Tahoe Ghost Boat (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller)

by Todd Borg

  “Shut up!” Gower shouted. “Don’t talk mush-brain psycho-babble with me! The only thing worse than losing Jeanette and Marianne is when someone like you tries to soften it with gushy nonsense. I’m done with you, McKenna!” He reached up his other hand and gripped the gun with both hands, steadying it on my face. His right finger was tensing when an orange blur cut a horizontal line from the back of the boat’s saloon.

  The orange struck Gower’s hands so hard that the gun flew out of his grip in an explosion of orange pulp and crashed on the instrument panel. Nearly grinning because Gertie had taken my cue, I rushed Gower, but he was faster. He leaned and was grabbing the gun when another orange struck it, bouncing it out of his reach. Like a practiced soldier, Gower didn’t slow down. He pulled a knife out of his pocket. But he never got a chance to raise it up as a third orange exploded against his temple, knocking him forward in his wheelchair.

  I got to Gower, jammed my right elbow into his chest, pinning him back against the wheelchair. I pulled the knife from his grip and threw it over to the other side of the boat. I pushed him and the chair back and got in front of him so that I could grab both arms. He fought like a young man, slugging me. A fourth orange hit the back of his head so hard, his face slammed into my chest.

  He was stunned. His head lolled.

  A fifth orange hit the lower back of his neck. It was like a shot from a cannon, faster than I could imagine a ball being pitched. The impact on his neck was savage. It snapped Gower’s neck forward, leaving his head to jerk back in whiplash. The blow turned him a bit.

  The next orange was harder still, hitting him behind his ear so hard that his body flew forward and sideways, pitching him out of his wheelchair where he collapsed on the floor.

  I bent down.

  “Make it stop,” he cried in a weak voice. “I give up. I’m finished.” He was crying. “Make it stop. Please.” He was pleading. Whimpering defeat. “Tell your pitcher she has won.”

  EPILOGUE

  “I was pleased to read that both Denell and Galant are going to make it,” I said. “The Herald said over eight hundred people attended the fundraiser.”

  Diamond nodded. “Good men. They brought Denell out of induced coma three days ago, and Galant just yesterday. Denell is already saying a few words, and Galant won’t be far behind. Doc Lee told me that it’s even possible they’ll both make complete recoveries, although it might take a year or three and a whole lotta therapy.”

  We’d driven up to Incline Village and were in the main room of the Sierra Nevada College Library, a beautiful and warm dramatic space with lots of wooden architectural components.

  “Is Denell’s wife holding together?”

  “Hard to know,” he said. “Having to be strong for their kid will help.”

  “The paper also said that in addition to the account for medical expenses, the boy’s college scholarship fund was already up to thirty thousand.”

  Another nod. Diamond looked around the library. “Nice crowd assembling,” he said, obviously wanting to change the subject.

  The people coming in the door ranged from college kids in jeans and ski jackets to adults in jeans and ski jackets. Through the various groups trotted Spot, moving quickly, causing a few gasps, as he explored the space. Following him was the school employee who was trying tentatively and without success to get him to go outside.

  “Lot of people in jeans and ski jackets,” I said.

  “Number one ski racing school in the country,” Diamond said. He pointed to a distinguished-looking older couple. The woman wore a floor-length black coat. Black leather boots with heels poked out beneath the coat. She had silver hair and gold earrings with inset obsidian jewels as black as the coat. Her partner wore a matching black trench coat. The collar was open revealing a white shirt, black bow tie, and black suit jacket.

  “Heading for the San Francisco Opera and made a wrong turn,” Diamond said.

  “Looks like it,” I said. I saw Gertie at the other end of the room. She stood with her mother Nadia on one side and Street on the other. Nadia was wearing jeans and a simple blouse. Even from a distance, I could see that she didn’t have her standard layer of heavy makeup. I’d never seen her looking so ordinary.

  Sergeant Santiago walked in, stomped snow off his shoes, saw us, came over.

  “So something good came out of the kidnapping,” he said.

  “Sí,” Diamond said.

  Santiago looked around. “Is this a dry event? I’m not on duty.”

  Diamond turned to an elegant woman who was wearing a long red dress and carrying a glass of red wine.

  “Excusez-moi, madame,” he said, “s’il vous plaît pouvez-vous me dire où trouver le vin rouge?”

  She grinned. “A noble attempt,” she said. “If you weren’t wearing a Douglas County Sheriff’s jacket, and if your syntax weren’t a bit scrambled, I would have been taken in. Come to think of it, I’m taken in anyway.” She pointed to a table in the corner with a plethora of wine bottles and glasses, then grinned again before she walked away.

  “What was that?” Santiago said. “French? It sure made that lady smile. Nice teeth, too.”

  “If you’d gotten your syntax right,” I said, “she probably would have handed you a perfumed note with her phone number.”

  “I better practice some more,” Diamond said.

  We walked over and got wine.

  “On duty?” I said, pointing at Diamond’s jacket.

  “Nope. Just needed the warmth. Helps get attention from les femmes, too. I’ll disrobe before anyone infers an association between wine and the sheriff’s office.”

  “Any news on the survivor?” I said to Santiago.

  “You mean the guy who dragged his ass into the tunnel of the Lassitor castle before it was gutted by fire?”

  I nodded.

  “He pretty much confirmed everything Craig Gower said. Mikhailo the Monster found Gower’s posting on one of those Internet bulletin boards where dirtballs hang out looking for somebody who is willing to pay for a hit.”

  “Like, ‘Assassin Wanted’?” I said.

  “Something like that. Only they use colorful euphemisms. ‘Job involves travel and discretion. Must be accomplished at cleaning skills.’ Like that. Then they communicate with email through those networks where everything is scrambled.”

  “Hard to trace,” Diamond said.

  Santiago nodded. “I talked to Agent Ramos. He said that anticipating this stuff is nearly impossible.”

  Diamond said, “So Mikhailo brings in Amanda Horner to follow Nadia. When Amanda screws up and gets caught by Owen, Mikhailo kills her by drowning because he thinks that will send an intimidating message to Nadia and encourage her to pay up.”

  “And besides, he likes drowning people,” I said.

  “Then when Owen intervenes, Mikhailo tries to kill him the same way,” Diamond said.

  “Except that McKenna is hard to kill,” Santiago said.

  Diamond sipped wine, smacked his lips. “Mikhailo writes ‘The American Dream’ because he wants to taunt cops, ‘Hey, I’m the guy who did the other murders, and you still can’t find me.’ But in the end, Owen kicked his butt.” Diamond looked at me. “Right?”

  “Not really,” I said. “Truth is, Mikhailo mostly kicked mine.”

  “Any idea how the fire started?” Santiago said.

  I thought about how to phrase it. “He was pouring gas over everything, planning to torch the place. But he accidentally lit himself on fire. I barely escaped.”

  After a pause, Santiago said, “Which brings up another question. The Medical Examiner found a wooden dowel stuck through the abdomen of Mikhailo’s burnt corpse. The dowel was burnt at both ends right up to the charred flesh. So it appeared that Mikhailo had been skewered all the way through before the fire. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “Maybe he fell on his sword as soon as he realized he was going to be toast,” I said.

  Santiago mad
e the tiniest of nods.

  “The ME said the dowel was painted yellow. The paint was chipped. He thought it was once an old broomstick.”

  “A broomstick sword,” I said. “That might be a first.”

  “What I don’t get is how the man we found in the tunnel got so banged up. Nearly all his bones were broken, and his insides were busted up like a train crushed him. When I talked to him in the hospital, I repeatedly asked him what happened, but he just said he fell when he ran for the tunnel. He also had large puncture wounds on his left elbow, and those bones were crushed. The doc said it looked like he’d been bit by a mountain lion.”

  “Spot came in through the tunnel with me,” I said. “He must have grabbed that guy in the commotion.”

  “The docs say it’ll be another month before he can even sit up in bed and that he’ll never walk again or even be able to brush his teeth. Not that I mind that he got hurt. He and Gower will spend the rest of their lives in prison for helping to kill Ian Lassitor’s actor-standin and Amanda Horner. And it’s almost a certainty that they’ll be convicted of attempted murder in the attack on Denell and Galant.”

  I saw Diamond’s jaw muscles bulge.

  “I also saw Gower in court,” Santiago said. “His head is still dark with bruises. And he’s wearing a neck brace. You must have smacked him around.”

  “Nope. Gertie’s a fastpitch softballer. She can fire an orange like it was shot out of a cannon.”

  “The girl did that to him? With oranges? Whoa.”

  The elegant woman in the red dress came back, walking past us. I saw her slip a piece of purple paper into Diamond’s hand, which he then slipped into his pocket. She continued on and went up to the front of the room, held her wine glass up and began tapping a pen against the rim. The room gradually quieted. I realized that she was the emcee. The woman looked over at Gertie who was now sitting in the front row of seats.

  Sergeant Santiago pointed. “I see Street on Gertie’s right. Is that the girl’s mom on her left?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Nadia Lassitor. Probably the first time she’s been willing to be seen with Gertie in public.”

  “Why is that?”

  “She’s embarrassed by the girl’s cleft lip scar.”

  Santiago shook his head. “No wonder Gertie wants Street there, too.”

  “She said she needed Street nearby to keep her from freaking out. But from the looks of it, maybe Nadia is changing her perception of her daughter.”

  “Did Gower and Mikhailo ever collect on the blackmail? Or is the woman now rich?”

  “Neither. Turns out the insurance was a ‘Key Man’ business policy payable to Ian Lassitor’s company Symphony TechNation. But because the company had already gone bankrupt and was dissolved, the policy was void.”

  “So you’re sure she never had anything to do with Lassitor’s murder,” Santiago said.

  “Gower’s confession was clear. He planned the whole thing. He knew that Lassitor had hired a lookalike actor to play himself in the movie he wanted to make. So Gower put a GPS unit and an avalanche beacon on Lassitor’s boat. The two electronic devices use different systems and combining them makes for amazing accuracy. When the actor was killed by the ghost boat, his face was banged up enough that even Nadia thought it was her husband. That allowed Gower and Mikhailo to keep the real Lassitor as their software engineer prisoner, and no one would look for him because everyone thought he was dead. Gower’s company also created the GPS and avalanche beacon zipper fob to put on clothes. They used one on the hoodie that Mikhailo had Gertie wear so that they could find her in case she ever got away.”

  The emcee grinned as she began talking.

  “Thank you all for coming. We’re here tonight to celebrate a fifteen-year-old artist named Gertie O’Leary who’s recently made something of a splash in the film world.

  “This event is made possible by one of our patrons, a man who wishes no focus on him. This man is what some people have called a merit angel, a near mythical benefactor who drops out of the sky on unsuspecting but worthy artists who’ve worked very hard against difficult odds. This angel provides those artists with opportunities they would not otherwise have.” She made a very quick glance over toward the distinguished couple in black coats. “But while he shall remain nameless at his request, a short explanation is appropriate.

  “Suffice it to say that our patron went to this college some years back and subsequntly went off to USC Film School. Since then, he has made many films, some of which you are all familiar with.

  “A month ago, one of his colleagues contacted him and explained that he’d read an article about a girl who had recently been a crime victim, and the article said she’d made some videos. So our alum-patron watched them on YouTube and liked them. After viewing the three videos that you are about to see – videos written, filmed, and produced by our young guest – our patron contacted Gertie.

  “He told her he was impressed and that he wanted to talk to her about a potential future in filmmaking. He also called USC Film School and asked that they consider Gertie for admission to their summer program. The school accepted, and our patron agreed to provide a scholarship for her tuition and expenses.”

  The emcee paused and grinned at Gertie. Behind the emcee appeared Spot. He looked out at the crowd, wagged once, then moved over toward the wine table.

  The emcee said, “So we asked Gertie O’Leary to come up from Sacramento today to be with us for a celebration of filmmaking. Please welcome filmmaker Gertie O’Leary!”

  There was polite applause. Then the four large flat screen monitors at the outside of the room began playing Gertie’s videos.

  They were filmed in black and white and told a gritty, noirish, crime saga in three parts, a tense, rushed tale of a teenaged girl involved with a drug gang. The girl decided to become an informant for the police. But the gang leaders discovered what she was doing, and they determined to kill her.

  The story was filmed from a first-person point of view, and the videos were presented as if the viewer were seeing what the protagonist saw. The only voice track was a voice-over narration by the main character with some tense, creepy music in the background.

  Each of the first two videos ended in a cliffhanger and left the audience short of breath waiting for the next segment to begin.

  At the end of the trilogy, the audience cheered and gave her a standing ovation. I could tell that it wasn’t just because the filmmaker was so young, but that they thought it was pro-level stuff. Next to Gertie, Nadia beamed.

  When the audience calmed, the emcee walked back out in front and said, “Gertie, it looks like you have a film career waiting for you. Would you be willing to say a few words and answer questions?”

  Gertie hesitated. She looked left and right as if to see if she could run and hide. Slowly, she stood and turned to face the crowd.

  Her voice betrayed a little nervousness, but was otherwise strong. “I’m glad you like my videos. I asked my mom and dad if I could go to USC, and it turns out mom is selling her house. She’s getting an apartment down by the USC campus so I’ll have a place to live. I don’t know what else to say except thank you all for your interest.”

  Several people raised their hands and asked questions about where Gertie got her ideas and such, to which Gertie gave thoughtful answers. At one point, she saw Spot and patted her thigh. Spot walked up next to her. Gertie rested her hand on his back the way someone might lean on a table. Spot wagged. His ear stud glittered.

  At the end, I raised my hand. Gertie saw me and grinned.

  “One last question from the gentleman in the back of the room,” she said.

  “I heard that you admire accomplished artists who acquired their skills on their own without benefit of school. Does that mean you might drop out of USC?”

  Gertie beamed. “I suppose it depends on how good their softball team is.”

  Gertie thanked everyone again. They clapped. As she made a little bow, I saw for the fir
st time the flash of a silver necklace and a pendant that hung from it. It was the wax fir tree I’d made her on the sailboat, the Celtic symbol of Friendship, Honesty, Resilience, and Strength. The stuff of real beauty.

  Dear Reader,

  If you enjoyed this novel, please consider posting a short review on Amazon. Reviews help authors a great deal, and they are the best way to spread the word about a book.

  Thank you very much for your interest and support!

  Todd Borg

  About the Author

  Todd Borg and his wife live in Lake Tahoe, where they write and paint. To contact Todd or learn more about the Owen McKenna mysteries, please visit toddborg.com

  PRAISE FOR TAHOE CHASE

  “EXCITING, EXPLOSIVE, THOUGHTFUL, SOMETIMES FUNNY”

  - Ann Ronald, Bookin’ With Sunny

  “THE LANDSCAPE IS BEAUTIFULLY CRAFTED... PACE BUILDS NICELY AND DOESN’T LET UP”

  - Kirkus Reviews

  “BE WARNED. IT MIGHT BE ADDICTING.”

  - Gloria Sinibaldi, Tahoe Daily Tribune

  “OWEN McKENNA HAS HIS HANDS FULL IN ANOTHER THRILLING ADVENTURE”

  -Harvee Lau, Book Dilettante

  “I CAN GUARANTEE THAT THE OLD MAN WILL HAVE YOU CHEERING OUT LOUD BEFORE THE END OF THE BOOK.”

  - Cathy Cole, Kittling: Books

  “TAHOE CHASE IS FILLED WITH TWISTS AND TURNS”

  - Wendy Schultz, Placerville Mountain Democrat

  PRAISE FOR TAHOE TRAP

  “AN OPEN-THROTTLE RIDE”

  - Wendy Schultz, Placerville Mountain Democrat

  “A CONSTANTLY SURPRISING SERIES OF EVENTS INVOLVING MURDER...and the final motivation of the killer comes as a major surprise. (I love when that happens.)” - Yvette, In So Many Words