Desert Kill Switch ~ a Nostalgia City Mystery ~ Book 2

by Mark S. Bacon

  “If he likes vintage cars, he’ll get used to this place. Car culture is part of what we’re selling here, isn’t it?” Lyle said, “like your posters.”

  As Galluzzo busied himself behind a counter, Lyle looked at the racing posters decorating the walls. Colorful Formula One Ferraris, McLarens, and Lotuses screeched around corners and seemed to leap off the walls. Jackie Stewart, Niki Lauda, and other top drivers from the ’60s and ’70s racing circuit were displayed in artwork as if they were Hollywood stars. On one poster was a Hollywood star--Steve McQueen.

  “I remember that movie,” Lyle said.

  Galluzzo looked up from his work. “You’re too young to remember that.”

  “Almost--I am a late baby boomer--but my brother’s eleven years older than I am. He was into music and cars so I picked up on this stuff early.”

  “That’s Mario Andretti in the Ferrari,” Galluzzo said pointing to another poster. “He’s Italian but he moved to the U.S. with his family in the fifties. He won just about every race there is, Formula One, Indy, Daytona. I wanted to name my son after him, but my wife had other ideas.”

  Lyle continued to look around the room as he toyed with the rubber band on his wrist. The wall opposite the deli cases featured stock-car racing posters. In one, a Mustang was trying to muscle its way past two brightly colored Camaros with a crowd of other cars in the background. Lyle wondered if the pack of racecars included a blue Firebird Trans Am.

  Chapter 11

  The Rockin’ Summer Days staff had obviously been celebrating the event’s twentieth year. A large sheet cake covered in white frosting sat on a broad work table. Enough of the cake had been eaten so the inscription, in red icing, now read “Happy Birthday Rockin’ Su.” The knife used to cut up the cake had also been used to cut up Al Busick. He lay sprawled on his back across the table next to the cake, blood from several stab wounds covering his stomach and chest. Someone had smeared frosting over Busick’s face creating a smiling clown’s expression. Kate shuddered. The long carving knife, covered in blood and cake, lay next to the body. Although Busick had lost more blood than a rare prime rib, Kate automatically felt for a pulse--in vain. Busick’s skin felt warm. As she realized this, Kate started to gag.

  She glanced around the room as she reached in her purse for her phone. Clearly, Busick had put up a fight. A computer table lay on its side, the desktop computer next to it on the floor, spattered with blood. A large hot rod poster had been knocked from the wall, its frame and glass shattered. Kate found her phone in the bottom of her purse. Then she heard a noise. Someone in one of the other offices said something she couldn’t make out.

  Was the murderer still around? Immediately she looked for a place to hide, for something to defend herself with. She had no time to think, just react, as she heard footsteps near the door. She flattened herself against the wall. Held her breath.

  First thing through the door was a gun. Kate leaped forward, dropped her phone, and grabbed the arm that held the gun. Using both hands she twisted, hard. At the moment she grabbed the arm, she heard someone say, “police.” The man groaned, but held on to the gun as Kate jerked him into the room. He was a cop.

  As soon as Kate saw his uniform, she cried out, let go of his arm, and backed away. The officer immediately spun around, held his gun with both hands, and leveled it at Kate’s chest.

  “Don’t,” she said. “I didn’t know who you were. I’m sorry. I just reacted.”

  “On the ground,” the cop said.

  Kate moved slowly and lay face down with her hands at her sides. The thought crossed her mind briefly that she was contaminating the crime scene floor--or was it contaminating her?

  “You have a weapon?” the officer asked.

  “No. Nothing. I just found him like this. He’s dead.”

  “Whatta we got here?” said a female voice.

  Kate turned her head enough to see a second uniformed cop standing in the doorway. The female officer appeared to be older than the young man Kate grappled with. The officer put her pistol away and pulled out handcuffs. With Kate still on the ground, the female officer walked over to Busick’s body.

  “Looks like the murder weapon right here,” she said. “Kinda gruesome. Why’d you draw that clown face on him?”

  As the other officer held his gun on Kate, the female cop told Kate to stand up. She frisked her--not missing a single spot. When she finished, she told Kate to put her hands behind her back. For the first time in her life, Kate found out what handcuffs feel like.

  Hours later, Kate sat in a Reno Police interrogation room.

  “You knew him, didn’t you?” The detective was average height, weight on the heavy side of 180, and young.

  “Yes,” she said. “He was president of Rockin’ Summer Days. And he did TV commercials in Vegas.”

  “You say you found his body. Why didn’t you call police?”

  “I was just about to. I had my phone in my hand. I’d just found the body when the officer came in. I thought it was the person who killed him.”

  “Why did you attack officer Lambert?”

  “I didn’t attack him. I--I thought he was the killer.”

  “But the officers identified themselves, twice.”

  “I didn’t hear what they said the first time. Then the female officer didn’t identify them until I saw the other officer’s gun.”

  “Sounds like you tried to take his pistol.”

  “I’ve told you all this before. As soon as I saw his uniform, I let go. Ask him, dammit. I was scared.”

  Kate sat on a padded, armless swivel chair. At least they hadn’t shackled her to the ankle cuffs attached to the floor.

  “We’ll be able to lift prints from the knife,” the detective said. “And your clothes had cake and blood on them.”

  “I bent over to see if he was alive. I wanted to help. And I probably picked up blood from the floor when the officer made me lie down.”

  “The victim had four stab wounds in his torso. Did you really think you could help him?”

  “I didn’t know. I just walked in.”

  “What about the clown face? You hated him, right?”

  “I didn’t hate him. I just came there to pick up some papers. You can check. Talk to the volunteers at the Rockin’....whatever. At the office or the vendors’ desk. That’s all I wanted.”

  “What were you arguing about?”

  “We didn’t argue. He was dead when I got there.” Kate tried to gather her thoughts. “So who called police? Maybe the person who killed him saw me and called you. Was it an anonymous call?’

  “Did you have disagreements with the deceased.”

  “I told you I didn’t kill him. I’d just gotten there.”

  “But you had disagreements, business disagreements. You argued over something.”

  Shit. What’s he know? What’s he talking about? “Disagreements? I dunno. He thought--I don’t know what he thought. He said we should move Rockin’ Summer Days to Arizona. I told him it was ridiculous. We don’t want it.”

  “Did you have a business deal? You were heard talking about it at a party Wednesday evening.”

  “We didn’t have a deal. Busick tried to push that on me. I’d never even met him until that party last night.”

  “A story in the paper said that RSD was moving. What do you know about that?”

  “Nothing. I told you this twice already. Why don’t you talk to the reporter?”

  Kate glared at the detective who stood over her. “I only met Busick the day before. He had some screwy ideas about Nostalgia City. I just wanted to pick up a marketing report tonight.” She looked up when the door opened.

  “Her attorney’s here. We gotta let her in. It’s that Mauser woman.”

  ***

  When Lyle answered his phone before six a.m., he heard a voice he only vaguely recognized and certainly did not expect.

  “It’s Bruce, Bruce Norman, Kate’s, ah, boyfriend.”

  Lyle got a me
ntal picture of the ex-Arena League football player and fitness center sales manager. “Yeah, Bruce.”

  “Kate’s been in some trouble and needs help. She’s in Reno.”

  “Yeah, I know. Running a booth.”

  “She’s in jail, or just getting out of jail. They think she killed someone.”

  “What?” Lyle’s stomach tightened, putting his nervous system on red alert.

  “A car dealer here in Vegas got stabbed. The cops found Kate with the body. She wants you to go out there and help her.”

  “Vegas?”

  “No, she’s in Reno. The murder was in Reno.”

  “Does she have an attorney?”

  “Yeah. She called her boss.”

  “Max?” he said, referring to Archibald Maxwell, the tireless septuagenarian CEO and founder of Nostalgia City.

  “Yeah, Maxwell. He got her an attorney and he got you time off to go to Reno.”

  “Okay. I’ll call my supervisor to arrange things. Now, tell me about this guy she’s supposed to have killed.”

  Chapter 12

  When Kate opened the door of her Reno hotel room, she looked worn out. Little worry lines Lyle had never noticed radiated out from her eyes. She hugged him tight.

  “God, I’m glad to see you. Thanks for coming.”

  “So, I hear you whacked this guy Alvin Busick,” Lyle said with a smile, then immediately regretted it. “Ah--”

  “Don’t apologize, I could use some humor after what I’ve been through over the past, what, fifteen hours? It’s just that I’m kind of wiped out. Haven’t slept much.” Kate wore slacks and a wrinkled white blouse. She walked barefoot into her room and offered Lyle one of the two chairs by the window.

  He took off his sports jacket and set it on the bed along with a carry-on bag. The bed looked rumpled as if Kate had been sleeping on top of the spread.

  “Bruce here?”

  “His flight arrives later.”

  “So, what’s going on?"

  “It’s a mess, Lyle. A big stinking mess. The cops think I killed this guy.”

  “Alvin Busick,” Lyle said. “Like the chipmunk.”

  Kate gave him a blank look.

  “You know, Alvin and the Chipmunks, from TV?”

  “Oh yeah,” Kate said. “Trust me, Al Busick was no chipmunk. More like a Gila Monster: a fat, poisonous lizard.”

  “Sounds about right. I did a little online research on him on the plane. I also saw you were mentioned in the Reno paper.”

  “The story’s not too flattering is it? I come off sounding like the killer who wants to spoil the town’s party. But let me tell you the whole story.”

  Kate walked back and forth, gesturing and even waving her hands in the air at times. As she spoke, Lyle heard the fatigue in her voice. They’d known each other only a few months but had developed a bond. They were a team, or had been, when a series of ride accidents threw the park into a public relations tailspin. They worked together under tense and sometimes dangerous circumstances. They approached challenges differently but ultimately came to respect each other’s strengths.

  Lyle thought Kate remained beautifully levelheaded (in addition to just plain beautiful) even in the worst situations--in contrast to his mood swings. They were close now. How close? Lyle wondered, given the presence of Bruce, Kate’s roommate and presumed fiancé.

  As she finished her story, she stopped pacing and looked at Lyle. “Thanks to another news story--I’m guessing--the cops knew that Busick accused me of wanting to steal Rockin’ Summer Days.”

  “At least they didn’t charge you with anything.”

  “No, my attorney said it was close, but they didn’t have enough evidence. I didn’t touch anything in the room and maybe they believed my story. They wanted to charge me with assaulting a police officer. But if I didn’t kill Busick, I’d have no motive--except self-defense--for grabbing that cop. Lucky, I guess--for now.”

  “Murder weapon at the scene?”

  “Yes, a big carving knife. I didn’t touch it. No prints. The killer painted a clown face on Busick with cake frosting.”

  “That wasn’t in the news. The police are probably holding back that tidbit.”

  “Certainly convenient for the cops to be there right after I found the body.”

  “News story said people in the office next door heard a fight and called police. With this special event going on in town maybe it took them a while to respond. The killer could have been long gone.”

  “The news also said a witness saw a light-colored SUV racing out of the parking lot. So that could help, a little,” Kate said.

  “So, what do you want to do?”

  “I want to find out who did this.”

  “Sure you do. And we can ask around. But--”

  “The DA could haul me back in any time. That’s what the cops said. They also told me to stick around, not to go anywhere. But you know what my attorney said? She called it a ‘hollow admonition.’ That’s lawyer talk for bullshit.

  “I don’t want to wait around while the cops look for somebody,” she said. “I got caught with the body right after he was killed. Did I tell you he was still warm? Awful. I want to do something. Somebody else killed Al Busick, and we can find out. If you’ll help me,” she added softly.

  Lyle smiled and nodded.

  “I called Max this morning from the police station. He got me the attorney. Her name’s Mauser, Henrietta Mauser. Isn’t that a gun? Great name for an attorney.”

  Lyle was glad to see the hint of a smile on Kate’s face for the first time.

  “She says you’d have to wait in line to kill Busick. Not the best-liked guy around. I used to see him on TV all the time.”

  Kate seemed to realize she’d been jabbering nonstop. She stopped and looked out the window at the mountains that formed Reno’s backdrop to the west.

  “Have you talked to Max again, since you got released?”

  “Of course,” Kate said. “First, he wanted to know why I stabbed someone. Then, when I told him the story, he wanted to hire additional legal help, sue the City of Reno, and haul me back to Arizona. I got him to settle for Henrietta Mauser’s private cell phone number and my assurance that we’d settle this. He knew you were on the way here. I guess he woke up his pilots to fly you here in the NC jet.”

  “Good ol’ Max. Did he ask you about the PR?”

  “How’d you know?” she said, smiling for the second time. “I said I made the news, but that NC’s name was barely mentioned. I told him we’d have a low media profile in Arizona. Whether that’s true or not, I have no idea.”

  “When’s the last time you ate?” Lyle asked.

  Kate just shook her head.

  “I’ll call down and order coffee and lunch,” he said.

  ***

  As they ate, mostly in silence, Lyle kept an eye on Kate. He admired her resilience, her ability to put life’s setbacks into perspective.

  But being suspected of murder? Maybe her need to investigate, to do something proactively, was a better coping mechanism than he could come up with.

  When they’d finished and Kate sipped her second coffee, Lyle ventured a comment. “Your lawyer’s right about Busick having enemies. Not a popular guy, according to what I read. He started antagonizing people as soon as he became president of the board. Some Reno folks see him as an interloper from Vegas even though he has a place at Tahoe and lives up here half the year. But one big issue is the way he was killed.”

  “The four stab wounds, the clown face?”

  “Exactly. Somebody was mad. Maybe in a rage. Murder like this is often committed by an angry family member, a spouse, estranged lover, even children.”

  “But obviously not premeditated, right?”

  “I doubt anyone planned to kill him with a cake knife. But he or she got mad and did it.”

  “Okay,” Kate said, “we’ll look for family. But where and when he was killed makes me think it had something to do with moving Rockin’ Su
mmer Days out of Reno. That would anger a lot of people up here. I don’t know why he tried to blame us for it.”

  “Who controls Rockin’ Summer Days, the city, county?

  “No, it’s an independent nonprofit. The board you mentioned makes all the decisions along with a hired executive director, sort of like a CEO. I met him and saw some of the other board members the other night.”

  “What do the other board members say about moving the event?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t talk to them about it, just Busick.”

  “Could a board member be mad enough to try to silence Busick?”

  “I wanted to silence him myself,” Kate said, “and that’s what the police think I did.”

  “There’s a whole other angle that has nothing to do with what we’ve talked about, and I don’t know how we can tackle it. Busick’s dealerships have been investigated by the Feds and the state legislature. And consumer groups have been attacking him for fraudulent lending.”

  “I remember something about that when I lived in Vegas. The media was on him too, for a while. Then it died down.”

  “There’s a guy named Larry Quick has a website that makes Busick sound like the Godfather,” Lyle said. “He accuses him of fraud, invasion of privacy, even attempted murder.”

  “Quick, huh. We’ll look him up.”

  Lyle was not enthusiastic about their chances of clearing up the murder. He knew, however, the Reno PD would be looking at the case the same way they were, and with a variety of suspects, the less likely they would be to focus on Kate.

  What also disturbed Lyle--and made him feel guilty--was the relief he felt focusing on Kate’s troubles. He welcomed something to occupy his ex-cop’s mind instead of his desert mirage murder scene. He resisted the urge to call Rey to see if anything had turned up. No need to bother Kate with this.

  Let’s split up,” he said. “I can track down this Quick person. And maybe a Rockin’ Summer Days board member. You can do some research. Find out about the history of the event, how Busick came to be president.”