“In any number of ways,” Russ reminded him. “We were at the auction, we spent time with the divers, you were interviewed about it in Reno, remember? It wouldn’t take somebody who’s actually been in the house to know about your interest in the Tahoe.”
“It could also have a different slant,” Ham prompted. “Do you spend time on the water? Water ski, scuba dive, anything?”
“Sure,” Blake shrugged, “during the summer. I still water ski. Quit scuba years ago. But this is winter. What does water sports have to do with anything?”
“I don’t know. Maybe…do you have a boat?”
“Sure, of course, I have three, an inboard, an outboard and . . .” Russ, Blake, Charlie and Lindsey gasped as one before Charlie added, “And a sixty foot replica of the SS Tahoe, which he christened the SS Tahoe Too.”
“And you cruise around in that one all the time, winter and summer both,” Ham guessed. At Blake’s nod, he asked, “Every day?”
“Every day,” he confirmed. “Whenever I’m here. It relaxes me, just tooling around, and it’s how I let my mind go, get ideas for songs.” He shrugged. “It’s what I do.”
“Which anybody and everybody on the lake would know if they know you and your boat,” Ham guessed. “So that’s no help except to speculate that that’s what they intend to do. Somehow get at the boat, sink you and it to the bottom.”
“That would be too open, too spectacular,” Drew objected. “Wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah, probably, I guess,” Ham admitted. “But the thought’s there. It’s something, anyway.”
“Which they would have thought of,” Charlie pointed out, “that’s it’s outrageous and too overt. So it’s not intended as literal is my guess, rather it’s just something to get under Pop’s skin. And ours, too. It’s an eerie reference, but not necessarily specific to intent. I can’t believe they mean they’ll torpedo the boat in front of God and everybody.”
Drew nodded agreement as Ham asserted, “She’s right. There’s no doubt in my mind that they intended to get us to do what we’re doing, to worry about the boat, protect against that threat, wasting our time rather than figuring out the who and why. It’s actually pretty smart,” he allowed. “Pretty smart indeed. Fortunately,” he grinned at Charlie, “she’s a lot smarter. Thanks for pointing us back in the right direction, Detective Hollister.”
To Blake, he declared, “Anyway, Charlie’s right. Let’s not waste time with this, other than to state that your boats, all three of them, are off limits to you for the duration.”
“What about the twelve million dollars,” Drew pointed out. “Nobody’s bothered to even mention that. Is it feasible? Is it desirable? Are you going to do it, do you want to do it, and why or why not? You know, stuff like that.”
“About that,” Ham said, “it’s a bit unusual, the amount, $12 million. In my experience, blackmailers or extortionists usually go for nice round numbers. It’s pretty universal, so why $12 million? Why not ten million, or fifteen million, or something round like that? Why twelve mill? There’s a clue there.”
“You think, Sherlock?” Drew mocked. “What, that there’s two people—I mean, the notes do say “we” all the time—and they each want six million? Or three who want four? Or maybe four who want three.” Drew pulled on her lip, seemingly seriously considering. “You know what? It could in fact be six wanting two. Two’s a pretty normal number, more so than four, and a hell of a lot more so than six.” She snorted contempt as she added, “Wait, wait, wait, I got it. Twelve, with one apiece. Yeah, by damn, that’s it. Twelve people wanting one million. Pretty obvious now that you point this out, Ham.”
“In other words,” Ham responded mildly, “you disagree. You don’t think twelve million is either unusual nor is it a clue regarding anything.”
Drew smiled as though to take the sting out of her mockery. “And that’s why you’re Sherlock, Holmes.”
Ham shrugged, neither offended nor concerned with her acerbity. It was, he knew, only Drew. “You may be right at that. But we ought to at least keep it in mind.”
“When we have nothing else to do.”
“I get it, Drew. I get it.”
“Back to my question,” Drew prompted. “Is it doable? Desirable? What’s the deal, Blake?”
“To be honest, I don’t know. I don’t keep that kind of liquid assets on hand. I mean, hell, who does? I might be able to get half by then. Maybe. I’ll have to call my accountant.”
“You’ll have it all,” Russ announced. “I’ve got the other half, I’m pretty sure of that. And if we’re short, we’ll get it from the record company, or from the concert promoter, or from the bank or from the other guys. Either way, don’t worry about it, that’s just little shit. I’ll take care of that tomorrow, or” glancing at his watch, “I suppose I should say today. We’ll make the arrangements this afternoon so we don’t have to worry about pulling it together Monday. I don’t want to have to sweat it near the deadline, you know?”
Blake nodded, a silent and weary assent. Before more could be said, before further hurt could attach to her father, Charlie put one protective arm around his shoulders and one hand as support on his elbow as she led him to the stairs. “Pop’s had enough for today,” she announced to none of them, to all of them. “I’m putting him to bed. And you, Ham,” she pointedly stated, “if you were serious, if you’re going to watch over Popster tonight, you follow along.”
Ham did exactly as instructed. No way was this a time to disobey Ms. Hollister. Not with that look. A look that, if it merely killed, would be a blessing.
As he followed along behind them, Ham took the opportunity to check the phone message that had come in during the past half hour, the one that he’d neither heard nor felt vibrate during all the excitement. He half listened as time and date were announced, then stopped, rammed his finger in his free ear in order to concentrate on the voice coming over the line and stood there, mouth agape, eyes wide…and brain dead.
He’d done it again. Fuck.
“Charlie, you go on ahead and help your dad to bed. I’ll be up in a few minutes. Wait up for me, will you? We need to talk.”
As they moved on, Ham hung back just enough to put Charlie and Blake out of earshot. He saved the message that had caught his attention, then hit return call. Surprisingly for that time of night—or the morning—the phone was answered after only two rings. “Hey, Danny, it’s me. I got your message. Have you told anybody else about this? No? Good. Give me twenty-four hours and if you haven’t heard from me, call Wilson Phillips at the Honolulu Police Department and give him everything you’ve got. Tell him to pull out all the stops, it’ll lead him to the cop killer, the one who killed Kane. Also…are you getting all this?...I can’t slow down, you just have to write faster…Then call a guy name Tommy at the Placer County Sheriff’s Office, Tahoe substation. I don’t know how many bodies there’ll be, but there will be at least one…me. You got all this?...I do not have time to explain it now, Danny, you’re just going to have to take me on my word. But speaking of my word, I promise, if I’m still alive and kicking in 24 hours, I’ll buy you a bottle or several of whatever you want and I’ll spend the night regaling you with outrageous tales of my fling with superstardom…Right, twenty-four hours. Bye.”
Ham trudged up the stairs, still furious with himself, but determined to come clean. When he entered the massive room, Blake was sitting on his king sized bed, Charlie sprawled in a nearby recliner, both of them looking less than ready for battle.
Which was a shame, he thought, because that’s exactly what they were going to have to do. And very, very soon.
17
KNOCKIN’ ON HEAVEN’S DOOR
Ham, as his last official duty before sleep, had scoured the house and grounds for any hint of anything amiss. He’d found none, and had accomplished nothing except to totally exhaust and freeze himself.
Afterward, snuggling under several blankets and two comforters, his mind still rejected what he’d seen
as simply too fantastical. Blake’s Tahoe City house was the epitome of gated lakefront debauchery. In the main house, he’d trudged through seven bedrooms, eight bathrooms, a theater, billiard room, a huge family room with a massive stone fireplace, a fitness center, wine cellar replete with a tasting room, and a gourmet kitchen, all somehow snuggled into a cozy 12,000 square feet of residence. Aside from the main house, he’d explored two guest houses, and another for the caretaker, which was now Lindsey and Gordon’s primary residence. Each of those three separate buildings ran approximately 1300 square feet, with three bedrooms, two bathrooms, living room, dining room, kitchen, laundry room, and outside patio area. As for the outside area of the main house, there was a massive fire pit, several gas grills spread around the four acres, along with park-like benches and tables, a spa and a pool—Blake thought the lake far too cold for swimming, Ham was told—and a 145 foot pier with housing for the Tahoe Too, four other slips and a picnic house. The beach itself was pure sand and stretched for 300 feet across the property line. There was a four car garage and two generators for backup, which Blake claimed as necessary given the major storms that often passed through in the depth of winter. Occasionally, he added, they even proved necessary in the summer season when in the aftermath of those frequent nighttime thunder storms the power stayed out for hours on end.
Just to set the bar at a height a level or three above total decadence, the drive was heated, saving the caretaker—Gordo—from shoveling or plowing the endless entranceway.
All of this contributed to the smile warming Ham’s face, but certainly did not explain it all. For the rest, he need only glance over to Charlie as she and Ham tromped across the snow laden dock toward a heated picnic house that projected from one end of the pier. Inside, they discovered that a fire already warmed the room, its fragrant cheeriness augmenting the natural coziness of the miniature cabin. Lindsey and Gordo greeted them as they blew in with the snow tinged wind, and right on schedule.
That they arrived in timely fashion was due to the fact that Charlie had taken it upon herself to awaken Ham with the irresistible aroma of freshly brewed coffee and a thoroughly resistible and worried frown. Trying not to wake her Popster, she gently shook Ham’s shoulder, proffered the cup and whispered, “It’s seven a.m. Take a minute to shake the cobwebs out, then join me downstairs. Lindsey and Gordo are at the boat house and they’re going to make us breakfast. Meantime, we’ll let Pop sleep. Russ will get him up in time.”
Within ten minutes, Ham had drained the cup, thrown on clothes, gloves, hat and boots and met Charlie down by the entrance. “Drew will join us in just a bit,” Charlie informed him as they made final preparations for the onslaught of misery that was this morning’s weather. “She’ll bring Carson. I think all else is set so let’s do this thing.” Grabbing the knob, prepared to fling herself into the wind raged elements, she inquired, “Ready?” At his nod, she added, “Keep close on my tail and follow my footsteps. I wouldn’t want you to fall off the dock and into this water. Instant death.”
As he fantasized staying on her tail, Ham trailed closely behind. He kept his eyes cast downward, protecting his face from the wind, sleet and snow as best as was possible in the face of the newly threatening squall. “Christ, is it always like this?” he shouted into the storm. His words, lost in the roar of wind, drifted out and away, anywhere and everywhere but to Charlie’s bundled up ears.
“Is it always like this?” Ham repeated in a bellow as they rushed through the door and slammed it behind them with a bigger rush still. “Christ in heaven! This is completely, absolutely, totally freaking crazy. Who in the hell would ever live here? And why?”
“So speaketh the Vegas wimp,” Charlie grinned. “God, that smells wonderful,” she announced to Lindsey.
“This is just a bracing little gust,” Gordo added. “It’s great for skiing, blows the powder around, adds to the aura of being in a winter paradise. I mean, come on, man, where’s your balls?”
“Frozen somewhere back along the dock, no doubt.”
“Lindsey,” Charlie offered, “whatever you’ve got cooking I’m ready to eat. It smells like a bakery in here. Fantastic.”
“We got ham, bacon, scrambled eggs, hash browns and cinnamon biscuits with orange crusted icing. It’s the cinnamon that ups the aromatic ante.” She nodded over her shoulder toward the laid out table. “Sit down, it’s almost ready.”
Lindsey deftly flipped the meats one last time, even as she spooned out a generous helping of scrambled eggs on four of the six plates set at the table. She added two cinnamon treats for each, then set two large plates in the center of the table, one laden with ham, the other with bacon. Finally, with a flourish, she ladled the potatoes onto their plates, placed a large pitcher of orange juice in the middle, next to the already present carafe of coffee, and with a dramatic “woof” fluffed the nonexistent hair from her in front of her eyes. As one, inspired by her playfully frantic whimsy, they burst into sustained applause. Shouts of “bravo”, “more”, and “encore” echoed across the little room as Lindsey laughed appreciation.
“Dig in,” she announced.
“Do you guys always eat like this?” Ham inquired. “You can’t, can you? Really, you’d have be blimps, both of you. Or at least I would if I did this every day.” Glancing at Charlie, he asked, “Wouldn’t you?”
“Don’t bother me. I’m busy.”
“Gordo likes a big breakfast the morning after I get back,” Lindsey laughed. “He says he doesn’t eat when I’m away. Of course,” she glared suspiciously at her husband, “I find that doubtful what with dishes stacked in the sink, candy wrappers strewn all over the rooms, and baskets full of empty beer cans, potato chip bags and the like.”
“I’m just a skeleton of myself by time you get back,” Gordo mumbled between bites. “Just a little bitty bit of a thing.”
Their chuckles were interrupted with cries of pain as wind and snow whipped into the room, across the table and their faces, and threatened to upend much of the food laden dishes and bowls. “What the hell?” Ham yelled.
“Sorry,” Drew announced as she slammed the weather out from their midst. “It’s just us.” Her nose wrinkled in pleasure but then, as she appeared about to compliment the chef, her eyes grew wide with astonishment and amusement as she took in the bounty at the table. “You have got to be kidding me. You said a quick breakfast,” she accused. “You really did, you said that. Boy, did you ever lie or what?”
“Quit your complaining,” Ham remonstrated. “Back home you’d kill for this.”
“Is that a—”
“A reference to your culinary ability, yes,” Ham affirmed. “So shut up and eat. Enjoy it while you can.”
“I don’t take much in the morning,” she announced as she overloaded her plate. “Bird-like, that’s how I eat.”
Carson spoke up for the first time. “Pterodactyl, I’m guessing. Leave me some, will you?”
“Har har.” To Gordo, she smiled, “You are one lucky man, my friend. Lord knows no man of mine gets a meal like this.”
“No man of hers gets out of the kitchen alive,” Ham corrected. “That’s what she means, even if she doesn’t want to admit it.”
Drew ignored Ham’s dig and continued as though there had been no interruption. “So how did you two meet, anyway?” Drew inquired. “And how long have you been married?”
Gordo ducked the cinnamon bun Lindsey threw at him in response to the old “way too long” rejoinder and chuckled, “We met through Lindsey’s stepdad. He owned a shop where he restored classic cars and where I worked for him. Once he married Lindsey’s mom, they invited me to join them in Hawaii, I met Lindsey, and of course Blake, and the rest is, as they say, history.”
“Wow,” Ham laughed, “that’s a hell of a twist of fate. Get a job, becomes friends with your boss, meet a rock star and his aide, marry the aide and work for the star. Jesus, man, you ought to write your memoirs.”
Gordo smiled, a good natured if
somewhat embarrassed grin. “I’m not much with books. I’m just the handyman. But I’m real good at that,” he allowed with a small laugh.
Lindsey looked a lot less amused than her husband as she frostily amended, “Not to mention that it wouldn’t be fair to Blake, having people around him write memoirs in which he’d play such a large part. It’s disgraceful, the very idea of it.”
They fell silent as the food consumed their rapt attention. Each of the diners spent the next few minutes purely within their own thoughts, moments that were used for savoring the hot food, minutes where the clink of silverware against plates was the only sound competing with the pop of the fireplace logs, and the lesser whoosh of the windblown drifts that tapped against the windows.
Charlie was the first to place her fork across her plate and shove the dish away. With a heavy sigh, she said, “Lindsey, I’m sorry, this is great and I thank you. It really was sweet of you to do this for us. But I’m too worried about Popster to continue with this, to pretend to be having fun.” To Ham she pleaded, “Tell me, what are we going to do?”
Ham reluctantly set his own fork down, though without pushing the food aside. “We’re going to protect him, Charlie. You, me, Drew, Carson, all of us. That’s a promise, one that I make on my life. If your dad doesn’t live through the prophesized week, I don’t either. Understand? Nobody gets to your dad except through me.”
Gordo raised his hand in exhibit. “Take a look at this oversized paw, Charlie. I’ll swat any son-of-a-bitch like a gnat before he gets anywhere close to Blake. After everything Blake’s done for me, that’s the least I can do for him. And I will. I swear it.”
“The worst that’s going to happen,” Drew added, “is that it’s going to cost your dad some money. Money which he apparently doesn’t need—or even care about—too much anyway. So what’s the big deal, right? Everything will be fine. I promise.”
The Ghost of Truckee River (A Ham McCalister Mystery Book 1) Page 24