She put the ingredients into a squeeze bottle and lowered her head toward the sink. She’d lined the counter with paper towels. This would avoid staining the hotel towels, and she didn’t want to advertise that she was changing her hair color. Something that many women did as a matter of course, Kate now thought could be viewed as suspicious activity.
Applying the color was tricky. When she bent over the sink far enough, the ends of her hair soaked in the color solution collected around the drain. The liquid flowing around her head looked like dirty river water. She waited the required amount of time, then stepped into the shower to rinse and condition. When she finished, she toweled off and made sure none of the color transferred to the towels. She stepped out of the shower, ran a brush through her hair, and looked in the mirror. Rather than the warm cinnamon color she was supposed to see, Kate saw her blonde hair had been turned a nondescript, mousy brown. Just what she wanted!
Next she experimented with makeup, again seeking to change her appearance for the worse. She didn’t want to look ghastly, just plain, unremarkable, ordinary. Over plucking her brows could change her appearance, but she wanted to be able to go back to normal when this job was done. She could darken her brows with brow powder or a pencil, and a light amount of shadow under her eyes might tone down her appearance, too. She tried dark lipstick, but not too dark. She didn’t want look like a Goth. Admiring herself in the mirror she saw mousy hair, heavy brows, uneven complexion, tired eyes. An over-worked, less than average-looking reporter. Good. But the cosmetic appearance was just part of her makeover.
Next she tried on her new business outfit. Fortunately long skirts were in style now--an important part of what she had in mind. She bought an off-white blouse and inexpensive jacket to go with the green and blue skirt. Not bad. Not exactly what she would normally wear--she’d bought it at a generic tall shop she rarely visited when she lived in Vegas--but it looked presentable and professional.
Finally she slipped on the inexpensive, plastic-framed fashion glasses she’d bought. The lenses were lightly tinted.
Again she looked in the mirror. The person she saw didn’t look like the woman in the video who pushed Busick--but for one glaring attribute. And she would fix that, too.
But now she had to catch up to her life. In addition to being a murder suspect--likely now a fugitive--she had another job. Her boss, Max, had probably called her by now. She needed to talk to Bruce to see if her cell phone had any messages. She started to reach for her burner phone then recoiled as if it were a tarantula. If she called Bruce’s cell phone, it would leave a record of her new phone number. Would police scour Bruce’s cell phone? Better to call him from a pay phone. A pay phone? Easier said than done. But sure enough, she found a website listing pay phones in Vegas.
The sports bar was not too crowded or noisy in the early afternoon. Kate found the public phone at the back by the restrooms. First, she called Bruce. Reno Police Detective Polhouse had called him, Bruce said. He let it go to voice mail. They wanted to talk to Kate.
“I wouldn’t hurry calling them back,” Kate said, “but eventually. Or take a call if they call back. You can tell them I was there but that I left and you don’t know if I went back to Reno or wherever. Mentioning Reno is a good idea.”
“I don’t really know where you are. Are you in town?”
“You don’t want to know. That way you can’t get into trouble. I just can’t tell you anything, Bruce. If you lie to police, you’re obstructing justice. Just tell the truth. I left and didn’t tell you anything.”
“Do I mention Lyle?”
“No don’t mention Lyle. They don’t know him. Don’t get him involved. Forget Lyle. Why did I leave? You don’t know. You didn’t even want me to go.”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, that’s what you can tell the police.”
Kate thought Bruce might be the weak link in her plans, but she’d done what she could to protect him. Before Bruce hung up, he told her that she’d received four calls on her cell phone. Two from Max--of course--one from Amanda, and one from Polhouse.
She could safely return Max’s call from her new phone, but she had security doubts about calling Amanda. Fortunately, she’d brought a purse full of quarters.
“Amanda, I’m sorry about leaving you to run the exhibit by yourself.”
“No prob,” Amanda said. “I get it that you have other priorities. Believe me, I know.”
“Have the police been by?”
“No. Just tourists. Lots of tourists.”
“Do you have help?” Kate said.
“Yeah, Monica, the temp, wants all the hours we can give her. And she’s good with the seniors.”
“Amanda?”
“Yes?”
“Have you seen the video?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And?”
“That rat bastard deserved it. Oh, sorry. I mean, you didn’t push him very hard. He just fell over.”
“Thanks. You’ll probably be asked to tell the police your version of what happened.”
Satisfied that Nostalgia City’s exhibit booth was in good hands, Kate thanked her again, then gave her Henrietta Mauser’s cell phone number, just in case.
With her necessarily “untraceable” calls made, Kate returned to her hotel. First, to postpone calling Max, she called her apartment house neighbor in Arizona who was looking after her cat. Relieved to know Trixie was doing well without her, she finally called her boss.
“You’re in a helluva mess,” Max said without preamble.
“I know, Max. You’ve seen the video?”
“Uh huh. What’re you doing about it?”
Kate wanted to keep Max happy and in her corner. She’d need her boss’s continuing support, financial and otherwise. She considered telling him about the blackmailers and how she’d saved NC fifty grand by refusing to pay. But that might confuse things, considering that decision didn’t work out well.
“Nothing I can do about the video now. If you talk to Amanda, my PR coordinator, she’ll tell you how it happened. Not my fault.”
“What do the police say?”
“I haven’t talked to the police recently.”
“That’s good. Thought they’d be after you when that video showed up.”
“Who knows?”
“Are you in the booth?”
“Not today. Amanda’s doing a great job.”
“You’re not trying to--”
“As far as I know, I’m the prime suspect. I have to find out who really killed Busick.”
“Don’t want you gettin’ in trouble. Looks bad. Let the police handle it. Talk to the hot-shot attorney we got for you. Do what she says.”
“Sure, Max. I’ll call her. Are you getting reports on sales and reservations from the Reno show?”
“Yup. Thirty-seven inquiries in your first two days. Twenty four confirmed reservations.”
At least Max was happy.
Kate set her phone down and powered up her laptop. She’d bookmarked the page of the Las Vegas Star that showed the video. She would look at it one more time, without sound. How damning was it, really? Pretty awful. It looked like she was grabbing at Busick when he fell, and he tried to hit her. She minimized the video while she read the accompanying story. Why hadn’t she noticed this before? The story said the video was originally posted on the Conspiracy Nevada website.
In seconds, she was looking at the website. Conspiracy Nevada featured stories on alien sightings at Groom Lake in central Nevada and an article suggesting that Nevada’s Senator Dean Heller conspired with foreign governments in a plot to turn over parts of the state for the storing of nuclear waste. Kate’s video appeared on the bottom of the first page under a headline: “Kate Sorensen bullying elderly car dealer before murder.” Bullying? Elderly?
The site carried no identification or reference to the conspiracy theorist’s location. Someone must know how to locate the author of the site. Forrester. If anyone knew about a
local conspiracy crackpot it would be Gale Forrester. His number went straight to voicemail. Next she tried a reporter she knew at the Las Vegas Star. Sure, he knew the whacko host of Conspiracy Nevada, didn’t everyone?
Next, Kate called her magazine editor friend. “Barbara? Just wanted to give you an update. I’m going out to Busick headquarters tomorrow. If anyone calls you, the freelancer working for you is a brunette in a wheelchair.”
Chapter 34
“Where the hell is that?” Lyle said.
“East of Carson City. I have the address,” Kate said. “The guy who posted the video is Russell T. Paine. You can try calling him first.”
“And you got this from a reporter friend of yours?”
“Yes. I’m sure it’s good information.”
“Do you think Paine’s the blackmailer? Never mind. I’ll find out. How are you?”
“Doing okay. I have a place to stay and I’m calling you on my burner phone.”
“You staying away from Bruce?” Lyle knew Kate could misinterpret the question, but he said it anyway.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, when the police come looking for you, he’s the first person they’ll find.”
“I’ve got it all worked out. I left after you called and I didn’t tell him where I was going.”
“Where did you go?”
“You don’t need to know, either.”
“Good idea, for now. What are you planning?”
“This whole thing is either about Busick cars or about Rockin’ Summer Days. And I think Busick cooked up the RSD move. He’d benefit if the event was in Vegas. That’s just one of the things I want to confirm. Anything that will lead to his killer.”
***
After Lyle read Paine’s conspiracy website, he was pretty sure the guy was a solid gold fruit loop. He expected to find him in a barbed-wire fenced compound surrounded by miles of open desert. Instead, Conspiracy Nevada was located in an unassuming ranch house in a small community about a half hour east of Carson City.
He double checked the address and parked a few houses away.
After Lyle knocked three times and waited a minute or two in between, the front door opened. A heavy screen door kept Lyle from seeing the person standing in the doorway.
“Mr. Paine?”
“Who are you? I don’t accept solicitations.”
“I’m not selling anything. I’m Lyle Deming. We spoke on the phone.”
“You didn’t tell me you were coming over, that you knew where I was.”
“You hung up on me before I could finish, remember?” Lyle tried to see the body attached to the voice. All he could make out was a man of medium height who seemed to be wearing a light shirt and vest.
“I already told you I can’t give you any information about the website. Freedom of the press. I’m protected.”
“I don’t want to know about that. I called you about the video.”
“Are you a cop?”
“No, I work at Nostalgia City. What you published isn’t right. It could get you in trouble. Don’t you want to know the whole story?”
“About what?”
“Kate Sorensen. The woman in the video. You libeled her.”
“Libel? I think not. What do you know about this?”
“May I come in and talk for just a few minutes?” Lyle tried to keep his voice soft and congenial. “I’ll tell you the whole story. You can know the truth.”
Paine unlocked the screen and pushed it open slowly. “You a cop?” Paine repeated as Lyle stepped in.
Although he expected someone in a T-shirt with an outrageous slogan on it, Paine wore a white shirt, conservative tie, a tailored vest, and matching slacks. His wire rimmed glasses sat low on his nose and although his hair receded halfway back on his head, the rest of it was long and flowed to his shoulders. He had the definite air of a slightly mad professor. He was certainly not the driver of the blackmail pickup truck.
They stood in the hallway momentarily and Lyle glanced into a study lined with books. He saw a desk piled with papers and a keyboard and two computer monitors on a table. After seconds of silence, Paine invited Lyle into a warmly furnished living room.
“So you want to talk about this Busick video,” Paine said when they were seated in houndstooth wingback chairs.
“Yes. It’s disturbing. And gives a totally wrong impression.”
“What’s the big deal? Some Vegas dirtbag car dealer got bumped off.”
“The big deal is that Kate Sorensen, the person in your video, is accused of killing him. But she had nothing to do with it. He accosted her, and she just tried to push him away.”
“She did a good job of it.”
“Yeah, and now the police think she killed him. Look, I work with her at Nostalgia City, the theme park?”
Paine nodded.
“She’s just in Nevada to sell vacations. She didn’t even know Busick.”
Paine stared at Lyle over the top of his glasses. “You work at a theme park?”
He still thinks I’m a cop. Lyle reached for his cell phone--too swiftly because Paine jerked slightly in his seat. “I just want to show you something,” Lyle said. He turned on his phone and scrolled through photos of he and Kate on Main Street in Nostalgia City. One picture showed Lyle in his cabbie hat and bow tie. “And here’s a shot of Kate with my daughter, Samantha.”
Paine seemed to relax a little. “You want some cranberry juice?”
Lyle nodded--to be agreeable--and Paine walked into the nearby kitchen. When he returned with two glasses, Lyle was looking at two large portraits, framed prints of oil paintings, on the wall.
“Know who they are?” Paine asked. “It’s Louis Brandeis and Thomas Paine. The supreme court justice? The revolutionary pamphleteer?”
“Yes, I know.”
“Privacy,” Paine said, “is guaranteed to everyone. That’s what Brandeis said.” He took a breath and wrinkled his brow momentarily. “The makers of the constitution said the right to be left alone was, quote, the most comprehensive of rights and the right most valued by civilized men, unquote. Brandeis said that. And Thomas Paine,” he continued, “I’m a direct descendant. He said freedom was--”
“Mr. Paine,” Lyle interrupted, “I respect these two fine American patriots. Could we talk about your video?”
“You know, Busick was under government investigation. We call him a dirtbag, but maybe he was just a successful entrepreneur that the government wanted to silence. Have you thought about that?”
Have you thought about professional help? Lyle tried to look sincere. “About your video?”
Paine frowned and sat back in his chair, cradling his glass of cranberry juice in both hands. “You keep saying my video. I didn’t shoot it. I simply obtained it.”
“That’s what I’d like to find out about. Those people threatened Ms. Sorensen. They’re not good people, and that video is misleading.”
“He seemed fairly ordinary, perhaps distasteful. But his product was genuine.”
“You talked to him?”
“Yes. I met him at a coffee shop. He wanted payment in person.”
“You paid him for the video?”
“As I thought, the video has helped increase hits to the website. I subsist partially on advertising.”
Lyle remembered some of the ads on the site: Armageddon supplies and alien abduction books. “If you know how we can contact this guy, it would really help Ms. Sorensen.”
“I have no idea. I don’t think anyone will be seeing him for some time. He indicated he would be leaving the area.”
“Leaving?”
“He said they--I don’t know who they referred to--had hoped to get a lot more for the video. But another sale fell through and now they had to leave.”
The scare tactics, instead of paying ransom, worked, Lyle thought, but not the way he intended. And now the blackmailers were leaving town. “Did he say how they had planned to make money on the video?”
“Certainly not. He was anxious. Said someone took a shot at him the other night.”
Took a shot at him, Lyle thought. That guy’s nutty, too.
Paine looked at Lyle. “That wasn’t you, was it?”
“Hell, no. Why would I shoot at him? Besides, if I knew who he was, I wouldn’t be asking you for information.”
Lyle’s answer actually made little sense, but Paine seemed satisfied. Lyle described the man he saw driving the pickup. Paine agreed, adding that he was overweight, dressed in khakis and a denim work shirt.
When he had all he thought he would get from Paine, Lyle took another sip of his juice. “Could I persuade you to remove the video from your site?”
“Could you offer compensation?”
Lyle shook his head.
“I can’t take it down now, but I hear that Art Bell may have been kidnapped again. Or maybe it was Jesse Ventura. I’m hoping for that story. Maybe then.”
“Okay.” Lyle sighed as he got up and walked to the front door. “Mr. Paine,” he said, pulling the screen door open. “About privacy. Doesn’t Kate Sorensen deserve some too?”
When Lyle reached his car and sat down, a gray sedan pulled up in front of Paine’s house. Unmarked police car, Lyle thought. One look at the man who got out convinced him. A Reno detective working the case. Lyle wondered if Paine would tell him about his visit. Maybe Paine wouldn’t let him past the screen door.
Chapter 35
Kate parked two blocks away from Busick’s flagship showroom. She got out of her car slowly, opened the trunk, then pulled out the wheelchair.
She put her laptop into a bag that hung behind the chair back, a wheelchair version of a backpack. Then she sat down, put on her glasses, pushed her long skirt over her legs, and started rolling to the front of the dealership. Near the showroom door, two salesmen leaned against a car talking. When Kate rolled up, both stood to hold the door for her. “I’m looking for the corporate office,” she said.
One of the men looked disappointed, the other swung the door wide so she could maneuver through. “Offices are in the building next door,” he said. “You can get there this way.”
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