by Todd Borg
“Yeah, Street should stay away. I don’t want these killers to think that following Street is the way to find me. I’ll call her.”
Mallory walked up. “Maybe you should sleep at the jail. Hard to get to you there.”
“Better I keep running. You don’t want these guys bombing anything else in town. I just need some transportation.”
Diamond looked over at the smoking engine block, the only remaining piece of his car more than ten inches across.
“Where you going to stay?” Mallory asked.
“Here and there.”
“What, you think it would be dangerous if I knew where you were staying? It’s not like someone could get the info out of me.” Mallory seemed affronted.
“You said yourself how motivated they are. Last thing you need is for some guy in a ski mask coming through your window tonight to try and make you talk. Better if no one knows. They could be over there in the dark as we speak.” I jerked my head toward a stand of trees.
Mallory glanced over his shoulder. Glennie shivered.
“Let’s go inside,” Mallory said.
We sat on couches in the paper’s reception area.
“They know I have to leave here,” I said. “All they have to do is wait and see who I leave with. They could follow.”
“Then we play a shell game,” Mallory said. He turned to Glennie. “Not including women. You should leave now and drive home. Safer that way.”
She looked at me.
I nodded. “They could be looking in the windows at us right now. Better if they think you don’t even care what happens.”
Glennie gave all of us a wide-eyed look, then stood up. She turned to me. “Call somebody tomorrow? Let us know you’re okay?”
“I promise.”
She left.
“Here’s how it will work,” Mallory said. “I’ll have three officers and me each drive a squad over to, let’s see, Caesars has the best parking ramp for it. You and Spot will ride with me. We get up to the fourth floor and you jump out and get into the back seat of one of the other squads. You lie down on the floor. The squads all go back down out of the ramp, get to the highway and scatter.
“They don’t know which squad you’re in, and they can’t tell them apart, anyway. The squad you’re in takes you up Ski Run to Heavenly’s lodge by the Gunbarrel chairlift. Diamond is waiting in the lot. You make the transfer and leave with Diamond.”
“Sounds good. Diamond?” I said as I purposefully looked at Mallory just in case we were under observation.
“I’m leaving,” he said. “I can do an evasive action before I get to the base lodge. And I know a way to drive out of the lot and up to the bottom of the chairlift. When you get dropped off, come up the stairs to the lift. If anyone makes you, they’ll get out of their vehicle and follow you on foot. But I’ll be waiting in my pickup. Give me a sense of time.”
Mallory thought a moment. “About half an hour.”
“I’ll be there.” Diamond got up to leave. We gave him a casual goodbye, then continued our conversation in case anyone was watching. After ten minutes we walked out to Mallory’s Explorer. Mallory got on the radio as he drove and soon we had three more Explorers behind us.
FORTY-NINE
We did as Mallory explained. When we got to the fourth level of the parking garage, Spot and I switched vehicles, jumping into the back door of the second one. We lay down low on the seat.
“Commander said you’d tell us your destination?” a young officer said.
“Heavenly’s California base lodge, please.”
Five minutes later, Spot and I jumped out in the vast empty parking lot, ran up the stairs by the lodge and found Diamond waiting in the dark by the chairlift, his pickup idling.
“Where to?” he said as he drove off, following a rutted trail that eventually intersected with a nearby road.
“I want to go home for a minute. I don’t think they’ll be watching my cabin after the bombing.”
“You going to risk using your Jeep?”
“No. I need to borrow my neighbor’s car.”
Diamond nodded.
I dialed Mrs. Duchamp as we drove up the east shore. It sounded like I woke her up.
“What!” she answered in her high shriek, sounding as always like a startled drag queen.
“Mrs. Duchamp, it’s Owen McKenna.”
“Well, it’s very late!”
“I know. Sorry to bother you. I was wondering if I could borrow one of your cars.”
“What!” she shrieked again.
“I’ve had a little car trouble. I’ll be very careful.”
There was a long pause. I heard her cover up the phone and mutter something to Treasure, her toy poodle. Then she was back, louder than ever. “Well, I don’t know what Mr. Duchamp would say.” She was referring to a husband who, near as I could figure, had been dead for two decades.
“He would say that you know I’m as reliable as they come, and you should tell me where the keys are. I prefer the Toyota.” Not only was the 4-Runner better suited to my needs, but I couldn’t imagine driving around in a lavender Cadillac.
Mrs. Duchamp sputtered, then finally blurted out, “The keys are in the ignition. You know how to open the garage, don’t you? Because I’m in bed.”
“You sleep well, Mrs. Duchamp. Thank you.”
While Diamond drove, I told him what I’d learned from Conan Reynolds and how the parcel map was shaped like a mitten, identical to the golf course puzzle.
Diamond turned off the highway, drove up the mountain, past my cabin and parked in Mrs. Duchamp’s drive.
“You got a plan to bust open this golf course scam?”
“Not yet. But I’m hoping you’ll join me when I do.”
“I got no authority,” he said.
“Me neither.”
“You’re not going to stay in your cabin, tonight?”
I shook my head. “Too risky. I’ll keep camping.”
Diamond nodded. I told him I’d call the next day.
I got Mrs. Duchamp’s 4-Runner out of her garage while Treasure barked from inside the house. Diamond followed me down the mountain.
Spot and I once again found our way in the dark from the Spooner Lake Campground to the three-walled roofless cabin.
It was a colder night than before, and Spot and I shivered under Diamond’s sleeping bag. The morning sun seemed to take twice as long as normal to arrive. When it did, Spot found a place where the rays came through the trees and he sprawled in the sunshine. It was hard to get him to move when I wanted to leave.
We took the 4-Runner up to Incline Village where I looked up Daniel Woods, the realtor whose sign had advertised that he could see the real estate forest for the trees. He saw me at his office.
Woods was one of the true eager beavers, all smiles and handshakes with the accompanying elbow squeeze and pats on the back and coffee proffered and total interest in me and my needs and my desires. If I didn’t have trouble with toupees and bonded teeth, I might have asked him to look for a replacement for my cabin.
Instead, I said, “Dan, I’m not here to buy property, but to ask your expert opinion. I’d possibly trouble you for an hour or two and I would expect that you would charge me for your time.”
His permanent smile faded a touch. “Well, we’ll table that thought for now. I generally work for referrals. Why don’t you tell me what you want and then I’ll see if I can be of service.”
“Fine. Some friends and I are looking at investing a sizable amount of money in a golf course development here on the north shore. It would be the newer design paradigm with the fairways lined with executive homes. It would be a nine-hole private course, designed by Robert Trent Jones or the equivalent. Everything first class. The project would have a clubhouse, fitness center, pool and spa, gated access. The idea is to maximize our R. O. I.”
“Yes,” Woods said, smiling, nodding. “Return On Investment is always paramount.”
“What I’m
wondering is if you could give me an assessment of value at build-out. I realize that it is hard to arrive at an accurate figure without being privy to all of the details. But we do not have your expertise. Any projections you could provide would tell us if our own projections are within shooting distance of reality. Could you do that?”
“Of course, Mr. McKenna. My next appointment isn’t until this afternoon. Perhaps you could give me specifics?”
“Certainly. If I could borrow a pen and paper?”
Woods handed me a pen and a lined tablet.
I sketched from memory as I spoke. I’d spent hours putting together the golf course puzzle, so I had it memorized.
“The lake is here. The clubhouse and fitness center, there. Along this side are the first three holes with the third making a dogleg here. Holes four through seven do a zig-zag through the property, then eight and nine come back toward the lake.” I pointed with the pen. “That would give these houses views of the lake. Again, everything will be oriented so that views of Lake Tahoe predominate from the greens and fairways as well as from the homes. It will be as beautiful as it is challenging. Think Edgewood on the South Shore, but interlaced with executive homes.”
“Before you go further,” Woods said, “you should be aware that obtaining the permits and zoning variances for a project like this is difficult at best anywhere. But in Tahoe...” Woods held his hands up, palms toward the ceiling. “I can’t imagine getting approval from the T.R.P.A., never mind the myriad other authorities. I think it’s possible that it simply couldn’t be done.”
“Yes, we’re aware of that. But the developers have already acquired much of the land, and they are extremely well-connected. They might be able to pull it off. If so, wouldn’t you be interested in investing in such a project?”
“Well, yes, of course. If such a development could be brought to fruition in Tahoe, it could produce a miraculous R.O.I. I would certainly be a potential investor. I have access to considerable funds myself.” Woods sat a little straighter in his chair as he said it.
“I’ll mention that to my friends. In the meantime, may I explain more of the project?”
“Yes, of course,” Woods said, staring at my jerky sketch.
“We’ll start from the lake and work in. Along here are seven contiguous lots on the lake.” I made Xs on the sketch. “Then, skip over these three lots they have not acquired and we come to four more contiguous lots on the lake. You can see by the layout that all eleven of the lots will have fairways or greens behind them. Stretching back from the lake are seventy-nine other lots arranged to make the most of Tahoe views and golf course ambiance.”
Woods scrawled notes across the pad as I spoke.
“From that description, is it possible for you to arrive at an estimated value of this project at completion?”
“It is really very difficult to say. Very difficult. So much depends on the details, the amenities of the development as a whole, the features in the houses, the quality of materials used and so forth. Two projects that look similar on paper can look very different on completion. And so much depends on the elusive perceived value.” Woods used his fingers to draw quote marks in the air. “A prospective buyer can compare housing costs for a similar home in another executive market, membership in the local golf club, distance to recreation and cultural resources. You get the idea. But in the end, when they walk into the home’s foyer, stroll up the circular staircase, wander through the master suite and imagine what their friends and family will think of the views, it comes down to their perceived value. It is an intangible. Very difficult to estimate until after the first few homes are built and marketed.”
“I understand. But think of it this way. These developers will spend whatever it takes to produce the greatest return. That implies grand houses that could be in Architectural Digest. Everything from the gate house to the clubhouse restrooms will be exquisite. Therefore, I’m asking you to imagine this development as you would make it, and project its worth from that standpoint.”
Daniel Woods studied me for a long moment. “They will spare no expense if it can be justified by the return?”
“Correct.”
“They realize that such a development in the Tahoe Basin would be extraordinary in every degree and would indicate extraordinary attention to every detail?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, let me punch in some numbers.” He poked a calculator and scratched figures on the pad as he spoke. “Today, typical lakeshore housing stock in good condition is running up to one hundred thousand dollars per running foot of beachfront. New, quality construction can go even higher. From the scale of the rendering I’m thinking that each of the eleven lakeshore homes could sell in the range of ten million or more. That’s one hundred ten million for the lakeshore.
“The seventy-nine other lots are harder to guestimate, but a sizable first-class home with a lake view and new construction can easily sell for three million. Add the gated community aspect and the way they are all arranged among the fairways and I’d bump that figure to four million each. If, as I assume, all of the homes will have deeded rights to a section of community beach, it could go even higher. Throw in a pier or mooring buoys, then higher still.
“I know these figures sound pricey,” Woods continued, “but prices today are even higher in Glenbrook and some of the other developments around the lake.”
Woods did some more calculations. “Based on what you’ve given me, I estimate this project at a total of somewhere over four hundred million. If I’m low by twenty-five percent, we’re talking over half a billion dollars. If Tahoe real estate keeps appreciating like the last few years, then double these numbers by the time the project is completed.”
Woods beamed at me. “There would be lots of motivation to figure a way through the permit process when the numbers approach a billion dollars, huh?”
“Lots of motivation,” I agreed. “Now I’d like just one more thing, if you have a few minutes. I’m hoping you can print these estimates out on your letterhead so I can show my friends. Feel free to put in all the usual qualifiers and disclaimers. I just don’t want them to think I pulled this stuff out of the blue. Would you be able to do that?”
Woods regarded me. “With the usual disclaimers, certainly. I have a reputation to protect.” He turned to the computer and began typing. “And you’ll remember to call me when they’re looking for more investors?”
“Absolutely.”
FIFTY
Daniel Woods refused to take payment, insisting only that I keep him on the top of my list for investors. I thanked him and left.
I found lunch for Spot and me, then stopped at Lady K.D.’s gym. She was in. She came out wearing her Spandex suit. Her arm muscles bulged. We talked in the parking lot.
“Who owns Camp Twenty-Five?” I said, wondering if she knew about Martin Elgin and Adelina Kercher.
She frowned. “It’s a non-profit. Don’t non-profits just belong to the public or something?”
“Who do you report to?”
“The board of directors. There’s twelve of them. Well, eleven, ever since Eduardo Valdez died.” Her face darkened for a moment.
“Do the board members live around here?”
“I’ve only met about half of them. But no, as far as I know they’re from all over. The Bay Area and out of state. One is even from Virginia. Just good people looking to help special children.”
“What about the bank accounts?”
She scowled at me. “That’s very prying. What does that have to do with Faith dying?”
“I’ll explain someday if I can figure it out. It’s probably a matter of public record anyway with non-profits.”
“Yes, I suppose. There’s an account in South Dakota. Another is at Eduardo’s bank here in Incline.
Nothing in K.D.’s manner suggested any concern about the break-in and I wondered if she even knew about it. I wanted to ask her about who has access to the safe in her office, but t
hat would reveal that I’d made a visit there. It wouldn’t take many questions before K.D. could figure out that I was the burglar. Perhaps she didn’t know the documents were missing. “K.D., the names of two people have come up in my investigation and I wonder if you have ever had any dealings with them. There’s a man from Palo Alto named Martin Elgin?”
She shook her head.
“What about Adelina Kercher? From Denver?”
Another shake. “Never heard of them. And I can honestly tell you that the man was never a client of Faith’s.”
“K.D., are you a golfer?”
She looked confused. “No, why? Oh, I remember you mentioned a golf course picture you think Faith wanted to show you.”
“What about the board members? Any golfers?”
“I have no idea. I suppose some are. Lots of people golf. I can ask Suz at the Camp Twenty-Five Foundation.”
I watched her face. “Thanks for your help,” I said.
I left and drove Mrs. Duchamp’s 4-Runner up the Mt. Rose Highway. Near the top of the pass I stopped to let Spot out in the big meadow. He tried to chase some little birds who kept flying up out of the grass and then landing behind him, forcing him to trace figure-eights. He moved better than before, but still favored his left front leg. His wound was no longer bleeding where the stitches had broken. Back in the car we headed down to Reno where I stopped at Kinkos. I had many other avenues to pursue, but I wanted to record what I’d learned while I still had the chance.
I spent the rest of the afternoon on one of their computers typing up everything I’d learned about Camp Twenty-Five and how the various victims could be connected to it:
Faith Runyon, who had overheard something about Glory’s death. She’d also acquired a map of the golf course that was the real end-use for the land Camp Twenty-Five had acquired.
Monica Lakeman, who died in a questionable fall and left her estate to Camp Twenty-Five.
Eduardo Valdez, the banker on Camp Twenty-Five’s board whose bank held one of Camp Twenty-Five’s accounts, but who was an anti-development, obstructionist, “activist greenie” as described by Allen Lamb.
