by Todd Borg
Lamb parked the Buick behind a gleaming pearl-colored Lexus. I pulled in after him, boxing him in.
“Spot,” I said. “Guard me. Understand?” I tapped my chest with my index finger.
I leaned over and opened the passenger door. Spot got out slowly. He was stiff and in pain, and he showed it.
I climbed out just as Lamb did. Spot came around and stood near my side, but didn’t seem too alert.
Lamb turned toward us. “You are a pest. A gangly, stubborn pest.” He seemed to ignore Spot.
“That airy voice of yours, you talk like that on purpose?”
He looked at me without emotion. Which meant lots of emotion.
I said, “I bet you tell the girls you played for the Packers, took a forearm block across the throat and that’s why you sound so funny.”
His face went from pink to red. “I did play for the Packers, you sumbitch.”
A man came out of the house next door. He walked toward his car in the driveway next to us.
“Oh, now I remember,” I said. “Allen Lamb, the Benchwarmer Man. Still had a clean uniform at the end of the season.”
Lamb might have been a great football player, but any good middleweight could have taken him in the ring. He telegraphed the coming swing so much that both Spot and I were ready. It was easy to dodge, and Spot made a little jump and grabbed his wrist on the follow-through.
Lamb yelled as Spot pulled down, his jaws like a bear trap with 170 pounds attached. Spot growled deep and loud.
“GET HIM OFF ME!” Lamb yelled. He was bent at the waist and Spot was pulling his arm out like tug-of-war. “Tell him to let go, or I’ll swing him around and crush him against that tree!”
“Lamb,” I said. “Maybe you don’t know dogs, but they have an instinctive response. If you don’t resist, they’ll just hang on to you. Puncture your skin, but nothing more. But if you do resist, they bite harder, maybe break some bones. I know you’re big and strong enough to swing Spot off his feet and around in circles. But the problem is, before you get him around, he’ll bite your arm off.”
Lamb’s beady eyes had grown large. They flicked from me to Spot hanging onto his forearm. “I’m going to sue! This is assault with a deadly weapon! You’re going to jail!”
I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see the neighbor who’d been watching from behind his car. He was shaky with tension and looked ready to run. “I’ll be your witness,” he said. He handed me his card. “I saw him attack you first. Your dog was only protecting you. You want me to sign something, let me know.” The neighbor stared at Lamb who was still bent over, his arm stretched out to Spot’s jaws. “Over a year now, since that guy moved in next to us. I kept telling my wife the guy’s a hothead. It was only a matter of time, something like this happens.” He turned and got into his car. He called out, “You give me a call.” He started the car and sped off.
“Tell your dog to let go!” Lamb said.
Spot still held his outstretched arm.
“After you answer some questions.”
“What, dammit? Ask your questions!”
“Why are you so hostile about Eduardo Valdez?”
“I’m not!”
“Lamb, you need medical treatment. Answer my questions and I’ll tell my dog to let you go.”
“It’s just that... They made him vice president instead of me. I deserved it. I’ve been at the bank longer.”
“Plus, you’re a native-born American and a football hero.”
Lamb looked up at me. “Yeah. It’s unfair.”
“So unfair you dragged him out to the highway one night?”
“No way. What kind of guy do you take me for?”
“Anybody else at the bank who felt like you? Somebody who might help Eduardo get run over by a car?”
“I don’t know. They’re taking our jobs. Taking our women, too. Could be lotsa other guys who’d like Eduardo gone.”
“Eduardo that smooth with the ladies?” I was remembering the Incline Village rating system. Money, Education, Looks, Style.
“He had investments,” Lamb said. “Some ladies, they’re blind or something. Go out with any guy who has a bankroll.”
“What kind of investments?”
“Real estate. He owned a bunch of rentals.”
“Where?”
“Neighborhoods along the north shore. Little cabins he bought for seventy, eighty thousand each. Now they’re each worth four or five hundred. Now tell your dog to let me go!”
“What did he do at the bank?”
“Mostly real estate loans.”
“There’s something that would drive someone to murder.”
“Sure, the way he did it.” Lamb’s voice was a hiss. “He was into activist banking. Green banking, he called it.”
“Meaning?”
“Where loan decisions aren’t just based on the financial qualifications of the buyer and the viability of the project. If Eduardo didn’t think the project was good for the environment, he wouldn’t approve the loan. Guy deserved to die.”
“Can you think of any other reason that someone would want to murder Eduardo, aside from the fact that he was a greenie and a successful Mexican who is stealing our jobs and our women?”
Lamb narrowed his eyes. “Isn’t that enough?”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Spot and I camped again, hidden in the woods above the east side of the lake. I cleaned up as best I could in the morning, but still looked rumpled and dirty. I got Glennie on my cell.
“Remember you were telling me about Monica Lakeman and how she died? You said she left her estate to a charity for disabled kids.”
“Right. Hard to find motive in that, huh?” Glennie said.
“Yeah, but I’m trying to be thorough. Any chance you learned which charity it was?”
“I don’t think so. But hold on and let me get my notes out of the file.”
I waited a long time. Lots of boats were out crisscrossing the lake. They were so far away that even the speedboats seemed to creep along.
“Owen, you still there?”
“Yeah.”
“I found it. Sometimes I surprise even myself. It is called the Camp Twenty-Five Foundation. Must be connected to Company Twenty-Five, that outfit that just opened a store in Roundhill. Want me to look up the address?”
“Yes, please.”
I cruised by the Camp Twenty-Five Foundation office. It was in an old, two-room cabin on the lake side of North Lake Blvd., near the area known as Tahoe Vista. The cabin was the old Tahoe Style that had tree bark siding. It sat under the canopy of pines.
There was an access road that ran past the cabin to the lake’s edge. Between the cabin and the lake were majestic Incense cedars. Nearby, was a similar log cabin. Farther down, three new mansions stood side-by-side, facing the lake like beauty pageant contestants lined up for the judges.
An orange Karmann Ghia with a Harlequin Great Dane couldn’t have been more noticeable if I’d outfitted it with blinking neon signs. So I parked on a deserted back street behind a motel several blocks from the Camp Twenty-Five cabin.
“Time to play deaf and dumb,” I said to Spot as I opened my door. He was sprawled across the broken seat, his rear legs in the back of the car, his front paws hanging off the edge of the seat. He lifted his head up and rested his jaw on the dash. “Dogs who don’t bark make for happy owners. Comprende?”
He ignored me.
A half-block down the street a woman was getting out of her minivan. Her black eyeliner was so heavy she looked ready for the Halloween Freaker’s Ball. She stopped when she noticed me and then stared at Spot for several seconds. So much for a deserted street.
I cut through the motel parking lot and jogged across the highway, dodging the heavy tourist traffic.
A small hand-painted sign hung next to the cabin door. It said Camp Twenty-Five in green script over rough brown wood. Through a window I saw two women at desks, both on the phone. I made a soft rap rap with my knuckl
es, turned the knob and stepped inside.
The warm, humid air of the cabin was thick with scents of coffee and perfume. There were three desks. A small fan sat on the vacant one. A strand of yellow yarn tied to the metal grill verified that it was moving air, although I couldn’t feel it.
One of the women said goodbye to the phone, hung up and turned to me. She had a red beehive hairdo and glasses from the fifties with red rims that came to points at the outside. “Welcome to Camp Twenty-Five Foundation, sir.” She smiled. Her cuspids were very sharp. Some of her red lipstick had gotten on one. Or maybe she’d sucked the blood out of the last visitor and forgot to neaten up afterward.
“Good afternoon,” I said. “I’m Jim Boyle from the Johnsrud Foundation down in Merced.”
“Suzanne Stock.” She reached out her hand to shake. She had soft, moist skin and long red nails that looked dangerous.
“Pleasure, Ms. Stock.”
“You can just call me Suz,” she said.
“Then Suz it is.” Red Hues Suz, I thought. “And Jim works for me. Suz, this spring our board decided to increase our grants for disabled children programs and your foundation came up as a promising vehicle. So I’m here, one foundation to another.”
The woman grinned at me. She picked up a pen and wrote Johnsrud Foundation on a Post-it note. “Well, well, Mr. Boyle,” she said. “Jim. Anything I can do, just ask.” The tip of her tongue made a slow journey along the edge of her top lip.
“I’d like to make some inquiries about your new camp.”
“Of course. Anything you want.” She raised her eyebrows and arched her back. “Please have a seat.” She gestured toward two stick-legged chairs with embroidered cushions.
I pulled one up and sat down. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” I said. “Our understanding is that you intend to build a camp for disabled kids?”
She nodded. “Yes, indeed. Right on the shore of Lake Tahoe.” She pointed to a sign on the wall and read it aloud.
“Special Children.
God’s Gift to the World.”
It may have been brochure-speak, but she said it with sincerity.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but isn’t that terribly expensive? I mean, Tahoe lakeshore is some of the priciest real estate in the world.”
Red Hues Suz gave me her biggest smile. There was lipstick on one of her lower teeth as well. “We feel that disabled kids from all backgrounds have the right to enjoy the unique environment of Tahoe just as the privileged children of the rich and famous do.”
“But how would you ever raise that much money?”
“Thanks to the fundraising efforts of good people from all over, people like Senator Stensen, Camp Twenty-Five Foundation already owns eleven lakeshore lots.” She grinned and paused to let me absorb this important detail. “We also have over a dozen lots that aren’t on the lake. The foundation is attempting to purchase enough contiguous lots so that we can satisfy the T.R.P.A. requirements. We have commitments from sellers on dozens more. If all goes according to plan, we should be able to break ground in another year.”
I glanced at the other woman. She was still on the phone and was drawing a small file along the edge of a long thumbnail. She didn’t appear to notice me.
“Tell me,” I said, speaking slowly. “This camp. How big will it be?”
“Our goal is to be able to invite one hundred Special Children at any one time, with no disability ignored. That means that many of the children will need personal attendants. However, our plan is for a Camp Twenty-Five endowment that is large enough to fund all eventualities. Even a quadriplegic child on a ventilator could be flown in with his or her full-time nurse.” The woman stopped to smile some more. “Mr. Boyle, I mean Jim, you can tell your foundation that Camp Twenty-Five will be the premier destination playground for Special Children.”
“What about the physical aspects of the camp. How many lots, how many buildings and such?”
She turned and reached over to the top of a floor safe, picked up a map that was mounted on foam board and set it on the desk so that it faced me. “Here is a parcel map. The parcels marked in green are already owned outright by the Camp Twenty-Five Foundation. The parcels in light green are ones where the owners have signed letters of intent stating that they are willing in principle to sell to the foundation. We just have to work out the details.”
“Like price,” I said.
Her smile disappeared for a moment, then came back full force.
“Correct,” she said. “The parcels marked in yellow are the ones where we believe the owners will eventually agree to sell to us.”
“What makes you think they will?”
“It’s more or less a personal assessment by our executive director. She has an uncanny ability to predict these things. There are some owners I thought would never sell because their homes had been in the family for generations. Our director felt otherwise. Sure enough, they eventually sold. Like I said, she can tell which ones will cave.” The woman suddenly put her hand to her mouth. “Oh! Did I say that?! Sorry, it is just a little joke we have around here!” Her face got red.
“No problem. I didn’t hear it.”
She reached out and patted my hand. “Thank you, Jim. You know how it is. Office banter and such.”
“Of course.” I was trying to see any of the parcel numbers on the map, but they’d been covered with whiteout. I pointed to the map. “These parcels marked in red. Let me guess. They are the problems, aren’t they?”
“Yes. As you can see, among the many properties we’ve designated as necessary for the project are a few whose owners have stated that they refuse to sell.”
“Could we make a copy of that map? I could take it back to my board and show them how much progress you’ve made.”
“Oh, no, I’m sorry.” She picked up the map, turned and set it back on the safe. “That is private information. We must respect the privacy of the sellers.”
“Perhaps you have a list of their names? I’d like to talk to the people who don’t want to sell.”
Suzanne shook her head in alarm. “They have a right not to be bothered.”
“I didn’t mean I’d bother them. Just talk to them for another perspective on Camp Twenty-Five.”
“Well, I suppose I could ask our director. But I don’t think she would agree.”
“What will you do about the people who don’t want to sell?”
She smiled. “Eventually, they’ll see the writing on the wall and realize that they don’t want to stand in the way of one of the worthiest projects ever to come to the Tahoe Basin. Special children must come before property owners’ concerns.”
“Can you tell me about the programs that the camp will provide?”
“Actually, we have a prospectus that we hand out to our donors. Let me get you one.” She stood up, opened a cabinet and handed me a large, glossy booklet. I flipped through it and saw that it was filled with pictures of handicapped children in wheelchairs and on crutches. They had happy grins on their faces as they chased beach balls in front of the lake, roasted hotdogs in a roaring campfire, and rode on sailboats with the wind in their hair and sun on their faces.
“Here are some more handouts,” she said, handing me another brochure and several sheets of colored paper with fine printing. “The one on yellow paper is a letter of intent. You need not specify an actual amount. Just have your board look it over and pledge within one of the ranges printed on the sheet. You know how these things work. It isn’t binding. But it will be invaluable when we approach other funding sources. We’ll be able to say that...” she glanced down at the Post-it note where she’d written the name I gave her, “...that the prestigious Johnsrud Foundation has signed on to support us.”
“Thanks, Suz,” I said. “You can be sure we’ll look this over carefully. And when we have questions...?”
“You can call me.” She handed me two cards with gold embossed printing on a deep blue background. “Or you or your board members can spea
k to our executive director.”
I looked at the cards. One said, Suzanne Stock, Consultant. The other one said, K.D. Scarrone, Executive Director.
Red Hues Suz gave me a shy grin. “Our cards make us look kind of fancy. I’m not really a consultant in the professional sense. But I do believe in my job.”
“What about...” I read the other name, “K.D. Scarrone?”
“It’s the same for K.D. She’s so enthusiastic and good at fundraising that they gave her the director title. In truth, the board makes all the decisions. We’re just the worker bees.”
“Does she go by Ms. Scarrone?”
“She’s real informal. You can call her by her initials. K.D. Around here, you’ll hear her nickname. Lady K.D. You’ll definitely have to meet her. Our most enthusiastic fundraiser, Lady K.D. is.” Suzanne grinned some more.
“I’d like to talk to K.D. Where would I reach her?”
“Actually, she’s rarely in this office. She owns the Hard Body Workout gym in Incline Village. You’ll find her there most days. Here, I’ll give you that card as well.”
The other woman was still on the phone. I stood up and was turning to go when the door opened. “My God, the traffic!” a woman said as she entered. “I had to park way over behind the motel...” She turned and saw me. Up close, the eyeliner looked like it had been applied with a Magic Marker. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “With the giant dog in the little orange car.”
“You know Mr. Boyle?” Suzanne said.
“No, I just saw him getting out of his car a while ago. He’s got this huge spotted dog. Like a Dalmatian, only about four times as big. What kind of dog is that, anyway?”
“Sounds like a Harlequin Great Dane,” Red Hues Suz said.
I grinned at her. “You know your dogs,” I said, then I left fast.
Back in the car, Spot barely lifted his head in greeting. He was wounded and hungry and homeless, and it affected him as much as it would the next person. I drove away thinking about the big heavy safe and the parcel map with the parcel numbers whited out, and Lady K.D. Scarrone, the Camp Twenty-Five Foundation director, the same Lady K.D., probably, who was Faith Runyon’s madam.
