Tahoe deep, p.31
Tahoe Deep, page 31
part #17 of An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Series
“Good information, thanks. Do you know who did Carlos Bosstro’s tattoos?”
“Chinless? Yours truly. Most of them, anyway.”
“In your dealings with Bosstro brothers, did you ever get the idea that they were interested in shipwrecks? Or sunken treasure?”
She was silent for a moment. “I try not to talk about my client’s interests, if you understand my meaning. But just because I want to help you, I don’t think I would be out of line to say that shipwrecks and sunken treasure don’t seem like Chinless’s style. And Flyboy, he doesn’t really have any style beyond doing whatever Chinless says.”
“Thanks, Jeannie. You’ve been very helpful.”
“When you want a tattoo, you know where to come.”
“To the woman who drives a reverence.”
“Yeah.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
It was well into evening. So I drove home and called Street at her condo.
“I couldn’t remember if we had dinner plans,” I said when she answered. “I have an appointment tonight with flexible timing.”
“No plans. But sometimes the best experience comes by accident and experiment.”
“Are you talking about science or amore?” I asked.
“This time I’m talking about food. I might have some leftover wild rice soup in the fridge.”
“Now that will get a steak eater’s heart pumping.”
“Perfect,” she said, in spite of my lack of enthusiasm. “You got a time?”
“That’s the tricky part. It could be after dark. This appointment doesn’t have a time. I’m expecting a guy to follow me. After he approaches me, we’re going to have a talk.”
“That sounds worrisome. Like you’re going to poke an animal you shouldn’t.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Will you have backup? Maybe you should call Diamond.”
“Actually, Mallory will be there. He might bring other officers as well. I’ll call you when I’m finished, and we’ll pretend we’re having dinner in Italy.”
“You mean, eating at midnight,” Street said.
“It’ll be romantic.”
“Okay, Blondie and I will be waiting,” Street said. “Although we might be napping.”
“I love you.”
I made a peanut butter sandwich, ate it with milk and chips, and then looked in my closet for appropriate nighttime clothes. Something about my motions must have been unusual, for Spot appeared next to me.
“Up from bed, Your Largeness? What motivates that?”
His head was at my hip. He leaned forward and stuck his head into the closet, sniffing.
“The same clothes as always,” I said. I reached all the way to the left, which isn’t saying much in a closet sized for a 500-square-foot log cabin. Against the rough log wall was a vest on a hanger. It was heavy, made of Kevlar.
I pulled it on over a T-shirt and zipped it up. I put on a navy blue flannel shirt over the vest. The combo was relatively slim. If I stood up straight, most people would just think I was a slightly beefy guy.
The vest had been in the closet since I quit the SFPD and moved to Tahoe. The vest had never been exposed to gunfire. But it had Level III protection and was designed to slow down and tangle up any bullets that weren’t hardened or high-powered. Which of course meant that a wide range of bullets could penetrate it. Another weapon it wouldn’t stop was a good knife or ice pick. I never understood why the physics of a knife getting through tough fabric are different than a bullet. But life is full of mysteries. And stopping a bullet doesn’t always save your life, anyway. Some vests can even stop a .50 caliber round from penetrating. But the impact on your chest, like that of a well-swung baseball bat, will still kill you, breaking your ribs, rupturing your aorta, and stopping your heart.
So as I headed out, I knew I was taking a risk.
To make a convincing pack of money, I wrapped an old Tahoe phone book inside a paper grocery bag, taped it up, and put it into an old gym bag. The book gave the bag some heft and volume, not unlike a thousand pieces of paper the size of a $100 bill. I also needed to bring something that would look like valuable treasure that had spent 80 years on a sunken boat, 400 feet down in Lake Tahoe.
It didn’t have to be a container for stamps. No one but Daniel, Mae, Street, and me knew that was the treasure. Although a savvy killer might surmise that stamps made sense. The main requirement of my “treasure” was that if, as I expected, the killer relieved me of the treasure, he would want to take a look at what the treasure was to verify that I hadn’t set him up in some way. It would need to be convincing.
So I poked around in my cupboards and drawers looking for an idea that would work with the 1940 timing of the scuttling of the SS Tahoe Steamship. I went through my kitchen nook, some old boxes at the back of my bedroom closet. I opened the bathroom vanity. Nothing.
I went back to my little living room and looked at the few knick knacks on the top of the bookcase.
Nothing was both old enough and also waterproof enough to look like it had been on a sunken ship for eight decades.
Outside, I looked under the deck, the only place in a garage-less cabin to tuck stuff out of sight. There was the snow shovel, a rake, the garbage can I use for recycling, and the one I use for trash. There was the wooden bin with the flip-up, roof-shingle lid in which I store stuff I don’t want to get wet: a couple of paint cans, a spare gas can, my tool box, and miscellaneous hardware that I couldn’t fit inside the cabin. Nothing looked valuable or old enough for my purpose.
I went back inside and sat at the fold-down linoleum table in the kitchen nook. The table was one of the only things in the place that looked ancient. But what could I do with a table? I ate at that table, paid my bills at that table, kept my calendar and the landline phone on that table.
Maybe I could make a list of priorities. I reached a pen out of the jar where I kept them. An ancient jar.
I picked it up and looked closer. It was an old, Atlas, aqua blue canning jar with the wire bail lid. Probably made around the turn of the 20th century, which was roughly when the SS Tahoe Steamer was launched. Not only was it old, it looked old and had accumulated 100-plus years of stains and grime.
When the steamer was scuttled in 1940, plastics as we know them had not yet been invented. There were very few ways anyone could waterproof something. One of those few ways was inside a canning jar.
It made sense that a treasure that was physically small could be put into a canning jar. With the top sealed tightly, it was possible it could remain dry inside the jar for decades. Even 400 feet down in Lake Tahoe.
More importantly, it seemed plausible. The person after the Tahoe Steamer treasure might well believe that an old canning jar could protect a treasure.
Now the question was what kind of treasure could fit into it. If they didn’t know it was stamps, something like gold and diamonds and jewelry of all sorts would be more believable. But I had nothing like that. No old watch. No antique keepsakes.
I took another tour of my little cabin, looking at odds and ends, trying to find some old item that could possibly seem valuable, even if it was worthless. Spot was puzzled by my unusual actions. He followed me, watching me, maybe wondering if I had lost something extremely important. Like a package of dog treats.
I focused on anything that was old or looked old. In my utensils drawer was an ancient fork. Could I convince someone that it was a collector’s item, a fork that Ben Franklin ate with and was, thus, extremely valuable? Probably not. But that was my task.
After a second circuit of my cabin and its possessions, I looked at my bookcase.
On the second shelf, left side, I had a few books with poetry, a couple of anthologies, a collection of Yeats, Shakespeare’s sonnets, Maya Angelou. Tucked in was a tiny leather-bound volume of Robert Service. It was chapbook size, about four inches wide and six inches tall and contained the collection called The Songs Of A Sourdough including the famous poems The Shooting Of Dan McGrew and The Cremation Of Sam McGee. The leather cover was originally dyed red but was now crinkled and missing most of its color. I didn’t remember when the famous poems were published, but it was probably around the same time that the Atlas canning jar was made. I flipped the pages. Other than some notes and asterisks penciled in the margins, there was nothing.
It reminded me very much of the chapbook of Nora Callahan’s poems that I’d stolen from Brand Morse when I looked into Colin Callahan’s footlocker.
I took the Robert Service chapbook and gave it a substantial curl. I was able to slip it in through the mouth of the canning jar. I closed the lid and flipped the wire bail up to lock it.
It looked like an ancient treasure, an old leather book inside an old jar. It didn’t sparkle like jewelry. But if someone believed it was treasure, they might logically assume that somewhere in the words or penciled notes in the margin was a key to something of substantial value. If the people after treasure were looking for an Inverted Jenny stamp, an old chapbook might be the perfect place to hide it.
I put the jar with chapbook into a paper grocery bag and put that into the gym bag as well.
I went outside with Spot and we got into the Jeep.
My first stop was Street’s condo, where I left Spot with her and Blondie.
I thanked her, kissed her, and left.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
It was 10 p.m. when I turned left onto the highway and headed toward the tunnel and the South Shore beyond, looking for a possible location for my phony meeting place. I drove at a medium pace, easy to follow for the killer, who, I assumed, was somewhere behind me, or would be shortly.
Even though my fake appointment wasn’t until 11:45, I expected to pick up a tail soon after I left. I would give that tail a nice long job following me. Because my tail wouldn’t expect me to be on guard until I anticipated the meeting, I might get a chance to catch that tail and do some interrogation.
Shortly after I turned onto the highway heading south, I saw a vehicle appear behind me. It stayed farther back than is common in our rush-rush world that seems to turn everyone into a tailgater. The vehicle’s headlights were on, obscuring the make of the car. I kept looking in my rearview mirror. I’d gone less than a mile when the vehicle turned off onto a side road and then pulled back onto the highway going north, back toward where we’d come from.
In the short moment that it was sideways to me, I got a glimpse of it in the rearview mirror.
Not a car. A pickup. Maroon.
To avoid making my brake lights flash, I hit my parking brake fast but soft, pulled a quick U-turn, and raced after it. I fumbled my cell phone out and hit the one other number I have in speed dial besides Diamond’s.
“Hello?”
“Sweetheart, we have a change of plans. There is a man driving your way. I don’t know his intentions. But it’s possible he is coming to intimidate you and use you to get at me. I’m following him and will be at your door in a few minutes.” I was already up to 70 miles an hour, but still couldn’t see the maroon pickup.
“What should I do?!”
“Take hold of Spot’s collar and hold him in front of you. No one can get to you through him. Once you have Spot with you, dial nine, one, one and report a home invasion. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
I hung up and concentrated on my driving. When I got to Street’s condo development, I pulled into the lot. There was no maroon pickup in sight. But all that meant was that the driver had left the pickup out of sight, around back or in the forest.
I jerked to a stop and ran to Street’s front door. It was shut and showed no damage. Nevertheless, I put my key into her lock. It wouldn’t fit. Wrong key. I pulled it out and was trying to grab the correct key when I heard a crash and a scream. Spot started barking ferociously.
I got the key in the lock, turned it, and pushed inside.
Just past the living room, was Blondie. She was in the kitchen, barking in fast, high-pitched yips. To the right side of the kitchen, stood Street in the bathroom doorway. Spot was in front of her, barking and growling. On the floor near his paws was Street’s phone. The floor sparkled with pieces of broken glass. Behind Street, holding her arms from behind, was Carlos Chinless Bosstro, a huge man with a grimy face. I immediately understood that Street had taken Spot and backed up to the bathroom, expecting that any home invasion would be through the front door or one of the large windows in the living room. Instead, Bosstro had dived through the bathroom window, an opening I didn’t think was large enough for him to fit through.
The man held Street in front of him in the small space of the bathroom doorway. He used Street as a shield to protect himself from Spot. Street was immobilized in his grip.
The man saw me come in. “Call off your dog or I break her neck!”
“Spot. Come here,” I said, knowing he would not obey. He was still growling, lips lifted, fangs exposed. I walked forward slowly, reached out and took hold of Spot’s collar. “Easy boy, let’s back up.”
“Take the other dog, too.”
I reached my other hand down and grabbed Blondie’s collar. I pulled both dogs back until we were in the living room.
The man marched Street forward into the kitchen, putting the counter between himself and me. He held her near the counter, again using her as a shield in case I started firing bullets.
Street eyes were huge, and she shook with terror. The man had his head right over her shoulder, his mouth near her ear. When he spoke, it would be so loud that she wouldn’t be able to think clearly.
The big man practically barked. “Where’s the shipwreck stuff?”
Street jerked from the volume.
Spot was still growling.
“I’m meeting a man tonight,” I said. “He has the treasure. I have a hundred thousand dollars. We trade.” Chinless had heard as much from his brother. I wanted my story to match what I’d told Flyboy.
“Let Street go, and I’ll give you the money,” I said. “It’s in my Jeep.”
“What is the treasure?”
“I don’t know. It was brought up by an underwater drone from the Tahoe Steamer.”
“You must have an idea.”
“I have several ideas. But they might all be wrong.”
“What are they?”
I hesitated.
“WHAT ARE THEY?” he shouted.
Street quivered in terror.
“I’m thinking!” I tried to make a focused look directly at Street. “This is not the easiest situation to put me through a memory test.” As I said the words ‘memory test,’ I made an almost-imperceptible nod toward Street, a motion she’d notice, but not one a stranger would recognize. I hoped she’d remember when I broke her pepper shaker and used those same words.
In a sudden movement that caught the big man off guard, Street bent forward hard, yanked one arm free, and reached out for the pepper shaker I’d broken and on which I’d delicately perched the broken top. As she grabbed it, the top flew off. Street jerked the shaker up and back, over her shoulder. I saw pepper fly, some of it striking the man in his face.
He made a gargled choking sound, let go of Street, and reached for his eyes as he began coughing.
I let go of Spot and leaped forward, grabbing the fire extinguisher that Street had mounted nearby. I pulled the quick release catch. Chinless had recovered and was reaching for Street once again.
I leaped across the counter, sliding on my stomach, and struck the side of his face with the base of the extinguisher. It staggered him. He took two steps back to catch his balance. The back of his head hit the exhaust hood above Street’s stovetop. I was back on my feet in the small confines of Street’s kitchen. I was about to strike another blow, when he got his hands up and grabbed the body of the extinguisher. He was stunned, but he was still very strong. I couldn’t jerk the extinguisher away from him.
I took the chance of releasing my grip with one of my hands. I knew that would give him complete control of the extinguisher. But very quickly, I pulled the safety tab and squeezed the trigger.
White foam shot toward the side of his head, mostly missing him. But some overspray went into his eyes and nose.
The man let go of the extinguisher and put his hands to his face.
I jammed the nozzle into the man’s mouth and shot a full force spray.
Chinless choked and went down, dropping to his knees. He grabbed blindly, trying to get a grip on anything but air. Unable to see, his hands found the cupboard door beneath the kitchen sink. He jerked it open and felt inside, trying to find a weapon. But there was nothing but a trash can and plumbing.
I swung the extinguisher at him again. He was jerking so hard that I only succeeded in a glancing blow. But he dropped to the floor, flat on his back. I kneeled on his abdomen.
He gagged and writhed, trying to breathe.
I heard growling and realized that Spot had grabbed his ankle.
In an incredible show of strength and self-control, Chinless grabbed once again for the extinguisher. But his hands, covered in foam, slipped off the cylinder. I raised the cylinder and slammed it down on his head, hard enough to break bones, but not hard enough to kill. I sprayed more foam in his eyes, in his ears, up his nose, and in his mouth.
