Desert Kill Switch ~ a Nostalgia City Mystery ~ Book 2

by Mark S. Bacon

  Startled at Busick’s fall, Kate immediately reached out to help him as he stood up, but Busick leaned back, then waved an arm at Kate to keep her away. She took a half step back as Busick’s arm fanned the air. Amanda looked as if she might go after Busick, and not necessarily to help him. Kate shook her head.

  Busick recovered his equilibrium and took a couple of steps out of the booth. “You can’t steal Rockin’ Summer Days,” he said, his voice rising. Before he stumbled off, he turned and shouted, “This is not moving to fucking Arizona.”

  Chapter 8

  “Where is it, Deming?” Lyle said to himself aloud. “Were you seeing things?” Lyle pulled the brim of his cabbie hat down to shade his eyes as he scanned the car show in the Centerville parking lot looking for his blue Firebird. Seven rows of ten classic cars each, filled the lot: ’60s and ’70s muscle cars, post-war sedans and wagons, modified street rods. The last row showcased the true historic vehicles, Model Ts, Model As and a small assortment of devastatingly beautiful European motorcars from the 1930s. A few of the latter models were roped off with gold cord to keep gawkers from getting too close. In front of every car, a small stand held a description of the vehicle, its powertrain, history, present owner, and its estimated value.

  Lyle walked slowly down a row of muscle cars looking for a shining blue hood. No Firebird in sight.

  He paused in front of a red 1968 Ford Mustang. A guy in shorts and a Marine Corps T-shirt polished a fender that could not possibly be any shinier. Lyle wandered around and glanced inside the car. “Looks a little like mine,” he said.

  “You have a Mustang? What year?”

  “It’s a new one. Well, not new, but decades newer than this.”

  “This is an R code. I bought it from someone who was saving it for his son. But the son couldn’t care less. Wanted a beamer.”

  “R Code?”

  “Limited edition. Big engine. Made to beat anything off the line.”

  “You a dealer?” Lyle said.

  “No, just a collector. I buy or sell one or two cars a year.”

  Lyle nodded and wandered down the line, noting the R code Mustang’s value at $210,000.

  He paused in front of a 1971 Dodge Charger with its hood up displaying a massive V-8 engine with chromed everything. The information board listed the value at $85,000. “Lots of money for used cars,” Lyle said to himself, aloud.

  “But these aren’t for sale,” said a voice.

  Lyle hadn’t noticed the man in a shirt and tie standing behind him. He stood even with Lyle, making him about six feet tall, and appeared to be close to Lyle’s age. He had light gray hair cut short and a non-expressive face that made Lyle think of a cop. “The prices are just here for the tourists’ information. We’re not allowing any sales.”

  “You’re the new security chief,” Lyle said, not meaning to sound abrupt but doing so nonetheless.

  “Good morning to you, too,” the man said with a grin. “Yes, I’m Howard Chaffee.”

  Lyle introduced himself.

  “Oh, you’re the guy who--”

  “Word gets around,” Lyle said.

  “After what you did for the park, at least everybody in security knows who you are. Dealing with sabotage and homicide is no mean feat.”

  “I had help.”

  “So I heard.”

  Lyle knew the park had recently hired an ex-San Francisco PD commander to be head of security, but he hadn’t met him before.

  “Impressive collection, isn’t it?” Chaffee said.

  “But just for show.”

  “Yeah, I have strict orders--from the legal department--not to allow any sales, or even soliciting a purchase later. We don’t want to be liable in case one of these rolling bank accounts has a problem or turns out to be a phony. It could look as if we sanctioned the sale.”

  “I seem to remember people trying to pawn off counterfeit classic cars, really old ones, but I worked violent crimes most of the time. There any money in it?”

  “According to the experts in the garage here, making counterfeit racing cars and other classics, even muscle cars, is a growing business.”

  “They make ’em from scratch or what?”

  “I don’t know the details. They start with some original parts and manufacture the rest, swap engines, something like that. I know there’s lots of money in these cars. This Charger is cheap. That old Barracuda down there is worth more than my house.”

  Lyle looked over at the row of street rods and saw three young Hispanic men in jeans. Two wore muscle T-shirts and sported a variety of tats. One of them opened the hood of a bright yellow, chopped Model A. The two others looked like they were keeping watch. They scanned the lot, but slowly, unobtrusively. Lyle nodded toward the young men. “Undersheriff Rey Martinez said there was some trouble here earlier.”

  “Not with them. They belong to that yellow roadster and one other car. Two more of their friends showed up earlier, too. No, the problem was with those three cars in the corner.”

  “The ones with the ropes?”

  “Yeah, they’re pretty top-end, and the owner, or the guys working for the dealer in this case, got a little too physical with people who tried to get a closer look. We straightened it out.”

  “What’s ‘top end’?”

  “Seven figures for a 1930s Mercedes.”

  “Does it have air conditioning?”

  “I doubt it. Wouldn’t be any good here in Arizona then, would it?”

  Lyle told Chaffee he had to get work. He took a last look around and didn’t see his Firebird. As he walked to the transportation center to find his cab, he thought Chaffee might just work out. Low-key, friendly, the kind of security chief you needed in a ritzy resort. His predecessor always sounded like George C. Scott doing the “Patton” speech, even when he asked directions to the men’s room.

  Chapter 9

  After a day-long stretch in the Nostalgia City booth, Kate wanted a drink and a hot bath. Busick’s behavior had been puzzling--and troubling. But the rest of the day was busy and productive, making it easy for Kate to file Busick in a mental trash can, forget him temporarily, and enjoy her work.

  Rockin’ Summer Days visitors were enthralled--there was no other word for it--at the NC display and Kate almost continuously fielded questions from interested tourists. NC videos playing in a loop stopped passersby, but the large map showing the scale of miles in the park fascinated people, especially those who had little knowledge of Nostalgia City--in spite of Kate’s best PR efforts over the past few months. Some people used their cell phones to call and make NC hotel reservations while they were still standing in the booth.

  She tried to make notes about the apparent affluence of the tourists they talked with, but it was all supposition. A few people filled out their questionnaires. Rockin’ Summer Days had promised detailed visitor data based on intercept interviews and limited focus group research from the previous year, but that information had not been sent to them nor included in NC’s registration packet. Kate had mentioned it to one of the staff members the afternoon before but had not heard from anyone.

  Another cocktail reception was scheduled that evening in the headquarters hotel--this one hosted by Gander International Classics, the company conducting an auction of expensive collectors’ cars during RSD. Kate planned to duck the reception, pick up the visitor data, and retire to her room to study it over a glass of wine. After an early meal at a downtown casino buffet, she and Amanda went back to Gold Mountain Hotel. The vendors’ information desk was set up on the same floor as the reception. Kate could hear the rock and roll--a little more raucous this evening--as they walked past the banquet room entrance. She nodded to Chris Easley as they passed him in the crowded hallway and they found the vendors’ table staffed by a gray-haired man with puffy cheeks and a big smile.

  “Nostalgia City, that’s right,” he said. “I had your report in my hands before I left the office. I must have put it down on the counter and forgotten it. It�
�s in a big white envelope with your name on it.”

  Kate’s shoulders sagged. She and Amanda took a few steps away.

  “You’re on your own tonight,” she told Amanda, “but if you go to the party, stay away from Busick. He’s dangerous. If I saw him, I think I’d want to deck him again.”

  Kate turned when she felt someone’s presence. The gray-haired RSD volunteer stood right beside her.

  He looked at Kate. “I’m sorry, he said, “I can’t leave here. But if you want the report right away, you could drive over and get it. There’ll be people working there tonight.” He handed her the address of the RSD office. “It’s close by.”

  As Amanda headed for the elevator lobby, Kate wandered down the hallway, debating whether to pick up the information. After she’d taken a few steps, she heard her name called.

  “Kate Sorensen?” a woman said. “I’m a reporter with the Reno Daily News Leader. I’m doing a story on Rockin’ Summer Days. I wonder if I could talk to you for just a few minutes.” The woman was well dressed, although non-retro, and held a notepad in her hand.

  “I’m really tired tonight,” Kate said. “I’d be happy to talk at length tomorrow in our booth, but now I need to go--” She paused, glancing back at the vendors’ desk. “Still, if I can help out, okay. For a few minutes.”

  They sat at a nearby arrangement of low tables and upholstered chairs on the concourse. Kate was a little leery of where the interview might go, but it was always good to keep the media on your side. The reporter’s first questions involved Kate’s background and her overall impressions of the Reno event. Having tried to establish rapport, the journalist got into meatier questions.

  “There’s a story circulating, I’m sure you’ve heard it, that Rockin’ Summer Days is planning to move. We haven’t been able to confirm that from anyone yet. Is Nostalgia City interested in some kind of a joint venture with RSD?”

  “No. Not at all. The first I heard of it was today in Gale Forrester’s column. This is our first time exhibiting. I’m not even that familiar with Rockin’ Summer Days yet.”

  “The president of the event is saying that you’re planning to move it to Arizona.”

  “That’s just not true.”

  “Have you discussed this with any Rockin’ Summer Days officials?”

  Kate wanted to tell the reporter that Al Busick was an abusive bastard, and that his story was full of shit. But a war in the media would not benefit her or NC. She simply said the stories about her wanting to move the event to Arizona were incorrect. She then excused herself saying she had to pick up a report. She invited the reporter to stop by the booth whenever she liked.

  ***

  Rocking Summer Days’ headquarters was a short drive away in a new, single-story office complex. The setting sun highlighted the soaring Sierra Nevada Mountains, lighting the evening sky at just past seven o’clock when Kate arrived. The data Kate wanted could have been considered proprietary, but was gathered in part to encourage companies to exhibit and sponsor RSD events. Since the Reno audience looked so receptive to visiting Nostalgia City, Kate wanted to glean any useful intelligence that could be applied to NC, and the demographic information would supplement the follow-up report she would write about NC’s exhibit.

  The vendor volunteer had said that one or two staffers and perhaps a board member might be working at the office late into the night. Kate grimaced at the thought of running into Busick, but she’d just grab the report then, belatedly, get to her bath and a merlot.

  Kate could see few lights in the RSD office as she pushed through the double glass front doors. Inside she saw no one. Several desks and tables filled a work area behind a long counter that ran almost the width of the room. In the dim light, Kate could see through large windows into a conference room along the left side of the office. Papers, laptop computers, coffee cups, and marking pens littered the conference table. Notes and diagrams filled a large white board. The office reminded Kate of a political campaign headquarters. She scanned the counter and saw only RSD brochures and magazines. Where was her report?

  Although the office showed obvious signs of recent activity, it was quiet. Kate walked around the counter and glanced behind it, looking for her envelope. Stacks of papers, booklets, and office supplies. No report.

  A bright light burned somewhere down a hallway to the right. She turned in that direction. She started to call out then imagined Al Busick coming down the hallway, looking for a rematch from that morning. But at six-foot two and a half and still possessing many of the athletic skills that made her a star on the Division I college basketball court, Kate could handle Busick, if she had to. And now that she’d come down there, she really wanted the damn marketing reports. She treaded slowly down the hall toward the lighted office, paused to listen, then stepped through the doorway. Al Busick was there.

  But he was dead.

  Chapter 10

  After Lyle ferried what seemed like his twentieth set of fares for the day, regaling them--using only a hint of irony--with descriptions of Centerville as if it really were the 1970s, he found himself parked on Main Street waiting for perhaps the last passengers of his shift. Stopped in front of a dime store, he looked at the items in the window: molded plastic chairs, TV trays, beanbag chairs, portable eight-track tape players, Pet Rocks, lava lamps, shag throw rugs. Nostalgia City’s Centerville had the past down pat.

  “Stop it. Leave me alone.”

  Lyle looked up to see a woman in retro business dress arguing with a dark-haired young man in a white apron. Both of them had a hand on a large, rigid sign. They held it with the lettering away from the street and both tugged on it. The man tried to rip it out of the woman’s hands.

  “You can’t do this. Stop,” she shouted. “You’re hurting me.”

  Lyle needed no more encouragement. He jumped out of his cab, stood between the two, and held on to the middle of the sign. The fiberboard felt heavier than it looked. The red-haired woman wore an NC name badge. The man had no identification. He wore tan slacks and a white, open collar shirt under his apron. Both the adversaries still gripped the sign.

  “What’s going on?” Lyle said. He looked from the young man to the woman. Both parties looked to be in their late twenties.

  “I’m confiscating this sign,” said the woman. “I’m from history and culture and he can’t do this.”

  Lyle knew clearly what “history and culture” meant. He looked at the sign. Stenciled in large red and green letters, it said, Galluzzo’s Deli ~ Like us on Facebook.

  “He had it in the store window,” the young woman said. Thin but surprisingly strong, she held on with an iron grip as Lyle tried to wrest the sign away from both of them. “We can’t allow this,” she said. “They were warned once already. I’m sure you can understand.”

  “She’s stealing my sign,” was all the dark-haired guy said.

  “Both of you, let go, now,” Lyle said, and the two reluctantly complied. He tipped the four-foot-tall sign on its end.

  He turned to the sign owner. “You know what history and culture is, right?”

  The young man just shrugged.

  “They’re responsible for keeping everything authentic. Nothing older than 1975. Office of History and Culture. Don’t you know?”

  “He knows,” said the young woman. “He’s done this before, put this up in the store window.”

  “Dario, please stop.”

  Lyle heard the voice and turned from the young adversaries to see an older man, also in an apron, walking toward them. Lyle recognized Sal Galluzzo, owner of Centerville’s Italian deli, one of Lyle’s favorite places for lunch.

  “Facebook again, huh?” Galluzzo said, putting his hands on the younger man’s shoulders. “I’m sorry. My son is just a little over enthusiastic.”

  Judging by the young man’s wrinkled brow and a look that alternated between petulance and a blank stare, Lyle wondered if too much enthusiasm was the only issue.

  “Grazie,” Galluzzo
said to Lyle. “Thanks for calming things down.” He tugged on his son’s arm and the young man stopped reaching for the sign.

  “I’m going to take this now, Mr. Galluzzo,” the woman from History and Culture said, shielding the sign from the view of passing tourists. “You can pick it up in our office if you want. But you can’t use it here.”

  As she walked away, Galluzzo kept his hand on his son’s arm and turned to Lyle. “Have you eaten? Let me make you a provolone and sausage with peppers for dinner. On the house.”

  “That sounds good. I’ll have to take it to go. But I’ll pay for it, Sal.”

  Galluzzo motioned for his son to go in front of them as they walked a few doors down to the deli. One of NC’s many concessionaires, Galluzzo also owned a deli and grocery in Flagstaff. Lyle had not seen Dario before.

  “Get in the back and finish unpacking that shipment,” Galluzzo told his son as they entered the deli. Lyle breathed in the smell of basil, oregano, and fresh-baked bread.

  “What can I say,” Galluzzo said, sounding as if he needed or wanted to explain his son’s behavior. “He’s been working at our Flagstaff place, but he wanted to come down here. I hoped he’d manage. He can be a good worker, but he has a hard time getting used to new environments.”

  Lyle could relate to that.

  “He used to work in the NC garage. He loves the old cars, but he’s better off here with me. He’s made a friend or two. It’ll work out.”

  Galluzzo began to sound like parents Lyle had talked to many times because their teenagers, for whatever reason, came to the attention of the police. Of course Dario was no teenager, but Lyle suspected he could be just as challenging. Lyle felt sympathetic, but wanted to change the subject.