Tahoe Killshot

by Todd Borg

  “So you accepted,” I said.

  K.D. nodded. “He became one of Faith’s best customers, and he put a lot of other rich men onto her.”

  “Didn’t some of them want to do like your ex did with you? Take her off to their own private island?”

  “Absolutely. She got a proposal from about a third of her clients.”

  “Why wouldn’t she take one of them up on it?”

  “Because she thought she was too vile to deserve a real life.”

  “But she never let her clients see that side of herself,” I said.

  “No. She was the consummate actor. What she did was a masterful performance designed to get huge dollars and have them begging for more. She was far more successful at it than I ever was.” K.D. appeared to study her glass. “Far more beautiful, too.”

  “You stayed out of the business after your divorce?”

  “Yes. In the years just before I met my ex, I’d been doing quite well and I put a good amount away. When he left me I was able to buy this house and start my gym.”

  “Sounds awfully sensible for a prostitute.”

  “You’d be surprised how practical sex workers are. The ones who stay off drugs, anyway. Many of them want to get into a better business, but don’t have the capital. And all of them realize that there is an age where the business begins to wane and the clients turn to younger product. The practical girl makes plans for something else by the time she turns thirty.”

  “You make it sound respectable.”

  K.D. sat down on the edge of one of the leather chairs. “The sex trade is incredibly demeaning to girls at the bottom end, the ones who work the streets and seedy clubs. But for someone like Faith, someone who is able to be picky about her clients, it can be acceptable work. Some girls even enjoy the business. Not the sex, but the business. The money can be great, and it is flattering to have important men want to be with you. But do any of them have self-respect? I doubt it.”

  I looked at K.D., trying to envision the neatly-dressed, middle-aged businesswoman as a young prostitute.

  “You disapprove,” she said.

  “Yes, I do. But I also believe most any activity between consenting adults is none of my business.”

  “You think you wouldn’t hire a call girl.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “I’ve seen men like you melt when they saw Faith in an evening gown.”

  “I don’t melt.”

  “You have a mate?”

  “Yes.”

  “What if you were rich and single?”

  “What I think isn’t germane to investigating Faith’s death.”

  “You’re avoiding the question,” K.D. said.

  “I think sex is sacred. It’s not something I would purchase.”

  “You are a Puritan.”

  “No. It’s a personal point of view. No Bible attached. Anyway, if Faith was rich, and she hated herself, I would think you could have succeeded at getting her into a more legitimate business.”

  “You’re thinking that it was in my interest to keep her working the trade so that I could get richer as well. But I wanted her to quit. She would not hear of it.” K.D. stood up and walked a few paces away. “You don’t believe me.”

  “Yes, I do,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because you sound sincere.”

  K.D. stared at me. “You know, Mr. McKenna, you are a piece of work. Where were you about twenty years ago?”

  “Working for the San Francisco Police Department.”

  “You were a cop? Figures.” She got up and walked over to refill her drink. “Want another beer? Or do people who think sex is sacred stop at one? Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Yes, I’ll have another.”

  She brought our drinks over and sat down. “So what do we need to do to find Faith’s killer?”

  FORTY

  “I need Faith’s client list.”

  “I was afraid of that.” She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “You must. Almost for certain, it was a client she overheard. That doesn’t mean the client killed her. But it is the only place I have to start.”

  “But the rest of her clients are innocent. Maybe even the client she heard this thing from – whatever it is – is also innocent. I can’t have you going around asking embarrassing questions. Those men have reputations at stake. You could ruin them.”

  “You’re afraid I’ll ruin you in the process.”

  K.D. looked infuriated. “No, I’m afraid for them! I have principles, too, Mr. McKenna! Maybe my principles aren’t the same as yours, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have them!” Her voice reverberated in the room.

  “I can call the sheriff. They’ll get a search warrant.”

  “They won’t find anything. Only I know the information. One thing I learned long ago is that what isn’t written down can’t be found. The little that is written down is noted in a manner that is meaningless to anyone but me.”

  “Maybe there are other things you can tell me that would help.”

  She didn’t speak.

  “How did Faith’s clients find out about her? Did you put the word out in certain circles?”

  “No. At least, not since the very beginning. It was all referrals. One of her clients would tell another man about her and pass on my phone number.”

  “They always called you?”

  “Yes, that is the rule. Everything about Faith was kept private. Her clients never knew her phone number, or where she lived or even her real name. We made up the name Faith Runyon. She had a pretend occupation as well. Modeling. It gave her something to say, and it fit with how she looked.”

  “What is her real name?”

  “I never knew. When I first met her, she called herself both Faye Taylor and Raye Thomas.”

  I watched K.D., wondering if she was telling the truth.

  “How did it work? The arrangements.”

  “Clients would call a number and leave a message. I would call them back, and, in the beginning when many of them were new, ask some qualifying questions. We were especially careful about disease and vice and the police. If the potential client wasn’t completely forthcoming, I would hang up and refuse future calls.

  “If I was satisfied with their answers, they would pay in advance by credit card. In later years, all of her customers were repeats.”

  “You have a bank account for this business?”

  “The income goes to my gym, and Faith’s cut went to her as a salaried personal trainer. People pay lots of money for that. With a little help from one of her clients who had political connections, Faith got a Social Security number in the name of Faith Runyon. The IRS never audited either one of us. Everything was handled honestly, and we always paid our full taxes.”

  “How many clients did she have?”

  “I won’t say.”

  “Where did she meet them?”

  “I won’t say,” she repeated.

  “I’ve already learned that she met some of them at Squaw Valley.”

  “Good for you.”

  “How much did she charge?”

  “I won’t say.”

  “What was your cut?”

  K.D. looked at me and didn’t speak.

  “What was the average age of her clients?”

  K.D. bent down and pet Spot.

  “Let’s try it this way,” I said. “I can go over the relevant facts. They may suggest a particular individual to you. If so, you can consider telling me that person’s name without giving me Faith’s entire client list. If not, at least we may be able to rule out some of her clients.”

  K.D. looked at me. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Okay. Let’s start with what she told me, that she overheard someone say something. That suggests that one of her clients had other people around when he was with Faith. Or he spoke on the phone when he was with Faith. Can you think of anyone where Faith had mentioned s
uch activity? Where she wasn’t alone with a man?”

  “There were many times when Faith would have had an opportunity to overhear something. I don’t know the specifics, but she made comments here and there. At times she accompanied her client to small private gatherings. There were also occasional parties where a client wanted her to be on his arm. And of course there were shows and restaurants, sometimes in Reno, sometimes in South Lake Tahoe. I suppose she could overhear something sensitive at any of those places. It could have been any number of clients.”

  “True. But you probably have an idea of the men who were loners or else were very secretive. The men who would be very discreet about every meeting with Faith and equally discreet about everything they would say. My guess is that those men can be ruled out.”

  K.D. gave a slight nod.

  “Ruling out those men,” I continued, “would leave how many others?”

  K.D. shook her head.

  I tried a different tack. “Many men have lives without any component that would induce murder. They may be rich, but it is because they own a nuts and bolts company. The biggest secrets in their lives are their email passwords. On the other hand, there are men who are connected to the mob or political figures or are simply so wealthy that they are constantly exposed to information that could never be allowed to get into the wrong hands without creating murderous implications. Considering those two different kinds of individuals, do any of Faith’s clients stand out?”

  K.D. gave Spot another pet.

  I was getting nowhere. I finished my second beer. “You’re the executive director of the Camp Twenty-Five Foundation. How did that come about?”

  K.D. seemed to relax. “I was looking for a way to give back to the community. One of my customers mentioned it, and I got involved in fundraising for them. I thought I was doing an okay job. I even called some of my old clients and some of Faith’s clients as well. Turns out I blew the doors off their previous fundraising efforts. The board asked me to be their executive director. It is mostly a cheerleader position. But I guess I’m good at it. It makes me feel good to be involved in such a good charity.”

  I took that in. She was smooth, and it sounded sincere. “K.D., several names have come up in my investigation. I wonder if you have ever heard of them?”

  “Shoot.”

  “There’s a Deputy Rockport who works for Douglas County Sheriff’s Office. Ring a bell?”

  She shook her head.

  “What about a snowboarder named Bobby Crash?”

  “Oh, sure. Where did I hear that name? Isn’t he the one who rides for Company Twenty-Five?”

  “Yes. Know anything about him?”

  “No. Just heard his name, that’s all.”

  “What about Tyrone Handkins?”

  K.D. frowned. “I feel like I’ve heard that name somewhere. Or read it in the paper?”

  “He was Glory’s bodyguard.”

  “That’s right. The paper did a big article on her death up on the Flume Trail. They mentioned him as a possible suspect.”

  “K.D., when I spoke to Faith, she said she had something to show me. After the boat explosion, the Coast guard fished a lot of pieces of paper out of the water. We’ve assembled them together like a jig-saw puzzle, and they made a picture of a golf course. Can you think of why Faith might want to show me a picture of a golf course?”

  K.D. looked surprised. “I have no idea. As far as I know, Faith never played golf in her life. She certainly never mentioned anything about golf to me.”

  “Do you know what the connection is between Company Twenty-Five and Camp Twenty-Five?”

  “One of the Camp Twenty-Five board members was talking about it once,” K.D. said. “He said there wasn’t any legal connection between the two. Apparently, Company Twenty-Five let Camp Twenty-Five use their name concept because they felt it was beneficial to their image.”

  “Who was the board member who told you that?”

  “Eduardo Valdez. He was killed in a terrible accident not long ago.”

  “The man who was run over.”

  “Yes. We couldn’t believe it. He was a wonderful man.”

  “Can you give me the names of the other board members?”

  “I only met about half of them at a cocktail party fundraiser. Suzanne Stock knows them much better. She could give you a list. Frankly, I’m not at the Camp Twenty-Five office much. My director title is just a title they gave me to honor my fundraising. Suz and Betty are much more hands-on than I am.”

  I stood up. “If I have any other questions, may I call?”

  “Of course.” K.D. stood up and smiled. She held out her hand. “I hope I’ve been helpful.”

  Spot and I were out the door when she called out to me in the dark. “Mr. McKenna?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I just want you to know that Faith was a good kid.”

  I nodded as I wedged Spot and myself into the Orange Flame.

  FORTY-ONE

  I got Street on my phone as I drove away. She was still safe at Caesars. I gave her an update and we whispered sweet nothings before we hung up.

  I continued south and was turning into the Spooner Lake Campground when my phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Owen McKenna?” The peculiar grunts were unmistakable.

  “Wheels. What’s happening?”

  “Something came up. Thought I should call. Of course, it may be nothing, but one never knows, eh?” He grunted. “I was over at the bike shop, the one that referred you to me? Anyway, a customer came in, said he wanted to rent a good mountain bike. Wanted to do the Flume Trail.”

  “Lot of people doing the Flume at the height of the tourist season.”

  “Yeah, but get this.” Another grunt. “He mentioned...Oh, hold on, that’s the doorbell. I’ve been waiting on my pizza delivery.”

  I heard the phone being set down. I waited half a minute. I thought I could hear Wheels speaking in the distance. Then the phone was picked up. “This old cabin has thin walls, McKenna. I heard everything from outside.” The metallic robot voice, high in pitch, androgynous terror. “Wheels is still alive, but I don’t know if you can get here fast enough to save him. Do you even know where he lives? I’ll give you a clue. Zephyr Heights.” The line went dead.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror. No one was close. I jerked the wheel and hit the brakes hard. The Orange Flame spun around in the campground road. The car came to a rest facing toward the highway. I jammed it into first, revved the little engine, popped the clutch and sped back down the road. Spot moaned with the sudden motion. We shot out onto the highway, skidding sideways. I dialed 9-1-1 as I raced south and rattled off the information to the emergency operator. Then I hit the speed dial code for Diamond. He answered on the third ring.

  “I was talking to Wheels Washburn when robot voice arrived at Washburn’s door. He’s going to kill him. I’m near Spooner Lake, heading south. The killer said Washburn lives in Zephyr Heights. Taunting me. I don’t know what the street address is, or even if Zephyr Heights is accurate.”

  “I can find out,” Diamond said. I heard him on his radio. When he came back on the phone, he barked out Washburn’s address in Zephyr Heights. “I’m at Roundhill,” he said. “I’ll be there in a couple of minutes. See you there.”

  There were two sheriff’s Jeeps parked in the dark drive when I arrived 15 minutes later. Diamond’s pickup was in the street. I left Spot in the Orange Flame and found Diamond, Rockport and another deputy in the narrow backyard which was lit up by a flood on the back corner of the house.

  There was a pile of split wood stacked on one side of the yard. On the other side was a pile of rounds, cut into 16-inch lengths, unsplit and unstacked. A chain saw rested on the pile. There were also some uncut logs 8 feet in length. In the middle was a hydraulic log splitter. The body was pinned down on the splitter rail, held in place by one of the heavy 8-foot logs. A branch had been wedged against the hydraulic pump lever. The piston had pushed
the body onto the splitting wedge, cutting it in half just above the hips.

  Diamond jerked his head toward the victim. “Recognize him?”

  “It’s Wheels Washburn,” I said.

  He nodded. “Major contusion on his head. Looks like he was knocked out, then dragged out here.”

  “The neighbors didn’t see anything?”

  “Only one neighbor is home. She said that Washburn had been cutting and splitting wood earlier in the day. Then she heard the splitter engine fire up again about ten minutes ago. When it stayed constant for a long time, she came to look, just as Linetco pulled up. She’s in her house, pretty hysterical.”

  “Who got here first?” I said.

  Rockport said, “Linetco did. He said that...”

  “Let’s let him speak for himself,” Diamond said.

  Rockport turned red.

  Linetco was a small, compact man in his late twenties, with dense black hair cut very short on top and nearly shaved on the sides. He stood at attention, chest out. His hands were clenched at his sides. They opened, fingers spread wide, then clenched again. “I was down on the highway at Zephyr Cove when the call came from dispatch. I came up straight away. Knocked on the door. No answer. Heard the splitter. Came around and found him like this. Then Rockport came, then Diamond.”

  “Did you see anyone driving away as you came up from the highway?”

  Linetco shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Rockport?” I said. He was still red. “No. No one on the road at all.”

  Two more Douglas County deputies arrived. They were Linetco’s age, young guys pulling the evening shift. Then Sergeant Cardoza from Washoe County came around the side of the house.

  “I heard a call about a killing,” Cardoza said. He chewed gum like he was trying to pulverize it. “Was in the area, thought I’d stop by.” When he saw the body he paled. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he tried to fight the nausea by swallowing. He recovered fast, looking away from the body. He approached the others.

  “Ralph Cardoza, Washoe County,” he said. About my age, he was older than the other deputies. Although he was out of his jurisdiction, he seemed to command some respect. Linetco and Rockport went through the scenario again for his benefit. Diamond, in his civvies like Cardoza, but, unlike Cardoza, on suspension, stayed to the side. I excused myself and walked around to the front of the house as a Honda Civic pulled up. It had a lighted pizza sign on the roof. A pimply kid got out with a pizza box. “Pizza for Washburn,” he said. “That you?”