Tahoe Killshot Read online

  I drank some beer. “You’re quite the cynic for someone who came here for the American Dream.”

  Diamond shrugged. “Learning gringo speak and gringo ways makes for gringo attitudes. Not like we don’t grease palms back home.”

  “You’re suggesting that Camp Twenty-Five is going to bribe T.R.P.A. officials?”

  “Not personally. It’s institutionalized, here. The bureaucracy makes an assessment of how bad your project is for the lake. How susceptible your steep lot is to erosion and such. Then you have to buy other lots, tear down old cabins or whatever, and return the lots to indigenous condition. Then you can apply additional coverage to your steep lot that you shouldn’t be allowed to build on in the first place. Hey, here’s one that fits.” Diamond assembled one piece onto another.

  He continued, “But the bottom line is, rich people and rich companies can do what they want even if their project is bad for the lake. Take golf courses. That’s where the real money is these days. If the T.R.P.A. did their job, there’d be no golf courses in the basin. Massive amounts of watering leaches fertilizer and other nutrients down through the sod and eventually into the lake. But the T.R.P.A. looks the other way. Meanwhile, they make the little people put erosion control and infiltration trenches around their houses even if they live on a flat lot. It all gets back to who can pay.”

  I said, “Whereas, in Mexico...”

  “In Mexico, if you pay money to be allowed to do something bad, we call it what it is.”

  “You would have Camp Twenty-Five build down in the valley of, let’s say, Douglas County?”

  “Yeah. We could use the jobs. And they could still donate some of their profits to environmental projects for the good of Lake Tahoe.”

  “Diamond,” I said slowly, not sure how to proceed, “I’ve never known you to be very interested in American politics. But you are suddenly tuned into Company Twenty-Five and their proposed Camp Twenty-Five and Senator Stensen’s involvement. All this comes a couple of days after he and his office intervened in your situation to try to get you fired. You’re taking a big risk if anyone thinks you’re investigating. If the senator’s office were to get the idea that you were...”

  “What, an uppity immigrant with brown skin?”

  “Yeah. They could probably make things a lot worse for you. You can get into some deep shit when you mess with politicians at the senate level.”

  Diamond frowned and looked at me hard. He drank some beer, set the bottle down and traced the label with his forefinger. He stood up and walked across my tiny living room, stopping to bend down and pet Spot who was lying on the rug.

  “Something smells, Owen. I don’t know what it is. But I don’t see how my round could have hit that little girl’s doll.”

  We were silent.

  “You don’t believe me,” he said.

  “Yes, I do. But you sound paranoid. Why would Violet Verona be after you? Or, for that matter, why would a U.S. Senator persecute you? Racism? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know it doesn’t make sense. That’s why it smells.”

  NINETEEN

  My aching body woke me up early. I managed pills and coffee all by myself and then, after my aches had diminished, a careful shower. The coloring on my torso would give a meat inspector bad dreams.

  I went back to bed and called Street. “Your favorite patient calling,” I said when she answered.

  “Feeling any better?”

  “Like a steak left too long in tenderizer. Worse than the helicopter crash in Kauai. You coming over?”

  “Somebody has to rescue Spot from the nursing home.”

  “Wondering if you can bring your laptop. I think I can do a little work in bed.”

  Street said she’d be over in a couple of hours.

  I used the time to leave a message about the boat explosion on Jennifer Salazar’s voice mail. Then I worked on my green puzzle. Maybe it was the morning light, but in less than fifteen minutes I’d found four more pieces that fit together. The next twenty minutes were without success. An hour after that I fit two more into my tiny green patch. Only a couple hundred more to go.

  The phone rang. It was Jennifer.

  “I just wanted to tell you I ruined your boat,” I said.

  “I got a message about it from the caretaker. I tried to call two different times, but couldn’t get through. The caretaker said you and Spot are okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank God. That’s all that counts. Forget about the boat.”

  “But that boat was very expensive.”

  “Don’t worry. Anyway, when you’ve got as much money as I do, a boat is nothing. For that matter, if you ever get in a financial jam, I’ll cover for you. I don’t want to intrude, but don’t worry about money.”

  “Jennifer, you shouldn’t say things that...”

  “Owen, stop it. I was fourteen when you met me. Now I’m sixteen. Have I changed my resolve about anything in that time?”

  “No, but...”

  “Then stop wondering if I’m going to grow up and be a different person. I didn’t even earn my money. You and Street are almost my only close friends. You saved my life and my mother’s life. So I’m going to be your patron if you ever need it. No matter how many boats I buy, I’ll still be rich.”

  Neither of us spoke for a moment.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  We said goodbye, and I went back to my puzzle. I found another piece that fit by the time Street arrived with her laptop.

  “Look at you. The puzzle master,” she said. “I’d offer to help, but Spot is waiting.”

  I went online to research Glory’s company while Street walked Spot. The roadie at the loading dock had said it was a Las Vegas outfit called Remake Productions. They turned out to be a management company that handled promotion and bookings for three different acts.

  I was still perusing the website when Street came back smelling of pine trees and summer. She said she left Spot chained on the deck.

  “What’s the project?” she asked as she sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I’m checking into the company that handled Glory’s band. Remake Productions out of Las Vegas. They manage three bands. Here’s the first one.” I turned the laptop so that Street could see. “A Hip-Hop band called Meen Tyme.” I pointed to the picture of four black kids in their early twenties wearing baggy clothes and big gold chains around their necks. “The description says that Meen Tyme loves women,” I said.

  “Codespeak for lyrics that aren’t misogynist?”

  “One can hope. The second group is female, called Hot Summerz.” I clicked on their link. “They have a certain look. Silver metallic clothing with lavender accents. Even their hair is lavender.”

  “What kind of music do they play?” Street asked.

  “Don’t know. They are singers. Some of the pictures show a three-piece band behind them, long-haired white guys in their 30s. Guitar, bass and drums. They open for big acts like Glory.”

  “What about Glory?”

  “Most of the Remake Productions website is devoted to her. The pictures show her progression from singing at weddings and bars in Oakland to large arenas across the country.” I clicked on a few. Each picture was accompanied by a hand-written note where Glory told of shyness, stage fright and insecurities.

  “Check out her backup musicians,” I said. “This band member played for Nancy Wilson. One guy did a stint for Wynton Marsalis. One did studio work for the Stones.”

  “Pretty impressive for a shy girl.”

  “While you were walking Spot, I did some multiplying in my head. Arena sizes, ticket prices, number of CDs Glory sold, and roughly figured that the Glory enterprise was grossing upwards of thirty million a year.”

  “Serious money,” Street said.

  “Yeah. If her death was not an accident, one would think that her money would be the logical starting point in finding a motive. But Tyrone thought she was giving most of her money to the California C
onservancy to preserve wetlands. Without a major beneficiary, there wouldn’t be motive. It’s not as if some other singer would benefit from her death.”

  “Right,” Street said. “Glory’s death would probably only increase the sales of her own CDs.”

  We talked some more, then Street said she had work to do. She kissed me goodbye and was walking out the door when she stopped and came back in. “Owen, what if Glory’s death and Faith’s death have nothing to do with Glory’s career? Maybe the only connection between them is that a psycho is killing beautiful young women. Maybe he’s making them look like accidents to throw off the cops?”

  “Then why would he come after me? It doesn’t fit the pattern.”

  “Because you’re the first person to worry him about getting caught.”

  I thought about it. “Maybe Glenda Gorman could look into it. See if any other young women have died recently.”

  “It would be worth a try,” Street said. She made a kissing motion and left.

  I called Glennie at the paper.

  “Owen, you bad boy, you haven’t called me for practically ever. I know I should just be glad you’re alive after what you’ve been through. But how’s a girl supposed to keep her spirits up if she doesn’t get a little attention from a guy like you?”

  “You mean, from a guy with a dog like mine.”

  “That, too. How is my little polka dot baby?”

  I looked out at Spot on the deck. He was on his back in a crescent curve, all four feet up in the air. His jowls had flopped open under the tug of gravity, exposing pink flesh and large fangs. “He’s out in the sun practicing a yoga position,” I said.

  “Give him a hug and a kiss for me?”

  “Maybe a hug.”

  “So what do you need? Lemme guess, you’re assuming the boat explosion wasn’t an accident, which makes that poor girl’s death a murder.”

  “Correct. Same for Glory’s death on the Flume.”

  “Which means,” Glennie said, “that you’re wondering if there are other such accidents.”

  “Yes. Especially if the victims are young women.”

  “And I, being an investigative ace, am the one to search the archives and find out.”

  “My thought, too. I’ll owe you.”

  For the next few days I used Street’s laptop to do some research when I wasn’t assembling my green puzzle. I went back to the Remake Productions website and noticed something unusual.

  There was no information about Remake’s whereabouts. No address, no phone number. The only contact information was an email address.

  Most businesses provide you with many avenues to purchase their goods or services. Toll-free phone numbers, fax numbers, email, snail mail, walk-in locations, names and contact information. Did the pressures of show business make it necessary to hide?

  To check I looked at several other music sites. Individual stars had sites that also offered little or no contact information. But management sites were the opposite, inviting contact, doing everything they could to make it easy to book a band.

  But Remake requested that all inquiries be directed to their email address.

  There are other routes to acquiring data.

  After more digging I learned that Remake Productions was a corporation. The contact name was Tony Nova and the address was in Las Vegas.

  TWENTY

  The morning of the seventh day I was able to walk the entire twelve foot distance to the kitchen nook and pour my coffee without wincing. I could again inhale a decent breath without ripping chest muscles. It was time to visit Remake Productions in Las Vegas.

  I was grabbing my toothbrush and a few other items when Spot turned toward the back door and growled. “What is it, boy?” I looked out the kitchen window but didn’t see anything. Spot stared at the door and growled again. I went around the counter, opened the door a crack and looked out. Nothing caught my eye.

  A sound came from the front. Spot turned and walked across the room to the front door, sniffing the air, his nostrils flexing. I opened the front door to see Diamond pulling up in his old, blue pickup. Spot pushed out past me, trotted toward Diamond, then ran past his pickup and around the side of my cabin.

  I hurried after him as fast as my sore muscles would allow. Spot barked and growled as I came around the corner.

  A shout came from the woods. “Easy boy. Easy! Christ, don’t make me!”

  “Spot!” I called. “Stay!”

  Diamond joined me as I pushed through a stand of red fir. “I saw a Douglas County Jeep Cherokee turn up your road,” Diamond said. “So I turned, too.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Diamond muttered as we came upon a young deputy with his arms outstretched, holding his sidearm in both hands. The automatic was pointed at Spot who stood ten feet away. The fur on Spot’s back was up like a brush. His legs were slightly bent as if ready to attack. The rumbling growl in his throat was deep and loud.

  “You can put the gun down,” I said. “Spot, it’s okay.”

  The man lowered his gun. Spot stopped growling, but didn’t move.

  “What are you doing here, Rockport?” Diamond said.

  “I finally got a break in my schedule. So I came up to ask Mr. McKenna a couple questions about the casino chase.”

  “Why park so far off the road?” Diamond said.

  “I was slowing as I got close and I saw movement in the woods.” Rockport looked over his shoulder. “I knew Mr. McKenna had been attacked, so I wanted to check it out. Next thing I know this dog comes after me. Christ, he’s got some size on him.”

  “You can relax, Rockport,” Diamond said. “Meet McKenna. McKenna, Deputy Rockport.”

  We shook. He had a strong grip. Up close, I could smell cologne and breath mints.

  “Sorry about startling you,” Rockport said. He gave me a nervous smile. He looked like he came from the casting office. He was tall and thick and stood like a Marine at attention. His brown hair was cut in a flattop, and his tan was deep enough to stress a dermatologist.

  “I doubt anyone was in the woods,” I said. “Spot didn’t bark until he heard you. Maybe it was a bear. There are so many that Spot has started to ignore them. Come, Spot, meet Deputy Rockport.” Spot came slowly, acting suspicious. Rockport bravely held his hand out for Spot to sniff. I led Diamond and Rockport through the trees back to the cabin.

  “Hey, thanks for calling your dog off,” Rockport said, grinning nervously. He had one of those Covergirl smiles where they pull down their bottom lips for maximum tooth exposure. His teeth were wide and flat like miniature bathroom tiles, and he had enough of them to complete a small shower.

  “Any time,” I said.

  “Now that I know the sheriff’s vehicle is Rockport’s, I guess I’ll head off,” Diamond said. He got in his pickup and left.

  I didn’t feel like inviting Rockport inside, so we spoke in the driveway. He asked me a few questions about the casino chase and the beating I’d received at my office. He was particularly interested in every detail I could remember about my assailant, and he took careful notes on a small spiral pad.

  “Let me know if you think of anything else,” he said, then he thanked me for my time and left.

  I got my puzzle pieces from the cabin and let Spot into the back seat of the Jeep. The long drive down to the highway has several hairpin curves, and I took it slow because the jostling of the Jeep made my body throb.

  I drove south into town and turned up Kingsbury Grade. There would be a pile of mail at my office and enough messages on the machine to freeze it up, but I didn’t stop. Ever since the man in the ski mask had worked me over, my office seemed as appealing as one of those basement rooms in the Tower of London.

  It was another perfect summer day in Tahoe. The sun was hot, the air cool, and the sky impossibly blue. But I was leaving for the desert, and it was August. I hoped my air conditioning was in good shape.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I took back roads from Carson Valley over to 95, head
ed down past Walker Lake and the big military installation at Hawthorne. From there it was south to Tonopah where the highway dropped down to the starkest desert landscape I’ve ever seen.

  The road went straight for dozens of miles across white ground that was parched and cracked and lifeless. Mountains of black rock rose here and there like what an artist might imagine exists on an alien planet. To the west loomed White Mountain, its snow-caked summit more than fourteen thousand feet in the air. I was cruising alone on the highway when my cell phone rang.

  “Owen? It’s Glennie. I’ve found a couple of deaths that look funny.”

  “Accidents that could be murders?” I said.

  “Right. I’ve copied all the newspaper stories and printed some other relevant stuff. You want me to read this over the phone, or do you want to pick it up and read it yourself?”

  “I’ll pick it up. But not for a day or two. I’m out of town.”

  We made some small talk, then signed off.

  After driving most of the day, I went by the turnoff to Hollybrook. I still had vivid memories of breaking into the sanitarium where Jennifer Salazar’s mother had been imprisoned against her will. I continued on south. Soon, the giant hotels of the Las Vegas Strip appeared in the distance, shimmering in the afternoon sun.

  I’d turned the air conditioning up to high speed, yet the inside of the Jeep was getting uncomfortably warm. It took a couple of minutes poking around the radio dial before I heard that the temperature downtown was 113 degrees. I realized that I couldn’t leave Spot in the Jeep even for the shortest time. Eventually, I found street numbers approaching those for Remake Productions. The address appeared to be in one of the hotels. There was a parking place a couple blocks away.

  “Hey, doggie, wanna go see what a music management company looks like?”