“That, I believe, is a requirement,” another commissioner said. “Or it’s been policy.”
“Then I’m stickin’ t’ policy,” Easley said with a smile in his voice, “and I’ll have a report for you around the end o’ summer.”
When Easley finished, the chairman called a break. Lyle wanted to talk with Easley, but his reason for coming to the meeting was to corral Teague.
Several of the commissioners wandered off the dais and disappeared out a side door. A TV reporter caught Teague’s attention and he followed her into the hallway where a camera waited.
Lyle hung back until the interview was over then approached Teague before he could go back to the meeting. “Mr. Teague?” he began. He stepped in front of him to block Teague’s escape path to the commission chambers. “My name is Lyle Deming. We spoke briefly on the phone. I represent Nostalgia City and--”
“You’re the PI. What’re you after?”
“The truth. The truth about Al Busick. Your state senate committee held hearings about his dealerships. I believe you accused him of fraud?”
“We did. His business practices were deceptive. He’s still being investigated--or his dealerships are.”
“And you lost your state senate seat and now you’re on the county commission overseeing his work on Rockin’ Summer Days. Did you trust him?”
“Trust Busick? He was just one of the board members, and RSD has been running smoothly.”
Teague smiled and nodded at someone walking by. He took a small step to the side, perhaps trying to slip past Lyle.
“Just a couple more questions. Did you know if someone was planning to move Rockin’ Summer Days out of Reno?”
“Yes. I’d heard about it. I just said that at the meeting. But it was just a rumor. A false rumor.”
“You know that one of my colleagues at Nostalgic City is under suspicion, but she had nothing to do with this. And I can assure you Nostalgia City does not want to take your car event away from Reno. Can you think of anyone who might have had an argument with Mr. Busick or might have wanted to kill him?”
Teague didn’t answer immediately. “I can’t imagine anyone stabbing him like that.”
“Where were you Thursday evening around seven o’clock?”
“What, am I a suspect?”
Lyle stared at Teague.
“I went to one of the RSD receptions, but I left early. Rest of the time I was home with my wife.”
“Have you talked to the police?”
Teague stuck out his lower lip and shook his head.
“Surprising,” Lyle said, “considering you were his government opponent two different ways.”
“Politics,” Teague said. “Just politics.”
Chapter 31
Kate could hear her cell phone ringing, but it seemed a long way away, like a muffled basketball court buzzer. Her bedside clock read six-twenty a.m. When she picked up, Lyle’s voice said, “We’ve got a problem. Your video’s on the Web.”
Immediately, Kate was wide awake. “The video, with Busick, online?”
“Yeah, it’s on the front page of the Reno paper, too. That’s how I found out. Then I did a quick search and the video popped up.”
“Damn, what do we do?” Kate sat on the edge of the bed. Bruce was still asleep.
“Depends on how you want to play it. I can’t imagine that the police will not want to talk to you again--”
“Especially since I didn’t exactly tell them about our little scuffle. D’you think they’d hold me?”
“That would depend on what evidence they may have collected against someone else. Otherwise, well, you know the answer.”
“I’m not going to jail.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. If I’m locked up, I can’t find who really killed him. I know you’re helping, but I’ve got a chance now to check out other suspects. At least I had a good chance.”
“If you want to avoid the police, you’re going to have to move quickly. I don’t know exactly when that video went public. Obviously, my scare tactics on the blackmailers didn’t work.”
“Don’t blame yourself. We weren’t going to pay them anyway. It was a chance. I agreed.”
“Okay, first thing you have to do is find someplace else to stay. You’re at your condo, right?”
“Yes.”
“Leave as soon as you can. The Reno cops may not know you’re in Vegas, but they know your condo’s address. If they don’t, they’ll soon find it. And they could ask the Vegas police to pay you a visit.”
“I have friends.”
“I wouldn’t stay with friends--at least anyone that an entry-level detective could locate. A hotel or motel under another name would be better.”
“Okay, I can get someone to set that up for me. What else?”
“That depends on how eager the police are to find you. Your cell phone, your credit cards. You remember the drill. Also, don’t use Bruce’s phone and I’d limit how much you use his car.”
“I can get a rental. I’m sure Max will be happy to pay to keep me out of jail. In fact, if that video goes viral, I’m sure I’ll hear from him, if I haven’t ditched my phone by then.”
“You could leave it at your condo or have Bruce carry it around. Either way, if the police tried to track you, they’d think you were at home or traveling wherever Bruce goes.”
Kate’s thoughts started arranging themselves in linear fashion. She could see what she had to do. “All right. I’ll get started. Okay to call you when I get a new phone?”
“Should be. And, Kate, I’ve been tracking down leads. I talked to one of the Rockin’ Summer Days board members, Sandy Eggers, and Patrick Teague, the county commissioner who used to be in the legislature. Eggers isn’t our man, but Teague is a little more puzzling. I’ll keep working on this end.”
“I know you will. Gotta go.”
“What’s going on?” Bruce asked, rising up on one elbow and scratching his chest.
“That video I showed you? It’s on the Web.”
“Was that Lyle?”
“Yes, he thinks the police will be after me. I have to get out of the condo.”
“But Reno’s a long way away.”
“It’s complicated,” Kate said. “I’ve got to go.”
While Bruce sat in bed and watched, she dressed, packed her toiletries and cosmetics in a small case, then started putting all the clothes she’d brought with her from Arizona back into her suitcase.
She didn’t expect to hear police knocking on the door yet, but she didn’t plan to be there when they did. Kate put her bags by the front door then made coffee and sat down with her phone in hand. She thought about calling Barbara Orion, but she didn’t want Barbara to take any more chances for her. She called another friend to help her rent a car and find a motel room. She explained all the risks first, and her friend still agreed.
Wearing only boxer shorts, Bruce came into the kitchen in time to hear the last of her conversation. “Why do you need to stay at a motel?”
“Do you want me to go back to jail? That’s what will happen if I stay here.” She got up and put her arms around his waist. “Bruce, I have to do this. Have to figure out what happened to Busick.”
“How will it help if you hide out in a motel? Can I come and see you?”
Kate didn’t know if she’d see Bruce at all in the next few days. Would the police be following him? “We’ll see. Now I have to go. My friend is picking me up. But first we have to discuss what you’re going to tell the police if they call.”
***
Kate’s friend rented her a car for a week and Kate promised her she’d repay her as soon as she could. Nostalgia City would stand behind her should anything unforeseen happen. “My boss, Max, will buy the car if it comes to that,” she told her.
When Kate had a car, she visited a branch of her bank and withdrew $1,500, figuring she’d be on a cash basis for a while. Then she bought a prepaid “ burner” phone. An hour later she
met up again with her friend at a small, non-gaming hotel in southeast Las Vegas. Her friend had rented a single room for three days, using her own name and credit card.
Settled in her new hotel room, Kate pulled out her phone, laptop, and went to work. First, she logged onto the Internet and scanned the Las Vegas papers. The story about her video appeared on the front page of the local sections. She clicked through to the video. Watching only the first few seconds reminded Kate how easy it would be to identify her from the clip. Next, she called Busick headquarters and postponed her first visit, as a reporter, until the next morning. Then she made a list of the things she’d need to keep from getting caught.
Chapter 32
After he hung up with Kate, Lyle worried that she wouldn’t drop off the radar fast enough to avoid the police, and if they caught her fleeing--well, attorney Mauser would have lots of explaining to do.
Time for a yellow pill? Maybe breakfast would settle him down. But Lyle’s economy motel didn’t have room service or a restaurant. Hell, it barely had a coffee machine. The plastic device dispensed hot water but only if you jiggled the electrical cord. Sitting pondering Busick’s murder, Lyle could imagine himself as a character in a film noir staying in a cheesy hotel room, except he didn’t have a fedora and his laptop was way out of place. Would Humphrey Bogart have it figured out by now? How about Mike Connors from Mannix, to put a 1970s, Nostalgia City spin on it?
In any event, Lyle had to move. How did the video get on the web? Did the blackmailers do it for spite? That reminded him of Marko, so he called his former partner and caught him on the way to work.
“Did you find out anything about those plates I gave you?”
“Yes and no. I found out why you wouldn’t get anything useful from one of those funky websites. I don’t have the details in front of me, but it doesn’t make any difference.”
“Do I get the feeling this is not going to be helpful?”
“Hey, I’m just the messenger here, Deming.”
“I know. I appreciate your help.”
“The plate you said was on a black pickup was reported stolen. It belonged to a Hyundai of some sort. The other plate didn’t match the car either. It came from an old Mercury. It’ll probably be reported stolen soon, unless the thieves put it back. That’s happened.”
“Thanks Marko.”
“You can’t seem to get away from plodding police work. I thought you wanted to--”
“Well, my girlfriend--as you call her--is in deep shit and I’m trying to help her dig out.”
“Let me know if I can do anything.”
Another dead end. Lyle considered calling Rey Martinez for an update, but if a body’d been found, Rey would have called. Lyle managed to coax a cup of black coffee out of the little machine on the dresser. To help Kate and find Busick’s killer, he decided, as he usually did, that he needed to take notes. Once he had it down on paper, a list of all the people involved, it would free his mind to drift, think abstractedly. Not that he didn’t think that way anyway, but with notes he could build on what he already knew. He pulled out his yellow pad and wrote down:
~ Patrick Teague, county commissioner, has a history with Busick, says he was at home.
~ Sandy Eggers, RSD board member, Reno builder, provided lots of info.
~ Chris Easley, RSD exec. dir., Kate’s talked to him twice. At the hearing he sounded genuine, though not entirely moved by Busick’s death. Alibi?
~ Marshall Jacques, RSD board member, Kate knows him.
~ Ricky Stark, Busick’s stepson. No alibi, background cloudy, need more info.
~ Larry Quick, head of Consumer Coalition of Nevada. Called Busick a crook and wanted him punished.
~ Louise Busick, wife, cancer, in hospital at time of murder, apparently despised her husband.
~ Marge Drysdale, RSD board member, Eggers says she’s Ms. Community Booster. Kate knows her?
Quick’s name seemed to drift to the top. Lyle knew more now than when he’d originally talked to the association director. A second conversation could be useful. Quick had told him he was at a meeting when Busick was killed. Lyle would have to check that out. A call to the Consumer Coalition of Nevada in Carson City, however, told him that Quick was working in the association’s Las Vegas office this week and next.
Although he really wanted to have a face-to-face with the blackmailer who shot at him, focusing on Rockin’ Summer Days would be more useful for Kate. A classic car auction was scheduled for the afternoon and the historic vehicles for sale would be on display that morning at the Reno-Sparks Convention Center. Lyle showered, pulled a brush through his wavy hair, and left the Bates Motel. He stopped for breakfast then searched for a parking space at the convention center.
Lyle picked up an auction program and wandered around. Two hundred cars, all with lustrous finishes, filled the warehouse-sized convention hall. Cars ranging from a few 1920s sedans to 1980s sports cars and custom rods were parked in rows with enough room for gawkers and serious bidders to stroll around each vehicle. Wide mirrors sat at an angle on the floor under a few cars to display their immaculate undersides. Except for the age of the vehicles, the scene reminded Lyle of a new-car auto show, minus leggy models draped over fenders.
Lyle stopped to admire a red 1964 Pontiac GTO sitting with its hood up. Inside the car, he saw the color coordinated interior with bucket sets, center console, and a steering wheel that looked like wood but probably wasn’t. He must have looked like a serious buyer because the owner approached him and started giving him the car’s history. The man pointed to the engine. “Three deuces, all original.”
“And a four-speed” Lyle said. “Just like the song.”
The man gave Lyle a blank look. He was in his early thirties. He wouldn’t remember. But if he were selling the car, Lyle thought, you’d think he would have heard of the “GTO” song by Ronny and the Daytonas.
Strolling down a row that featured classic sports cars, Lyle paused to look at a sixty-five-year-old Mercedes-Benz 300 SL gull wing coupe. Next to the James Bond Aston Martin, this Mercedes was the dream sports car of the past.
“Is this yours?” Lyle asked the man standing next to the car.
“I wish. Belongs to the Ashton Framlington collection.” The guy pointed to the “Framlington Stables” logo on his golf shirt. Instead of a horse, the insignia featured the grill of a 1930s roadster.
“Is that a Duesenberg?” Lyle asked.
“Yes. Mr. Framlington has two, but likely they won’t be for sale. He drives them.”
What a concept, a car owner who drives his cars. “Been coming to this show for many years?”
“Since 2014.”
“Do you think it’s going to be moved out of Reno?”
“I don’t know. I heard that.”
“Would that be a problem, you think?”
“Not for me. We go to shows in different places. If not Reno, then wherever.”
Lyle heard similar sentiments from other participants. Moving the auction didn’t seem an issue for the high-roller car traders.
Using the auction program, he located two Fords being offered by Busick Pony Cars. No one appeared to be attending to the autos.
An auction volunteer stood two cars away. Lyle glanced at the information sheet pasted to the windshield of the 1976 Mustang. A sticker next to it said, “For more information contact Rick Stark” and included a phone number.
Soon, two men approached the car. Both wore badges identifying them as bidders. One of them, a muscular guy in flared designer jeans and a Madras shirt, walked up to the car and leaned over to look inside. Then he walked completely around the car and stopped to peer at the bumper.
“Nothing unusual about that Mustang, Roy,” said a guy in a light green shirt who slapped the other man on the back. “I thought you were more interested in getting another Cobra.”
“You’re right. Just lookin’. I wouldn’t buy a Busick car anyway,” the man called Roy said.
“Yeah,
I heard somethin’ about ’em.”
Roy turned around. He glanced at Lyle who tried to look engrossed in a page of the program.
“That Stark. Everything on his cars is not necessarily original. No problem if they list it that way. And don’t try to renegotiate.”
“I hear you.”
“Let’s check out the Cobras,” the man called Roy said.
Lyle idled at his listening post for a while longer but didn’t hear anything useful, so he headed to the bar. He bought an IPA and nursed it. After more than a half hour of eavesdropping on conversations, Lyle heard the name Stark again.
“I hear he’s got two ’thirties vintage cars, concours quality, that he’s selling private.” The man speaking stood at a high table near the bar where Lyle was stationed. “We’re talking two, three mil.”
Lyle listened but the patrons’ conversation drifted to other topics.
“Excuse me,” Lyle said turning to the two men. “I heard you mention Ricky Stark. Could you tell me about him?”
The smiles evaporated from the men’s faces. The one who had mentioned Stark grunted. “His cars are over there, but I don’t really know him. Just what I heard. Tough seller. Drives a hard bargain. That’s all I know.”
Lyle acknowledged him with a nod.
“Ricky,” the man said under his breath to the other man. “Piece of advice,” he said, turning back to Lyle. “Don’t call him Ricky.”
Chapter 33
“Large pre-formed molecules adhere to the outer cuticle layer,” the package read. “The color works on the surface to add brightness and sheen. Depending on porosity, the color will fade completely after two or three shampoos.”
Hair coloring was one of several purchases Kate had made that morning. Back at her hotel room she began the transformation process.
She’d never colored her hair before. Sure her stylist had experimented with highlights a few times, but nothing more. Now, her naturally light blonde hair was a liability. The package of temporary dye she bought said it would change her hair color to a warm cinnamon brown. Sounded like coffee cake.
Desert Kill Switch ~ a Nostalgia City Mystery ~ Book 2 Page 13
