I popped out the halogen bulb, then plugged the lamp back in. The two protruding metal parts of the bulb socket were now exposed and electrified. Unless I could ground my target on plumbing, the lamp would just give him a bad burn. But it would startle.

  “This time you won’t warn Willy.” I glared at Champagne. It had no observable effect. “You warn him, and Willy gets the jump on me, my dog will use his teeth on you.”

  She looked at Spot.

  I put my finger across Spot’s nose. “Silence,” I said.

  I stood next to the door and waited.

  Spot sat in front of the door, looking at me.

  Even if Willy had been sleeping on the yacht, the gunshot would probably have awakened him. He’d radio Joe. Getting no response, he’d be suspicious. Eventually, he’d
come up to the third floor. From down the hall, he’d see light coming out of Champagne’s open door, the door he knew was supposed to be bolted.

  When he saw the light, he’d either run to check it out, or he’d be crafty and tiptoe down the hall to peek inside.

  I’d be ready.

  I looked at Champagne, gave her a stern look, held my finger to my lips.

  Spot watched me.

  We waited.

  Spot kept watching me, trying to figure me out.

  Then he looked at the doorway, his ears twitching, hyper focused on sounds I couldn’t hear.

  I got ready.

  Spot growled.

  “What?!” came Willy’s voice as he appeared in the doorway, his gun out, his hand shaking with fear as he stared at Spot. I poked my electric prod into the side of his neck. There was a singeing, crackling sound when the electrified metal hit soft, moist neck skin.

  Willy’s arm went out and windmilled, the gun tracing circles. His body jerked. My electric poker came off of his neck.

  I swung my foot up and kicked the gun out of his hand. It flew to the far wall and fell to the floor without discharging.

  Willy lunged toward me. Like Joe, he was shorter than me, but he packed a lot more muscle. I didn’t want him to get his hands on me.

  I got the lamp pole replanted against his forehead. His head jerked back. I put a hard sidekick onto his knee. He screamed, fell to the floor, writhing as he grabbed at his leg.

  I walked over and kicked his gun behind the door next to Joe’s gun. He grabbed my leg. I bent down, and used my other knee under his jaw.

  He went limp.

  “Is there anyone else here?” I hissed, panting hard.

  “No,” came Champagne’s whisper.

  “What about Preston?”

  “He had to go out of town for a meeting. He’s supposed to get back tonight. I think he said one-thirty.”

  I looked at Champagne. “You said this is just a game Preston plays, locking you in a room. The guards with guns make it more fun, right?” I was angry, and I knew that her emotions were overwhelmed by fear, but I get impatient when people act stupid.

  “I didn’t mean that… The truth is that I have no place else to go.” Her eyes were wet. “I’m broke. He offered me a life. Yes, he’s a jerk. But I don’t think he would really hurt me.”

  “Look, Champagne. I’m an ex-cop. Twenty years SFPD. I know how this works. Answer one question for me. Has he ever hit you before?”

  “You already know that he hit me. But I told you that he tried to pull his punch.”

  “Before that. Has he hit you more than once?”

  She looked down at the floor. Then over at the TV with its new dark orifice. Up at me. Teary eyes. Real tears.

  She nodded. She looked afraid of what was to come. Afraid of what had already happened.

  “If you’d said that he only hit you once, I’d say that he was a serious risk, and that there was a high chance he’d cross the line again. I’d say that there was a small possibility that it was a one-time aberration.”

  I sat down on the nearest chair. “But you know what I’m going to say, now that you’ve said he’s hit you again.”

  She looked at me in fear, bit her lip.

  “Men who beat up women are like men who beat up children. They are sick. They can be successful in the outside world. They can be charming. They can be very kind at times. They can bring you flowers and tell you how much they love you. They can compose love sonnets. But inside, they are rotten in a way that is hard to cure. We put them in prison and give them the best psychological treatment because we think that unlike child molesters, the wife beaters can get better. Then they go right back to it.

  “Bottom line is, if you stay with him, you will end up seriously injured, maybe dead. Preston will always have this disease. When he feels a loss of power, when things don’t go his way and his insecurity about his masculinity erupts, he will act like the emotional two-year-old that he is. He will lash out at the weaker people in his life. That ain’t Willy, and it ain’t Joe. You are going to take the brunt of his sickness.”

  She stared at me, horrified at the picture I painted, the picture that she, like so many victims, had already suspected.

  “What should I do?” she said in a meek voice.

  “Come with me. I’ll take you to Ryan’s house. You’ll be safe there for awhile. We’ll help you find a new place to live.”

  “What will he do when he finds me gone?”

  “When a woman leaves a beater, it’s common for him to become enraged and try to track her down. The safest thing is to get off his radar for a long time. You’ve heard of women’s shelters?”

  “Yes, of course. But they’re for women who are in really bad situations. Not for people like me. I’m living with one of the richest men in the country.”

  “Then you will end up dead or maimed for life.” I stood up. “C’mon, Spot.” He jumped to his feet.

  We were walking out the door when she called out.

  “No, wait! I’ll come with you. I don’t want to get hit again. He locks me up and hits me. I can’t live like an animal.”

  I walked back into the room. Willy was stirring.

  “Do you have any packing tape? Or cord or rope?”

  “No. I have masking tape.”

  “A T-shirt I can tear up?”

  She found two and handed them to me. I tore them into strips and tied the wrists of both men behind their backs. I tied their ankles, pulled them up and back and tied them to their wrists. I put wads of cloth into their mouths and tied gags around their heads. I asked Champagne for the masking tape, and used it to tape their eyes shut.

  “Is there anyone else here?” I said.

  “No. Miguel and Stefan come on at midnight.”

  I looked at the readout on her TV. 11:37 p.m.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “Put on a jacket or something. Shoes. It’s cold outside.”

  “They’re downstairs by the garage.”

  We went out the door, and ran down the hall, and went down the stairs and around the fancy chandelier once, twice. Champagne headed for the kitchen.

  At the far end was a closet. She slipped into a pair of hiking shoes without tying them, and pulled on a black fur coat.

  “Where’s your car?” she said, breathless, scared. She looked across the kitchen to the giant brick pizza oven where the readout said 11:51 p.m.

  “We came by boat. Doesn’t Preston have a car here?”

  “Then we should go by boat,” she said. “If we take one of Preston’s precious cars, he’ll kill me.”

  “He’ll want to kill you anyway. And you don’t want to ride on our boat. Where’s his car?”

  She turned, opened a door, ran down a broad stairway to an underground garage. Now I understood why the grotto level was small compared to the rest of the house. The garage was big enough for ten or twelve vehicles. In one corner was the 1970 Barracuda, Preston’s pride and joy. Nearby were a Chevy Camaro and a Mazda pickup. Probably Joe and Willy’s vehicles. In another corner were two black Audis.

  “Where are the keys?” I said.

  “They keep them in the cars.”

  We ran to the first Audi. It chimed as I opened the door, key in the ignition. I opened the back door. Spot jumped in. Champagne ran around the other side. I got in front, turned the key. The Audi quietly came to life.

  “Does the garage door open automatically when you approach it?”

  “No,” she said. She pointed to the opener on the visor in front of my forehead.

  “What do the workers drive?”

  “Miguel drives a Ford Fiesta. Stefan drives one of those muscle cars from the nineteen seventies. A Challenger or some name like that. Preston helped him find it.”

  “They carry guns like Joe and Willy?”

  “Yeah. But you don’t need to worry about Miguel. It’s Stefan who is dangerous. You need to worry about Stefan.” Her voice was tense when she said
it.

  The garage door began rising.

  “That means one of them is reporting for work?” I said.

  “Yes. Shit. I’m dead.”

  “No.” I talked fast. “Get in the other Audi. Start it up, and stay down low. As soon as the incoming car gets in far enough that you can get by, drive out fast, then stop when you get outside. I’ll use this car to block the entrance and run to your car. Hurry!”

  She jumped out, got in the other Audi. I heard it start just as the garage door stopped rising.

  I saw nothing out the open garage door except the paving stones of the driveway. The incoming car was around a curve to the right.

  I heard its engine rev just a touch, a throaty rumble as deep as Spot’s growl. The low nose of a car appeared, hideaway headlights off, low yellow parking lights on. It looked like a 1969 Dodge Charger. It could chew up any Audi in a chase. It rolled down into the garage.

  The Charger was painted deep purple, and it had smoked windows. The garage lights reflected off the windshield. I couldn’t see anything of the driver.

  I slid down in my seat. No time to try to get Spot to do the same in the back seat. The Charger drove in front of us, made a turn, stopped, then backed into a parking spot.

  The Audi next to me shot forward with a squeal of rubber, up out of the garage. I followed even faster. Just as I got to the garage door opening, I stomped on the brakes and cranked the wheel hard to the right, hoping to set up a skid.

  But the anti-lock brakes pulsed, and the car wouldn’t slide. Nevertheless, I got it turned across the drive, shut it off, took the key, and jumped out. I let Spot out of the back, and we ran up the drive.

  Champagne had stopped well away from the house. As I jerked open the back door of her car, I turned and saw Stefan leap over the hood of the Audi I’d left in front of the garage. It was the man I’d seen at Ryan’s party. He was thin like a sword, and he ran like a sprinter. Even from a distance, I could see that the gun in his hand was bigger than what Joe or Willy had carried.

  Spot jumped in first, and I followed him into the back seat.