Tahoe Killshot

by Todd Borg

  “I don’t know. We talked to him before the explosion. But a guy like that was probably in the army. He could’ve gotten some bomb training there. One thing I learned from my dad was how to judge character. He taught me how to tell which guys are straight shooters and which ones aren’t. Some guys, they look you in the eye and tell it like it is. You can see the sincerity. Other guys, they look around, anywhere but in your eyes. Those are the liars. You go talk to Handkins. Watch his eyes.”

  “Any idea where Handkins is now?” I asked.

  “Glory’s whole entourage was staying at the hotel where she was going to perform. Maybe he’s still around. Hey, you let me know if you learn anything more about the woman on the boat, okay? Let me give you my cell number.” He recited it.

  Cardoza thanked me for my time and said goodbye.

  ELEVEN

  I sat and thought about Glory and Faith Runyon and Tyrone Handkins and Turner.

  I’d read about Turner and the Snowstorm painting in my art books. He had convinced some sailors to tie him to a spar of the steamboat ‘Ariel’ as a raging snowstorm came in off the ocean. He wanted to know what a blizzard was really like. They left him tied up there for four hours, and he was whipped back and forth as the boat was thrown about like a cork. The storm was so ferocious, Turner thought he was going to die.

  Either he was exceptionally dedicated to doing research for his paintings or he was crazy. Or both. It turned out that he survived, and he painted a picture of the experience. It was unveiled in 1842 and caused a sensation.

  I was wondering about ferocious storms when my door opened and Street Casey walked in. As always, it was like I’d opened a window to a fresh breeze. Street smelled clean and looked beautiful in tight jeans and a loose white shirt of thin fabric that was buttoned all the way up to the collar. Street often did that, dressing counter to what I expected. If it were a freezing day in February instead of a hot day in August, she’d come in and take off her coat to reveal shorts and a tank top.

  Spot jumped up, finally acting alive. His tail knocked the tape dispenser off the corner of my desk. The roll came out when it hit, and it rolled across the floor. Spot saw it, ran and grabbed it and brought it over to Street. He wagged again. Proud.

  Street came over and kissed me. Her lips were luscious, and a tremor ran through my body.

  She gestured at my feet up on the desk. “Working hard as always?”

  “I was just thinking about Turner’s storm.”

  Street pushed my legs off the desk, turned my chair and sat on my lap.

  “And I wondered how it is that people get caught in storms that overwhelm them,” I said.

  “People like the singer on the Flume Trail and the woman on the boat?” Street asked.

  “Yeah.”

  ”Have you ever read Sontag’s Against Interpretation?” Street said.

  “Sontag?”

  “Yeah. Susan. It’s one of her essays.”

  “Hey, Dr. Casey, I’m an ex-cop, remember? Maybe you entomologists read that stuff for excitement, but guys like me stick with Dr. Seuss.”

  “Nothing wrong with Dr. Seuss. Especially now that The Cat In The Hat is available in Latin. I saw it in a bookstore. Cattus Petasatus.”

  I looked at her.

  “Anyway,” Street continued, turning back to Turner’s painting. “Sontag basically says don’t try to figure art out. Just enjoy it.”

  I ran my hands along Street’s thighs, then felt her waist. “But what about all those metaphors that great artists put in their paintings?”

  “You mean the ones that illuminate our troubled souls?” Street said. She pushed against the desk to make the chair spin. “Or the ones that make you think about sex?”

  “Yeah. Those ones,” I said. I stopped the turning chair.

  “Sontag would probably say that Turner painted a snowstorm and not a metaphor. Take from it what you can about snowstorms, but don’t use it to try to understand why those women died.”

  We sat in silence for a while, both looking at the painting.

  “What would Sontag say about romantic love?” I asked.

  “Probably that you can’t figure it out with paintings of boats.”

  “Same for sex?”

  Street nodded.

  “So,” I said, “looking at the boat in the snowstorm doesn’t make you think of the great will to survive in the face of Mother Nature’s singular fury?”

  Street rolled her eyes.

  “A will,” I continued, “that often manifests itself in procreative energy? Sometimes on a rolling boat deck? In snowstorms?”

  Street made a delicate little snort. She got up off my lap, leaned against the edge of the desk and unhitched the top button on her shirt. “Even a hard, bare desktop would be better than a boat deck in a snowstorm,” she said.

  TWELVE

  After Street left, Spot and I drove over to the Nevada-California state line. There was a truck parked in front of one of the hotel signs. High above, a guy was in the little box at the end of a long, telescoping arm. He was taking down the letters of Glory’s name. I parked in a shady place out back.

  Juan Carrera was working the reception desk. “Mr. Owen McKenna,” he said, smiling, shaking my hand. “So good to see you.” He was a small well-built man, too handsome for his own good. His flashing eyes and the neat little mustache above a bright smile attracted an endless string of young women.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” I said. “Juan, I need a favor.”

  “Of course, my friend. You helped me with my green card problem. I am forever indebted.”

  His green card problem was that he didn’t have one until a few months ago. Several times he was picked up in South Lake Tahoe for trivial reasons and deported. Two weeks later he’d be back. Jobs were easy to find. The machismo-imbued work ethic the Mexicans bring to low paying jobs makes for many employers willing to overlook the risks of missing paperwork.

  But the periodic deportations were a huge hassle, and Juan, who’d done some landscaping for me, asked me to help. I became his advocate. Juan filled out the forms, I made a lot of calls, and, after far too long, he became a legal resident.

  “You know about Glory,” I said.

  “Yes. It is a terrible thing. A tragic loss.”

  “Are her people still staying here?”

  “Some are. Most have left.”

  “I’m looking for her bodyguard. Tyrone Handkins.”

  “He is still here,” Juan said. “He had breakfast an hour ago and went back up to his room.”

  “Can you give me his room number?”

  Juan grinned. “You know I would need to have Mr. Handkins’ permission. Perhaps I can call up?”

  “Please. Tell him I have information about Glory.”

  Juan looked in the computer and punched buttons on the phone. “Hello. Juan Carrera at the front desk. Is this Mr. Handkins? Oh? Thank you. I’ll try her room.” Juan turned to me. “A man said to try the room Glory was staying in.” He dialed another number and introduced himself again. “Mr. Handkins, Mr. Owen McKenna is here to see you.” Juan was silent for a moment. “No, he is not a salesman. I understand that he has information about Glory.” Another pause. “Thank you, sir. I’ll send him up.” Juan wrote the room number on a piece of paper.

  “Thanks,” I said, and headed for the elevators.

  I rode up to the 12th floor. Glory’s door was down to the left. My knock was answered by a large black man, about 30 years old, dressed in gray sweats.

  “Tyrone Handkins?”

  “Yes.”

  “Owen McKenna. I’d like to speak to you about Glory if you have a few minutes.”

  Handkins took a deep breath and let it out. He turned, and I followed him through the entry foyer into a large suite.

  I sat on an upholstered chair. Tyrone sat on a leather couch next to a copy of the New York Times. He crossed his legs, and a reflective patch on his white running shoe caught the light. His eyes were red and
puffy as if he’d been up all night. They glanced left, then right, then shut, like a cat’s, for a long moment. When they reopened, I could see a deep weariness in them.

  He picked up the paper and folded it carefully, hard muscles bulging under his sweatshirt. “Are you a cop?” His enunciation was crisp and precise.

  “Private.”

  “Who are you working for?”

  “Nobody.”

  His eyes narrowed for a moment. “The desk man said you had info about Glory.”

  “I just said that so you would talk to me. I met Glorene Washington when she was a little girl.”

  “So?” he said.

  “Young woman like that dies in the presence of her boyfriend, I want to ask some questions.”

  “I was her bodyguard, not her boyfriend.”

  “I’ve heard otherwise.”

  “Rumors. Look, I’ve been over all this with the Reno police.” He looked down at the floor.

  “I understand they were interested in what you might gain by pushing Glory off the cliff,” I said.

  “What difference does it make to you?” he said.

  “Same difference it made to the other cops.”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  “You say it was an accident?” I said.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “If it wasn’t an accident, what was it?”

  “I don’t know. She was an excellent rider. It wasn’t like her to swerve off a cliff.”

  “You think it was suicide?” I said.

  “No.” Tyrone was shaking his head. He shut his eyes and rubbed them. “She wouldn’t do that.”

  “How do you know? Sometimes people kill themselves and their friends say they never knew the person was depressed.”

  “I knew Glory well.”

  “Like a lover?” I said.

  Tyrone’s eyes flicked up to me, then sideways. He looked out the window. I could see what Sergeant Cardoza meant when he said that Handkins had shifty eyes. “I told you, I wasn’t her lover. We were close, but not like that.” He picked up the newspaper, stood up and walked over to the window. He was only a couple inches shy of my six-six, and he outweighed me. He looked out at the lake, then turned back. “It could be that someone did something to her to make her swerve.” He set the newspaper down on top of the TV, then unzipped a small black briefcase and reached inside.

  “Like what?” I said.

  “Some kind of time-delay drug.” Tyrone felt for something in the briefcase. He moved his fingers as if working a calculator, then pulled his hand out. “Or maybe someone shined a laser beam in her eyes.”

  “You’re suggesting she was murdered.”

  “I don’t know. I just know she wouldn’t swerve off the cliff unless something made her do it. She was totally focused. She concentrated well.”

  “You have an idea who would want to kill Glory?”

  “No. Maybe someone wanted to kill me instead.”

  “And they got her by mistake? She grow up so big and tough a killer could mistake her for you?

  “No,” Tyrone said.

  “So a killer tried to put the time-delay drug in your coffee, but she drank it instead?”

  “Don’t mock me.” Tyrone’s eyes flickered left and right, then settled on me. He looked dangerous.

  “I’m not mocking you. I’m asking the obvious questions. What makes you think someone wanted to kill you?”

  “Because no one would want to hurt her. She was the sweetest person alive.”

  “Great reasoning,” I said.

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  It seemed that nothing made sense. “Was Glory riding behind you or in front?” I asked.

  “In front.”

  “Was she close to you?”

  He nodded.

  “So if anyone shined a light in her eyes, wouldn’t you have seen it?”

  “Probably.”

  “It would be much easier for the killer to just run out as you bicycled past and push you off the cliff. More accurate, too, if the real target was you instead of Glory.”

  “Then her death, or mine for that matter, couldn’t be mistaken for an accident. And he’d have to kill us both to make certain there were no witnesses.”

  “Who knew you and Glory were going to be on the trail?”

  Tyrone looked out the window again. Lake Tahoe shimmered under a hot sun. “The whole crew knew we went out for a run or a ride every morning. It wasn’t any secret where we were going. The Flume Trail has a reputation. We were excited and talked about it.” A phone rang softly from a small desk. Tyrone walked over and picked it up. “Hello? Yeah. The sooner, the better.” He hung up, turned and looked at me.

  “Did you see anyone near the trail during your ride?” I asked.

  “No. It was early in the morning.”

  “Let’s say you are correct that someone wanted to kill you. They knew you were going to be bicycling the Flume Trail. Could they have hidden near the place where Glory went off?”

  “Certainly. The guy would have several places to choose from. Lots of rocks and trees up there.”

  “You say guy. It couldn’t be a woman? Someone jealous of your attentions to Glory?”

  Tyrone looked at me like I was drooling. “Women don’t kill people. Not like that. It was obviously a guy.”

  “Tell me about your relationship with Glory.”

  “It’s none of your business,” he said.

  “Did she have any life insurance?”

  “Not that I know of.” Tyrone shook his head. “She asked me about insurance once. I tried to talk her out of it.”

  “Why?”

  “I explained that it made no sense. If you are rich enough, you don’t need any insurance.”

  “She was that rich?”

  “Of course.” Tyrone said it as if I weren’t paying attention. “I explained that she only needed to detail her beneficiaries in her will.”

  “Did she do that?”

  “I don’t know. You’d have to ask her lawyer.”

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe a beneficiary wanted her dead so he or she could inherit.”

  “I doubt it. She told me that she was leaving most of her money to the California Conservancy for preservation of wetlands.”

  “Why would someone want you dead?”

  “Lots of reasons. I get in people’s faces sometimes. I’m not always delicate.”

  “What a good reason to commit murder,” I said.

  Tyrone’s eyes narrowed again. He reached down and smoothed his sweats on his muscular thighs. He walked over to me. Under the sadness I could see the inner calm of someone who is supremely self-confident. When he spoke, it was with a soft voice.

  “I told you not to mock me. I’m tired of you. It’s time for you to leave.”

  “Let’s just say you’re right, that it wasn’t an accident, that Glory was killed by someone who intended to kill you. Maybe I can help.”

  Tyrone scoffed. “I don’t need help,” he said. “Glory’s dead. I don’t care much about anything anymore. Now get out.”

  I walked back through the living room and into the entry foyer. I noticed there was a shadow under the door to the hotel hallway. I stopped and watched.

  The shadow moved.

  I looked through the peephole. It was dark as if someone had put tape over it.

  THIRTEEN

  I heard the soft sound of a room key card being slid into the lock, then the click of the lock releasing. I yanked the door open.

  A man wearing tan leather gloves held a room key card in his left hand. His right hand gripped something that was concealed in a shopping bag. From the shape, it looked like a police baton. The man had on khaki pants and a white long-sleeved dress shirt.

  And a ski mask.

  The man saw me and kicked me in the stomach. He turned and sprinted down the hall. I stumbled back against the wall of the entr
y foyer, then ran after him.

  He came to a T in the hallway and turned right.

  I pounded after him and saw him enter a utility door. I got to the door and jerked it open.

  There were two employee elevators. The doors on the left one were just beginning to shut. I couldn’t get to him in time. The man stared at me from behind the ski mask as the elevator doors closed. He was solidly built. In the eye holes of the mask there was only darkness. No glimmer of reflection, no color, no movement.

  The floor numbers above the elevator went from 12 to 11.

  Behind a cart of towels was a metal fire door with a red exit sign above. The cart tipped over as I banged it out of the way. I plunged down the stairs three at a time.

  At the 9th floor I jerked open the door to the utility area. The light above the left elevator said 7. He was gaining on me.

  The steps blurred as I descended. I went down to the 3rd floor and pulled open the door. The elevator light said 2. Now I was gaining on him.

  I counted off the floors to the lobby and burst out into an employee entrance area. The letter L was lit above the left elevator, but the doors had not yet opened. I waited, lungs heaving.

  The doors didn’t open. He was going to the basement.

  I sprinted down the stairwell, almost knocking over a small Hispanic women in a blue dress and white apron. I jerked open the door at the bottom and ran out into a wide hallway. The left elevator was standing open and empty.

  The hallway had a couple dozen people in it. A woman pushed a rolling cart. A man had a two-wheeler loaded with boxes. I saw a darting movement thirty feet down the hall.

  A security guard put a key into a door. The man with the shopping bag ran up behind him and pushed his way into the room after the guard. Someone said, “What the...” and was cut off. I heard a grunt, then a thud.

  I reached the door just as it was shutting. I kicked it open.

  Inside the door was a row of metal lockers. The guard was on the floor in front of them.

  I ran around the far side of the lockers and looked out.

  I was in the core of the hotel, the steel and concrete structure exposed. The space was the size of a racquetball court.