by Todd Borg
I walked over to Joe’s phone as I pulled out Bob’s card with his personal number. I dialed, and it rang, and I got a synthetic voicemail response. I hung up without leaving a message.
“I think I’ll pay them a visit.”
“Can I come?” Joe asked.
“Sure.”
Joe and I headed north to Cave Rock and went through the tunnel, which was very icy from dripping water running down and freezing on the roadway. Just past the tunnel, we turned on the road that switch-backed down to Bob Hinton’s house. But as we pulled up to the parking pad, we saw the Beats Working backing away from the dock and boathouse.
We watched as the Predator yacht turned a bit. Then it slowed and began to move forward, turning more. Joe and I watched to see what direction it would go.
The big boat eased forward at no-wake speed until it was a hundred yards from shore. Then it roared. It’s pointy bow pitched up, and its stern pressed down into the water as it accelerated forward. The yacht plowed ahead making a large wake. Gradually, the bow dropped as the boat lifted up on plane. The Beats Working made a high-speed turn to starboard and raced north up the lake.
I shifted into reverse, backed out of the drive, shifted forward and drove fast up to the highway. I turned left and sped north up Highway 50.
“You think we can follow it from land?” Joe asked.
“Depends on how she goes,” I said. “We’ll lose track of her when we turn up the mountain toward Spooner Summit. After we turn north on Twenty-eight, she’ll probably go out of sight going around Deadman Point. But if Bob is going all the way to Incline Village, then maybe we can pick the boat up again as we come back close to the water near Secret Harbor.”
“How fast do you think that crate goes?”
“I read about the Predator online,” I said. “I think it said her top speed was thirty-three knots.”
Joe patted the dash of my Jeep. “Whereas this baby probably goes fifty or sixty.”
“Funny guy,” I said, glad that Joe could still make jokes in spite of the stress he was under. “Problem is, our road winds around as it crawls north. The Beats Working can go straight. So our speed advantage might not make up for the extra distance.”
“What if that boat is heading across the lake?”
“Then we’re screwed.” I pointed toward Joe’s feet. “There’s binoculars under your seat. Maybe you can see with them.”
Joe reached under his seat while I drove. I pushed our speed on the straight sections as we approached Glenbrook, then slowed for the big curve as the road turned up the mountain toward Spooner Summit.
Two-thirds of the way up the mountain, we came to the turnoff where Highway 28 heads northwest, gradually coming back closer to the lake. In quick glances to my left, I could see no sign of the Beats Working.
On my right, Joe had the binoculars up. They seemed to point directly at my face, but I understood that he was looking past me, scanning the lake.
“Any luck?” I said.
“No.” But he kept looking.
We went past the snow-covered road that led down to Skunk Harbor, where Leah hid out on Jennifer’s sailboat when I investigated the art forgery. Farther north, we cruised above Secret Harbor and the nude beaches. Joe still looked through the binoculars, a difficult thing to do for many minutes at a time and while bouncing along in a moving vehicle.
Our road left the lake as we went by the estate where George Whittell had built his Thunderbird Lodge castle in the 1930s. Then we rounded a curve and came back near the water. The road was high enough up that we could see all the way across the lake. In fast glances at the water, I saw a few specks here and there, boats too far out to perceive easily except by the way the sun reflected off their wakes.
Joe kept scanning with the glasses.
“I think I see her,” he said as we approached Sand Harbor. “A large yacht about halfway across the lake. Maybe more. Straight west of us.”
“Half way across the lake is five miles from here. Can you tell by the wake which way she’s going?”
After a moment, Joe spoke. “She’s headed away from us.”
“She’s going toward Tahoe City, then. It could be a waste of time for us, but I’m inclined to drive around the lake and see if we can see her on the other side. Okay by you?”
“Yeah.”
So we drove north to Incline, then followed 28 west around the North Shore and over the state line at Crystal Bay into California.
Joe kept looking through the binoculars. “I don’t see her anymore,” he said.
We went through Kings Beach, Tahoe Vista, dropped south around Carnelian Bay, went past Dollar Point, and came into Tahoe City.
“Got her,” Joe said.
“Where?”
“At a dock. Oh, now she’s behind those buildings.” He pointed.
“Were there other docks? Did it look like the marina?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“Could be she’s at the Tahoe Yacht Club.” I got in the center turn lane and turned left down toward The Boatworks Mall, the renovated old warehouse-style building. As I parked, I saw the Beats Working at one of the docks.
“Could be Bob wanted to come shopping by boat in Tahoe City,” Joe said.
“Or grab a bite at one of the restaurants,” I said. ”Jake’s is the closest. Let’s check there first.”
We left Spot in the Jeep, went into the Boatworks, and walked into Jake’s. They had a good crowd for late afternoon. Skiers who’d quit early as the sun lowered and the temperature dropped.
I stopped at the entrance and scanned the crowd. Bob Hinton and a woman were sitting at a table by the window. It doesn’t get any easier.
“Good afternoon,” a young woman said to us. “Table for two?”
“Actually, we’re here to meet Bob Hinton,” I said, pointing at Bob.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I’ll grab two extra chairs.”
She hurried over to a table near Bob’s and began pulling a chair over. We followed.
“Hey, Bob,” I said. “Sorry we’re a bit late.” I took the chair the young woman had brought, and I held it out for Joe. Joe sat.
Bob said, “I don’t understand...”
“Sorry. I told you we’d be here first, but we got hung up in the ski traffic.” I reached my hand out toward Bob’s female companion who was very attractive and half Bob’s age. “Hi. I’m Bob’s friend Owen McKenna, and this is my friend Joe Rorvik. Bob, I’m sure you know Joe, right?”
“We haven’t met,” Joe said. “But we know of each other.” Joe reached out to shake Bob’s hand. Bob didn’t stand up. He shook Joe’s hand without enthusiasm.
The young hostess brought a second chair. I sat down. I said to Bob’s companion, “Joe sits on the Steven’s Peak Resort Commission. In fact, he holds the deciding vote on whether Bob’s resort gets approved or not. So right now Joe is just about the most important person in Bob’s world, right Bob?”
“I don’t think this...”
“Of course,” I interrupted, “Bob didn’t like the idea from the beginning, his fate being in the hands of a single, old ski racer. So Bob decided to try to influence things. Am I right again, Bob?”
“Amanda,” he said. “Ignore this man. He’s a cheap gumshoe, sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
“Gumshoe,” I said. “I love that word even though Bob probably means it as an insult. What I don’t get though, Bob, is when you started having your employee Benjamin Prattel pay Ned Cavett to spy on Joe Rorvik, didn’t you ever stop to wonder what that made you?” I turned to Joe. “Joe, as a member of the commission, you volunteer for no pay, correct?”
“Well, actually, I’m working for the Forest Service. They pay us. But in charity to the government, I’ve waived any fee.”
“So you are serving as a paid public official overseeing the process of approval on a private business development costing hundreds of millions of dollars. That makes Bob guilty of conspiring to
buy influence on a government commission, a serious crime, a conviction for which comes with a long prison sentence.”
“Bob,” Amanda suddenly said, “What is this about? Is it true that you had Ben pay someone to spy on this man?”
“It wasn’t spying or influence buying. It was a simple lobbying effort.”
“Ah,” I said. “A lobbying effort that included giving Ned Cavett a list of people who were close to Joe. There was Manuel Romero, who just died after his car was run off the cliff at Emerald Bay. There was Jillian Oleska, who just died after someone pushed her into a tree while skiing. Joe has a neighbor who has told Joe that he is against the resort. That neighbor was forced off the highway. And, oh yeah, Joe’s wife was thrown off her deck and is near death in a hospital in Reno as we speak.”
“Bob!” Amanda nearly shouted. “Is this true?!”
“Of course, not, Amanda. This man is making this stuff up.”
“And,” I continued, “circumstantial evidence suggests that our murder suspect is in his late twenties and has long, wavy hair. That matches your Benjamin Prattel.”
“This is outrageous!” Bob said. He pushed his chair back and stood up. “I’ll sue you for slander. I’ll take everything you’ve got!”
I held out my phone and began pressing buttons. “Let me call Commander Mallory of the South Lake Tahoe PD. He will tell you that he has in his possession the list of, quote, influential people, unquote, that Benjamin gave Ned Cavett, the list where Ned crossed off each name as each person was helped to an early death.” Actually, I didn’t know if Benjamin had given Ned the list, but it seemed like a reasonable possibility.
“We have witnesses whose testimony might just convict you of murder. In fact, even Benjamin might chime in. It was probably Ned who cut him with a throwing knife. Benjamin might be looking for some justice.”
“I’m not saying another word. I’m calling my lawyer.” Bob pulled out his phone.
“While you call your lawyer, I’ll talk to Mallory. After that, I’ll call Agent Ramos of the FBI.”
Amanda pushed back her chair, bumping Joe. She stood up. “Bob, I can’t believe it! I thought you were a decent man!”
Bob held out his hand. “Easy, Amanda. Take it easy.”
“No! I have principles. I don’t date just anyone.” She grabbed her purse and walked toward the door of the restaurant.
Bob called out, “Amanda, at least let me bring you home!”
She ignored him and left.
Bob moved to go after her. Then he stopped and turned back.
Bob’s eyes were a strange mixture of anger and fear. He held the look for several seconds, then waved his hand at my phone. “Stop. Put it away,” he said as he sat down again.
“Are you ready to talk?”
“I didn’t kill those people. Benjamin didn’t either. I can prove it. At least, I can prove he didn’t kill Jillian Oleska.”
My phone rang. I held up my hand. “Hold that thought.”
I answered the phone. It was Diamond.
“This a good time?” he asked.
“Sure. I realized that Simone’s description of Cameron fit RKS Bob’s employee Benjamin Prattel. So Joe and I are at Jake’s in Tahoe City, listening to Bob Hinton threaten me with a slander lawsuit. What’s up?”
“Talked to Sergeant Gramercy of Inyo County,” he said. “He remembers Ned and his brother Peter clearly. Ned Cavett was older, handsome, stupid, and emotionally disturbed. Peter Cavett looked nothing like his brother, but he was smart and more balanced. Gramercy remembers that Peter worshiped his older brother. They both were athletic. But they looked nothing alike because they were step brothers. Ned from old man Cavett’s previous marriage, and Peter from mama Cavett’s previous marriage. Gramercy says mama changed Peter’s last name to Cavett when she changed her name. After the mom died in what Gramercy said was an accident, Ned went off to his life of crime, and Peter disappeared. Thought you’d want to know.”
While I was talking, Bob stood up as if to go.
I snapped my fingers and pointed my finger at his chair. Maybe I flared my nostrils, too. He sat back down like a school boy.
I said to Diamond, “Hold on a second.”
I turned to Bob. “What is your proof that Benjamin didn’t kill Jillian Oleska?”
“I took him to a ski resort conference at Aspen. We were gone six days. We got back two days before you broke into my boathouse. Two days before that, on day four of our trip, I got a phone call from one of my people about Jillian dying. Ben and I were around people the entire time we were gone. If I have to, I can produce a large number of witnesses who saw us during the panels, in the showroom, at breakfast, at dinner. Here, let me show you some pictures.” He pulled out his phone, brought up photos, and scrolled through them. “Here is Ben when we had dinner at the Hotel Jerome with Denise and Denny Uline from Snowmass. We spent quite a bit of time with them skiing and dining. They will verify the dates for you.” Bob turned to another photo. “This is Joan Escalante from Miami. She stayed near us at Little Nell. We saw her many times coming and going, and we had dinner with her one night. She’d be happy to talk to you. I can continue like this with several photos of other people.”
I raised my hand for him to stop, then I turned back to my phone.
“Diamond, it’s possible that Benjamin is not our suspect in Jillian’s murder. Not sure about the others.”
“Which means,” Diamond said in my ear, “that the man named Cameron could be pursuing Simone up in the high country as we speak.”
“Right. Let me ask Bob. Bob, where is Benjamin Prattel now?”
He hesitated. “He told me that he was going skiing.”
“Where?” I asked.
“He said he wanted to make some back-country tracks. He didn’t say where.”
“When did he leave?”
“I don’t know for sure. But he told me the day before yesterday, when he was done with work. So I imagine he was going out yesterday.”
“Is he still gone today?”
Bob shrugged. “I don’t know. He has the same two days off every week. He could still be out there.”
“In the back-country,” I said.
“Right.”
I turned back to the phone. “Diamond, Joe and I will head back to the South Shore and reconsider plan B on the way.”
“Problem is,” Diamond said in my ear, “there’s an accident in the southbound tunnel at Cave Rock. Looks like it’ll be closed for a couple of hours.”
“And the last storm closed Emerald Bay,” I said.
“Sí. It will be awhile before you can get to the South Shore.”
“Hold on.” I turned to Joe. “Humor me. If I wanted to find Simone ASAP, and if I could get back-country ski gear on short notice in Tahoe City, what do you think my chances would be of getting to her from the West Shore north of Emerald Bay?”
Joe was shaking his head before I finished the question. “Small to none. If you try to climb up from Ward Creek or Blackwood Canyon or Meeks Creek, you start from lake level. That’s too much elevation gain in too much snow. I don’t mean to sound harsh, but you’d have to be a serious back-country athlete to make it. Even if you could get up into that country, she’d be much farther south by that time. You’d have more luck going in Glen Alpine Trail, which is south of Emerald Bay. Not that it’s easy, either, because the access from Fallen Leaf Lake isn’t plowed.”
“Nevertheless, I’d have to start south of Emerald Bay if I wanted any chance of intercepting her.”
“Right.”
“Keep holding,” I said again to Diamond.
I turned to Bob as I pointed out the window toward the Beats Working. “How long would it take to get from here to the South Shore on that crate?”
He thought about it. “It’s about twenty miles. Forty minutes at full speed. But I can’t...”
“Diamond,” I said, into my phone, interrupting Bob.
“Can you pick us up at the Timber
Cove Pier? And can you chauffeur us around?”
“Sure. When will you be there?”
“Forty minutes. Maybe a touch more.”
“About the same as it will take me to get there.” He hung up.
I stood up. “Let’s go,” I said to Bob.
“What do you mean? Do you know how much it costs per mile to operate the Beats Working? I can’t just flit off to the South Shore.”
“No I don’t, and yes you can. Get going.”
Bob hesitated.
I picked up my phone. “I have Commander Mallory on my speed dial. I can still make your life beyond miserable. The DA has had good results on my past recommendations. You could be facing multiple charges.”
“Okay, okay.” Bob stood up, tossed a hundred dollar bill on the table, and walked toward the door.
I went out to the Jeep and let Spot out. Bob was startled when Spot came near. When Spot sniffed him, he froze.
Spot soon lost interest, and we went down to the water.
Bob tipped the dock boy, walked up the Predator’s port staircase. Joe and Spot and I followed.
Pretty Girl was curled up on a thick dog bed, which was up on the settee in the upper lounge. Spot trotted over to her and wagged. She lifted her head but didn’t get up. Maybe she was intimidated by Spot’s size. More likely, she only got excited about animals the size she’d naturally eat. She and Spot sniffed noses a bit, then Pretty Girl lowered her head onto her paws. It was interesting to see such calm and remove from a dog that could explode from a standing start to 40 miles-per-hour in about a second.
Spot wagged some more, then turned his attention elsewhere.
Bob looked around a bit, probably checking to see if Amanda was onboard. He sat down on the captain’s chair and fired up the big engines. They made a deep, muffled rumble from belowdecks.
Spot explored the boat, no doubt sniffing out the aroma of money.
Joe looked around when we stepped onto the Beats Working, but he played it cool. It took more than a fancy boat to impress him.
Bob waved at the dock boy, and the kid untied the lines.