“Too much open country here to move them through, not enough hiding places,” she agreed. “Guess you could put them up in a barn but we’d see the hoofprints.”
“You have to know what you’re doing. You don’t have to know much to steal one heifer or steer.”
“No you don’t. I think we’re going to see more of this, one animal missing here and there. As people get hungrier they’ll steal cattle, goats, horses, chickens, whatever they can eat.”
“You’re right there.”
“Well, don’t worry about it now. Like I said, I’ll pick you up tomorrow and I’ll have Tito stay with you for a bit.” Tito worked for Jeep.
“I’m fine.”
“That’s what we all say.” She smiled.
What she didn’t say was that she was worried that whoever had taken a potshot at Howie would come back.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tired and wrapped in her robe, Jeep, comfortable on her reclining chair in her bedroom, watched the eleven o’clock news. King laid on the floor next to her, Zippy snuggled next to King.
A camera panned an abandoned street, houses boarded up. A steady stream of traffic, much of it black SUVs with tinted windows, slithered down the street. The camera zoomed in as one of the behemoths stopped. A woman wrapped in a short but heavy coat, legs in thin stockings, and wearing high heels tottered from the curb to the window. She climbed in. The broadcast cut to another view: A vehicle stopped in front of a boarded house, its driver remaining in the car, exhaust curling from the tailpipe. A male passenger ran to the boarded-up building’s formidable door, knocked, said something, was let in and within minutes returned to the waiting vehicle, which then sped away.
The camera pulled back to reveal Patrick Wentworth, dressed in a three-piece suit with an overcoat and Burberry scarf. He spoke directly to the camera:
“Vice grows unchecked down here. Prostitution is booming. Drug dealing is made all too easy by cellphones and texting. How long before this corruption reaches you?”
The camera then cut to an academic being interviewed by an earnest young man.
“Cities like Hamburg, Germany, have specific areas for prostitution and drugs. By containing it, they prevent its spread throughout the city,” the expert said.
The next image was of the standard well-groomed male newscaster. He looked straight into the camera. “Tomorrow we’ll show Part Two of ‘Reno, the Dark Side.’ And now the weather.”
Furious and suddenly wide awake, Jeep clicked off the TV. She swung her legs over the side of the chair, stuck her feet into her slippers, and padded down the hall.
Mags’s door was open. She was in bed reading Balzac, Baxter next to her.
King and Zippy sauntered in.
“Spoiled brat.” King called up to the wire-haired dachshund.
“Jealous.” Baxter curled his lips.
“I get to sleep with my daddy all the time.” Zippy only inflamed King’s jealousy.
“Mags, the damned TV station is doing a series called, if you can believe it, ‘Reno, the Dark Side.’ ”
“Lorraine Matthews?”
“No, the other channel. There’s always a political career to be made from stirring up a hornet’s nest. They decry vice. The result is a police crackdown, all for show. The vice just moves elsewhere. It’s ridiculous. No one has ever stopped these activities since we started walking on two feet.”
Mags smiled slightly. “Aunt Jeep, that means there were hookers back in ancient Egypt.”
Jeep plopped on the side of the bed. “Someone had to wear all that eyeliner.”
“Ha.” Mags put down her book.
On his hind legs, King put his paws on the bed.
“King, what are you doing?” Jeep tapped his paws.
“Looking at the wiener.”
“Get down before I smack you,” Jeep commanded, then bent over to stroke Zippy. “Howie should be discharged tomorrow, so Zippy can go home.”
“Goody!” The visitor smiled.
“He said someone has been stealing his cattle.”
“You haven’t missed any?”
“No. I hope Howie’s vigilant once he gets home. He didn’t seem to take it all that seriously when I visited him in the hospital. Well, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’m cranky and seeing Patrick Wentworth on TV just put me over the edge.”
“Who’s running against him?”
“Anson Sorenson, third-term representative.”
“It’s early to start campaigning for his seat. I mean it’s a small election.” Mags compared this to New York City’s congressional campaigning. Wasn’t the same.
“Yes, but when you get your name out there, get a head start, that’s smart.”
“What’s Wentworth’s voting record been like at Carson City?” Mags named the state capital.
“Nondescript. He’s voted for every giveaway program that comes down the pike, but there haven’t been a lot. He’s definitely one who believes we can handle a lot more people so he’s soft on water rights and the environment. Truth is, no one has paid much attention to him until now.”
“Well, he seems like a first-class fool. How did he get elected to the state house?”
“The incumbent died. There was a special election. The turnout was very low.” Jeep stood up. “Like I said, I’m tired and out of sorts.”
“A good night’s sleep should cure that.”
“Usually does. Did I tell you how happy Howie was, knowing I had Zippy?”
Mags looked down at Zippy, eyes bright, tail wagging. “She’s a wonderful dog.”
“Thank you.” The Australian kelpie couldn’t stop smiling. She was going home soon!
“The dog will heal him faster than anything else. Well, good night, sweetie. I’ll see you in the morning.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Shimmering lights hung from the ceiling like golden necklaces, linked up in the center by a large crystal chandelier. The effect was both illuminating and airy. The High Roller casino had even won a lighting award for the classic ambience. A casino needed to attract conventions, reunions, and weddings to augment gambling, so each of them vied for ways to distinguish themselves. One featured a huge, lush indoor garden, a draw in the desert. Another had an aquatic theme, and then there was always the stereotypical Old West. High Roller pushed elegance. The amazing chandelier demonstrated they had succeeded.
Babs Gallagher had rented this stunning ballroom to gather and entertain the well-intentioned invitees, and then ask them for help in feeding and finding jobs for the Spring Street homeless. She refused to call them squatters.
Every real estate agent had been invited, as well as all the bank leaders, business owners, and of course, the utility heads.
Grateful for any respite from the endlessly dreary wait for spring, the unremitting gloom in unemployment, foreclosures, and the economy in general, those Babs had summoned flowed into High Roller. Just ten percent of those invited sent regrets.
A printed brochure describing homelessness and unemployment in Reno, and a simple plan for getting many of these people back on their feet rested on a table in the doorway. And Babs did not shy away from the issue of illegal immigration. It had been difficult to determine just how many of Reno’s population were hungry, unemployed, and had no way to return to Mexico—and possibly no desire, either. Nor did she downplay their poverty’s drain on social services. She included figures on how, when employed, their spending boosted the local economy: foodstuffs and gas, for example.
There were no easy answers to this myriad of problems.
Babs chatted up Lolly Johnson. The utility bigwigs, quite naturally, were wary of any plan wherein they would be asked to restore services with reduced compensation. However, Lolly, if engaged by the project, could petition her husband more effectively than anyone else.
In a small way, the plight of the people on Spring Street and many other streets, hinted at what might be headed their way on an even more terrifying scale: no money, n
o jobs, no services, and worst of all, no hope.
At the High Roller gala, Asa Chartris moved from group to group. He supported Jeep and Babs’s idea and had taken to calling them the “Twin Angels.”
Mags, running interference for Jeep, felt a strong hand grab her elbow.
“I want you to meet someone.” Alfred Norcross took Mags over to Michelle Speransky, who was talking to her counterpart, the senior loan portfolio manager at Heritage Bank—a local bank that had managed to keep its reputation intact.
Michelle smiled. “Jeep Reed’s great-niece. I’ve heard about you.”
Mags replied, “Well, I’m glad you’re still talking to me.”
They both laughed, then Michelle said, “Asa told me you saw the problems with overvalued stocks, derivatives, selling debt, the whole enchilada.”
As they continued to talk, Mags suddenly realized that this was the first woman she’d spoken to in Reno who had financial acumen, apart from her great-aunt. All her contacts here had been men, whereas in New York there was a large pool of knowledgeable women on Wall Street. Some survived and others like her, got out.
“So, you’re the portfolio loan manager at Reno Sagebrush United,” Mags said. “Tough time to have that job.”
“Hey, it’s better than being the Secretary of the Treasury in the Cabinet.” Michelle laughed, then sipped her champagne. “That really is the Gordian knot.”
“I think of it as a foreclosure ring of fire,” said Mags.
Michelle pondered this. “Yeah, but if only we could put the scorpions who got us all in this mess in the middle of a circle of fire and watch them sting themselves to death.” She looked at the tiny columns of bubbles coming to the surface of her champagne. “How do you like Davidson and Fletcher?”
“I’m part-time but I like it a lot. I knew I was going to like it when Alfred Norcross said, ‘Our first responsibility is to take care of our clients.’ And he meant it.”
“You’ll find Reno has a good business community.”
“So far I’m impressed. I research banks to see if there’s enough value to steer investors that way. You know the figures probably better than I do, but in 2007 Reno had twenty-two banks, not counting branches. Now there are seventeen.”
“You know RSU took over Truckee. Blending different styles and people takes time, and obviously some personnel will have to go. Everyone is downsizing.”
“You must enjoy your work.”
Michelle brightened. “I do. I became fascinated with money when I was in grade school. I can’t really tell you why. It wasn’t so much what I could buy with it but how money affected people, the decisions they make. Does that make sense?”
“Does to me.” Mags added shrewdly, “As an asset manager you’d have to be sensitive to that. I mean one could use investors’ money to prop up the share price of the parent company in the wake of a big drop in the stock price of the bank. Money moves more than goods.”
Michelle recognized how sharp Mags was. She not only saw the obvious move of capital, she saw the undercurrents, murky though they might be.
“Yes. It’s done every day. I’m happy to say I’m not doing it.”
“I didn’t mean to imply anything,” Mags apologized.
“Actually, I didn’t take it that way but if I ever get pressure to do that I hope I have the guts you did to stick it to them and just walk away.”
A flurry of people circled them. Two good-looking women drew the men like flies.
Michelle winked at Mags, who winked back.
“See you,” Mags said.
The gathering dispersed at six-thirty. Babs had wisely started it at five, kept it short and kept it fun, but saved herself and Jeep the huge bill of feeding everyone dinner. Afterward their little group gathered in a small backroom that held a roulette table. Giant landscape paintings in the classical style decorated the walls.
King, Baxter, and Zippy huddled underneath the stools.
Babs looked at her friends. “I didn’t get through to the utilities.”
“It’s complicated for them,” Jeep stated. “I’m not giving them a free pass but perhaps we can figure out other ways to make it easier for them to turn those services back on.”
“How much did you get to eat?” Zippy asked her two friends.
Baxter grinned. “A lot of shrimp tails. People kept dropping them.”
“They dropped broccoli and asparagus tips, too.” King grimaced. “How can people eat that awful stuff?”
“They eat even worse stuff than that,” Zippy whispered solemnly.
“Like what?” Baxter’s moustache twitched slightly.
“Poppy eats cooked cabbage,” Zippy squinted as she relayed this.
“Eeeww.” The other two groaned, aghast.
Up above, Jeep absentmindedly put her finger on the roulette wheel’s red 22. She glanced at the colorful wheel. “We’ve made a start. The churches are with us. If we’re patient, something will turn up. We will find the right approach, one the utilities can’t ignore.”
“Give me patience, Lord, but hurry.” Babs laughed, and the others laughed with her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Petaluma,” Albert Dalrymple answered.
“You finished high school in California?” was Pete’s next question.
Bert—thirty-seven, medium height—nodded. “My brother and I both did. I went to UC at Davis and Bob followed, dropped out after a year, then came over here to go to UNR.”
Pete, Lonnie, and Bert sat in an ultramodern office. Bert, a pediatrician, resembled his recently deceased younger brother.
“Great school.” Pete smiled, since it was his alma mater.
“After my BA I came over here to med school.” He smiled, too. “There were so many opportunities, I stayed.”
Pete moved toward the harder questions. “When was the last time you spoke to your brother Bob?”
“Two days before he was found.” Bert stopped, then stared at Pete. “You were the officer that found him, weren’t you? Now I remember. Your name was in the newspaper.”
“We both found him. There were no signs of struggle.”
“I remember that, too, from the article. Mom and Dad still live in Petaluma. As soon as they were notified, my wife, Jane, and I drove over.”
“Something like this is a terrible shock. I’m sorry to bring it up but any help you can give us … Sometimes a tiny detail that seems unimportant turns out to be significant.”
“I’ll do anything I can to help you find who did this to Bobby.”
“He’d been let go when Truckee Amalgamated was bought out. Do you know where he might have looked for work after that?”
“He first went to other banks. No one was hiring. He tried the credit unions, but it was the same story.” Lonnie scribbled notes as Bert replied.
“He wanted to stay in banking, or in some form of finance?” Pete asked.
Bert pulled at his left thumb with his right hand, a nervous habit. “It’s what he knew best but as it became clear how bad the market is, how difficult it is to get a job, he would have taken anything. I told him to get a paycheck, any paycheck. When times improve you can always go back to banking.”
“Was he bitter? Could he have lost his temper and angered someone?”
“Bitter?” Bert thought about this. “No. He’d have flashes of anger, but mostly—at least at first—he was shocked. As the weeks rolled by, with no job on the horizon, he grew despondent.” A wan smile crossed Bert’s lips. “But you couldn’t keep my brother down for long. He’d get up the next morning, go out and try again.”
“Debts?”
“Is there anyone who doesn’t have them? He lived beyond his means. Not outrageously. I’m not saying that, but Bobby could blow money here and there. He bought a CTS-V. Great car but he could have saved money and bought a Jetta. But, hey, it made him happy. Me, I drive a Volvo V70. Hauls the kids, the two dogs, Jane, and me. Actually, we both drive a station wagon. Bobby was horrified. He wo
uld never get in the car with me. I had to go in his.” Bert laughed. “I’d tell him, it’s a Volvo, it’s the safest car on the road. He’d curl his upper lip and just shake his head.”
“He never married?”
“He always had girlfriends. Even in high school he was more popular with the girls than I ever was. Losing his job sobered him, though. He told me once he was back in the saddle and cleaned up his debts, he was going to settle down and have a family. As he grew older I knew he was starting to feel lonely, and starting to worry that he was getting too old to handle kids. They get up at two in the morning with a stomachache, you get up …”
“Did he have a girlfriend when he was killed?”
“He’d been seeing a nice girl. Some other ones helped him spend his money. I’m not saying she didn’t enjoy his money but this one had sense. Jane and I liked her but then it seemed to fade off.”
“Her name?”
“Emma Logan. Works for Dr. Marahbal.”
“Can you think of any enemies your brother might have had?”
“That would want to kill him? No. If Bobby had a fault it was that he needed to be successful. If he couldn’t be successful, he had to look successful. Sometimes when people observe that they don’t like it. He seemed superficial to them. But he wasn’t the kind of man to walk away from debt. He never left anyone holding the bag that I knew about, anyway. He could talk to anyone and pretty much did.” Bert laughed again, remembering his voluble brother.
“Drink? Drugs? Gambling?”
“Normal. I mean yes, he could take a drink or two. He partied at UNR, but still made his grades. He got over that once he had to show up at work every morning. Guess we all do. Drugs? In high school, a joint here and there. He had sense about that.”
“Gambling?”
A moment followed this query.
Bert pulled his left thumb again. “He went through a bad patch. Went to Gamblers Anonymous. That was five years ago. He really did clean up his act. As a doctor I can tell you that gambling releases the same endorphins, the same chemicals, that produce the euphoria that alcohol, drugs, and sex do. There’s so much about the brain we don’t understand but we do understand that there are specific locations that have to do with happiness. As a pediatrician I see the developing brain, which works differently than the adult brain. For one thing, chemicals like alcohol affect the developing brain more seriously than the adult brain. There’s no doubt in my mind that the long-range impacts are far more damaging than we think, but they take years to show up. This is a fascinating new field.”
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