by Todd Borg
It was the middle of the afternoon when we stopped for lunch at a diner. We were going over our plans when my cell rang.
“Hello?”
“Owen, it’s Diamond. You’re with Tyrone?”
“Yes,” I said. There was a beep in my ear. The low-battery signal. “My battery’s going, so talk fast.”
“I’ve got some bad news. I’m going to tell you some things, and you should just answer yes or no, stuff like that.”
“Sure. What’s happening?”
“Early this morning, apparently right after Tyrone left, Washoe County deputies got an anonymous tip about a Remington Seven Hundred that was found near Tyrone’s house. The caller said it was the rifle used in the shooting at your cabin. Are you with me?”
“You bet,” I said. Tyrone was eating a pastrami sandwich and watching me as he chewed. His eyes darted from me to the table to the door and back. My phone beeped again.
“They rushed the tests. The round they dug out of your cabin wall? Rockport gave it to them. It matched the rifle. And the rifle is registered to Tyrone.”
“Really,” I said, keeping my voice as casual as possible.
“Sergeant Ralph Cardoza called to ask me what kind of vehicle you are driving so they can intercept you. I didn’t know which wheels you two are in.”
My phone beeped again. “Okay, great,” I said. The phone beeped one more time and shut itself off. I put it back in my pocket.
“Who was that?” Tyrone said.
“A friend who met Natasha last time I brought her to Tahoe. I guess Diamond told him we were bringing Natasha up again. He wants to see her. He keeps talking about getting a shepherd, but can’t make up his mind.”
“She certainly seems like a good dog.” He sounded upbeat and cheery. A change from the usual demeanor.
My brain was in a spin, re-evaluating everything in terms of this new information. I tried to reorganize my thoughts. If Tyrone had been trying to kill me all along, then why the charade? Why hadn’t he shot me earlier? There had been several opportunities. Why did he save me from the killer up on Mt. Rose?
After a quarter hour, we were back in the Suburban, riding in silence. My best thought was that maybe there were two killers with a contract for my head. Perhaps Tyrone thought that killing me at an event like the fundraiser tonight held the best chance for obscuring the real culprit. Tyrone, the masked man, Senator Stensen and any others involved could escape in the commotion.
The only other possibility was that Tyrone had somehow been set up. It is rare for a lab to make mistakes in identifying which gun a bullet came from. So the way to frame Tyrone would be to steal his gun and use it on me. Diamond said it was Rockport who gave the bullet to the lab.
Everything was falling apart. But I had no other plan.
FIFTY-NINE
We stopped at my office on Kingsbury Grade to fetch the lamp for scenting purposes.
“I’ll just be a minute,” I said as I got out.
“I’ll come with,” Tyrone said. “Stretch my legs. I’ve never seen what a detective’s office looks like.”
“We’ll let the dogs out, too,” I said, thinking that I wasn’t going to let Spot leave my side.
Spot and Natasha came with us as we walked across the lot and up the stairs. The office was empty and unchanged except for a huge pile of mail under the door slot. I kept the dogs away from the broken desk lamp as I found a plastic garbage bag and used it to pick up the lamp from where it still lay on the floor. I pulled the bag down over it and twisted the plastic shut, sealing off whatever smells the lamp still had on it.
We had a couple of hours to kill, so we took the dogs up to a hiking trail and let them run. Before we left to meet Diamond, I got out the brown tempera paint and brush.
“Spot, c’mere.” He sniffed the paint and brush. “Hold still,” I said as I began to paint his back, careful to stay away from his stitches.
Spot turned circles and looked around at his side as I painted. He tried to lick the paint off, but didn’t like the taste. He worked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in that strange manner dogs use when they’re trying to eject something from their mouth. Eventually, he became resigned to my project and stood there with his ears back and a sulking look on his face as I turned him from a Harlequin Dane into a mud-brown, camouflaged one.
When the paint was dry, we loaded the dogs into the Suburban and headed toward the senator’s compound on the lake. A half mile away, we turned off onto a dirt road, pulled into the forest and parked. We got the mountain bikes out of the back and let the dogs out. I held the lamp in the plastic bag. The baggie with the torn shirttail was still in my pocket. I told Spot to heel. I asked Tyrone to do the same for Natasha.
“Natasha, heel,” Tyrone said. She trotted around to his left side and stood with her head next to his knee. He took two steps forward. She stayed next to him. Tyrone broke into another grin, and for a moment he seemed like the man I’d been talking to before Diamond gave me the news about his rifle.
We walked through the twilight toward the senator’s spread.
“Up here,” Diamond whispered from a rise in the darkness. We climbed up a short slope to an area surrounded by boulders and manzanita bushes. Jeffrey pines were scattered across the landscape. We had a filtered view of the highway 100 yards away. Diamond glanced at Tyrone. Tyrone didn’t notice. Diamond turned to Spot, touched him, then looked at the palm of his hand to see if it had been contaminated by the paint.
Diamond pointed down to where the asphalt drive made a graceful curve up to the huge gatehouse. The gatehouse was a stone and timber-frame affair with a heavy roof and a hint of Asian architectural accents. Thirty feet inside of the gatehouse was the guardhouse, a smaller structure of similar design. Through the guardhouse window we could see two large men in blue uniforms. One spoke on a phone. Just visible to his side, the other worked on a computer.
The first vehicle to arrive was a catering truck. The wrought-iron gate slid sideways. The truck pulled through and stopped. The gate shut behind it. A guard came out, stepped up on the running board and shined his flashlight in the window. From our distance, his sidearm looked large and heavy. After a minute the truck moved on.
Soon, a limousine pulled up and stopped. It was a stretch Mercedes. It looked impressive, but the guard put it through the same inspection as the catering truck. He leaned over to converse at the driver’s window, then did the same at one of the rear windows. Someone held out a card and the guard studied it before letting them continue on to the senator’s mansion.
For the next half hour a steady stream of polished luxury vehicles turned in off the highway. A line formed as guests arrived faster than the guards could process them. Eventually, all the vehicles got through the gate. The driveway was empty once again.
Diamond whispered, “Maybe she isn’t coming.”
“She’ll be here,” I said.
“The shooter could be getting ready to make his move.”
“Maybe,” I said as I raised my eyebrows in question and flicked my eyes toward Tyrone. “But he might wait until everybody is half drunk. More confusion that way. More escape routes.”
I continued, “Street’s going to try and distract the guards. We’ll bike through the gate while it’s still open. We’ll have to go under the lights, but if we’re fast and silent, we should be able to make it.”
Tyrone spoke up. “After we get through the entrance, Owen and I go through the woods around to the north side of the house. Diamond goes to the south, right?”
“Yes,” I said. “We can assume that the party will mostly be outside on the lake side, correct?”
“I think so,” Diamond said. “I was there once. There is a large patio area between the house and lake. To the north side of the patio, the ground rises up to a forested area. The patio will probably be well lit. You two should have a good view from up on the rise. You can wait until we see any men we think are candidates for the man with the ski mask. The
n you can send the dogs.”
“You’ll be on the other side?” I said.
“Yeah. There’s a broad lawn with several trees, most of it dark. I’ll be out in the trees. I’ll make my move as soon as I see the dogs alerting. How do you think Natasha will behave?”
“When Natasha alerts on someone, she will jump up on the person.”
Diamond nodded. “While I was watching earlier, two different golf carts cruised up and down the drive. One turned off on the path that follows the perimeter fencing. Two security guys in each one. Big guys. There must be more at the house, too. They all have guns. We have none.”
“Good to know,” I said.
Diamond looked at me, then at Tyrone.
“You both ready?” I said.
“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Tyrone said.
Diamond nodded. There was something in his eyes I’d never seen before. Hesitation. Or fear.
“You can still back out,” I said to them. “You’re both taking a bigger risk than I am.”
“The biggest risk you’re taking is getting yourself killed,” Diamond said. “I don’t think I can take a bigger risk than that.”
“Roger that,” Tyrone said.
A vehicle on the highway slowed, then turned into the driveway. Its headlights flashed.
“Show time,” Tyrone said.
The limo was a black, double-stretched Lincoln. It waited while the gate opened, then it glided silently under the gatehouse. When the guard walked out, the limo stopped prematurely. Its tail end remained close enough to the gate that sensors prevented the gate from closing. The guard walked over and spoke to the driver. Then he moved back and leaned down at a rear window. He stayed there for a long time. The guard went back to the driver’s window and gestured, his arms directing the driver to turn around. The limo didn’t move. The guard reached for his radio and said something. The second guard walked out of the gatehouse.
Diamond whispered, “Here comes the second guard. No way can we get by both of them.”
“Gotta try,” I said. “Now or never.”
We jogged out of our hiding place, staying next to the brick fence. Diamond was in the lead. Tyrone was next. He rolled his mountain bike on his right while Natasha heeled at his left. I was last. With my left hand I held Spot’s collar to prevent him from running in case he got too excited to heel. My right hand gripped the plastic bag that contained the desk lamp and balanced it on the handlebars of my bike. We stopped in the dark just outside of the gate. We peeked around at the limo.
Both guards were at the driver’s door. We could see nothing through the blackened windows. The left rear door opened and Street got out. “I swear it was in my purse,” she said in a loud voice. “Let me move into the bright light and I’ll find it.”
She sashayed past the guards into the light that shone down from floods.
The guards turned and stared.
Street wore a tight black dress so small that it could have been made from two silk handkerchiefs. It was held up by spaghetti straps. The neckline was well below her shoulders. The hem line was just below her crotch. She wore dark nylons and very tall spiked heels. Her feet were slightly pigeon-toed in that awkward girl-posture that often accompanies high-heeled shoes. She stopped under one of the floodlights and dug in a small black purse, then lifted one knee up and set her purse on her thigh. The guards were motionless, eyes fixed on her. A single perfect ankle flexed just a bit as she balanced in her spiked heel. Street angled her purse to let the floodlight shine in. Turning away so the guards couldn’t see, she reached in and got something dark in her hand. “Oh, damn,” she called out. “Now I ran my stockings.” She bent over, ran her hands down her leg and, still facing away from the guards, casually let go of several objects onto the drive. I saw the objects move.
I whispered, “Get ready!
Street suddenly started screaming. “OH, MY GOD! OH, MY GOD! HELP!” She began a frantic, high-stepping dance.
Spot strained on his collar.
“HELP!” Street turned circles and jumped up and down as several huge cockroaches scurried about under her feet.
The two guards ran toward her.
The three of us jumped on our bikes. We pedaled through the gate, past the limo. The dogs trotted alongside.
Street jumped up on one of the guards as they approached. She clutched her arms around his neck. Her legs wrapped around his waist like a vice. She screamed.
“Christ, we got roaches!” the other guard shouted. “Giant suckers!” He stomped his foot on the asphalt.
Street kept screaming. The guard holding her yelled into his radio.
“I got one!” the other shouted. “Got another!” He turned and pounded his shoe on the ground.
Diamond, Tyrone and I rode into the area illuminated by the floodlights. We were in full view.
“There! Got ’em all!” The guard shouted.
“NO!” Street screamed. She pointed away from us. “THERE’S ANOTHER ONE! HURRY! GET IT!”
The guard ran the direction she pointed.
The floodlights were so bright the drive felt like a stage set. Spot’s nails clicked on the asphalt. I was certain the guards could hear. We hit the soft dirt on the other side and raced into the dark forest.
When we were well away from the guards we stopped. Our collective breathing sounded like bellows.
“Here’s where I split,” Diamond whispered. He pedaled off through the woods in a big curving arc.
Tyrone and I pedaled into the dark woods. Our tires went over branches. They broke with loud snapping sounds.
Soon, we heard the sounds of a party. A murmur of voices and laughter floated in the forest. A jazz band played a Miles Davis tune. The laughter grew and turned into a mix of raucous bellows and soft giggles. We came even with the mansion down below. It was a timber-frame lodge with huge wooden beams, walls of rough-cut granite and lots of glass. We got off our bikes and walked the rest of the way to a point in the woods overlooking the patio. We put the bikes on the ground and lay down on our bellies. I told the dogs to lie down next to us. We were close to the party, but no one was looking up our way.
The band was on the corner of the patio. A wall of rock and a burbling waterfall made a sort of band shell behind them.
In front of the band mingled a group of 30 or 40 well-dressed people. The women wore floor-length gowns. The men had on suits and tuxedos. I heard glasses clinking and saw a waiter with a silver tray of champagne glasses handing them out to the crowd. Another waiter passed out hors d’oeuvres.
At the back of the house were large French doors standing open. The party flowed in and out of the house.
One woman stood out speaking to a threesome of men. It was Violet Verona, the woman whose daughter’s doll was hit by Diamond’s ricochet. Her platinum hair went high above her head and her diamond earrings threw light beams like a disco mirror. She wore a shimmering, snug blue dress that showed just how well she’d maintained herself through her half-century.
Off to one side was a bar. The bartender wore a tux. To his side were two men in suits. Bulges under their arms. No smiles on their faces. Security.
They spoke without any animation. A third man appeared. They had the size and heft and posture of athletes. Any of them could have been the man in the mask. I kept scanning the crowd.
Red Hues Suz, the woman from the Camp Twenty-Five office, wore a flowing red dress. Red bracelets covered much of her arms, and a large red pendant sparkled below a gold necklace. The red of her hair looked as natural as Spot’s new brown tone. She flirted with an elegant older man who looked as if he could afford to give away yachts as party favors.
A huge man came into view out on the patio. I recognized him by his thick neck and the gauze wrap on his arm. Allen Lamb, the ex-football player from the bank in Incline Village. He faced away from me. A thin woman in a purple pantsuit was by his side. His bulk obscured the other person he was conversing with. In time, he shifted and the third person
came into view. The movie-star smile and thick blond thatch were unmistakable. Bobby Crash grinned and nodded at the woman. He threw his head back in laughter and smacked Allen Lamb on the shoulder.
In another minute, two more security men appeared. One of them was Deputy Rockport. They talked to each other, then walked to the edge of the patio. One of them spoke into a walkie-talkie. Rockport pointed up to the trees where we were hiding. The other started hiking up the hill toward us.
“Shit,” Tyrone whispered. “We’ve been made.”
I pulled the lamp out of the plastic bag. “Natasha!” I said. “Smell this! Do you have the scent? Do you?” I held the lamp out and she stuck her nose on it. I pointed down the hill at the crowd on the patio. “Find the suspect, Natasha! Find him!” I knew Natasha was a search dog and wasn’t trained as a police dog, but I said the words anyway. “Find the suspect!”
Natasha took off running. Spot jumped up to follow, but I grabbed him. I wanted him to have a scent as well and not just follow her.
I watched Natasha as I fumbled the Ziplock bag out of my pocket. She shot down the hill to the side of the security guard. He had his hand under his jacket, on a gun. He pulled it out, spinning to follow Natasha, but didn’t shoot.
I got the shirttail out and stuck it onto Spot’s nose. “Smell it, Spot! Smell it!” I wrapped it around his snout so that he couldn’t mistake the scent. “Find the suspect, Spot! Take him down!”
Spot jumped up and ran down the slope after Natasha. I stood up and grabbed my mountain bike. Tyrone did the same. We watched Natasha run straight into the crowd. A woman shrieked. People scrambled as Natasha raced through them.”
“Look out!” a man yelled. “There’s a police dog!”
Natasha threaded her way through the crowd as if she’d run the same obstacle course a hundred times. There was no hesitation, no slowing. She headed toward a group of people that included Violet Verona. Natasha leaped up onto a large man in a blue suit, a man I’d met several times.
“Who’s that?” Tyrone said.
“Sergeant Cardoza,” I said as I jumped on my bike. “From Washoe County.” Tyrone followed and we pedaled down the hill. I watched Cardoza bat Natasha off of him. She leaped back up. She was jumping on him in the joy of discovery like search dogs do when they find a lost victim.
