Tahoe Chase (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller) (21 page)

THIRTY-THREE

I dialed Jennifer’s cell number.

After four rings, she answered, excited and breathless as only a kid can be.

“Owen!” she said, “I’m so glad you called! Where are you? How is Street? Is his largeness still catching bad guys? Is it snowing in Tahoe? Do you need a boat or something?”

“Jennifer, such enthusiasm makes me think you were expecting a boyfriend to call.”

“Actually, I was. But I’m glad to hear from you, too!”

“You have a boyfriend? But I wasn’t consulted. Don’t I have approval privileges? If not, I still have approval responsibility.”

“Well, I want your approval, but I’m almost seventeen years old. I have to grow up sometime.”

“You grew up in the brain department about eight years ago. You’re not allowed to grow up in the sex department for another six years. There are rules about these things.”

“More of Owen’s precepts?” she said. “And who said anything about sex, anyway?”

“Where I come from, a boyfriend means sex.”

“Owen, you’re so parochial.”

“Parochial precepts might save you. And shouldn’t you be in school instead of talking to me on the phone?” I added. “That’s the first thing boyfriends do, you know, convince you to skip school and change your major to amore.”

“I am in school. I was in a lecture class on Descartes when you called. Anything for a break from that. Of course, he’s pretty important, but to call him the father of philosophy... gimme a break. Your call is a welcome relief. I sit in the back of that class hoping for a reason to leave prematurely.”

“Why would you want a break?”

“The class is boring. Tedious. It stretches credulity to attach so much importance to this guy. It’s not like he’s the Einstein of philosophy. Not even the Newton. He’s like the Jiffy Lube of philosophy. He came up with a couple of good concepts and wrapped it up in a clever marketing package. To ascribe all future philosophical insights to a Descartes foundation would be like saying that the robot missions to Mars were only possible because of the lubrication business model laid down by Jiffy.”

“But I thought all classes at Harvard were exciting.”

Jennifer burst into guffaws and shrieks and giggles. “That’s good. That’s funny. Wait ’til I tell that to my friends.”

“You will of course exclude my name when you quote any of my pronouncements that they might think dumb?”

“Ha! The marquee at the Harvard Comedy Club will read, ‘Jennifer Salazar performs Owen McKenna, Boston Native And Harvard Apologist.’ I’m going to change my major to performance art. There’s money in standup comedy, you know.”

“But you already have four hundred million.”

“Not if I keep lending you boats, which then get destroyed.”

“Speaking of which...”

“You DO want a boat! I knew it!”

“I just need to make a little trip around the lake and look for a certain boat that’s involved in a spy network.”

“Spies in Tahoe! Wow! The most excitement we ever get at Harvard is when someone is late returning a library book.”

“Libraries are a critical part of the foremost learning institution in the world,” I said.

 More guffaws and giggles. “Okay, do you want to use the runabout or the cruiser or the sailboat? Oh, wait, the sailboat is the one you sunk.”

“Ouch, that hurts,” I said.

“So the cruiser it is, then. Do you remember her name?”

“I don’t think I ever knew.”

“Babar’s Mistress,” she said.

“Because of your elephant project. I like it.”

“I thought you would.”

“How are the elephants, by the way?” I asked.

“Not good. Habitat destruction is still rampant. But worse, ivory poaching remains so severe that elephant survival in the wild is very tenuous. When I was young and naïve, I thought I could just use my money to buy more land in India and Africa and set up protected wildlife havens.”

“But now that you’re old and wise?”

“Now I know that bad people will come onto land, private or not, and kill the elephants anyway. And do you know what terrible euphemism the sympathizers use to minimize public perception of elephant poaching? Resource extraction. Can you believe it?”

“That is disgusting,” I said. “What are you going to do?”

“The key is worldwide education. People need to understand that to buy something made of ivory is to kill more elephants. We’re looking at the very real possibility of the extinction of elephants. It’s so heartbreaking that I sometimes lose hope.”

“Hang in there, Jennifer. The elephants need you.”

I heard a sniffle and cough on the line, and I realized that Jennifer was losing her innocence at a deep level.

“I’ll call my caretaker and let him know you’re coming,” she said, her voice a bit brighter. “When shall I say?”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“Will do. Just one question,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Not that I can’t afford it, but what are the chances that this spy mission will result in Babar’s Mistress being blown up or sunk or riddled with fifty-caliber bullet holes?”

“Less than ten percent for any single one of those. Chances of all three happening at once are miniscule.”

“Okay. And one request?”

“Name it,” I said.

“Will you take Street and Spot? I’d like to have that image in my mind. You’re like the perfect family.”

“Except that Street doesn’t eat brats. She even disapproves of me and Spot eating brats. What kind of perfect family can we be with such a bratwurst divide?”

“Okay, she’s flawed but she’s worth it,” Jennifer said.

THIRTY-FOUR

The next morning, Street and Spot and I drove down the East Shore and turned in at the big gate with the Tiffany lamps. I pressed the button and identified myself to the caretaker. The gate opened, and I drove the Jeep along the winding drive through the Jeffrey pine forest. The snow-covered ground looked clean and spare and uncluttered white. The tall trees had all been trimmed of dead branches up to about 60 feet, which made the landscape look like an abstract, high-mountain version of a Roman colonnade with huge columns of wood instead of marble, arrayed in a random layout instead of in regular rows.

I pulled around the curve at the end and parked in front of the 40-room, French Renaissance mansion, the personal lake estate that Jennifer Salazar called the Mausoleum ever since she was nearly murdered two and a half years ago. Although she was and still is a minor, the courts and state legislature took note of her excessive precociousness – and the sizable chunk of her inheritance that she decided to invest in Nevada – and made an exception to the laws. Ever since, Jennifer is the only Nevada resident under 18 who is considered an adult and doesn’t need a legal guardian.

Street and I got out, and I let Spot out just as the caretaker walked out of the garage, which looked large enough to hold ten vehicles. As Spot ran up to him, he raised his arms in the air and froze. He didn’t project fear as he held his arms up, but simple practicality. He didn’t want his hands mangled by a dog.

“Spot, no,” I said. Spot ignored me and sniffed the motionless man all over. I had to walk up and pull Spot away from him.

“Sorry,” I said.

The man lowered his arms. “Dog’s bigger than a mountain lion,” he said, glaring at Spot. The man had a grizzled face, hard edge of jaw and nose, and red gray hair the texture of wire.

“Randall, right?” I said.

“Wow, good memory.”

When I got close to the caretaker, I understood Spot’s interest. The man smelled of fish.

The caretaker must have seen me sniffing the air.

“I’ve been cleaning fish in the garage. Miss Salazar allows me to fish off the dock when I have the time. Our arrangement is that half of my catch goes into the freezer for her, and I get to eat the other half.”

“I wouldn’t think that she’s home enough to eat her share,” Street said.

“No, she’s not. So she has me drive her share to the local kitchen for the homeless, and she gives it to them. Let me give these mitts another go in the wash, and then I can take you to the boathouse. I’ll be right back.”

He went back into the garage. In a minute he returned, drying his hands on a towel, smelling no different. “You’ll be taking out the big boat, then?” he said as we walked around the house on a flagstone path.

“Yes, please,” I said.

He looked up at the sunny sky. “Nice day for a winter ride.”

“Actually, we’re just looking for a boat. Maybe you’ve seen it. A fifty-nine foot cruiser called a Predator Fifty-Four.”

“White top, black hull?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, surprised that he would know it.

“I’m a bit of a boat fancier. Sometimes I use the binoculars to watch boats. After my chores, of course.”

“Of course,” I said.

“I’ve seen the Predator several times since it first appeared last summer. A standout craft by any measure. I think her home port is someplace a few miles north of here. She always comes and goes at an angle that indicates where she usually docks. I’d guess Cave Rock or thereabouts.”

“Thanks. Good tip.”

He took us into the boathouse. Babar’s Mistress rocked gently. Lapping sounds filled the space as small waves bounced off the boat’s side.

“Didn’t there used to be two slips in here?” I asked, thinking back to the time Street and Spot and I rescued Jennifer from her would-be killer.

“Yes. The runabout was here,” the caretaker said, pointing. “But Babar’s Mistress is too big for easy dry dock, so Miss Salazar had the boathouse renovated and the roof raised to fit it. The runabout is in dry dock instead. In the summer, the runabout goes onto the boat hoist.”

“Hey, Spot, wanna go for a ride?”

Spot has been on many boats, so it was familiar territory. He followed Street onto the boat, wagging with enthusiasm even though some of his boating experiences had ended badly.

The caretaker followed us onboard and gave us a quick tour. The boat had features similar to the Predator 54 but without such slick styling. I suffered a brief pang of envy when I saw that Jennifer’s cruiser was two staterooms bigger than my log cabin, and it had an automatic dishwasher.

We went up to the upper cockpit, and the caretaker gave us basic instructions on running the bilge pump, starting the engine, shifting and steering and working the lines, running the computer and the radio.

“You’ve piloted big boats before, right?”

“Sure,” I said, thinking back on the time I got in a canoe and remarked on how much bigger it was than the kayak I’d ridden in a year before. “What’s the displacement on this ride?” I had to look away from Street who was distracting me by rolling her eyes as if they were loose in her skull.

“Forty-eight thousand pounds,” he said. “So you have to go slow when you ease up to a dock or bring her back into this boathouse.”

“No problem,” I said.

“In case you have any questions, I’ve typed up some checklists here.” He pointed to a three-ring binder in which were several pages in Mylar sleeves. “And if you have trouble, we have the latest marine radios, which I’m sure you’re familiar with. Do you need anything else?” he said in classic butler style.

“No thanks. I think we’re good.”

He nodded at Street, kept his distance from Spot, and left.

I hit the transmitter button to roll up the big boathouse door. Then I studied the checklists.

“Are you not a confident sea captain?” Street said.

“I’m just checking to make sure he got his information correct,” I said.

In my peripheral vision, I saw Street look at Spot, point at me, and make a little questioning shake of her head.

Spot glanced at me, then turned back toward Street and wagged. Maybe he was showing confidence in his master. Or maybe he was laughing at me, too.

 I sat in the captain’s chair on the bridge. With the checklists as my guide, I got the boat started. Street took care of the lines, I shifted into reverse, and we backed out of the boathouse.

Street came up to the cockpit and sat in the port-side captain’s chair. It felt like we were sitting 12 feet above the water.

When we were well back from shore, I shifted into forward and cranked the wheel.

 “You’re pretty sure you know how to run this thing?” Street said. “He made it sound like its excessive size makes it take a long time to stop or turn. I’d hate to hit other boats or run aground.” Street said.

“Your question reveals your confidence in me. I love that.”

“Actually, it looks pretty easy,” Street said.

“You need to remember that I take my responsibilities as boat captain very seriously. There’s a lot involved.”

“So I see.”

I kept it at idle as we motored north slower than Spot swims when he’s taking it easy.

“Do you need me to navigate?” Street said.

“I’m just heading toward Cave Rock like the caretaker suggested.”

“And you know the direction,” she said.

I pointed at Cave Rock, which stuck up from the shore in front of us. “I thought I’d just aim the boat toward it. Do you think that will work?”

“Probably,” Street said. “But you’ve got so much to keep track of, being captain and all, I thought maybe you needed to plug coordinates into the computer.”

“To enhance our adventure, I think we’ll just do it the nineteenth century way.”

“What shall we look for?” Street said.

“A big, sleek boat. But it will likely be hiding inside a boathouse.”

“Hiding,” Street said. “Because it’s wondering if you’re looking for it.”

“Right.”

“How will we find it when it’s hiding?”

“Most boathouses have walls that start somewhere above the waterline. Because the lake level is down, I’m hoping we can see underneath those walls. If so, the hull will show. It’s black, and that’s unusual. So that should make it easier for us.”

Street nodded.

We motored north.

Spot got tired of looking out the side of the lounge area behind the cockpit. He walked over to one of the curved seating areas and looked at the cushions.

“Spot’s looking at the settee,” Street said. “You think it’s okay if he lies on it?”

“Jennifer would say yes,” I said.

Street walked over, patted the cushion and said, “It’s okay, Spot.”

He jumped up, lay down, stretched out his jaw between his front paws. The sun coming through the vinyl windows of the removable canopy was warm, and he went to sleep. Behind him was the deep blue of the lake and the mountains beyond that.

The East Shore has lots of boathouses. We cruised by at a crawl. Street found the binocular stowage and focused a pair of them on the shore.

“Any luck?” I said after we’d gone a few miles.

“No. Lots of boats, but every one has a white hull.”

“Cave Rock is coming up,” I said. “I’d hoped we’d find it by now.”

“Sorry,” Street said.

We cruised by the last house south of Cave Rock. Then we came to the state park and the boat launch. Cave Rock loomed above. I looked up at the vertical wall of rock where Ryan Lear’s friend and business partner had fallen to his death while making an illegal free-climb the previous summer.

“No black-hulled boats,” Street said. “There are houses north of Cave Rock. You want to keep going?”

I nodded. “It would be worth it to go all around the lake to find out who is behind Ned Cavett’s spy mission.”

“Did it occur to you that we might not find the boat? It could be in a boathouse where we can’t see under the walls.”

“Yeah, it occurred to me. I’ve seen boathouses that are set into the shoreline and nothing is visible. But I have nothing else to go on.”

“Just checking,” Street said.

We went around Cave Rock. The shoreline curved to the northeast. The highway was well above the shore. There was a row of houses tucked in below, accessible by a narrow road that switch-backed down from the highway.

“Several of these houses have boathouses,” Street said. Then, “Stop! Stop the boat!”

“What?” I said as I pulled the throttle back and shifted into neutral.

Street had the binoculars to her eyes for a long time. We coasted to a near stop, then rotated to port even as I cranked the wheel to starboard. No steering without forward motion.

“That’s gotta be it,” Street said. “Under the edge of that gray boathouse is a very long black hull. Do you see it?”

“I see the boathouse. It’s too far away to see without the glasses.”

Street handed them to me.

I refocused them and studied the shore. There it was, a dark hulking shape under the side of a long boathouse with gray clapboard siding.

“That must be it,” I said. I shifted back into forward, left the throttle at idle, and we eased toward it.

I trained the glasses on the house behind the boathouse. It was a large modern design that stepped up the slope like boxes stacked on one another, each one above stepped back to match the angle of the mountain. One of the levels was all glass, and it blazed with light in the middle of the day.

It was a good sign because it meant someone was home.

As we cruised closer, we came into view of the end of the boathouse. The door was open. The “Beats Working” Predator 54 floated in the serene protection of its shelter. Even from the rear, it was vaguely like looking at an F-16 fighter jet sitting in a hangar.

“I want you to drop me off,” I said.

“What?!” Street said. “I can’t do that!”

“Sure, you can. We’ll just ease up to the end of the dock, I’ll jump off, and you’ll back away.”

“You’re crazy! I don’t know how to drive this boat.”

“Sure you do. You told me a few minutes ago that it looks easy. So you put it in forward or reverse, steer it like a car, and take it back to Jennifer’s boathouse.”

“You don’t want me to pick you up?! What will you do?”

“Someone is home at that house. I’ll ask them to talk to me. This is the break I need. When I’m done, I’ll call you, and you can pick me up in the Jeep.” I fished in my pocket, pulled out the key fob, and handed it to her. Then I steered toward the dock of the Beats Working.

“This is dangerous, Owen,” Street said. “This guy may have killed multiple times. You’ll be defenseless. He could shoot you, take you out into the middle of the lake, and sink your body.”

“He could, but he won’t. Even if he’s the killer, he’s gone to considerable effort to make the deaths look like accidents. This guy has to maintain his facade of a businessman who is simply trying to develop a ski resort. He may decide he wants to kill me, but he won’t do it at his house or on his boat. He’ll wait until I’m not on or near his territory, and then he’ll arrange another accident.”