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

  “We’ll talk late tomorrow morning,” I said.

  “I always get up early,” she said.

  “I don’t. I’ll call you after I’ve had my coffee.”

  She nodded. She started the Jeep, got the lights on, shifted, and drove off very slowly.

  It was possible that an observer could have seen her get into my car in the dark, but I hoped that the blackmailer was relying on GPS in her car, if, in fact, he was tracking her at all.

  Spot was excited when I opened the back door of the BMW. He stuck his head into the leather-lined space, taking deep breaths, wagging his tail. He’d never ridden in such a fancy car, especially one permeated by fancy woman scents.

  “Get in, boy,” I said.

  He turned and looked at me, wondering if I was serious.

  “It’s our new ride. For a bit, anyway.” I pointed into the car. “Climb aboard.”

  Spot jumped in. Sniffed the seats. Turned around, excited.

  I got in front. Leather aroma mixed with perfume and soap, essence of pampered woman.

  I started the engine. It was smooth and muted but with a hint of growl. Music came on. Mexican. I found the headlight switch and turned it on. There were as many lights on the Beemer’s dash as in Reno on a busy night. I took some time to familiarize myself with the knobs and switches.

  Switching from my old Jeep to a modern German luxury sedan was like trading up from talking through cups-and-string to talking on an iPhone. There were obvious advantages, but the learning curve was steep. It would take a ride-along tutor weeks to teach me how to work all the BMW systems.

  I spun the radio dial looking for something more muscular than Mariachi, but the music didn’t change. Maybe the music was on an unseen CD, or a satellite subscription, or an iPod hidden in the glove box.

  I couldn’t figure out how to change the music, so I hit the power-off button.

  I heard Spot nose-bumping the rear passenger window.

  “Sorry, largeness. We’re in stealth mode. Can’t have you flopping your tongue out an open window. We want them to think that Nadia is in this ride.”

  I pulled out and found that you have to go easy on the gas. At the first touch, the Beemer made me think of a horse rearing before it leaped ahead with instant acceleration. I felt like the horse whisperer communicating without touching the reins. In a moment, I was going 50 in a 30 zone, and I couldn’t remember how it happened. I braked to a more reasonable speed. It seemed to take only a few minutes to get to my turnoff north of Cave Rock.

  Nadia’s BMW powered 1000 vertical feet up the private, winding mountain road that I share with my far-flung vacation home neighbors as if the road were level. Its power and cornering were more like a big motorcycle than a four-wheeled vehicle.

  When I pulled onto the parking pad of my little cabin and got out, I had a vague sense that I should get out the towel and curry comb to calm and reassure the high-strung Beemer’s nerves after our trail ride. Spot pushed out as I cracked the back door. He ran a large circle around the BMW. Probably ravenous for fresh air after Nadia’s pineapple-disinfectant perfume.

  After a short walk with Spot out in the cold breeze, I said, “C’mon, largeness. Let’s fire up the wood stove.”

  I popped a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale when I realized that I hadn’t locked Nadia’s Beemer. I never locked my Jeep, but then no one would want to steal it. A BMW was a different matter. Not many people drove up the road. But leaving a $70,000 car unlocked was not wise.

  I reached to open my cabin door. Remembered the key fob. Cool. I wouldn’t even have to go outside.

  I moved to the big window, pushed aside the blinds, pointed the key fob and hit the lock button.

  There was a blinding flash of light and a sharp, muffled snap like a breaking tree as the BMW exploded.

  ELEVEN

  I spun around, my back to the wall next to the window. Spot had been in the kitchen at his water bowl, so I knew he would be protected.

  The explosion was loud, but it didn’t blow out my front window. I waited a moment to be sure no shock wave or second explosion would follow. Then I looked back out. I could see nothing in the dark. I realized that the flash had given me night blindness.

  I reached over and flipped on the outdoor light. It was hard to see with my eyes shut down, but I could tell that the Beemer was a mess, its windows shattered, roof bulged up a few inches, gray-black smoke billowing from the interior. No flames, no sparks.

  I dialed Diamond’s cell.

  “Sí?” he answered.

  “You remember Nadia Lassitor, the woman I told you and Street about over lunch?”

  “The woman being tailed and blackmailed?” he said. “Yes.”

  “We worried about her Beemer having a GPS unit and making it easy for someone to follow her. So we switched cars.”

  “She took your Jeep without protest?”

  “No. There was protest. Anyway, I’m at my cabin. I went to lock her wheels with the key fob, and the windows blew out,” I said. “I’m guessing a stun grenade.”

  “Hold on.”

  I waited. I looked toward Spot. He watched me from over in the kitchen nook. His ears were up, focused. Tiny flickers came from the faux diamond that Street got him after a previous explosion had pierced his ear with a splinter of wood. As a veteran of explosions, he was somewhat traumatized by loud noises. As long as he could see me from the kitchen, he didn’t feel the need to come forward until I gave him the okay.

  Diamond came back on the phone. “I turned around. I’ll be up your mountain in fifteen minutes. You okay?”

  “Yeah.” I hung up.

  Spot and I went outside. Spot approached the BMW with tentative steps. He held his nose up high, pointing toward the BMW. He kept his distance as he sniffed. No doubt the acrid smoke was wicked to a dog’s sensitive nose.

  A short time later, Diamond pulled up and got out of his patrol unit. Spot was relieved to have him there. In times of stress, the familiar is reassuring. He poked his nose at Diamond’s abdomen and wagged. Diamond put him in a headlock and growled in Spot’s ear. Spot wagged harder.

  Diamond said, “You think someone hoped to fry you? Or just scare you?”

  “The flash and bang were impressive and might have killed anyone in the car. But anyone a few feet away would probably live.”

  “The distance most people are when they press their key fob button,” Diamond said.

  “Right. So it was probably a warning. They just wanted to show Nadia that they are serious and capable.”

  “Or show you,” Diamond said.

  “Maybe. They could have programmed the explosive package in advance. Set it to go off the third or fifth or tenth time she hit the key fob. That way she’d be multiple steps removed from them when it went off. They could have attached it to her car at any time. All it would take is a half a minute to run up and stick it under the floor panel.”

  “And when it went off,” Diamond said, “she would be rattled and perhaps more eager to pay the blackmailer’s demands.” Diamond shined his flashlight into the blown-out windows. Smoke made the beam an undulating column of light. “Hard to see anything in here. I’ll get a team up here and see what we can find.”

  He called the sheriff’s office and explained the situation.

  Most of the smoke was gone when two other sheriff’s vehicles arrived. Four deputies got out and began their work, collecting evidence, taking photographs. Diamond and I went inside.

  “Seems like the first of these incidents was the husband of Nadia Lassitor dying in Hurricane Bay, right?” Diamond said.

  “Yeah. Ian Lassitor,” I said.

  “Hurricane Bay is Placer County, and Santiago’s still their sergeant at the lake. He probably handled the drowning.”

  I nodded. “I worked with him on the Neo-Nazi case last fall. Seemed like a good guy.”

  “I’ll give him a call in the morning,” Diamond said.

  I stepped outside with Diamond. It was two in th
e morning. Heavy clouds, back-lit by the moon, raced across the sky. The deputies had set up some lights and were bagging evidence.

  “The woman has your wheels,” Diamond said as he stared at the BMW wreckage. “Maybe I could loan you my pickup.”

  “I’ll promise to baby it,” I said.

  Diamond nodded. “Especially important not to slam the doors too hard.”

  “Why?”

  “Each vibration shakes off more rust. Pretty soon, there won’t be any rust left.”

  “And with the entire body being rust, that would be bad,” I said.

  “Yeah, the doors would fall off. And you can only use so much duct tape to hold a windshield in place. Gotta have the rust to tape it to.”

  “Should I come with you now?” I asked.

  “I’ll bring it by in the morning. I’m showing our new deputy the ropes. Guy named Denell. He should know where you live, anyway.”

  “‘Cause a lot happens up here,” I said.

  Diamond touched the fried-out Beemer. “Case in point,” he said.

  TWELVE

  The next morning, I was up early drinking strong, black coffee. As dawn arrived, the wrecker showed up and hauled the BMW away. Diamond pulled up in his ancient pickup a few minutes later, followed by a Douglas County patrol unit.

  “Your road gets steeper and steeper,” Diamond said as he got out of the ancient pickup. “My pride and joy barely made it up. The little rubber band engine was whining. I had to put that three-in-the-tree shifter in the upper position.”

  “You mean first gear.”

  “That what you gringos call it?” He reached over and burnished down a loose bit of duct tape on the edge of the windshield. The movement reminded me of a man giving a gentle caress to a woman’s forehead.

  A young man got out of the patrol unit.

  Diamond introduced us. “Owen, meet Cory Denell. Cory, Owen McKenna.”

  We shook. Denell was what older cops like to see in rookies. He acted engaged, appeared to care, wanted to impress his sergeant, and even stood straight. And when he looked me in the eyes, he radiated intelligence.

  We made small talk for a bit. Then Diamond and Cory left in the Douglas County vehicle, Cory driving.

  I went inside and dialed Nadia Lassitor’s cell.

  “It’s Owen McKenna,” I said when she answered. “Any more emails from the blackmailer?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Anyone following you?”

  “Not that I’ve seen.”

  “Good. Okay if we meet at my office?”

  “When?”

  “Twenty minutes?” I said.

  “Okay.”

  I squeezed Spot into Diamond’s pickup, shutting the door gently to minimize the rust raining onto my parking pad. The truck was slow starting, and it puffed white smoke when it finally caught, a sign of moisture getting into the system. We coasted down the mountain, Diamond’s pickup making little backfiring noises the whole way. We turned south at the highway. Miles later, I’d gotten the truck all the way up to 45 mph by the time I had to slow for Kingsbury Grade.

  Nadia was in the lot waiting for me.

  “I smell like your dog and I’ve got dog hair all over me,” she said when we got out of the truck.

  “The hazards of hiring a private investigator.”

  “Why do you have an old pickup? Where’s my BMW?”

  “The people after you are trying to send a message about how serious they are.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Your car blew up last night.”

  Nadia looked stunned. “I don’t understand.” She sounded devastated.

  “It was in my driveway. Someone rigged a bomb to go off when I pressed the key fob lock button. You could have been in it. You need to stay in hiding as much as possible.”

  Tears wet her cheeks. She looked like a child who’s just lost a favorite doll. “That was my baby. That car was the best. It was expensive, too.”

  The statement struck me as absurd. “Your life is at stake, and you’re fussing about your car?” I didn’t mention her lack of concern for whether Spot and I were okay.

  Another pause. “I’m sorry.”

  “Your car was insured, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so.”

  I ushered her inside the building and up the stairs to my office.

  After I’d made coffee and poured two mugs, I said, “Tell me about how you and Ian handled your financial affairs. You said that you didn’t know much about his business. Did you pay the household bills?”

  She was still in shock, her face blank.

  “Nadia?” I said.

  She nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. “Ian set up an automatic deposit that gave me four thousand a month for the household account. The mortgage is paid off. At least, that’s what I think. Ian took care of the real estate taxes. So I paid all the miscellaneous stuff. Groceries, utility bills, lawn service, clothes.”

  Nadia brushed her hand over her pant leg as if she’d seen more dog hairs. She didn’t pull out her sticky roller. Maybe she realized it was hopeless.

  “Ian died during that big storm,” I said. “Do you have any idea why he would take his woodie out during a serious winter blow?”

  “No,” she said. “But I’m not surprised. Ian was stubborn and headstrong. If someone told him that he shouldn’t do something, then he would do it.”

  “Has he gone boating in the winter before?”

  “I don’t know. He usually came up to the Tahoe house alone. I stayed in Santa Clara.”

  “I understand the Tahoe house is on Hurricane Bay?” I said.

  She nodded. “Just south of Tahoe City.”

  “You said it was leased back to Ian for the next few months. Why aren’t you staying there?”

  “I wouldn’t stay there even if it still belonged to us. It’s a huge, cold stone house, not at all cozy. The first time Ian ever took me there, I told him that I wouldn’t sleep there.”

  “Can you write down the address?”

  Once again, she had to look it up in her little address book. She wrote it with such perfect handwriting, one would think she taught cursive at grammar school.

  “What is the name of the company that bought the assets?” I asked. “You could write that down, too.”

  “I have no idea of the company’s name. I just heard about it from Ian. A Mexican company was all he said. But he never gave me details.”

  “Where did Ian keep his papers?”

  “Papers?”

  “Insurance, real estate deeds, vehicle titles, tax records.”

  “They’re at the Santa Clara house. At least, some of them, anyway.”

  “Does he still have an office in the Bay Area?”

  She shook her head. “No, that went with all the other assets. He has his home office, of course. And maybe he keeps some stuff at the stone castle. I wouldn’t know.”

  “Did he have any other places? A condo someplace?”

  “No.” Nadia paused. “At least, not that I know of.”

  “Who is Ian’s lawyer?”

  “I don’t know. That’s bad of me, isn’t it? I should know more about my own husband.”

  “What happened to your husband’s body?”

  “It was cremated according to his wishes.”

  After Nadia left, my phone rang.

  “Owen McKenna,” I said.

  “This is Gertie.”

  “The film mogul,” I said. “How’s your debut formulating?”

  “Well, I just got a good idea for how to add creepy noirish emotion into my screenplay.”

  “Great,” I said.

  “Maybe not. I think a man is watching me.”

  That got my attention.

  “Where did you see him?” I asked.

  “Outside my school. I didn’t pay any attention. He was just a guy standing there.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Nothing. I left with some other kid
s and got a ride home.”

  “Have you seen him again?”

  “Yeah. That’s why I’m calling you. He was there again today. He started to follow me when I left the school. Maybe it was just a coincidence. But I ran and caught up to some other kids and I got a ride again.”

  “Gertie, you know about a person’s gut instinct, right?”

  “You mean, like, a feeling?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Something that you don’t know in a logical way but you feel it anyway. I want to tell you an important law of human perception. When you have a gut instinct about safety, it’s very important to give it higher priority than your logical feelings.”

  “You’re saying that my uncomfortable sense that the man was following me is a gut instinct.”

  “Yeah. Always heed those kinds of feelings. They will save your life more often than any logical thoughts will.”

  “Okay, I will.”

  “Can you describe this guy?”

  “Big. Strong. Not pretty. Kind of a lunk. Like someone who might have worked at my dad’s warehouse.”

  “How old?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe my dad’s age.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “At home.”

  “Okay, here’s what you do. First, lock your doors and keep them locked. Always.”

  “I did.”

  “Don’t open your door unless it’s someone you know.”

  “Okay.”

  “You never go anywhere alone. Call other kids, get them to walk with you or give you rides. Get your dad to give you rides. If you can’t get a ride or escort to school, you stay home.”

  Gertie hesitated. “That’s pretty extreme, don’t you think?”

  “No, it’s not. Remember your gut instinct?”

  “Right. That’s why I called you.”

  “I’ll make some calls. I can get you a taxi service. And any time you use a taxi, you tell the driver to wait until you’re inside your house or your school, wherever you’re going. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  We hung up and I called Nadia.