by Todd Borg
“A lot of realtors do house tours every week. All the agents from an office go out and meet at the new listings. They go through the houses to get familiar with them. We could contact the realtors, meet them at the house tours and explain what we are looking for.”
“And hand out copies of Silence’s drawing,” I said. “We can call realtors tomorrow.”
“I saw in the paper that Charlie’s funeral is tomorrow,” Street said.
“After the funeral,” I said.
TWENTY-FOUR
Early the next day, Street and I called realtors we know and asked them about house tours. One of the local companies had a tour originally scheduled for 9:00 a.m. that day, but they had rescheduled it for noon to accommodate several realtors who planned to go to Charlie’s funeral. They said I was welcome to come to the tour. Another company had an office meeting at 1:00 p.m., and I was welcome to come to that as well.
Street said, “These are all South Shore realtors. What do you think the chance is that Silence is being held on the north side of the lake, or Carson City, or Reno, or Miami?”
“Smallish,” I said. “Her letter was delivered to the high school by someone who knew where it was based on the drawing. Or at least, that’s how it appears. If she were being held somewhere else, the person who found her drawing wouldn’t be likely to recognize the South Lake Tahoe High School, and we’d never have gotten the drawing.”
I left Spot at home because I didn’t think it was a good idea to have him in the church parking lot during a funeral. Just in case my bike was ready later, I grabbed my old helmet. Street and I drove in her VW bug to the church where standing-room-only services for Charlie were held at 9:00 a.m. Although it was a Thursday, hundreds of people attended, including half the student body from the high school, which had closed for the day.
In addition to paying my respects, I wanted to attend for the same reason that investigators go and study the crowd that gathers to watch a fire. As the arsonist often attends his own fire, so too a murderer will sometimes attend the funeral of his victim. I watched the crowd for anyone whose presence would surprise me as well as for anyone whose reaction to the funeral was unusual.
It was a standard service with opening remarks by the pastor, followed by the eulogy given by one of Charlie’s teachers. After that came two student speakers who lavishly praised Charlie’s virtues. At the end the pastor remarked that Charlie no doubt went to his death trying to save his sister, and the pastor added a prayer for her safety and speedy release.
I stayed to the side and back during the service so I could scan the crowd. Among the hundreds of people were all the ones I expected. Many local business leaders attended, as well as the mayor, a couple of councilmen and a councilwoman. Mallory was there along with two uniformed policemen. Diamond sat nearby. His uniform indicated that he was on duty. There was an entire section of teachers, including Henrietta.
The back of the church was largely filled with students. Prominent among a group of athletic-looking young men was Callif King. He was the center of a knot of boys and he commanded their attention. Before the ceremony began, he was jocular, cracking jokes with fellow students, bending his head forward and saying things in low tones that made the others start laughing. After the ceremony began he tried to put on a somber attitude, but he kept glancing sideways at the other students as if he didn’t like having their attention leave him in favor of the speaker at the front of the church.
In the front row on the left was Marlette. To one side sat her neighbor Rachael and on the other was a man I recognized from the photos as Shane.
Shane was well-dressed and attentive to Marlette. Unlike in the photo Marlette gave me, Shane was now shaving his head, his light brown skin gleaming. He had a tightly trimmed black beard just around his mouth and chin, making him look like the sophisticated rapper he wanted to be. He had an almost regal bearing, sitting up tall and straight, his shoulder the perfect height for Marlette to lean against. If you didn’t know they were divorced, you’d think they were a close couple.
After the church service was over, about a hundred people drove en masse over to the cemetery, where Street and I stood with everyone else at the graveside in a cold October wind. We all listened to a few more words from the pastor and then watched as Charlie’s casket was lowered into the ground.
Several people encircled Marlette as she cried. Shane seemed to float free from the group, a look on his face that made me think he was going to make his escape the moment it wouldn’t look too bad.
He wandered over toward the fence where the neighboring golf course stretched off. I told Street I’d be back in a couple of minutes, then followed and caught up with him at the fence.
“Hi Shane. Owen McKenna. Good to meet you.”
He turned and saw my outstretched hand. He hesitated, then shook. “Do I know you?”
“No. I’m helping on the case. Trying to find Silence.”
“McKenna,” he said, “You’re the PI Marlette told me about. Any progress?”
“We have a few leads we’re checking out. Nothing substantial. Wonder if I can ask you a couple of questions?”
“You mean, as if I kidnapped her?” His defensiveness was exactly like what cops hear all the time from people who’ve spent time dealing with the criminal justice system.
“No. You’re not a suspect. Although your defensiveness makes me wonder.”
“Look man,” he said, “I didn’t do it. Why would I do it? She’s my own daughter for chrissakes. I can visit her anytime I want.”
“That’s what Marlette told me.”
“Why would I want to see my daughter, anyway?” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a terrible thing what’s happened. She must be frightened to death, and that’s a horrible thing for any kid to go through. If I could get my hands on the guy who did this I’d snap his neck in a second. Even if Silence is rescued, I’d do it. If they don’t fry him, then there’s no justice.
“But separate from that, it’s no secret that the kid is impossible. We have no connection, she and I. Nothing. I try to talk to her, try to get her attention, but there’s nothing there. She only has time for Charlie and her sketchbook. Now Charlie’s gone.”
Shane stared off toward Heavenly Mountain. “There was a kid who could light up the world. Charlie was a dream.”
“Why’d you move down to San Diego if Charlie was a dream?”
“The two aren’t related, man. I moved for my career. Nothing was happening in Tahoe. I gave it fifteen years. I busted my ass. Ask Marlette. She’ll tell you how hard I worked at my job, always putting my rap in second place. But now I’m getting an audience. It’s not huge, but those people are waiting on my next rap. I made a CD and it’s on Amazon and in some stores down there. I could get my break any time. It could happen tomorrow. I get on the right show, open a concert for the right band, the sky could open. And there would be nothing better for Charlie than having a dad who is creating a niche, making a space that a kid can move into.
“Marlette cleans houses. That’s hard work, I’ll give her that. But what kind of dream does that present to Charlie? I’m riding the dream, man. I’m finally saying, ‘no, I won’t let life go by without following my star.’” Shane grabbed my elbow. “You know what I mean? Doing what you were put on this earth to do?”
“Let’s assume we find Silence,” I said. “Marlette is going to have an extra difficult time working and taking care of Silence without Charlie to help. What about your obligation to Silence? Shouldn’t she have a dad right there, helping, solving the problems?”
“I told you, man, that kid is impossible. She and I, we’re like fire and ice. Either one can destroy the other. It’s not like I don’t care about her. She didn’t deserve to catch the autism thing. No one does. But there is nothing that passes between us except frustration.”
We stood for a time at the fence, looking out at a few aspen leaves blowing across the fairway in front of us.
“Ma
rlette said you ride a Harley,” I said.
“Sure. A Road King Custom. Sweet ride, but I might sell it. I could use the change.”
“You still pay your child support and alimony?”
“Yeah. I’m a real man, which means I’m a provider. Married or divorced. I guess I’ve been late here and there. But you don’t walk away from your obligations.”
“Do you have friends who ride?” I asked.
“‘Course. Every biker has some friends who ride. That’s the point, right?”
“Any of your friends ever take an interest in Silence?”
“I don’t think that... wait a second. You mean like one of my friends would kidnap Silence? Whoa, you’re way out on a limb, fella. Way out.”
“Does that mean the answer is no?” I said.
“What it means is, you push hard, huh? Well, I can push hard, too.” Shane seemed to puff out his chest a bit.
“Anybody you know ever talk about the Aztec language?”
Shane frowned. “You mean, Aztec like in Mexico?”
“Yeah. Or have you heard about any bikers who know Aztec?”
Shane was shaking his head. “No,” he finally said. “Man, you’re after some strange shit, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I said.
When Street parked near the realtor’s house tour at noon, there were already a dozen or more cars and SUVs parked near the house in the Al Tahoe neighborhood where the first tour was taking place. I walked in the open front door to see a small crowd of well-dressed salespeople milling about, looking in bathrooms, sighting down hardwood floors, opening closets. I found Susan, the woman who’d arranged the meeting, and I introduced myself and Street. Susan was a severe-looking woman with a neck like a stork and a hooked nose not unlike an eagle’s beak. But she spoke well, and her smile was warm and sweet. I instantly liked her.
“Okay, everyone, listen up,” she called out to the crowd. She raised her voice to a strident shout. “All come into the living room, please!”
Incredibly, everyone assembled in half a minute.
“Quiet down, please. I want to introduce someone. This is Detective Owen McKenna. Some of you no doubt know of him. He needs your attention.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll make this quick. As all of you know, a local high school student was recently kidnapped in South Lake Tahoe. I’m going to tell you something about the case that puts each of you in a difficult situation. The responsibility will be great, but this young woman’s life is of course a higher priority than the burden I’m giving you. If any of you feel you cannot take on a large responsibility, please leave for the next couple of minutes.”
I waited. No one left.
I continued. “There is a house that we believe is connected to the kidnappers. We don’t know where it is, but we have a drawing of the house. I would like to ask all of you to look for this house.”
I handed out copies of Silence’s drawing. People took them and started murmuring. I had to raise my voice to continue.
“There is a great risk to the girl’s life if the kidnapper should hear of what we’re doing. So please do not tell anyone about this. Not your friends or spouses or fellow realtors. The only people who will know are those I personally tell. None of us wants a young woman’s death on our conscience.”
I paused to let the point soak in. The crowd was utterly quiet, all staring at me.
“Keep the drawing for reference. But keep it in a place where no one will find it. Someplace really boring where no one will look. Buried in among some closing documents.”
A little chuckle rippled through the group.
“If you see this house, please call one of the numbers at the bottom. The first one is mine, the second is Commander Mallory of the South Lake Tahoe Police Department, and the third is Sergeant Diamond Martinez from the Douglas County Sheriff’s Department. You can call anonymously if you like. We just want the address. Any questions?”
After a moment, a young man spoke up in a nervous voice. “Does participating in this effort put us at risk from the kidnapper?”
“Not if none of you says a word to anyone about it. If no one speaks, the kidnapper will never know about this and there will be no risk to any of you.”
“When will we be able to talk about it?” a woman said. “Or do we have to keep it a secret forever?”
“We can talk about it only after you read in the Herald that the young woman has been found and the kidnapper caught.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Street drove us out to Meyers and the other realtor’s office meeting, where I repeated my little speech. They all agreed to help look for the house.
Back in the car I turned to Street. “Cold and windy here in Tahoe. Want to drive down to the desert and soak up some warm sunshine?”
“And see if your motorcycle is ready?”
“That, too.”
Because we were already out in Meyers, we decided to go to Carson from the south. We turned south on 89 and headed out Christmas Valley. Street drove up and over Luther Pass and down to Hope Valley. She took a left at Pickett’s Junction and headed past Sorensen’s down the canyon to Woodfords and the desert beyond. At the Carson Valley floor the road turns north, and it’s a straight shot to Carson City. It’s a longer route than going through South Lake Tahoe and over Spooner Summit or Kingsbury Grade, but it has ninety percent fewer stoplights and traffic. We got to Slider’s bike shop an hour later.
I jumped out of Street’s bug and walked inside. Slider and Farley were on either side of my Sportster which was up on a rack so that the exhaust system was at chest level. Farley had a section of exhaust pipe locked into an articulated vice. He steadied it while Slider positioned an arc welder. They both flipped down the dark face guards on their masks. I looked away as the sparks flew and white strobe light lit up the shop.
When Slider was done he flipped up his face guard and turned to me. “It was just like I thought. The first pipe I put on screwed up the back pressure. Nothing but misfires and backfires. These engines, they’re designed to tight specs. You put on a heavy muffler, valve and diverter and you destroy the balance. I can pro’bly make it quiet, but I don’t know you can have it both ways. Quiet or loud at the flip of the switch, it’s a tall order.”
“Appreciate it if you could keep trying.”
“I already put in a baffle that I thought would solve the problem, but it dint work. Now I gotta come up with a different pressure regulator.” He looked up at the wall clock. On its face was a picture of a naked woman in spiked heels sitting astride a motorcycle. “Be at least another hour,” he said.
“I’ll be back then,” I said.
Street and I drove down the block and found a cup of coffee. We were back an hour later.
Slider saw me coming. He waved me over to the side of the shop. The bike was on its center stand.
“First, these are the switches we put into the light circuits.” He pointed to two toggle switches mounted under the handlebars in a place where few people would notice. “Leave them both pulled back, everything is normal. Push the first one forward, running lights, brake light and headlight all stay off no matter what. Pull that one back and push the second one forward, just the headlight works. No running lights, no brake light.” Slider turned and looked up at me. “What you wanted, right? Run with the low beam but no one can see you from behind?”
“Perfect,” I said.
Slider reached over and hit the starter button as he gave the throttle a twist.
The Sportster roared, coughed, then roared again. Slider had to shout to be heard. “The muffler was the hard part. But I pretty much got it. I modified the quiet muffler so its back pressure ain’t much different than the stock muffler. That makes the quiet muffler a little more noisy. And it still hiccups a little. But not bad.”
He reached down and turned the valve lever ninety degrees. The roar disappeared as if the bike had been turned off. When my ears adjusted I heard it still running.
“Very impressive,” I said. I thought I should high-five him or use the secret biker handshake, but I didn’t know what it was.
Slider got off the bike. “Try it,” he said.
I got on and revved the engine. The sound was a soft putter that rose and then fell when I released the handgrip. I reached down and turned the valve. The thunderous clatter was back. I throttled up. The engine coughed, then roared, hammering at my ears. Slider grinned like a 13-year-old kid.
“Mind if I take it ‘round the block?” I yelled over the roar.
Slider nodded, pointed toward the road and walked to the shop.
I left the bike running and walked back to Street’s bug. “Be another minute,” I said to her as I fetched my old helmet that I’d brought. I pulled it on and tightened the chinstrap as I walked back to the Harley which was still idling. I swung my leg over the seat and pushed the bike forward off the center stand. The stand popped up and the bike dropped down onto soft suspension. I pulled the clutch with my left hand, kicked it into first and pulled out of the lot.
I went down the back roads, ran it up to 60 a couple of times, never getting it out of third. Then I slowed and pulled the valve. It was unreal, as if I were switching from Harley to Honda. The engine coughed, then revved like before, only without the racket.
The machine drove well. It had punch off the line and good torque, especially at low RPM. It wasn’t as nimble as a smaller bike, and it didn’t shoot to a brain-tingling redline like the Japanese and Italian rockets. Instead, it was exactly what its advertising sell-line promised: Big Gut, Low Butt. It ran well, was powerful and solid and it carried a big load with an undeniable style.
I came around the block, pushed the valve back into the loud position and pulled back into Slider’s. I walked over to where Street still waited in her car.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I think Slider and company are miracle workers. If Harley could silence their machines like Slider can, I’d probably buy one myself.”