Tahoe Killshot

by Todd Borg

  “I don’t think so.” His voice was small. “I can’t breathe with you leaning on me.”

  I let up the pressure a bit.

  “I think it was a safety thing,” Crash said. “She could talk to them over a drink. If she got the creeps, there is a ladies room by the rear entrance. She could leave out the back to get away. In the winter she could have a board and clothes stashed in a locker. In the summer, she could keep a mountain bike up here. The client has to wait for the next cable car.”

  “You saw that happen?”

  “Once, yeah.”

  “Who was her pimp?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Recognize any of her johns?”

  “No.”

  “Know any of Faith’s friends?”

  “No.”

  “You know where she lived?”

  “I have no idea. Squaw, Truckee, Tahoe City. I don’t know.”

  “Then tell me something helpful.”

  “What do you mean?” he said, whining.

  I leaned on him. “A conversation you overheard. Something that would tell me the identity of one of her johns. What they drank. Their clothes or cars.”

  “I didn’t hear anything. They always sat in the corner. The clients came up on the cable car, so how am I gonna know what they drove?”

  “Was she always here first? Waiting for them?”

  “Yeah. She’d wait by the end of the bar where it was hard to see her. They’d come in and go to the corner table, sit and wait for her.”

  “How often?”

  “Like how many clients a week?”

  I nodded.

  “Not that often. Maybe once a week. That’s just what I saw. I don’t know how many times she’d meet guys when I wasn’t here. It seemed like late afternoon was her regular time, you know. That way she could size the guy up, they could go to dinner at a normal hour and then, you know.”

  “Why do you think they’d go to dinner? You hear something about dinner?”

  “No. You could just tell. She was so... You’d want to take her to dinner, talk to her, look into her eyes. Any guy would.”

  “I need something else.”

  “I don’t have something else!”

  “Yes you do.” I leaned onto his chest.

  “I can’t remember anything... Let me breathe!”

  I let off the pressure.

  “One time when she was waiting at the end of the bar, a big fat guy came in and went over to the corner table. He was like, you know, he waddled more than he walked. I heard her mutter under her breath.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Something like, ‘Lady Katy, I said I don’t do fatsos!’”

  “Who’s Lady Katy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re sure about the name?”

  “Yeah. It rhymed, and I remembered it.”

  “You think Lady Katy is a madam?”

  “I didn’t think it at the time. I guess I thought it was a figure of speech. But I suppose Lady Katy could be her pimp.”

  “Tell me about the johns.”

  “I already did! They came in and sat at the corner table. She’d go and sit down and after a couple drinks, they’d leave. I didn’t recognize them.”

  “But you can characterize them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You saw their clothes, heard them talk.”

  “I didn’t hear them talk. They mostly just stared at her. They kept their voices low. And they had different clothes. Most wore sweaters and nice pants. A few wore jeans, and one or two even wore suits. I remember that fatso wore a suit. They were all expensive clothes. Polo, Armani, stuff like that. These guys reeked of money, that much was obvious.”

  “Any idea how much Faith charged?”

  “Christ, how am I gonna know that? More than you can afford, I can tell you that.”

  EIGHT

  It was twilight when I got home. Spot was curled up on his cushion at the corner of the deck. He jumped up as my headlights swept over him. I got out carrying the paper bag with the Danish in it. I held it up and shook it.

  Even though Spot was 40 feet away and it was nearly dark out, I could see his eyes grow intense and his ears quiver. His chain vibrated against the deck.

  I took the Danish out of the bag, held it like a Frisbee and gave it a hard shot. It came in high. Spot leaped up and snatched it out of the air with a loud clicking thump of teeth snapping on pastry.

  I sucked glaze off my fingers, walked over and unhooked his chain. Spot followed me indoors, his tongue making slurping noises as he licked his chops, his nose reaching out to sniff the empty paper bag.

  The cabin was dark inside, but I didn’t hit the switch. A numbing weariness came over me. I got a beer out of the fridge and sat down on my rocker in the dark. There was still a pale orange glow in the western sky. The mountains were a dark silhouette. In front of them was the broad sweep of lake reflecting the twilight. Not far out there would still be floating debris, bits and pieces of boat and...

  I downed my beer. Then I went back to the fridge, pulled out three more and lined them up on the little table next to the rocker. I put on Samuel Barber’s Adagio For Strings, then sat down in the dark and listened to the progression of major sevenths while I made up epitaphs for a frightened woman who died young because she overheard something deadly.

  Or maybe hearing it wasn’t deadly. Maybe the deadly part was deciding to take the information to McKenna.

  The phone rang. It was probably Street. Ever since I’d met her I’d tried to get her to spend every hour with me. I didn’t care if it happened through benefit of marriage or as an exercise in saving on mortgage costs. I just wanted her with me and had only succeeded for a few short months after she’d been kidnapped a year ago. Now the phone was ringing, and it was probably Street, and all I could think of was another woman on an exploding boat and that fraction of an instant when a life vanishes.

  I let the phone ring and drank more beer.

  NINE

  I was in my office early the next morning. Spot found the sun and lay down in it. He watched with great interest when I opened the donut bag.

  “Donuts are for people,” I said.

  He sighed and put his head down. He didn’t look up as I ate, but his ears turned toward me. They twitched when I slurped more coffee. When I was done, I crumpled up the bag and threw it in the basket. Spot sighed again and rolled over onto his side.

  I spent an hour paying bills. Turner’s storm raged.

  Spot never moved. What was the point if there were no donuts.

  The phone rang.

  “McKenna Investigations,” I said.

  “Hey, Owen, Upton here.” A voice from the past. A good guy who helped me during the stress when I left the SFPD.

  “Upton. Good to hear from you. Still in homicide?”

  “Four more years and I’m outta here. Pam and I got a little cabin near Mendocino where we plan to retire. White picket fence, vegetable garden out back, the whole nine yards. We’re going to sell the house here, and with Bay Area prices what they are, we should be in good shape. How’s the hound? Still full of life?”

  I looked over at Spot. “Oh, yeah. Bursting. What’s up?”

  “I saw a news item on that boat explosion up in Tahoe. It said you were there. You okay?”

  “My ears still ring, but yeah.”

  “First the singer Glory dies mountain biking, then the woman in the explosion. What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. A woman named Faith Runyon called me. She wanted to meet on the lake to tell me something she’d heard about Glory. But her boat blew up before she told me anything.”

  Upton’s breathing was loud in the phone. “Part of the reason I called is because of Glory. You know much about it?”

  “Only what I read in the paper. She was bicycling on the Flume Trail and went off the cliff. Probably an accident, but I understand her bodyguard is getting some close attention because
he was bicycling with her at the time. Why do you ask?”

  “Remember years back when you and I participated in that bi-city outreach program?”

  “Sure. House calls to the families of chronic juvenile offenders. Show them that cops are actually real people.” I could still visualize the scummy dumps that most problem kids called home. Drug-addicted moms making babies and collecting whatever handouts came their way. Never a dad to be found.

  “Do you recall Luther Washington? A dozen years ago?”

  “Tall, skinny kid? Could run like a deer?” I said.

  “That’s him. Came into San Francisco on BART everyday and boosted motorcycles for a parts outfit run by Jimmy D. Luther died not long after the last time we brought him in.”

  “Figures,” I said as it came back to me. “What a waste.”

  “Remember his mama’s homemade cookies?”

  “That’s right,” I said. After we’d brought Luther in several times, we went to his mother’s place in Oakland. I remembered how unusual the apartment was, neat and clean, pictures on the wall, a book or two lying around. I said, “Luther’s mother even played us a few tunes on an old upright piano.”

  “Do you recall Luther’s little sister?”

  “Yeah. I forget her name, but she could sing like Aretha.”

  “That’s why I called,” Upton said. “Her name was Glorene. Glorene Washington grew up and started performing as Glory. I thought you’d want to know.”

  TEN

  After we said goodbye, I sat at my desk.

  I hadn’t thought of Glorene Washington in the years since, but still the news hit me hard. She’d been eleven or twelve, skinny as her brother Luther. I could still see her wide-set brown eyes, shiny as polished agates. She was a shy girl with a rare but electric smile. Yet the eyes and smile were nothing compared to the voice.

  The time we visited, she hummed constantly, warm, round tones that were more like what one would expect from a woodwind than from a kid. When her mother played the piano, the bashful girl sang like the star she became.

  I’d never seen Glory perform, but I’d heard her on the radio. Her voice was deeper than most, reminiscent of the great jazz singers. She had less vocal pyrotechnics than the other stars, but was more soulful. While the other singers sometimes wore you out, you could listen to Glory all night.

  It was a terrible loss, a young woman with a huge talent going off the mountain on a bicycle. I’d bicycled the Flume Trail with its dangerous drop-offs. It was easy to see how someone could accidentally die. But there is a statistic about young women that dogs me and all cops alike whenever the subject comes up.

  The number one cause of death for young women isn’t accidents or drugs or suicide, but murder at the hands of their husbands and boyfriends. Glory was with her bodyguard when she died. Could he have been a jealous boyfriend?

  Then Faith called saying she heard something. And Faith was killed.

  I picked up the phone and dialed Diamond.

  “Sí,” he answered.

  “I thought you were into French these days.”

  “I meant oui,” Diamond said. “Been learning Deutsch, though. I’ve been reading philosophers. Lotta them are German. Nietzsche, Kant, Marx. Be good if I could read them in Deutsch.”

  “Plus, you still have the Karmann Ghia, don’t you?”

  “Ya. Even got it running again. What’s up?” he asked.

  “When are you going to make rank?”

  “Hoping to by my birthday. Sergeant Bellamy is retiring then. I’m numero uno on the list after taking the exams. And the sheriff likes me. So it’s looking good. But you didn’t call for that.”

  “I’m wondering about evidence on the explosion.”

  “Nothing definitive,” Diamond said. “Couple of our guys helped the Coast Guard fish a bunch of debris out of the water. Biggest piece they found was a twelve-inch chunk of teak. Looks like a trim board. Mostly, they just found fragments. A piece of the fabric roof over the bridge. Some plastic off the seat cushions. And a bunch of pieces of green paper. Stuff that floats. Everything’s at a lab in Reno. They’re checking for traces of explosive.”

  “Call me when you get the results?”

  “Sure,” he said, though it didn’t sound like his first priority.

  “I’ve learned a few things about the victim on the boat.”

  “Should I get my tape recorder?” Diamond said.

  “A pencil should do.” I told him about going to Squaw and finding out that Faith was a prostitute and that she may have had a madam who went by the name Lady Katy. I also mentioned that the information came from a champion snowboarder named Bobby Crash who seemed to be hiding something.

  When I was done, Diamond said, “Got it. Anything else?”

  “Have you learned anything about Glory’s death?”

  “Not much. The Flume Trail is in Washoe County, so it’s out of my jurisdiction. The coroner’s report said that death was caused by head trauma received in the fall from the trail. I told them what you said about Faith contacting you because she supposedly knew something about Glory’s death. Then I got a call from a Sergeant Ralph Cardoza. After I told him about you, he said he’d give you a call.”

  “I haven’t heard from him yet.”

  “Let me give you the number. I think I put it here in my Palm Pilot.” After a few seconds Diamond said, “Then again, maybe not.”

  “No problem. I can find it.” I thanked Diamond and hung up. I got out the Reno book and looked it up.

  “Washoe Sheriff’s Office,” a cheerful female voice said.

  “Hello, this is Owen McKenna calling for Sergeant Cardoza.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s on vacation. Would you like his voice mail?”

  “Sure, but first can you tell me if he has a cell number? Apparently, he’s been trying to reach me.”

  “Ralph? When the fish are biting? That’s a first. But, no, I don’t have a cell for him.”

  “Okay, I’ll just leave a message.”

  She put me through and I left my name and number.

  He called a few minutes later.

  “That was fast,” I said.

  “How’s that?” Cardoza said. He sounded irritated.

  “I just left the message and you called in a few minutes.”

  “Now there’s a coincidence. I didn’t get the message, yet. Just thought I’d try you.” His voice had the thick rasp of a long time smoker.

  “Catch anything?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “They said you were on vacation. Sounded like a fishing trip.”

  “Oh,” he said. “You mean have I caught any fish. Let me tell you, I’d have more luck using my cat’s hairballs than these flies. I swear trout used to hit on anything green. Not anymore. It’s like they had a seminar and decided green was dangerous. Hey, guys, stay away from green, ha, ha. Cousin Guido got his lip yanked out. And Tony? He took a nibble on a green meanie, and he disappeared. Flew right out of the water. Anyway, I always work on vacation, McKenna.”

  “Dedication,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to get the details of this woman who called you about Glory. Deputy Diamond Martinez said you’re an ex-cop. Said you’d be helpful.”

  “Certainly.” I proceeded to give Cardoza the whole report starting with Faith Runyon’s phone call.

  When we were done Cardoza said, “What’s your take on the Runyon woman’s story?”

  “Hard to say. Her stress and worry was real. As to whether she really had heard something about Glory’s death, I don’t know. I made a few inquiries about her, but haven’t found anyone who knew her well enough to give me a sense of her. Right now, her credibility is in her death. Not often someone says they have information about a death and then are killed in a violent explosion.”

  “You think the boat explosion was intentional? That she was murdered?” Cardoza said.

  “It looks suspicious. Rare for a boat to explode,” I said.r />
  “And right when she’s going to spill some beans,” Cardoza added.

  “Rarer still for a boat to explode so violently,” I said.

  “You’re thinking high explosives?”

  “Yeah. And Faith’s death suggests that Glory’s death wasn’t an accident, either. You’ve talked to the bodyguard?”

  “We brought him in,” Cardoza said. “Gave him the routine. Name is Tyrone Handkins. He didn’t cave. But he’s a big, strong guy with shifty eyes. He had the means and opportunity and motive. But we’ve got no real evidence on him.”

  “What do you mean, motive?” I said.

  “Guy was in love with the singer. It’s all over his face. He practically melts at the mention of her.”

  “How does love translate to motive?”

  “Oh, come on, McKenna. You know how it works. A sexy broad becomes a star. She gets rich and famous. Her opportunities expand exponentially. The media goes crazy. Meanwhile, her poor bodyguard is just a kid who came out of the projects and thought he had a chance. But he sits on the sidelines while every big cheese between here and Paris wants a piece of her. Her brain goes all dreamy under the attention, and the bodyguard can’t take it. Once he was the big guy in her world. Now he’s just an employee. Fill in the blanks. It adds up to motive.”

  I thought about it. “You think you can build a case against him?”

  “I don’t know. No matter what kind of boy Handkins is, it still looks like an accident. It appears he only loses by Glory’s death. His job, his stature, his lover. Everyone else we talked to said he wasn’t a hothead. So we couldn’t hold him.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t the bodyguard that Faith called me about. Maybe someone else was up there to push Glory off the cliff.”

  “But Handkins said they were alone. Said Glory swerved all of a sudden and went off the trail. If someone else was up there he’d be sure to mention it. He’d do anything to save his ass. I can read a guy like that.”

  “If you think the bodyguard was Glory’s killer, that would imply that he was behind Faith’s death, too. Anything about him or his background that could connect him to a source for explosives?”