Tahoe Killshot

by Todd Borg

  Conan nodded.

  “Glennie found out that a woman named Monica Lakeman recently died in a fall down the stairs of one of her rental houses. The stairs were in good condition and the weather was dry. Monica left her entire estate to Camp Twenty-Five.”

  Conan raised one eyebrow.

  “Faith Runyon was a prostitute. I tracked down her madam, a woman named K.D. Scarrone. Turns out she is executive director of Camp Twenty-Five. I went to the Camp Twenty-Five office and noticed they were using a parcel map to indicate which properties were theirs, which ones they were about to acquire, and which ones were owned by people who were unwilling to sell. The map had the parcel numbers whited out. It struck me as strange. You want more?”

  “There’s more?”

  “From the time I first started asking questions, a couple of guys have been trying to kill me.”

  “I heard about a shooting up at your cabin,” Conan said.

  “I chased one of them at the casino. Diamond Martinez responded to the call. He thought the guy was taking aim at him. Diamond fired a shot. His round ricocheted and hit a girl’s doll. Diamond said there was no girl nearby. Nevertheless, the mother raised a ruckus. Her name is Violet Verona, a rich businesswoman. Next thing Diamond knew, the sheriff got a call from Senator Stensen’s office. They were urging the sheriff to make an example of Diamond, referring to him as a rogue cop. The sheriff suspended Diamond. But Diamond is a straight cop. If he says that no mother and girl were nearby during the shooting, then I believe him. Diamond thinks it is fishy. Especially with Senator Stensen getting involved.”

  “What does this have to do with Company Twenty-Five?”

  “Maybe nothing. But Stensen has recently become an advocate of sorts for Camp Twenty-Five. He gave a little speech about it at the Company Twenty-Five grand opening in Roundhill.”

  Conan said, “Camp Twenty-Five keeps popping up in a lot of places, huh?”

  “Right. Made me want to look at some of their papers.” I pointed to the stack on his desk. “You didn’t see any reference to a Tyrone Handkins, did you?”

  “Nope. Who’s he?”

  “Glory’s bodyguard. What about Tony Nova, the owner of Glory’s management company?”

  Conan shook his head.

  “Willard Kilpatrick?” I said.

  Another head shake.

  I said, “He worked for the Sierra Club and was appointed to the T.R.P.A. board years back. He was killed in Oakland.” I gestured at the files again. “What do you make of this stuff?”

  “First of all, it doesn’t look like there is any ownership connection between Camp Twenty-Five and Company Twenty-Five. I think Company Twenty-Five is letting Camp Twenty-Five use their trademark because it softens their image. They’re perceived as a corporate shark, gobbling up small sporting goods stores, manufacturing product with child labor in developing countries...” Conan waved his hand through the air. “But you probably know all that.” He pointed at the stack of files. “In that pile are contracts for the sale of almost three dozen lots purchased by Camp Twenty-Five. All but four are seller-financed. Camp Twenty-Five put a small amount of money down and is paying off the balance over ten or fifteen years or even thirty years in some cases. Some sellers financed one hundred percent of the sale. The four that weren’t seller-financed were purchased outright with cash. But I suspect that the appraisals that determined the prices were below market. Most homeowners don’t realize how much Tahoe property has gone up in recent years.”

  I said, “Even those sellers who were aware of the full value of their property probably cut Camp Twenty-Five a good deal anyway, just because they thought it a good cause.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Conan said.

  “You’re not a believer?”

  “Put it this way. This paperwork would make more sense if the whole business is a sham. A lot of this paperwork refers to the Camp Twenty-Five Foundation. But on the contracts the buyer is simply Camp Twenty-Five, Inc.”

  “Is Camp Twenty-Five, Inc. a non-profit company?”

  Conan was shaking his head. “I got curious about it, so I made some calls. Camp Twenty-Five, Inc. is a for-profit corporation, incorporated in Delaware, and it has two stockholders. A Martin Z. Elgin in Palo Alto, and an Adelina S. Kercher in Denver. I did an online search and turned up nothing on either name.”

  “So when someone sells their Tahoe lot to Camp Twenty-Five, they’re actually selling it to two unknown people from out of town?”

  “Right. I called up one of the title companies on the north shore that handled some of the sales. They had no contact information other than the local Camp Twenty-Five office. The women in the Camp Twenty-Five office brought them the information on the various sellers along with a Camp Twenty-Five check in the amount specified on each purchase agreement. The check was drawn on a bank in South Dakota and the Camp Twenty-Five address printed on the check was a post office box in Delaware, no doubt serviced by one of those businesses that forward mail to the real address, wherever that is. The title company handled the sales and the mortgage contracts. The deeds of trust were recorded in the county recorder’s office.”

  “Showing Camp Twenty-Five, Inc. as the new owner,” I said.

  “Correct.”

  “Was there anything in those papers that binds Camp Twenty-Five, Inc. to actually building a camp for disabled kids?”

  Conan gave me a wry smile. He picked up the bent foam board parcel map, straightened it out and held it up for emphasis. “All I saw is a company acquiring a fortune in land at cheap prices and almost no cash outlay.”

  Seeing the map at a distance, I saw clearly what I’d suspected. The Camp Twenty-Five lots formed a large mass that looked like a mitten balanced on the north side of Lake Tahoe. The shape was identical to the golf course picture that Diamond had helped me assemble.

  I said, “What would keep Camp Twenty-Five from doing something else with the land, something much more profitable than a camp for disabled kids?”

  “As far as these documents indicate, nothing.”

  “If Camp Twenty-Five doesn’t build the camp, wouldn’t they be open to lawsuits?”

  “On charges that they misrepresented their purpose? Maybe. But who would bring the suit? One of the sellers? If so, Camp Twenty-Five would probably be able to settle for a fee that would look large to the seller and small from the perspective of their current land portfolio.”

  “Wouldn’t the Attorney General get very interested in such a scam?”

  “Maybe, but there wouldn’t be much to go on. Who was hurt? The sellers for selling cheap? Yes, but many of them don’t know it. More than half are from out of town themselves, and they are probably ecstatic that they multiplied their investment in Tahoe several times over. Never mind that they could have done even better with a different buyer. As for the Camp Twenty-Five brochures and such, if you look closely at the wording, you’ll see that it is nothing but clever suggestion.” Conan pulled a brochure out of the pile and held it up, flipping through its pages. “None of the promo literature specifically states that the land they’re acquiring will actually become a camp. The Camp Twenty-Five brochures just imply that some day disabled kids will be able to romp in a mountain lake.” He pointed to a couple of paragraphs of fine print at the bottom of the last page. “Let me read some of this. If I hold it close enough to my lamp I can make it out without a magnifying glass.

  “‘With proper financial management of Tahoe property, Camp Twenty-Five’s goals of building a camp for disabled kids come closer to reality every year. We’ll never lose sight of our dream that Special Children may one day run and play, swim and sail in God’s Country.’”

  “And then there is an asterisk,” Conan continued. “So I looked all over the brochure and finally found another one below this photograph of a kid in a wheelchair next to a mountain lake.” He held it up and pointed it out to me. “Want to know what it says in even finer micro-print? It says, ‘A Special Child enjoying the splendor of a
proposed location for Camp Twenty-Five on Leech Lake, Montana.’”

  Conan smacked the brochure with his other hand. “Can you believe that?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry to say, I can.”

  “So,” Conan said, “unless a seller actually tape records contrary information given out at the Camp Twenty-Five office, I don’t imagine the Attorney General would have much of a case. Put it before a Grand Jury and I can guess what would happen. The jury members, all much poorer than the rich people selling their Tahoe lakeshore, would have a hard time finding enough sympathy for them to bring an indictment against a company that may, in fact, actually plan to build a camp. Here, or in Montana.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  I picked up the parcel map and asked Conan Reynolds if I could leave the files with him. He nodded, and I left.

  Outside, I leaned past Spot and slipped the parcel map under the seat where I’d been keeping the golf course puzzle.

  I drove over to the Herald. I knew the risk, but I was making progress and I needed information fast. Glennie was in.

  “Where is Spot? How is he healing?” she said, worried.

  “I parked behind the building. Come see.” I pointed.

  We went around to the back where Spot had his head hanging out the window of the Orange Flame. He was standing in a half-crouch, his body pushing up against the ceiling and filling the entire car. Glennie wrapped her arms around his head and cooed into his ear. “Ooooh, poor wounded baby, forced to live all alone with this detective who never spoils you rotten like I would.”

  Spot wagged so hard I thought his tail was going to break the windows of Diamond’s car.

  Glennie turned to me, pulled a little notebook out of her back pocket and flipped some pages. “Okay. Willard Kilpatrick. Worked for the Sierra Club like you said and was appointed by the governor to serve on the T.R.P.A. board. He was a left-wing political operative. A hero to some on the left, but those on the right said he was into dirty politics. Kilpatrick Consulting’s clients were a Who’s Who of politicians with environmentalist leanings.”

  “What is dirty about that?”

  Glennie gave me one of those wide-eyed looks that means she’s learned something exciting. “What Kilpatrick specialized in was finding companies and divisions of companies that were committing serious environmental crimes, like dumping toxic chemicals where they would get into reservoirs or ground water that is used for drinking water. So, if you were a politician with environmentalist leanings and you were running against someone who was less than eager to make environmental protection a high priority, you’d hire Kilpatrick’s firm to essentially connect your opponent to some company’s toxic waste. It could be as simple as discovering that your opponent owned a bunch of stock in a company. Kilpatrick had an amazing ability to find a money trail that led from their toxic site into your opponent’s pocket.”

  “Was he successful in influencing any elections?”

  Glennie grinned. “He’s credited with actually changing the outcomes of three different senatorial races over the years and five congressional races. He was becoming very big when he died.”

  “Where were these races?”

  Glennie paged through her notes. “Senate races in Georgia, Wisconsin and New Mexico and congressional races in Arizona, Vermont, South Carolina and two in Florida.”

  “What was he working on when he died?”

  “It had been a year since he was appointed to the T.R.P.A. He’d become very involved in development issues. He was using his post to try to stop all development in the Tahoe Basin until much stricter environmental impact rules were put in place.”

  “Were there any singular projects he focused on?”

  “Not as far as I can tell,” Glennie said. “He focused on all of them. Anyway, you said he was shot by a gang member in Oakland? It’s not like he was killed over a Tahoe dispute.”

  I thought about it. “You didn’t find any major disagreements he had with anyone in Tahoe or about Tahoe?”

  “No. But if he’d lived any longer he might have. Apparently, he’d been hired by Joanne Pasadena, Nevada’s Democratic senate candidate thirteen years ago. The assumption was that Kilpatrick would find some environmental dirt on Pasadena’s opponent. But then Kilpatrick was killed and Pasadena’s opponent went on to win.”

  “Senator Stensen.”

  “Right. The man who made headlines years ago by moving from California to Nevada to run for the Senate.”

  “A close race, wasn’t it?”

  Glennie guffawed. “They don’t get much closer. His margin of victory was less than two hundred votes. If Kilpatrick had lived, who knows what might have happened.”

  “I wonder what kind of environmental skeletons are in Stensen’s closet.”

  “Implying that the senator might have had Kilpatrick killed?” Glennie raised her eyebrows.

  “Maybe.”

  “I didn’t find anything that would suggest that. Of course, his voting record has always been pro business and development. And he’s done lots of little things that have outraged environmentalists.”

  “Was Stensen involved in any Tahoe land development?”

  “Not that I know of. But not long after Kilpatrick was killed, Senator Stensen intervened on a golf course and housing development down in the Carson Valley. The Douglas County Commissioners were debating a zoning variance that the golf course needed. Many in the local community were against it because of the population growth it was going to create.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Just the standard political horse trading. The Senator let it be known that he was aware of a water project that the Douglas County Commissioners wanted federal funding for. He also let it be known that the golf course would be good for both the county and Nevada. It turned out later that one of the biggest investors in the golf course was Whitehorse Valley Ranches, a developer in Vegas.”

  “And the senator is in bed with them?” I said.

  “Very much so, according to the rumors.” Glennie turned back to Spot and rubbed his ears.

  “Maybe Stensen was trying to clean up his image by supporting Camp Twenty-Five.”

  “Maybe. One more thing you should know.” Glennie flipped through her notebook. “I read about a fundraiser that Stensen is having.”

  “For his next election campaign?”

  “No. For Camp Twenty-Five. Where did I write the date down?” She turned some more pages. “I must have forgotten. Come back inside. It’s on my desk.”

  We walked into the building and down an aisle to her desk. “Here it is,” she said, handing me a sticky note. “Saturday at eight o’clock at his house on the lake.”

  “The big fenced spread near Marla Bay, right?”

  “Fenced is an understatement. It’s like a fortress. The only way you can get in is with a private invitation and photo ID. I once heard from an aide to one of California’s senators that a personal invitation to Stensen’s Tahoe palace is a highly coveted sign that you’ve achieved stature in the senate power structure.”

  As soon as she stopped talking I heard a distant, repeating sound. Like a dog barking. Deep in pitch.

  Spot.

  I turned and sprinted for the door. I spun outside. My feet slid on grit in the parking lot as I turned at full speed, heading for the street at the back of the building.

  Spot’s barking grew louder. Ragged with anger.

  The man in the ski mask was on his back, lying half under the rear bumper of Diamond’s car, reaching up into the engine compartment. Spot had his head out the window, straining to see the man, barking ferociously. I pounded toward the man.

  On the other side of the Karmann Ghia, a dark sedan was in the street. The man in the mask rolled out from under the bumper and jumped to his feet. He took two running steps and jumped into the open back door of the sedan. The sedan sped off. Spinning wheels kicked up gravel and dirt.

  I was still sprinting toward Diamond’s car when I realized what had happened
.

  The man had planted a bomb.

  FORTY-SIX

  I jerked to a stop twenty yards from the Orange Flame. Spot turned away from the speeding vehicle and swung his head around toward me. I started backing up.

  Glennie came rushing up to me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Car bomb,” I said, panting. “Two men. One put it up in the engine compartment.” I pointed toward the Karmann Ghia.

  “No!” Glennie turned and stared at the car. “But Spot is...” She started toward the car.

  “Glennie, stop! There are lots of ways to trigger a car bomb, one of which is motion. You can’t go near the car. We mustn’t do anything that would make Spot jump around.” Glennie looked horrified as I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialed Mallory. “Stay calm,” I said. “And watch to make certain that no one else goes near the car.”

  “But as long as we don’t touch the car...”

  “A bomb can also be triggered by remote-control radio. The men who planted it could double back and watch from a distance. I’m the target, but that doesn’t mean they won’t decide to detonate it just to destroy the evidence.”

  Glennie hugged herself, her arms shaking as she stared at Spot.

  “Yeah?” Mallory’s voice barked in my phone.

  “This is McKenna. I’m at the Herald. I’ve got Diamond’s car, an orange Karmann Ghia. I just saw the man in the ski mask rolling out from under the car. He escaped in a dark sedan. I’m reasonably certain he planted a bomb.”

  “Christ,” Mallory said. “Okay, keep everyone away. I’ll call Newt Engel. I’ll be there in a minute.”