Tahoe deep, p.32
Tahoe Deep, page 32
part #17 of An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Series
He stopped flailing with his arms.
I set the extinguisher to the side. There was a choke collar clipped onto his belt. I undid the catch, and put the collar around his neck. I stood up. On Street’s counter was an electric hand-held mixer. I unplugged it, kneeled down, and threaded the plug through the ring on the end of the choke collar. I pulled it tight so that the mixer slid up to the collar ring and pulled the collar tight around his neck, the mixer next to his ear. Then I reached under the sink with the power cord and tied it to the plumbing. The man would be able to rip it out, but it would slow him down.
Spot still held the man’s ankle. The fact that he’d stopped thrashing despite what must be significant pain from inhaled foam and broken ankle flesh, and maybe broken ankle bones, indicated his weak condition. Maybe he was unconscious.
I stood up, turned to Street, and held her.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded. Her face was wet with the tears of terror.
“I’m so sorry. It was my fault. I underestimated the man.”
Street gripped me hard as sirens grew in the distance.
Diamond must have seen the dispatch with Street’s address. He was the first to her door. I let him in.
“Is Street safe?” he asked.
“Physically, yes.”
Diamond nodded at me. He walked in, reached out and took Street’s hand in both of his. It was a silent moment, an important and reassuring gesture.
Diamond looked at the glass on the floor and the broken bathroom window, taking it all in.
I knew I didn’t need to make any explanation. I took hold of Spot, pulled him off Bosstro, and brought him to where Street was standing.
Then Diamond stepped around us and went to the kitchen. He bent down and looked at Bosstro. “He’s still breathing despite an interesting restraint system.” Diamond leaned forward and peered under the kitchen sink to see where the electric cord was tied.
“A deputy in the Central Valley told me that this man is known for putting choke collars on the people he kills,” I said. “I found the choke collar on his belt. So I borrowed it to use on him.”
Two other deputies had come in the front door. Behind them was an EMT standing in the open doorway. Moths were buzzing about the outdoor light. Two of them flew into Street’s condo as I watched.
“Help me pull this beef out from under the sink,” Diamond said to them.
I opened Street’s tool drawer and pulled out a wire cutter. I handed it to one of the deputies.
The two men cut the cord and dragged Carlos Bosstro out onto the living room floor.
“Roll him over,” Diamond said.
“He’s barely breathing,” one deputy said. “The EMTs should get him on a stretcher and take him to the hospital.”
“First, roll him over.”
They did as told. Diamond pulled Bosstro’s wrists together behind his back and cuffed him.
“Now you can roll him back.”
They got him onto his back, his arms beneath him.
“Shackle his feet,” Diamond said.
A female EMT came through the door. “Sir, the man is unconscious, and it looks like he might not even survive.”
Diamond looked at Street as he spoke. “Then he’ll die with shackles on his feet.”
One of the deputies went out to the patrol unit, came back with shackles, and put them on Bosstro’s feet.
The EMTs brought in a stretcher and used it to carry Bosstro out to the ambulance. Diamond had one of the deputies ride along as they took Bosstro to the hospital.
After everyone else had left, Diamond stayed and talked to Street and me. Street sat on her couch, her hands on Blondie, who had her head on Street’s lap. I was on Street’s other side, rubbing Street’s knee. Diamond sat opposite her, on the fireplace hearth, his back against the gas stove. His ability to say a few perfect words here and there was masterful. Street calmed almost to normalcy.
In time, Diamond looked at his watch and said to me, “You have an appointment tonight, right?”
“How did you know? I’ve told no one but Street.”
“I see that you are bulky under your shirt. That implies an appointment.”
“It’s not critical,” I said.
“That kind of bulk suggests it is.”
Street frowned, not understanding Diamond’s meaning.
“I should stay here with Street,” I said.
“I’ll stay,” Diamond said.
She looked at me. “You said you were going to provoke someone...”
“Yes. I thought it would turn out to be Chinless. But he came here instead, to get you as leverage. So maybe I no longer have an appointment. Or maybe there is another man, a ring leader.”
Street frowned. “I’ll be fine with Diamond here. But maybe you could leave Spot with me and figure out how to board up my broken bathroom window.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I don’t know if it would help, but there are some scraps of plywood in the woods out back. Some kids were using them to cobble together a fort.”
So Diamond and I collected some of Street’s tools and some screws that were in her drawer. We took our flashlights out back. We didn’t have a saw, but we found a narrow piece of plywood that was wide enough to span the width of the window. The extra length just made it so the wood went from close to the ground to well above the window. When we were done, it would require some time and effort for anyone to remove it.
“How long can you stay here?” I asked Diamond.
He looked at the time. “Thirty minutes.”
“That will be fine,” Street said. “The window’s boarded up and I’ve got both dogs.”
I said goodbye and left Street with Diamond, Spot, and Blondie.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
I watched the sides of the highway as I drove south. I watched my rearview mirrors as well. Unlike when Carlos Bosstro followed me, nothing stood out. If a vehicle was following, it was far enough back that I couldn’t track it. Or, if a vehicle was old or had a way to turn off the automatic running lights, it could be closer, running dark.
After my adrenaline surge from having Bosstro break into Street’s and taking her hostage, I was so tense I felt my fingertips digging into the steering wheel.
I tried to focus on places suitable for trading 100K in cash for sunken treasure worth much more, according to the fiction I’d been weaving. I’d be safe until that meeting supposedly happened. After that, I’d be dead or not quite dead or gloriously alive, depending on the skills of the person hunting me and my own reaction and luck.
I was still trying to think of a good meeting spot as I approached the Stateline hotels. An idea occurred to me.
I pulled over at one of the casino hotels and dialed Commander Mallory of the South Lake Tahoe PD. I left a voicemail saying that I thought Colin Callahan’s killer was following me and that I was up against a time deadline.
After ten minutes of waiting, I gave up and had just started the engine when my phone rang.
“Mallory, here.” His voice sounded extra rough.
“Getting a cold?” I said as I pulled out onto Lake Tahoe Blvd.
“Just getting old,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I turned fifty yesterday. Do you know what I did last night to celebrate? I stayed in by myself, drank an extra beer, and was in bed and asleep by nine-thirty. You guys with girlfriends don’t know how good you’ve got it. Or maybe I don’t know how good I’ve got it.”
“Either way, extra beer and early to bed sounds like a good birthday to me,” I said. “Maybe we’ll have additional reasons to celebrate tonight, if you agree to help. I’m leaving the hotel casinos at Stateline, heading toward your fair city. I assume - but don’t know for certain - that someone is following me. I believe that person killed Colin Callahan.”
“And this person got word to follow you because of your phone trick at the Douglas County jail.”
“Word gets around?” I said.
“I had to call Sergeant Martinez on another matter. He was amused by your techniques. But he’s hoping there won’t be fallout from the injuries the inmate suffered at your hands.”
“The guy lunged for me. I admit that my evasive maneuver may have helped steer him toward the wall. But if he hadn’t hit it, he would have had more energy to beat me to a pulp.”
“So, regarding the guy following you now,” he said, ignoring my comment, “how did that come about?”
“The man in the Stateline jail cell is large and violent and of limited intelligence. His name is Jeff Bosstro and he’s called Flyboy because of a fly tattoo on his face. I let myself be overheard talking on a burner phone. I arranged a meeting to pay one hundred thousand in cash for a much more valuable treasure. Then I accidentally-on-purpose left that burner phone in Flyboy’s cell because I wanted him to call his brother or the ring leader of this sunken treasure game and explain what I was doing. But before I could stage my bogus meeting, that brother, Carlos Bosstro, broke into Street’s condo in an effort to control me. Fortunately, Diamond and I apprehended him an hour ago. If Carlos is the leader who was planning on intercepting my phony meeting tonight, then my job is done. If not, I believe the man in charge will be following me. I think he killed Colin Callahan and Jacky Wormack, the diver at Glenbrook Bay who was killed the same way.”
“You mean, compressed air shot into the body.”
“Right.”
“And why would this man be following you?”
“Because what is motivating these guys is treasure brought up from the Tahoe Steamer during the Tahoe Steamer Festival. That’s what they think I’m purchasing.”
“And what is this sunken treasure?”
I paused for a moment, thinking about how to answer now that I knew that the real treasure was in the back of a picture frame on Daniel’s mantle.
“That’s the question everyone wants to know. So I mocked up a treasure using an antique-looking, leather-bound book rolled up inside an old Atlas canning jar.”
There was a long silence before Mallory spoke. “This whole thing is a charade? The Steamer Festival, the treasure, phone calls… I feel like I’m in Hitchcock’s Gaslight movie. A setup to make people crazy.”
“Kind of, yeah.” I said. “Anyway, after overhearing me have a fake telephone conversation in the jail, Flyboy thinks I’m paying one hundred K for the treasure because I have the contacts to resell it for a million or two.”
“Is that reasonable?” Mallory asked.
“Reasonable enough for the Bosstro brothers to believe it. Hopefully, the man in charge too.”
“What’s your next move?”
“I pick a place for my meeting and go there.”
“Why are you contacting me?”
“Because a big-kahuna cop like you might want to be there, too. After the man shows up and tries to take the treasure I’ve bought, you can reveal yourself, corral the bad guy, and ride off into the sunset a hero.”
“Big kahuna?”
“It sounds snarky, but it actually means wise shaman,” I said.
“This sounds complicated. Where is this meeting being held?”
“Wherever you want. You could choose a place that suits your purposes, and I’ll lead the man to you.”
“What will you do at this meeting?”
“I’ll walk into the shadows, pretend to meet my fictional contact, pull out my fictional bag of money, and apparently exchange it for the fictional sunken treasure. Then my contact will seem to melt into the shadows with the money I’m paying him, which should be easy for him considering he doesn’t exist. And I’ll make as if to head back to my vehicle with the fictional treasure.”
“The old jar,” Mallory said, disbelief in his voice.
“Right.”
“This hundred big ones you’re supposedly paying the guy who doesn’t actually exist. What are you using to mock that up?”
“I wrapped up an old phone book in a brown paper bag. It’s about the right size and weight.”
Mallory seemed to be taking heavy breaths over the phone. “What would you have me do, now?”
“Pick a meeting spot.”
“Where you will lead the man who maybe wants to kill you.”
“Right.”
Mallory paused. “Okay, let’s go to El Dorado Beach. Where we first found Colin Callahan’s body. But I worry that someone else could get hurt.”
“I don’t think you need to worry. This killer has never used any weapon that would likely miss and hit someone else. The only murders I know of have been the two compressed-air deaths. The only attempted murder that failed was when Flyboy Jeff Bosstro tried to kill me with a baseball bat at the Cave Rock park. And when he tried to smash me in the Stateline jail. In the compressed-air deaths, there is very little risk of collateral damage. In the attempted beatings, the more people there are around, the more likely it is that the attacker will hold off and try to accomplish his mission with threats alone.”
Mallory didn’t immediately dispute me. After a long pause, I realized he wasn’t even going to respond, which I took to be tentative agreement.
“And there are lots of shadows on that beach,” I said. “Especially near the boat launch. If I can find the best place for someone to kill me, I’m more likely to draw an attack, and you’re more likely to get your killer.”
“You got any sense of how I might identify him?”
“No. I don’t know who he is. The only way to identify him is when he approaches me to steal my treasure or shoots me with compressed air and then tries to run off with the goods.”
“Got it. When will you get there?”
“I just went by Heavenly Village. I’m just five minutes out.”
“Stretch it to ten before you go in,” Mallory said. He hung up.
I took it slow and made some extra turns. Someone tailing me might think I was trying to lose a tail. Ten minutes later, I parked in the lot nearest to El Dorado Beach. Because it was the peak of the tourist season, there weren’t many empty spots. The lake was almost as beautiful to experience at night as during the day.
I took my gym bag with the fake money and treasure jar inside of it and started walking.
As I crossed Lakeview Avenue and walked into the little park, there were several people, some in groups, some alone. They sat at the top of the grand steps, watching the distant boats and the more distant lights across the lake. Other groups were in the park area above the beach, huddled around charcoal fires in the barbecues, cooking late-night dinners and S’Mores, drinking verboten alcoholic beverages, and smoking joints.
Maybe the relative crowds would scare off an attacker. But an advantage was also apparent. The killer might be more inclined to attack because he would think that he could escape detection by blending in with the other people, especially after I was dead or wounded on the ground.
I paused at the top of the steps and gazed at the stretch of beach below.
The beach was dark and, beyond it, the lake was darker, a pool of black that stretched 22 miles to the North Shore. Lights twinkled in the distance, bright to the east, dimmer to the far north, and almost nonexistent toward the sparsely-populated West Shore.
There were multiple lights moving across the blackness, boats wandering, most on slow cruise. It was the high-altitude version of a water paradise. Take a popular seaside town, remove 90% of the residents and tourists and casinos alike, raise it 6200 feet in the air and nestle it into mountains, lower the temperature accordingly, purify the sea to something close to distilled water, throw in some yachts and Jetskis, trade in the exotic cars for four-wheel-drive SUVs, and you’d have a loose approximation of South Lake Tahoe. What people remain are largely there for the beauty and recreation. They come from all over the world, and you hear four or five languages in the supermarket produce section. This late at night, those same languages were in the air at this beach park.
I didn’t turn around because I didn’t want to inhibit my potential attacker. The lights from the vehicles on Lake Tahoe Blvd provided some illumination to the groups in the park. But the beach below was shrouded in darkness. Two couples and a threesome, walked along the black water. Over to the left was the boat launch. Beyond it, a private pier extended into the water.
As soon as I looked at it, it seemed obvious that the boat launch would provide the most tempting place to attack me and take my loot. So I headed that way. I watched for any man on or near the beach.
The boat launch was a steep ramp that came down from the street. It went through a short tunnel under a utility building and then emerged back into the open air near the water.
At the bottom of the boat launch was a pickup with a boat trailer that had driven down the ramp. It was on the wide apron of pavement just above the water, jockeying back and forth so that it faced back up the launch. From there, the pickup could back the trailer down into the water. About fifty feet out from shore floated a small boat on the dark water. Its running lights were on. The red port light, green starboard light, and white stern light showed that it was pointing toward shore. All I could see of the boat was a short canopy over the cockpit and an outboard motor at the stern. I couldn’t see any passengers. But I knew that at least one person was onboard, waiting to motor in when the boat trailer was positioned in the water.
The pickup and boat would provide good cover for my “meeting.” Anyone pursuing me would feel comfortable knowing that his and my presence wouldn’t be notable when there were others nearby, pulling a boat out of the water.
I headed down the steps. When I got to the sand, I angled toward the boat launch.
Now that I was below the highway, the beach was even darker, the only light from distant buildings and vehicles. Despite the darkness, I could see many vague shapes of people. Some, I’d have to pass by as I walked across the beach toward the boat launch. A couple strolled at the water’s edge, moving toward the pier. They wore long summer coats, like what San Francisco people sometimes wear when they’re walking through cool, foggy air to a bar after the theater. The couple were more focused on each other than their surroundings. Although they were both large people, one was clearly a woman. I thought that made them less likely to be my attackers. Although the man could be with the woman for the cover she provided, he still didn’t strike me as someone who might be after me. Too focused on the woman, too soft in his movements.
