Tahoe Chase (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller) (20 page)

THIRTY-ONE
 

Early the next morning, Diamond stopped by my cabin. “Buenos días,” he said when I opened the door.

Spot was at the door with me, wagging.

I motioned for Diamond to come in. “Coffee’s still hot,” I said.

“Stuff you made?”

“You’re too picky to drink mine?”’

“No,” Diamond said. “I just want to prep myself. Got doughnuts?”

“Nope.”

“Hold on.” He walked back to his Douglas County Patrol Unit and came back with a bakery bag. “Doughnuts,” he said, as he opened the bag.

“Makes my coffee a little more palatable?”

“Sí.” He held the bag out to me, holding it from the bottom.

I reached into the bag, pulled out a doughnut, and tossed it to Spot. It disappeared with one chomp and one swallow.

“That was a perfectly good doughnut,” Diamond said, pulling one out for himself.

“I wouldn’t have given him one if I thought otherwise. You’re the one who introduced him to Danishes.”

Diamond shrugged. “He’s a Great Dane.”

Spot stared at Diamond’s doughnut bag. He carefully ran his tongue around his upper lip, starting all the way back on the left side, around the front, and back to the rear of the right side. He took a quick glance at me, then focused again on the doughnut bag.

I took another doughnut and ate it as I poured Diamond a mug of coffee.

“The throwing knives you gave me?” Diamond said. “Thought you’d want to know that they were made by Veitsi Mies.”

“Who’s that?”

“A metal-folding bad ass in Omaha.”

“Nebraska,” I said, remembering that Ned Cavett had gone there when he was a kid and ended up spending a long time in prison.

“Sí.”

“What’s a metal folding bad ass do? Duct work for buildings?”

“Different kind of metal folding,” Diamond said. “Kind where they make super strong swords. Layers of steel, layers of nickel, tungsten, chromium. Heated up, folded, hammered, heated up, folded again. Like Damascus steel. Guy’s a swordsmith. Got some Finnish in his background, thus his chosen name Veitsi Mies. Finnish for Knife Man.”

“What’s it mean to you that Ned Cavett is carrying Veitsi Mies’s throwing knives?” I asked.

“Just that Ned has some association with someone who’s way over on the dark side. Veitsi Mies makes the ceremonial swords for the Canyon Brotherhood.”

“The methhead bikers.”

“Yeah. Ned isn’t in their league. But good to be aware that Ned was probably exposed to stories from Veitsi when he was inside. Could give him an out-sized sense of bravado. Bravado can make even a dirtball like Ned more dangerous.”

“Good to know,” I said.

Diamond bit off more doughnut and, chewing, said, “Making any progress with the accidents that might not be accidents?”

“Some,” I said. “On a tip from Ned’s girlfriend Simone, I’ve been watching their house. Around ten-ish last night, Ned had a visitor. Likely a guy that the girlfriend believes pays Ned to spy on Joe Rorvik. The visitor came and left in a cab. When he left, I followed him over to the Al Tahoe neighborhood. The guy got out of the cab and walked over the Truckee Marsh to a boat he’d beached there. It was quite the little tender.”

Diamond looked blank. “I grew up in Mexico City,” he said. “Not the first place you think of for learning about boats.”

“Sorry. I don’t know much about boats myself. A tender is a small boat for ferrying people to and from a large boat. If there is no dock, the large boat anchors offshore and people come to shore on a tender.”

Diamond nodded. “Like tying up your cruiser or sailing yacht to a buoy at Sunnyside, and they bring you in to the restaurant on the little dinghy.”

“Exactly. And big boats often have a low deck on the rear for carrying the little boat. It’s called the tender deck.”

“McKenna’s boat university,” he said.

I ignored him. “Anyway, this tender was small and wide with an inflatable perimeter, an inboard engine, and jet propulsion.”

“An inflatable Jet Ski?” Diamond said.

“No, this was an actual boat you step into. Looked like it could hold four people. But it was light enough that the guy could push it off the beach by himself. He drove it out to a sizable yacht. An interesting detail is that the tender slides up into its own garage at the rear of the yacht. Probably, even in daylight, you can’t even tell that the big boat has a small boat hidden in its belly.”

“Any idea who the big boat belongs to?” Diamond asked.

“No. Thought I’d look online today. See if the search gods know anything.”

Diamond ate the last of his doughnut, and, as he finished his coffee, he made a tongue-smacking noise and looked into the cup as if there were a bug in the bottom.

“You gonna live?” I said.

“Remember that Thoreau said that the mass of men lead quiet lives of desperation? Gotta be the only reason why you would drink that stuff.”

“You think I’m desperate?”

Diamond was at the door. “Must be,” he said. He pet Spot and left.

I got on the computer and began poking around. I typed “tender boat hides in big boat garage” into Google. I got nothing. I typed “new yachts on Lake Tahoe,” and “Tahoe cabin cruisers with inflatable tenders.”

I got nothing of relevance.

Like an aimless, wandering dog, I expanded my search to “Nedham Theodore Cavett domestic abuse.”

Nothing.

I typed in “Veitsi Mies throwing knives” and got hundreds of hits. Ned’s knives were a big deal, but none of the hits was about Ned.

I typed in “tender boat with inboard engine.”

This time I got a couple of interesting search results. Up popped some Zodiac-style inflatable boats that had center consoles that did double duty as steering wheel mounts and housings for small inboard engines. The boats were similar to, if not the same as, what I had seen. Finally, I had learned something, but it didn’t get me any closer to finding Ned’s spymaster.

After an hour or more, I decided to have lunch. We had what was supposed to be a short break between storms. I fired up the barbecue, put on several brats to the side of the coals so they wouldn’t burn, and carefully laid a bunch of fries perpendicular across the grill so they wouldn’t fall through. When the food was done and we were eating, the phone rang.

“Yeah?” I mumbled, mouth full. Spot and I were out on the deck, enjoying high-altitude December sun. Maybe the air temperature was only 30, but the sun was like a broiler on medium-high.

“You’re eating lunch,” Street said.

“Street, my sweet, so nice to hear the mellifluous harmonics of your voice. We are, yeah.”

“What’s on the menu?”

“Barbecued brats and cheddar cheese on Kaiser rolls, fries, Ketchup, and Sierra Nevada Pale Ale,” I said.

“What’s Spot eating?”

“Barbecued brats and cheddar cheese on Kaiser rolls, fries, Ketchup, and Sierra Nevada Pale Ale,” I said. I dipped a fry in Ketchup and tossed it to him. He snapped it out of the air with a click of teeth. His tail was on medium speed. If I picked up another brat, his tail would go into the red-line zone.

“You know that’s bad food,” Street said.

“I ate broccoli at your house the other night.”

“So?”

“They cancel out,” I said.

“You think that eating a little good food means you can eat bad food with impunity?”

“Of course. Check marks in the credit column cancel out check marks in the debit column,” I said.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Anyway, why not just eat food that’s really good for you?”

“Because really good food tastes bad, and really bad food tastes good. The whole point of eating broccoli is so you can eat brats. It’s the broccoli-to-brats equation. This is cutting-edge nutrition stuff. I thought all scientists were familiar with it.”

“I’m not familiar with much of your world.”

“Is that why you won’t marry me?” I said.

“You never formally asked.”

“What if I formally asked right now?” I said.

“Well,” Street paused, “your diet might be a sticking point.”

“I’d let you eat all the broccoli you want. Tell you what, you want to come over and join us? You could bring some broccoli. We could test-drive eating separate meals together.”

“Thanks, hon. It’s a sweet offer. But I better get back to work.”

“Truth be told, I’d turn it down, too,” I said. “It would be hard to watch us eat brats while you’re picking broccoli out of your teeth.”

“And after the brats, you’d probably eat a bag of doughnuts for dessert,” she said.

“Actually, we already had the doughnuts an hour ago with Diamond.”

THIRTY-TWO

After lunch, I began calling Tahoe marinas, starting at Kings Beach – which would be noon on the lake clock – and working my way clockwise around the lake.

“Hi, this is Tommy John Smith from Tom’s Craft Brews over behind the Timber Cove pier,” I said when they answered. “Hey, we had this guy come down the pier a few days ago and pick up a case of our TJ Smith Mountain IPA. It kind of stood out, you know, what with it being winter and there aren’t a lot of boats out. Anyway, after he left, we noticed that he left his sunglasses on our counter. They’re prescription Persols and look pretty pricey. So I wanted to return them, but I don’t know his name or number. So I’m calling marinas to ask you if you’ve seen his boat. It’s one sweet ride, probably over fifty feet, real pointy looking like a combo cigarette racer/cabin cruiser. And it’s got an inflatable tender that parks in its own garage at the back of the big boat. I figure I’ve been exposed to most of the boats on the lake, but this one is bigger and faster-looking than most Tahoe cruisers I’ve seen. Any idea whose boat that is?”

“Nah. Sorry I can’t help you,” the first guy said.

I repeated my call at the next marina and got roughly the same answer. I dialed my way through Incline, down the East Shore, across the South Shore, and on up the West Shore. It wasn’t until I’d gotten around to Tahoe City at ten o’clock, that someone knew what I was talking about.

A woman who introduced herself as Shirl said, “She hasn’t stopped here, but I saw her cruise by a few months ago. It would have been around Labor Day. She was about a hundred yards out, so I didn’t get a real good look at her. But from what I saw, that baby is pure boat candy. Like you say, I could tell she was fifty-plus feet if she’s ten. She has a black hull and white topsides. Looks real James Bondy. So I grabbed the glasses to check it out. Dear God, lemme step aboard, spend some time, have a gin and tonic, and lounge in my silk robe! Innaways, I didn’t see any tender, but I took a zoom pic with my phone just to use for reference, and in my free time the rest of that afternoon, I poked around on the computer looking at boat pictures, and guess what?”

“What?” I said.

“I found it!” Shirl said. “She’s a Predator Fifty-Four, built by Sunseeker Yachts. Turns out she’s pushing sixty feet. And she’s got this Oh-My-God layout. In the lower cabin, you’ve got your saloon with your entertainment center, dining, and full-on galley. Then there’s the master stateroom with en suite bath. ’Course, in this business, I’ve seen that before. I even learned from a French tourist how to pronounce it. The EN in en suite is like the word On, but you kinda drop the N. Almost sounds like you’re grunting. Innaways, in addition to all that, there’s two more staterooms and a whole other head. So she can sleep six. Now topside, you’ve got your aft sundeck and cockpit and lounge and wet bar with a hydraulic skylight roof so, rain or shine, you’re stylin’. There’s also a forward sundeck. And the tender deck has a swimming platform and a hot and cold outdoor shower for when you come out of the water. We’re talking a fifty-nine-foot-long, three bedroom house that goes thirty-three knots, and it looks like it goes a hundred and thirty-three knots. Can you believe it?!”

“Hardly,” I said. “But no tender garage?”

“Oh! I forgot to tell you. You’re exactly right. The tender has its own bay, and it’s the cutest little thing. I saw on the computer how it works. If you’re looking at the stern, the tender deck has two stairways, starboard and port, that lead up to the lounge and cockpit and sundeck. And right between the stairways, pretty much hidden like a secret door, is the garage door. It lifts up, and inside is the tender and your various boat toys, scuba gear and such. Close that baby, and no one knows it’s there.” Shirl finally stopped to breathe.

“Any idea whose boat it is?” I asked.

“Nope. I even asked some of the yachting types who’ve come in since. They’ve never heard of it. I mean, sure, this lake is big, but how you gonna hide a yacht like that? You’d think most people in those circles would know about it. It’s kind of a phantom lux-yacht, probably hiding in some boathouse most of the time. And with the black hull, it look’s like something in a movie, like a vampire yacht. Hey, that would be a cool idea for a movie, huh? A vampire yacht?”

“Yeah,” I said. “That would be cool. Thanks so much for your time. And Shirl?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know how much you like your current job, but I’m betting that Sunseeker Yachts would hire you as a salesperson.”

“Oh, my God, are you serious? That would be, like, a dream job! Wouldn’t that be a dream job?”

“Yeah, Shirl, it would definitely be a dream job. Keep it in mind.”

I hung up.

Like Shirl, I found the Predator 54 on my computer, and her over-the-top description was perfectly apt for the futuristic, floating, speed machine.

Armed with the name of a boat model, I renewed my online search, typing all the stuff I tried before but with the addition of the words Predator 54.

Fifteen minutes later, I found what I was looking for.

It was on a woman’s personal blog dated the previous July.

Roughing It in Tahoe – Boat Camping!

Last week, Jim and I were at an outdoor party at Jarrett and Suzanne’s in Los Altos Hills, but it was so hot that you had to either be in the pool or, as soon as you dried off, you had to go inside. So the conversation turned to going up to Tahoe to cool off. Then Bob (RKS Properties for those of you who aren’t up on the happening crowd) said he was going up that weekend, and he invited all of us to come up and ride on his new boat. Of course, most people had plans. But Jim and I went along with Jarrett and Suzanne. Bob and Tricia were the perfect hosts, and so was their dog Pretty Girl! And their new Predator 54 – named Beats Working – is the perfect boat!

The blog showed a bunch of pictures of the three happy couples on the boat. Some had been taken from way down a dock and showed the entire boat. In two of the pictures, the prominent subject was a beautiful Greyhound, its leash held by a middle-aged man who was dressed like a model, his clothes freshly-pressed and looking very suave.

As Shirl, the marina lady, had described, the boat had a black hull and white topsides, and it looked very fast. I wasn’t certain that it was the boat I’d seen in the dark, but it looked like it. Mostly, the connection to RKS Properties and the Steven’s Peak Resort was too much of a coincidence, so I assumed it was the boat I’d seen.

Most people leave their boats in dry dock over the winter because winter in Tahoe is brutal on boats. The snow melts on the warm days and runs into pieces of equipment and into drainage channels. When it refreezes and expands, it can cause major damage. And if you have a boat with indoor heating, that exacerbates the problem. The only way a boat can be out and about in the winter is if it is out of the snow during storms. The “Beats Working” was too big for most dry dock storage. So either it was kept in covered wet storage by a marina, or it had its own boathouse to keep it free from the onslaught of winter weather.

I’d just spoken to nearly every marina, and I felt like someone would have mentioned it if the boat was in their care. The reasonable conclusion was that the boat was kept in its own boathouse.

If I could find that boathouse, I could find Bob. At least, when he was in town. If I could find Bob, I could learn what Ned’s spymaster was doing.

So I began another internet search, looking for Bob Somebody of RKS Properties. Real estate records are public. I spent some time searching online databases. I was looking for a lake shore address owned by Bob and Tricia, but with no last name, I had no luck.

Although not all Tahoe property records are online, they can all be obtained by personal visits to the county courthouses. That would take a lot of time. Another more likely problem was that Bob and Tricia’s Tahoe home might be owned by a Limited Liability Corporation. Sometimes people do that for tax purposes. Sometimes they do it to keep their addresses out of the public eye. It would be difficult and time-consuming for me to find Bob’s house if it was owned by an LLC, even if he owned the LLC. And Bob and Tricia might keep the Beats Working in the boathouse of a friend, in which case I might never find it.

Now that I knew that RKS Properties was run by a guy named Bob, I thought I’d give the phone approach another try.

So once again I went through the multiple voice menus at RKS, got to an actual human secretary, and did my best performance of a guy who was one of Bob’s old friends. Best old buddy. I was at his wedding. We got drunk together in college.

It didn’t work. At the end, the secretary was so frustrated that he threatened to hang up on me.

So I hung up first just to show that, like Bob, I was a guy who was used to being in charge.

I realized that the easiest approach for me to find Bob might simply be to drive a boat around the shore of the lake and look for the Beats Working. The boat might be locked up in a boathouse. But because the water level was down several feet from the high-level mark, I could look under the lower walls of most boathouses. A black hull wasn’t easy to see in the shadows. But it was unusual, so it would be relatively easy to identify the correct boat. Unfortunately, it was a 75-mile trip around the lake. But maybe I’d get lucky and find it before I had to make the entire trip.

And I knew someone who would loan me a boat, my patron Jennifer Salazar.