by Todd Borg
“I can take it,” I said. I paid him. He handed me the pizza and drove off. I walked over and stuffed it into the garbage can next to Cardoza’s Audi.
Cardoza came around. “McKenna, right? Couldn’t recognize you in the dark except for your height.”
We shook.
“Cold out here at night,” I said. “Talk in the car?”
He nodded. We squeezed into his Audi.
The sergeant sat in the driver’s seat, leaned his elbows on the steering wheel and put his palms on the front corners of his head as if to hold in the pressure. He took a deep breath. “That was tough back there. Never seen anything like it.”
“Me neither.”
“Is this the work of our guy?” he said. “The singer’s boyfriend? Or someone working for him?”
“This is our killer,” I said. “Whether or not he’s Tyrone Handkins, I don’t know.”
“I heard about the shooting at your house. And the break-in at Deputy Martinez’s house.”
I told Cardoza about the phone calls from the killer.
“A robot voice, huh? What a sick bastard. Well, keep me informed. I got a singer’s murder on my beat. Not just any singer, either. I want her killer.”
“So how do you read this murder?” I said.
“I don’t know. It’s like this perp thinks it’s a game. It’s not enough just to kill somebody. It’s gotta be in some twisted way.”
“You think it’s all about thrill?” I said. “Or a sex thing?”
“Could be,” he said. He put his hands on the wheel, ten and two, and he rotated them like twisting motorcycle grips. Back and forth, twice, three times. “More likely, he just gets a rush out of making people die in unusual ways. Why shoot someone when you can cut them in half.”
We were quiet for a minute.
“Some vacation you’re having,” I said.
“Yeah. What’s the point of even trying to take time off.”
“Stay in touch?” I said.
He lifted a closed fist and did a soft, slow hammer-motion on my thigh. “You too, bud.”
I got out of the car, and he drove away.
I went and told Diamond I was leaving, then got back into the Orange Flame with Spot. It was a long, lonely drive back up the dark highway to the North Shore.
I tried to forget the image of Wheels Washburn. Forget that the helpful, innocent young man didn’t know the depravity of the world he lived in. Pretend that we were a species whose focus was to build peaceful civilizations, compose grand symphonies, write love sonnets, paint great art. Our worst enemies were mother grizzly bears, great white sharks, aliens and asteroids. Not other men. Humans were special. We would never do what I kept seeing over and over.
Think about something else, any thoughts to stave off the demons. Water-skiing in the high-altitude sun. Chips and salsa and Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. Long hikes through the Desolation Wilderness. Street’s bra strap across her shoulder blade. Liftoff in a small airplane. A Mountain Chickadee climbing around the trunk of a Jeffrey pine. Emerald Bay from the top of Maggie’s Peaks. Oscar Peterson on the piano with Ray Brown on bass. Cross-country skiing at night under a full moon. Jimmy Stewart doing his Mr. Smith soliloquy. Turner’s paintings.
Being tied to the mast while the boat was tossed about in a storm would bring on a nauseating vertigo. But at least you’d know you’re alive. And you wouldn’t think about psychopaths.
But it would remind you that you’re alone.
We find for a moment, here and there, those amazing times where the companionship of another resists the aloneness. It can be as simple as the grace note of a stranger holding the door for you. Or it can be as deep and complex as the bond of a soul mate who understands every nuance of your struggle with the world and gives you complete love of mind and body.
Yet, in the end we’re still alone.
The worst part of being on the run was missing Street. Although I was comfortable spending time by myself and didn’t pal around with buddies, I was still a loner by default, not by choice. I’d much rather be with Street. But she always kept a distance between us. It wasn’t that she saw other men. For as long as I’d known her, I was the only man in her life. As best I could tell, she was afraid to get too close in case something happened to me. A result of a childhood where the people she depended on betrayed her.
I slowed as I came to a patch of fog that swirled thick, yellow tendrils past my headlights. It looked like something Turner would have painted.
I wondered if he’d been a lonely man. While he’d found great success with his art career, and he had a modest social circle, I hadn’t read of any close relationships other than that with his father.
Turner did have a liaison with a woman named Sarah Danby. Some people thought he fathered her children. But Turner never married her. Why?
Had Sarah Danby refused him? If so, why would she be unwilling to commit to a successful artist and businessman? Had she, like Street, been scarred by an abusive childhood? Was she afraid of developing too much dependence on someone who could one day disappear?
How common was it that people were afraid to get too close to someone they loved?
I didn’t know the answer. But I knew I was in a line of work where people shot at me and targeted those closest to me.
Anyone would want to keep their distance.
FORTY-TWO
I drove a few blocks past the Camp Twenty-Five cabin and pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant and lounge. Although it was midnight, there were still cars in the lot. If anybody saw the Karmann Ghia, they would think it belonged to a bar patron.
I had to leave Spot in the car because, even though Danes don’t shed much, it would only take a few black and white hairs and paw prints to give away our identity.
I looked in Diamond’s glove box for a fingerprint suppressor but found nothing useful. I didn’t want to check the trunk because passersby, usually oblivious to people getting in and out of cars, are much more likely to notice someone digging around the trunk in the dark of night. Maybe I could tear up my shirt.
Spot lifted his head as I opened the door. I gave him a quick pet. “Just go to sleep,” I said.
As I got out I swept my hand under the seat and found a dirty blue paper towel of the kind that gas stations provide for checking the oil. I stuffed it in my pocket, leaned on the door until it quietly clicked shut, then walked to the dark trees at the edge of the parking lot. I stayed off the highway, in the trees, skirting old cabins, vacation homes and the newer mansions that were taking over the area.
Soon, the dark outline of the Camp Twenty-Five cabin came into view. I came up behind it. Just as I ran up to the cabin, headlights flashed my direction.
I threw myself up against the cabin wall. The vehicle paused as its headlights caught me. If I didn’t move...
The vehicle started moving, completing its turn. It drove along the shoulder of the highway, going slower than the rest of the traffic. In the dim light I saw that it was a van. It slowed almost to a stop. There was no light or sign of movement from behind its windows. The van stopped and turned off its lights. It was a good distance from me, but in clear line of sight. If they had binoculars, they could see me. I didn’t move. After a long minute, the van’s lights came on and it sped away. I waited another minute, wondering if it was coming back. But it did not return.
From my visit earlier that day, I thought the front door would be easy to jimmy, but I didn’t want to leave marks. The large windows were modern, with tempered panes that have to be struck hard to break them. And when they break they sound like a bomb.
The back wall had a single window set up in one corner. Probably a bathroom window. It looked easy to open, but was small and high.
I found an empty metal garbage can at a nearby house. I carried it back to the cabin and set it below the little window. The can’s bottom was old and corroded. I didn’t dare put my weight directly on it. Gripping the cabin wall for balance, I stepped up onto the
rim of the can.
The little window had hinges on the top edge and swung up and out. It was open about six inches. There was a support arm on one side that locked it into place. Using the paper towel, I reached in and unhooked it.
I pushed against the log wall with my feet, angled my shoulders and squeezed through the window frame. My hands hit the top of a toilet tank.
I did a handstand on the toilet tank, worrying that it would break off, then stepped down with my hands until I was doing a handstand on the toilet seat. From there I crumpled to the floor. I used the blue towel to wipe down the toilet tank and seat.
The only light in the cabin came from outside, broken rays that filtered in from car lights on the highway. I pulled out my penlight and turned it on.
Nothing appeared to have changed in the cabin since earlier in the day, except that the safe was locked. There were many files and desk drawers I could go through and perhaps somewhere in them I would find something revealing. But anything sensitive would probably be in the safe. Of course, a devious person might use the safe as a decoy and put the most significant documents in full view on a desktop, but I doubted it. Furthermore, Red Hues Suz had lifted the parcel map from the top of the safe. It was reasonable to think it was now locked inside.
I squatted down in front of the safe. It was a name brand and, despite what we see in the movies, nearly impossible to break into without resorting to methods that would destroy its contents.
Even so, there is often an easier way.
Years ago I went to a SFPD seminar on safecracking. A representative from one of the big safe manufacturers told us about a study that showed that 50% of people with safes put the combination in an obvious place near the safe. Like hiding a house key near the front door, it is a stupid thing to do, but people do it anyway.
I started on the safe itself. Holding the penlight in my mouth, I felt along the sides and edges of the safe, behind it against the wall and baseboard. The hand towel reduced my sensitivity, but I thought I’d still be able to detect a piece of paper taped out of sight. But I found nothing.
There was a potted plant on the floor next to the safe. I looked in the dirt and ran my hands around the pot.
Moving farther from the safe, I started in on the closest desk, pulling out drawers to look at their undersides, flipping through files, checking the computer keyboard and monitor, the paperweights and knickknacks. I looked for any written numbers that could be a combination.
After a half hour, I started in on the second desk, then widened my search to the entire cabin. After two hours I was ready to give up. My penlight had dimmed to yellow. I switched it off.
I didn’t want to climb back through the window, so I went into the bathroom and reattached the window support arm. I could walk around to get the garbage can later.
I was about to leave when something caught my eye. I turned on the penlight once again and shined it on the wall.
Next to the door jamb, was writing on the wall. It was in pencil. It said, “Before closing, turn off the space heater and coffee pot.”
I’d been blind to the obvious. The note about closing was not written on a piece of paper, but in pencil directly on the wall.
I went back to the safe. I shined the penlight on the wall next to the safe, but it was too dim. I’d have to take the chance. The desk light was on a short cord, so I angled it toward the safe. It was in plain view of the window that faced the highway. But there was nothing I could see to hang in front of the window or in front of the desk lamp. I saw no cars nearby, so I flipped on the light.
The glare was blinding and it took me a moment to adjust. I checked the wall above and around the safe. Nothing. I looked over the floor and on the safe itself. There was no writing that I could see. I moved back and tried to see the setting from a larger perspective. I looked at it the way I’d learned to look at a painting. I let my eye follow one line to another, roaming around the scene, gradually going from the most important objects to the least. But all I saw was the safe and the wall and the plant. You can’t write very well on a plant.
But you can write on the pot.
I grabbed it and leaned it back. The pencil marks were clear under the direct glow of the desk light.
Holding the plant with my left hand, I spun the dial with my blue towel. The mechanism was smooth and precise. I ran through the numbers, turned the handle, and the heavy door swung open.
Inside was a shelf with a blue three-ring binder and a stack of manila file folders. Each folder contained a sheaf of papers and was held together with a heavy rubber band. I lifted all of them out.
In the bottom of the safe was the parcel map Red Hues Suz had shown me earlier that day. I added it to my pile.
Just then headlights flashed in the window from the direction of the highway.
I flipped the desk light off.
The headlights came down the access road. It was a van, and it was driving fast.
I shut the safe and spun the dial. If the people in the van didn’t know the combination, it could be hours before anyone knew what I’d taken. There was a Diet Coke twelve-pack box sitting next to the coffee maker. I dumped out the remaining cans and stuffed the manila folders and the binder into it, corner to corner. The map was too big, so I smacked it down on the edge of the counter, forced the foam board to bend in the middle, then slid it into the Coke box.
The van was almost to the cabin. I turned the deadbolt, jerked the door open and ran out into their headlights.
The van hit the brakes and skidded on the dirt. I sprinted around the corner of the cabin, into the shadows.
The van came to a stop. There was quick movement behind me. Footsteps pounded in the gravel, then went silent when they hit the soft mat of pine needles that surrounded the cabin. I slid as I turned the far corner and raced under the bathroom window. Maybe only one person had chased after me and someone else was waiting on the other side. Only one way to find out.
I turned the final corner and sprinted behind the van, illuminated only by the red tail lights. Then I was in the dark forest, running blind. After 50 yards, I stopped. The sound of the van’s revving engine came through the trees.
Light shown on the three mansions by the lake, then headlights moved in the trees. I glimpsed the van through the foliage. It went down the access road toward the mansions, then did a slow U-turn and drove back out and stopped in front of the cabin.
The smartest thing for me to do was escape while I had the chance. But I couldn’t resist the opportunity to see the killers.
I walked back through the trees toward the cabin. The van was parked in front, engine running, lights off. I came up through the trees, parted some branches and peered out.
It was a Chevy panel van from the late 70s, painted a dark tone, maybe gray, maybe brown, dented in several places. No one was in either front seat. Still holding the Coke box, I stepped out of the trees and walked around the rear end. The van’s back doors had windows. I cupped my hands and peered in. The faint outlines of a few boxes were visible on the floor. There were no people.
I looked toward the cabin. The door was shut. Light spilled from the big windows. I moved up against the cabin wall and was crossing in front of the door when the cabin lights went out.
I sprinted toward the far side of the van as the cabin door opened. I peeked around. The killer was in the shadows, walking toward me. Either he wore a mask or his face was darkened. I saw the glint of a large handgun with a long barrel. If I ran into the woods he’d have a good chance of hitting me.
I jerked open the driver’s door and jumped up into the seat. I pulled the shift down into drive as I floored the accelerator.
The old engine roared. It took a moment for the transmission to shift. The killer’s gun spit fire. The passenger window and windshield exploded. The gears finally engaged with a huge jerk, rocking the van and spinning the wheels. I fishtailed away as more shots punctured the metal skin of the van.
The access road was
a narrow stripe of darkness through the forest. I felt around for the headlight switch as I rocketed toward the highway. It was a pullout knob on the dash. I yanked it out so hard the knob came off. The headlights came on, but the dash lights were burned out.
When I got to North Lake Blvd., I turned right, away from the restaurant where I’d left Spot in the Karmann Ghia. I realized that my legs were bent up. I found the seat lever and slid the seat all the way back. A mile down, I turned left off the main road and doubled back through neighborhood roads, out of sight from the Camp Twenty-Five cabin. A narrow turnoff appeared. I took it and bounced down a rutted path into the woods for a quarter mile. I stopped and felt for the light switch, found the little pin that once held the knob and pushed it in. I turned off the ignition, got out and threw the keys into the woods.
FORTY-THREE
It was 2:00 a.m. by the time I got the Orange Flame wrapped up in its tarp at the Spooner Lake Campground. An hour later, Spot and I finished eating an insufficient dinner. We finally lay down on the ground and went to sleep without water or wine.
In the morning I inspected the documents I stole and discovered they were nothing but legal mumbo jumbo. They were filled with phrases like, ‘Whereas the first party of the second part and the second party of the second part do hereby agree to addendum B, except that such proceeding shall be non-binding on the first party.’ I realized I would need a legal translator.
We drove into South Lake Tahoe where I stopped at my friend Conan Reynolds’ office. Conan runs a little law practice when he isn’t hiking or skiing, which means he’s in the office two or three days a week when the weather is bad and maybe not at all when it is good. His specialty is divorce which, as he likes to point out, isn’t glamorous, but half the population eventually needs him. The papers in my possession had nothing to do with divorce, but I thought he’d be better than me at translating which party belonged to which part. He was in and was very busy watching the Cubs get vivisected by the Yankees. I dumped the Diet Coke box out on his desk.