Tahoe Chase (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller) (22 page)

“What about Spot?” Street said.

“He’ll stay with you. Help you drive the boat.”

“He’ll help me swim to shore when I crash this thing into Jennifer’s dock and sink it.”

“You’ll be fine, my sweet.” I shifted the boat into neutral as we got close to the dock.

“I’m going to go out on the bow. When we get closer, shift it into reverse to slow our momentum. When we get close enough to the dock, I’ll jump off, then you back it away. I’ll call you later.”

I got out of the captain’s chair.

“But I...”

“No buts, hon, you’ll do fine.” I gave her a kiss and hustled my way down the stairs to the deck. Holding onto the railing for support, I walked the narrow passage to the forward sundeck. Spot joined me, looking toward the dock, turning and looking up at me. At the bow, I lifted my leg over the railing and waited as we coasted toward the dock.

We got closer, but we weren’t slowing down. I envisioned what 48,000 pounds of ship would do to the dock. Without turning my head, I started waving frantically to Street up on the bridge, my palm out in a stop motion. I leaned over, wondering if I could lesson the blow. I waved more, a gesture of panic.

We were about to hit. I leaped down to the dock, turned to put my hands on the hull, and push. In a moment, the engine roared. The cruiser slowed. Just before it hit the dock post, the boat stopped and then moved backward. Relieved, I stepped back a bit.

The boat retreated at a faster crawl. Suddenly, the prop wash came toward me, a large churning, bubbling mass of water. I jumped back, worried that the swell of water would come over the dock. It didn’t, and I relaxed.

Jennifer’s boat continued to accelerate rearward. When it was well away from the dock, I heard the engine RPM drop.

Street was probably trying to calm herself. It was a close call, but nothing was damaged.

The boat’s RPMs revved once again. I stared, feeling ill-at-ease. As the big boat came forward, it made a fast, sweeping turn. It curved away from the dock and boathouse where I was standing, and it then arced off toward the center of the lake and turned back south toward its home.

As I watched, stunned at Street’s chutzpah, the aggressive, curving wake came toward the dock, hit the posts hard enough to send ice water spray into the air, soaking me.

The last thing I saw as they cruised away was Spot standing at the stern, looking at me, wagging hard.

THIRTY-FIVE

The Predator’s boathouse was so big that it enclosed the 59-foot boat with room to spare. There was a roll-up garage door like the one on Jennifer’s boathouse. The door was up. The boat inside glowed from the light coming through skylights in the roof. With its black hull and pointy lines, the small ship looked sinister.

There was a dock walkway along the inside of the boathouse. The dock, like the boat itself, did not extend to the end of the boathouse, so that even though the roll-up door was open, one could not walk into the boathouse from the end.

I walked down the dock and tried the side door of the boathouse. It was locked. Someone had at least made a pretense of security. I went back to the open end of the boathouse, wondering if anyone up in the house was noticing. I was in full view if anyone happened to look out the windows.

As I looked in the open rear of the boathouse, I could visualize where the boat’s tender bay lay between its rear stairways. But it was very well hidden. The door was the same smooth material and color as the rest of the boat, and its edges were the natural lines of the boat. Without knowing about it, one would never imagine that it existed.

I gripped the rear wall of the boathouse and leaned out over the water to look inside. About five feet above the level of the dock was a metal electrical conduit. It passed through holes drilled in the metal wall studs. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had.

I knew that if I hung from the conduit, my feet would be in the water, but thanks to Street’s boating prowess, my feet and lower legs were soaked anyway. I grabbed onto the conduit and lowered myself down off the dock.

As my feet entered the icy water, I had a brief thought about how my body would provide a well-grounded electrical passage should any of the wires in the conduit have frayed insulation and – because of my weight pulling on the conduit – bump bare wire to metal. Metal conduit is not really strong, so I tried to grab it next to the studs as I went hand-over-hand down the wall. I figured it would have less chance of bending or breaking.

I came to the inner dock without experiencing electrocution. I stood on the dock until my shoes and pants drained some, then I stepped onto the tender deck of the Beats Working.

I walked up one of the rear stairs to the lounge and cockpit level. I sat down on one of the leather settees in the diffused glow from the skylights in the boat’s ceiling, which in turn got its light from the skylights in the boathouse roof.

To one side was a wet bar with a nice selection of liquor bottles but no beer. I pulled a heavy lowball glass from a rack, poured a couple of fingers of Macallan single malt Scotch, and brought it over to the large, leather captain’s chair. I sat down and took a sip.

I noticed the key in the boat’s ignition. Lake shore dwellers often think of security in terms of protecting against riff-raff who come by highway. Rarely do they consider access from the lake. But I wasn’t here to steal a one-point-five million dollar boat. I just wanted to get its owner to talk to me.

It took a minute to figure out what switches ran what. When I had the accessories battery turned on, the music panel over by the liquor sideboard glowed with blue back-lighting.

I got up and played with it. I’m not tech-fluent, so it took some experimenting to make the music come on. Push some buttons, tap on a touch screen, follow a menu within a menu, move a virtual volume slider, and piano music began playing through unseen speakers. The bass notes were rich and deep, the mid-range tones clear, the treble sharp and crisp, Tommy Flanagan playing big chords on a jazz standard, running up and down the keyboard using all five fingers on each hand.

Bob from RKS might not share my taste with his plan to reconfigure a beautiful mountain wilderness, but he shared my taste in music. The drink wasn’t bad, either.

As I listened, I tried more switches and learned which ones worked which lights. Eventually, I had some good mood lighting, simulating a romantic twilight outing on the yacht inside the boathouse during the middle of a sunny day. Hidden cans made glowing ellipses on the carpeted floor. Blue glow came out from under the settees and from behind the edges of windows and fixtures and the opening to the companionway to below decks. Even the stairway going down below decks had light flowing from under the railings and the leading edges of the steps. It created a strong flavor of Vegas, which contrasted with the sophistication of the music and the single malt Scotch.

Despite my activities, no one came running. If the boat was alarmed, the alarm was off. I decided to take a tour of the boat.

Below decks was as advertised on the Sunseeker website, large spaces, luxurious appointments, top-quality fixtures, exquisite design. The carpets were thick. Every other surface was either upholstered leather, gloss-varnished birds-eye maple, or stainless steel. And everywhere, the lighting was such that you couldn’t see the light source. All you could see was that the surfaces glowed.

After inspecting the staterooms and galley and saloon, I went back up the companionway and headed for the stern to satisfy my curiosity about the tender garage.

It took me awhile to figure out the mechanism. When I did, the door rose silently, revealing the tender boat inside. No doubt, like the rest of the yacht, there were lights in the tender garage as well, but I couldn’t find them. Nevertheless, there was enough ambient light coming in the open boathouse for me to see a soiled mark on the tender’s wheel and engine housing. It looked like a smeared hand print.

Partly, it seemed out of place because everything else I’d seen on the boat was spotless and clean. Mostly, it was notable because the mark was dried blood.

THIRTY-SIX

Dried blood is not a crime, even though it seemed like a crime to smear blood on a piece of equipment as nice as the Predator. Nevertheless, I figured that the blood might be significant.

Time to talk to Bob or his representative.

I’d already tried the polite way on the phone, and that wasn’t effective. I had a better idea of how to get attention.

Without starting the engines, I turned on the ignition and tried a quick beep on the horn.

 An amazing, deep, resonant honk shook the enclosed boathouse space. So I blasted out a Shave-and-a-Haircut-Two-Bits rhythm. It was like a ship’s foghorn, painful to my ears. In a moment, an echo came back from the mountains, and in another moment, another echo. It was so loud that I’m certain that Spot’s ears were twitching miles to the south.

While I waited for a response, I sat down on one of the settees and dialed Diamond.

“Sí,” he said.

“Got a crime in your territory,” I said. I sipped some Scotch.

“You call nine-one-one?” Diamond asked.

“Not that kind of emergency. This requires more finesse, somebody with your sense of nuance.”

“You want me to respond personally,” he said. “Why?”

“Because I’m the perpetrator. I’ve trespassed on Bob’s boat, which is inside his boathouse.”

“Bob...?”

“Bob with no last name. Bob from RKS Properties. Same Bob who wants to turn a wilderness mountain into a cash machine.”

“That Bob,” Diamond said.

“So I bumped the boat’s horn. I’m expecting someone to arrive shortly. I figured that Bob and company might put in a courtesy call to the sheriff’s office and inform them of interlopers in Douglas County. I thought that you might want to come and make an appearance, especially considering that if I’m arrested, it would have substantial negative implications for Bob.”

“You’re holding some cards that Bob wouldn’t want you to play,” Diamond said.

“They might lead to his arrest on murder charges.”

“Sounds like a good hand. Property address?”

“I don’t know. I came by sea. It’s the first set of lake shore houses north of Cave Rock. The one you want is a modern arrangement of box shapes that step up and back.”

“And you’re currently on his boat.”

“Enjoying his single malt Scotch and his jazz,” I said.

“Taking a man’s Scotch is a serious transgression some places.”

“This is probably one of them.”

I heard the sound of fast footsteps coming down the dock.

“Someone coming, gotta go,” I said and hung up.

The footsteps stopped. There was a faint sound of a key sliding slowly into the boathouse door lock. I wasn’t certain, but I may have heard a door open. Then came silence. The person who came through the door was being stealthy, worried about being tripped up by a burglar.

I called out in a loud voice, “No need to sneak up on me. Owen McKenna here, topside, on the settee in the lounge. No weapon, no threat. Enjoying your booze. Come and join me.”

More silence. Tommy Flanagan had moved to a syncopated, uptempo number. Between the chords, I heard a creak of dock boards, felt the faintest of boat motion as if someone of size had come aboard on tiptoes. Movement on the port side aft stairway. I turned and saw the round eye of a gun barrel rise up above the stairway. The gun was followed by a large man dressed in jeans and blue sweatshirt with the logo of a local bar on it.

“Hands in the air,” he said.

I raised my hands, looking up to make sure that I didn’t spill the precious Scotch.

“Now stand.”

I stood.

“Turn and put your hands on the bar rail, legs spread.”

“I’ll have to set down the Scotch,” I said. I set the glass onto the bar, then assumed the position. In my side vision, I saw him approach. His gun looked to be a Beretta 92A1. Seventeen 9mm rounds in the magazine. Bob’s guys didn’t fool around.

He came up behind, patted me down, pulled out my wallet.

“Sit,” he said.

I sat and watched the man.

He was a big guy, around 30 years old, not my height, but wider and heavier just as Simone had described Ned’s night visitor. He was classic ugly, bad skin, bulbous, pock-marked nose, big hair brushed back and down and held in place at the back of his head by a thick layer of goo. Small eyes set way back. Heavy brow, receding chin. His left hand was bandaged. Perhaps the source of the blood on the tender bay, perhaps cut by one of Ned’s fancy Veitsi Mies throwing knives. The thought gave me a small shot of empathy for this guy. Maybe he was Ned’s spymaster. Or maybe Bob was Ned’s spymaster, and this guy was just the courier bringing money and marching orders. Either way, he was the physical opposite of handsome Ned. When the ugly guy gets cut and the beautiful guy is unscathed, it reinforces my There’s-No-Justice view of the world.

 But Ned telegraphed feral smart, which equals stupid in the land of humans. This guy telegraphed real smart. In my experience, it was better to be real smart than pretty any day.

The man glanced at the companionway and backed away from the opening. No doubt wondering if I had backup lurking in the bowels of the ship. He kept the Beretta on me while he used his left hand to flip open my wallet. He looked at my licenses, then pulled out his phone and dialed.

“Got one Owen McKenna, private dick, drinking your Scotch.” Pause. “Okay.”

He put the phone back in his pocket.

“Private dick?” I said. “You time travel from Al Capone’s gang?”

“Shut up,” he said.

He was focused. His attention never wandered. I had a momentary thought of trying to distract him and then disarm him, but it did not seem like a reasonable idea. Besides which, having a gun trained on me gave me the kind of moral authority we attach to the underdog.

We looked at each other. I smiled. He scowled.

In a couple of minutes another man came up the starboard aft stairway. He had a large Greyhound on a leash. The dog was a beautiful tan and, like many Greyhounds, appeared to have little interest in people. It ignored all of us, looking instead, no doubt, for smallish animals to chase and eat.

“Bob,” I said. “You’re a hard man to track down.”

He was a mid-fifties, business-executive cliché with thin-soled Italian loafers, high thread-count gray slacks, light gray V-neck sweater over gray shirt, and matching gray hair. He was thin like his dog.

“Who are you, and why are you on my boat?” he said in a soft voice. Too soft. Like a threat.

“Owen McKenna, working for Joe Rorvik, looking into the probable assault of his wife Cynthia Rorvik. One of the suspects is Ned Cavett, a wife-abusing dirtball whom you have hired to...”

I was interrupted by the sound of the boathouse door opening and closing.

The ugly man stepped behind me, put the gun to the back of my neck, and pressed the cold barrel against my skin.

“No movement, no talk,” he whispered in my ear.

His angle was such that his gun would be pointing toward any person coming onto the boat. He could shoot me, or he could shoot the intruder by shifting his gun a few inches to my side. Or, aiming through my neck carefully, he could shoot us both with one bullet.

Diamond appeared, coming up the starboard stairway. He was wearing his uniform and his equipment, but his sidearm was snapped into its holster, and his hand was nowhere near. It was classic Diamond, casual, confident, relaxed. Although he obviously knew that I was there, and he must have deduced that the man behind me had a gun, he didn’t even glance our way.

“You must be Bob,” he said. “I’m Sergeant Martinez, Douglas County Sheriff’s Office.” He reached out his hand.

Bob seemed both surprised and wary. He shook Diamond’s hand.

“I understand that you have an intruder on your boat,” Diamond said.

“Yes. I want you to arrest that man.” Bob turned and pointed at me.

“I know McKenna,” Diamond said. “He might be a pest, but he’s not dangerous. Tell your man to put his weapon away.”

Bob hesitated. He looked Diamond over as if trying to gauge the chances that Diamond had stolen the uniform and was impersonating an officer.

“Put it away, Benjamin,” Bob said.

Benjamin stepped away from me, holding the gun down. He decocked it, which is always an adrenaline boost when you realize that the guy with a gun on you really did have a round in the chamber. Benjamin reached behind his back and put the gun into his concealed-carry holster at the small of his back.

Bob said to Diamond, “How did you know McKenna had broken into my boat?”

“He called and told me. Let’s talk,” Diamond said. He walked over and sat on the settee opposite me. He gestured at Bob and Benjamin.

Benjamin watched Bob. Bob walked over and sat down. His dog lay down next to him. Bob looked at Benjamin and pointed at the settee next to him. Benjamin sat down.

I looked at Diamond as I pointed at Benjamin. “The man’s hand wound looks serious. Do you think that could have been one of the knives that Veitsi Mies gave Ned?” I saw Bob shoot a look of surprise toward Benjamin.

Diamond nodded. “Ol’ Ned hangs with Veitsi and the Canyon Brotherhood. If the Brotherhood found out that Neddy had a disagreement with Ben, that could be serious. Story like that could be expanded into a rumor of something more serious. Like maybe Ned went down at the hands of Bob’s enforcer.”

Diamond turned to Bob. “All the law enforcement in Tahoe wouldn’t be David against Goliath if the Canyon Brotherhood came to town to exact vengeance for what they think is a fallen brother. It wouldn’t matter whether or not Joe votes for the Steven’s Peak Resort if the Canyon crew takes out Ben and you. I don’t know for sure, Bob, but it looks like you’ve maybe got some problems coming from multiple directions. Not sure if arresting this McKenna guy is going to improve things.”

“Why are you here?” Bob said.

“First things first,” I said. “What is your last name?”

Bob hesitated, thinking over how he should respond and whether he needed to respond.

“Hinton.”

“And Benjamin?”

“Prattel.”

“And your dog is Pretty Girl.”

More surprise in his eyes. “What’s my dog got to do with it?” he asked, suspicious, like I was playing with him.

“Polite conversation,” I said. “Dog’s part of the group. Maybe I want to say something to her.”

Bob made a little head shake like he thought I was ridiculous.

Unlike Spot, Pretty Girl didn’t turn at the sound of her name.

“Good. Now that we all know each other, we can talk about why I came to chat with you. Your man Benjamin Prattel, here, has been paying Ned Cavett by bringing late-night cash drops to Ned’s house. Since then, Ned has been seen spying on Joe Rorvik’s house. Joe’s wife has been assaulted and is near death in a Reno hospital. Joe’s best friend Manuel Romero is dead. Jillian Oleska is dead. All three were against your proposed resort development.”

“That’s ridiculous. Jillian worked for me. She was a tireless proponent of the Steven’s Peak Resort.”

“A tireless proponent who, according to Mrs. Rorvik, was having second thoughts about it. And, like Mrs. Rorvik and Romero, she was in a position to influence Joe’s vote.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment.”

“I don’t expect you to. But there it is.”

“You can’t prove anything,” Bob said.

“Not yet. But I won’t need much more evidence than I already have to put you in the electric chair. Separate from that, I don’t need to prove anything to kill your resort. If I suggest to Joe that the assault on his wife may be traceable to you, he’ll vote against your project.”

Bob did a good job of hiding his discomfort, but it showed in the tensing of his legs, the clenching of his toes, visible through the thin leather of his expensive shoes. He glanced at my glass of Scotch, then swallowed.

“RKS Properties is a large, serious business,” he said. “Like any business, we occasionally hire lobbyists to look after our interests.”

“You’re claiming that Ned Cavett is a lobbyist?” I said, trying not to sound too scornful.

“Joe Rorvik’s vote is important. So we looked at his associates. Mrs. Rorvik was spending an inordinate amount of time with a young French girl. We realized that her boyfriend had, in a manner of speaking, access to Joe Rorvik.”

“So you hired the idiot dirtball to represent the interests of RKS Properties. Brilliant business decision.” This time I couldn’t hide my scorn.

“Cavett didn’t present himself badly at first. In retrospect, perhaps he wasn’t the best choice. I admit that. But we committed no crime. We simply put him on a bi-weekly retainer and gave him the goal of increasing the pro-resort influences on Mr. Rorvik and reducing the anti-resort influences. Benjamin provided Cavett with a detailed plan of how this would be accomplished. It was straightforward. There was no reason for Mr. Cavett to become...” Bob hesitated.

“A wild card,” I said.