Tahoe Killshot

by Todd Borg

  I heard the first siren in a few seconds, followed by a second and third. They grew into an emergency chorus that seemed to rip the air and made Glennie cover up her ears.

  In less than ten minutes the highway and all the nearby streets were closed off by South Lake Tahoe and El Dorado County Sheriff’s vehicles. Fire trucks pulled into three different positions on the street. Men ran with fire hoses. Others hooked them up to hydrants. Someone shouted over a bullhorn. CHP cruisers joined the mix. Traffic was rerouted. Nearby buildings were evacuated.

  The authorities created an empty zone fifty yards in diameter. The perimeter was a ring of vehicles. Officers stayed hunkered down on the far side of the cars and trucks, peeking through at the little orange car in the center of the circle.

  Spot looked back and forth, his neck pushing against the half-opened window. His brow was furrowed with worry. He couldn’t see me on the other side of a fire truck.

  “McKenna,” Mallory said, appearing at my side, “you didn’t tell me your hound was in the car.”

  “Can you get everyone to turn off the sirens and the bullhorns? Spot is moving around too much. He could set off the bomb. I have to call out to him, but he can’t hear me.”

  Mallory shouted into his radio. A siren abruptly stopped. Then another. The cacophony lessened a bit, then softened substantially. I heard some men shushing others. In a minute, there was an unearthly hush, quieter than ever without the normal traffic on the main road in front of the Herald.

  “Hey, your largeness,” I called out. Spot swung his head around hard at the sound of my voice. I winced as the little car rocked with the motion. “It’s okay, boy.” I struggled to make my voice calm. Dogs don’t need to know the words to understand the tone. “Nothing to worry about. We’ll get you out of the car in few minutes and go run on the beach.”

  “McKenna,” Mallory said. A short, stocky guy with a little red mustache and puffy cheeks stood at Mallory’s side. “This is

  Newton Engel. Closest thing we got to a bomb expert. Took that course up at the Herlong army base. Wanna give him what you’ve got?”

  I took Engel through the details of what I’d seen.

  “Did you see the package?” Engel asked when I was done.

  “No. But he had his hand way under the car and he was reaching up. My guess is he stuck it on the front side of the engine.”

  Engel looked out at the Karmann Ghia. “Engine’s in the rear on those, right?”

  “Right.”

  “What were his movements?”

  “Just reaching up. Then he rolled out from the car and ran to a waiting sedan.”

  “No,” Engel said. “What I mean is, think about the difference between seeing a mechanic doing some fine manipulation under your car like threading the plug back into the oil pan versus taking a rag and blotting up some spilled oil. All you see is his arm under the car, but the movement is different. Could be this guy was stringing a wire or setting a timer? Or maybe he was just jamming a package next to the engine?”

  I thought about it. “More like the latter. It didn’t look like he was manipulating anything.”

  A huge front-end loader roared up, gears grinding, and came to a stop facing the Karmann Ghia, ten yards away. The driver turned to look at the Herald building behind him. He jockeyed forward and back, moving sideways toward a streetlight, then stopped. The driver worked the hydraulic levers and moved the giant bucket up and down until he was satisfied. He turned off the monster, climbed out and shouted to Mallory. “Sucker blows now, this baby will pretty much protect the left side of the newspaper building from the blast. But you gotta promise the city will cover my tractor, ’cause my insurance don’t cover acts of God. I swear, you gotta promise.”

  “Mayor’s word of honor,” Mallory said.

  “How long was the car unattended?” Engel asked me.

  “I’d only been away from it for a couple of minutes. I heard my dog start barking, and I immediately ran out. The man couldn’t have been at the car for more than fifteen seconds.”

  “How soon would your dog start barking after the man came up to the car?”

  “Immediately.”

  Engel stared at the car. “Then that probably rules out most triggers. He wouldn’t have had time to wire the door or the ignition.”

  “No,” I said. “I figure it has to be a motion device or a radio device. It could be a timer, but that wouldn’t be reliable.”

  “Yeah. A timer’s out. Who knows when you would stop at a store or something.” Engel pondered as another front-end loader drove up. The driver did the same as the first, positioning the tractor between the Karmann Ghia and another building and adjusting the big bucket to deflect any blast.

  “Problem is going to be getting your dog out,” Engel said as he stared out at Spot. “A gentle rocking won’t trigger a motion device like this. But a sharp shake like your dog jumping out will.” Spot was looking from one tractor to the next.

  “It’s okay, boy,” I called out. “You hang in there.”

  Engel got on his radio and started talking bomb lingo and requesting equipment and expert reinforcement. “I’m thinking plastic,” he said into the radio. “With a detonator on a motion sensor. Package is on the front side of the engine. It’s one of those rear engine VWs from the seventies. The engine block will direct the blast forward into the passenger compartment. I know. Doesn’t take much explosive to be effective.” Engel listened for awhile, then handed the radio to Mallory.

  I talked to Spot while Mallory spoke on the radio.

  Mallory finished and turned to Engel. “Sac says they’re sending men and gear up in a CHP chopper. What kind of gear?”

  Engel shrugged. “I’m still learning. They’ve got suits and video robots and some other techie stuff. Main thing is to keep that dog calm until they get here.”

  As he said it, Spot was turning around inside the car. He stuck his head toward the rear window and seemed to sniff. Then he turned around again and put his head back out the open window. The Karmann Ghia rocked with the motion.

  Engel stiffened. “Dog’s going to trigger it. Can’t you tell him to sit still?”

  “Except for a couple of breaks, he’s been in the car all day. We came up from the Bay Area this morning. He’s pretty restless, and all this commotion is making it worse.”

  “Then we have to get him out of there,” Engel said to Mallory.

  Mallory’s permanent frown grew even deeper. “How do you figure it?”

  “We get a guy to hang onto the back side of the bucket on one of those tractors,” Engel said. “He can reach out with a pole or something and open the door.”

  Mallory scowled at the closest front-end loader.

  “Good idea,” I said. “I’ll go.”

  “No way,” Mallory said. “You’re a civilian. If you get hurt, you could sue the pants off the city. I’d get fired for malfeasance.”

  “You know I’m not the suing type.”

  “You’re right. But if you got gomered, like a veggie on feeding tubes, the city would get stuck with a horrendous medical bill.”

  I shook my head. “I have a patron in emergencies.”

  Mallory looked at me. “You mean that rich girl you saved a year or so back?”

  “Yes. Anyway, my dog will respond best to me. I can wear a riot helmet and suit.”

  “That won’t help you with a bomb,” Engel said.

  “Better than nothing, though.”

  “Or we wait for the CHP chopper,” Mallory said.

  Spot suddenly turned around, rocking the Orange Flame more than ever. We all winced.

  “Okay, let’s do it,” Mallory said.

  They put a helmet and suit on the tractor driver and explained what he was to do.

  Next, they suited me up in riot gear. The Herald janitor brought an extension pole they use for changing light bulbs. It had a lever on the handle and a rubber coated pincer at the far end. I thought I could open the car door with it from tw
elve feet away.

  The tractor driver showed me the back of the bucket. “This mount goes up and down,” he shouted through his riot helmet. “But you can sit on it. Or maybe get your feet on it, then bend down in a squatting position. I’ll just cruise up to the car until you are close enough to reach out with that pole.”

  I was studying the position. “But I won’t be able to reach around with it while I’m sitting or squatting on the bucket mount.”

  “Then I’ll lower it to the ground once we get up there. You can step off and move to the side. The bucket is big enough that you’ll have some room to move around behind it.” He pointed to some hydraulic hoses. “Just stay away from here. I sprung a little leak moving snow last winter, and that stuff is slippery.”

  I was about to climb onto the back of the bucket when Diamond ran up. He stared at my riot gear.

  “I heard about a car bomb.” He glanced over at his car. “It’s in the Orange Flame?”

  “Yeah,” I yelled from inside my helmet. “Sorry.”

  “To hell with the car. What about Spot?”

  “That’s what we’re working on.”

  Diamond grabbed my arm. “Be careful?”

  I nodded. “Hey, Diamond?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’ll be there for Street?”

  “Stupid gringo,” he said. “Go get your dog.”

  The tractor driver started the engine. I jumped up on the bucket mount.

  I held the pole in one hand and the top edge of the bucket with the other as the tractor lurched forward.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  The tractor engine roared. We rolled forward. The driver turned slightly to give us more berth around the streetlight, then straightened out and headed toward the car. We slowed to a crawl, then stopped.

  “You think this is close enough?” the driver yelled.

  I peeked over the top of the bucket to gauge the distance to the car door. I took another look at the pole in my hand, then nodded.

  The driver lowered the bucket to the pavement. I jumped off, leaned out from behind the bucket and looked around.

  “Hey, Spot,” I yelled through my helmet. “It’s me. Time to go for a walk.”

  I reached out with the pole, my arm and part of my head exposed. The rubber pincer seemed to float around the door handle as I tried to maneuver it into position. Spot had his head out the window, watching me and the pole dancing near the door handle. I concentrated on holding it steady, but it seemed to move even more. It was getting dark, and they’d turned on several spotlights. The lights shining on the car reflected off its paint and chrome and made it hard to see. My muscles shook with tension. Sweat ran into my eye.

  Finally, I had to stop to rest, setting the pole on the ground. I stood behind the bucket, moving my arms and rotating them. I took several steps back and forth and tried to shake the tension out of my shoulders. Behind the tractor, spread out in a semi-circle, were dozens of faces, watching from behind police cars and fire trucks. Two groups of firemen held hoses aimed at Diamond’s car. I took several deep breaths, then picked up the pole again.

  “Easy, boy,” I called out to Spot as I once again reached out from behind the bucket and lifted the pole near the door handle. He stared at me behind my riot mask. His brow was worried, his eyes sad.

  “I just need to hook this gripper on the handle and you’ll be free. Here we are. Getting close. Soon as my muscles stop shaking. Okay, once again. A little up. A little to the left.” The long, bendy pole floated by the door handle. “Oops, too far. Come on back. There we go. Slower. Closer. Yes.”

  The pole gripper hooked onto the door handle. I twisted it for some leverage, squeezed the lever and opened the door.

  I didn’t want Spot to leap out fast and rock the car. So I pulled the door open just a few inches.

  Spot pulled his head in from the window, then stuck his nose in the crack where the door opened.

  “Nice and slow, Spot,” I said. “One foot at a time. No jumping.” I pulled the door open a little farther.

  Spot pushed his snout through the opening, then reached out one paw, then another.

  “Atta boy. No sudden movements.”

  Spot suddenly pushed off and leaped onto the pavement.

  There was a collective gasp as the Karmann Ghia rocked side-to-side, then a sigh as we all realized that Spot had made it.

  I took off my riot helmet and dropped it to the ground. Spot ran up to me behind the bucket, and I kneeled down to hug him. “See, it’s like filming a movie. It gets hot under the lights.”

  Spot wagged.

  The tractor driver revved up the engine. We stepped aside as he lifted the bucket and began to back up.

  Spot and I walked alongside the tractor as he backed into the streetlight.

  There was a deep crunching sound. The light began to topple.

  “Look out!” Someone shouted. “THE STREETLIGHT IS GOING TO HIT THE CAR!”

  There was no time to look. I bent down, grabbed Spot around the chest and heaved up his 170 pounds. I took two running steps to get behind the tractor’s bucket. But the bottom of the bucket was two feet off the ground. Still holding Spot in my arms, I leaped up onto the bucket mount as if I were jumping up to sit on a bar counter. My butt hit the metal just as the streetlight hit the car.

  The car exploded with a thunderous boom. Fire blew over our heads and below our feet. The shockwave shook the huge bucket as if it were made of tin. The explosion blew out the windows of the tractor’s cab. Hot glass shattered over the driver. His terrified face in the riot helmet was lit yellow by the fireball billowing into the sky.

  In a second, the firemen hit the wreckage with a torrent from the fire hoses. The fireball was replaced by a dark cloud of steam and smoke.

  I slid off the bucket mount and lowered Spot to the ground. He looked up at me, but there was no wagging.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Mallory and Special Agent Ramos were talking to me inside the Herald Building. “What is it you know, Owen?” Mallory said. “You’ve got someone very motivated to kill you.”

  Agent Ramos cocked his head and leaned back just so. His air of superiority was suffocating.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I’ve learned of one possibility that could explain several deaths including Faith Runyon’s. But it doesn’t explain Glory’s death which, although ruled an accident by the coroner, was a murder according to Faith and is what Faith originally called about.”

  “Give us a try,” Mallory said.

  “I think Faith learned that Camp Twenty-Five is really just a front for a golf course development.”

  Agent Ramos put his fist to his mouth, pretending to hide his smirk but instead making it obvious.

  I said to him, “I mentioned that the paper pieces left after the boat explosion fit together to show a golf course. They match the parcel map that shows the layout of Camp Twenty-Five.”

  “I’d like to see these,” Ramos said.

  “Sorry. They were in Diamond’s Karmann Ghia.”

  “So you think someone is planting bombs because of a golf course. But the evidence is gone,” he said. “Other people have died as well? Who would these people be?”

  Mallory fidgeted as Ramos spoke. He was obviously irritated by the little FBI man, but intimidated as well.

  “In addition to Faith,” I said, “a woman in real estate named Monica Lakeman, and a banker named Eduardo Valdez. All lived on the North Shore and all can be traced to Camp Twenty-Five. In addition, a man named Willard Kilpatrick was shot to death in Oakland about twelve years ago. He was a political consultant working for Senator Stensen’s opponent at the time.”

  “You’re not suggesting that Senator Stensen was involved.”

  “I don’t know. But Stensen has promoted other golf courses and he is currently promoting Camp Twenty-Five. Kilpatrick was an at-large member of the T.R.P.A. board and was actively against any project that could have negative environmental consequences.”
/>   “But you said he was killed twelve years ago.”

  “Golf courses are like ski resorts. They take a very long time to plan,” I said.

  Mallory said, “Is the land for this golf course already owned by Camp Twenty-Five?”

  “Much of it, yes. I spoke to Conan Reynolds a few hours ago. He’s looked over some of the sales contracts. He says that when someone thought they were selling to Camp Twenty-Five, they were actually selling to two people, a man in Palo Alto and a woman in Denver. Conan has their names. Find them and we might be close to the killers.”

  “I’ll give him a call,” Ramos said. “How’d Conan get these documents?”

  “Someone lent them to me. I gave them to Conan.”

  “Someone lent them to you?” Ramos asked.

  Mallory grinned like a school boy. “Owen, let’s say this golf course stuff is true,” he said, changing the subject. “You’ve tried to fit Glory’s death into this. You still think her bodyguard was involved?”

  “Tyrone Handkins may have hired the man in the ski mask to come after me. Which would imply that Tyrone killed Glory, either by himself or using a hired killer. Sergeant Cardoza of Washoe County thinks Tyrone was Glory’s lover and was dismayed over her rise to stardom. But if that is true, then nothing about it links Glory or Tyrone to the golf course. And it doesn’t explain why Faith called me about Glory.”

  Ramos sat still, thinking. He was insufferable even in his silence. But I suspected he was very sharp, and I wished I thought he was working with me instead of against me. He stood up, said he’d be in touch, then left.

  I went outside and found Glennie and Diamond with Spot. Glennie was pale. Diamond looked like he’d aged ten years since his suspension. Spot’s left front leg was shaking. Some of the stitches on his back had opened up when I lifted him just before the bomb exploded. They oozed blood.

  Glennie said, “I called Street at Caesars and told her you were okay. She’d heard about the explosion. She asked if she should come to the paper. I said I didn’t know, but that it seemed like you’re kind of a danger zone these days.”