Desert Kill Switch ~ a Nostalgia City Mystery ~ Book 2

by Mark S. Bacon

  One of the men looked disappointed, the other swung the door wide so she could maneuver through. “Offices are in the building next door,” he said. “You can get there this way.”

  He walked a half step ahead of her, and she slowed her pace to avoid hitting him in the ankles with the wheelchair. Moving on four wheels, rather than two legs, was harder than it looked. Her arms did all the work.

  They crossed the sales floor filled with shiny new models. Kate felt self-conscious seeing things from a few feet off the ground, rather like a child’s eye view. The salesman led her to a large waiting area with lounges, tables, and chairs. In one direction, she saw the service department.

  The salesman pointed Kate the other way, toward a wide concourse. “The offices are through there.”

  She thanked him and rolled on.

  The day before, after her personal makeover, Kate had visited a medical equipment store and rented a standard wheelchair for twenty-five dollars per day. The chair looked like Kate expected: large wheels with a hand ring, a vinyl seat, and two footrests that folded up so you could step out of the chair, if you were able. Even with different hair color and make up, Kate knew her height could give her away. This was the only way she could see to conceal it. She hoped she wouldn’t meet any doctors who would ask for details of her disability.

  After renting the chair, Kate drove to The District, an outdoor shopping mall, to practice. She rolled up and down wheelchair openings at curbs and navigated around grates and other surface obstacles that foot-borne travelers simply step over or around. She went in and out of doors, using automatic openers when available. Propelling herself--and steering--using only her arms, challenged her physically and emotionally.

  She soon discovered that passersby tend to ignore people in wheelchairs, avoid eye contact. A part of her felt guilty in the chair. After spending teenage years feeling like a freak because of her towering height, Kate promised herself she would always respect those with disabilities or any characteristic that made them stand out. And she’d tried to keep that promise in her day-to-day life and through volunteer work she did with disabled children. She said a silent apology for using a wheelchair under pretenses.

  As she rolled down the dealership concourse and approached two glass doors, she slowed to figure out how she’d open the door without struggling. Before she could touch it, however, a man got up from a seat inside and pushed the door open for her. It was Reno Detective Tom Polhouse.

  Kate mumbled a “thanks” and started to turn her head, but she realized Polhouse wasn’t looking at her. He glanced down at his watch and wandered back to his chair. Kate rolled up to the reception counter and introduced herself to the young woman sitting there.

  “I’m Jennifer Wicker,” she said, using the pen name she’d chosen. “I’m doing a story on Mr. Busick for Lifestyle Vegas magazine.” Kate faced away from the detective. She hoped he didn’t hear the name Busick.

  In a moment, another woman appeared around a partition and introduced herself as the office manager. “I believe you have an appointment with Mr. Alexander at nine thirty. It might be a little longer,” she said with a glance over at the cop. “Would you like a tour of the office first?”

  Yes, get me out of this room. As they left through a wide entryway, Kate didn’t dare look back at the detective. Was he looking for her, or looking for real suspects?

  The office manager walked beside Kate and a half step ahead. Under pressure, Kate gained more confidence in controlling the chair.

  “Over there is the finance department,” the Busick Motors office manager said as they moved through an expansive cubicle farm. “Through that door is accounting. Executive offices, marketing, and human resources are upstairs. Oh,” she added, “we have an elevator.”

  “Thanks,” Kate said. She could see cubicle walls, and corridors between the walls, but her low-level perspective prohibited her from getting an overview.

  “Will you need some work space while you’re here?”

  “That would be helpful,” Kate said. “I like to transcribe notes as soon as possible and I could do that between interviews. Do you have a conference room?”

  “Yes, but an office with a desk and low counter is available. Would that be better? We have a vacant cubicle here at the moment.”

  Over the next fifteen minutes Kate toured the offices and met a few department heads. She expected to see Polhouse in every new office she wheeled into. She held a notepad and pencil on her lap so she could lower her head to takes notes, and hide her face, if necessary. As long as she didn’t have to speak to the detective, she hoped she’d be okay.

  The tour ended back at the ground floor cubicle farm where the office manager showed her to an empty office. Kate had planned to spend two days doing interviews and gathering information. A place to work would give her an excuse to linger, provided Detective Polhouse didn’t linger as well.

  After Kate waited only a few minutes, the office manager returned and led her back to the second floor executive offices.

  Jake Alexander came around from behind his desk to shake hands with Kate. He was executive vice president of The Busick Family of Fine Cars--or Busick Motors, Inc. for short--and the top dog now that Al was deceased. Instead of going back to his desk, he sat in a guest chair by a window so that Kate could roll up next to him. In his late thirties, Alexander looked to Kate like one of the Beach Boys when they were that age. His hair was a lighter blond than Kate’s real color. He brushed strands away from his forehead as he spoke. Kate suggested that he begin by telling her about himself first, when he had met Busick.

  “Al hired me as sales manager for this dealership about seven years ago. I’ve been in my present position as EVP almost three years.” Although he glanced at her wheelchair and legs when she rolled in, he didn’t ask about her disability, and he looked Kate in the eye when he spoke.

  “I’ve done some research on Mr. Busick’s background, but I’d like to know more. Are you familiar with how he started Busick Motors?”

  “Sure, I know the story,” Alexander said.

  He gave Kate a summary of Busick’s life story, telling her how Busick had come to Las Vegas from California in the 1980s and started work in accounting at a car dealership. He worked his way up to finance manager and began streamlining lending and collections procedures while reducing costs. Eventually he became general manager at that dealership and worked there for five years until he bought out a struggling Vegas car lot and began to build his auto empire.

  “Al remained strong on financing. You should see the automated system he created here. It’s a real money-maker and Al’s favorite part of the business. Sales wasn’t his strong suit. He left that to me.” As Alexander smiled, creases formed a parenthesis around his mouth.

  “So the management of all five new car dealerships is directed from here?”

  “That’s a key to profitability--something Al always kept an eye on.”

  “And you also have a classic car business.”

  Alexander’s smile faded. “Yeah, Al started that about five years ago. Rick Stark, his stepson, runs it.”

  “But Al was involved in old cars too,” Kate said. “I mean, that event in Reno.”

  “Yes, Al liked the classic cars, all right.”

  Kate wanted to find out about Busick’s relationship with his stepson. Louise had said Busick harangued Ricky and made it hard for his stepson to make decisions. Alexander didn’t volunteer information. “What happens to the company now? Will Mr. Busick’s stepson take over management?”

  Alexander leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “We don’t really know. I presume Louise will inherit most everything.”

  “I’ve heard she’s recovering from cancer.”

  Alexander’s lips formed a straight line and the parenthesis reappeared. He lowered his head slightly. “It’s sad. Really sad. I hope she pulls through.”

  Kate thought Alexander showed more emotion about Louise’s condition than
he did for his recently departed boss. If Alexander worried about his position in the company--if Louise didn’t make it and the firm passed to Stark--that could immunize him as a murder suspect. He wouldn’t kill Busick if he thought Stark was a threat. Nevertheless, Kate asked, “Were you here when you got the news about Mr. Busick?”

  “I was on a business trip in northern California. I returned right away.”

  Kate had planned to ask if the police had talked to him, but she knew the answer to that. Instead, she thanked him and rolled slowly out of his office.

  She prepared herself in case she saw Polhouse, but she was almost as surprised to see the man she recognized from the hallway outside Louise Busick’s hospital room.

  Chapter 36

  Where was the blackmailer? Russell T. Paine, the conspiracy blogger, said the guy skipped town. But how reliable was that? Lyle would find out for himself, if possible, but he’d have to find the road north of Reno where he’d chased the black pickup truck.

  The memory on his tracking software brought him to the intersection in the high desert north of town where a dirt road headed off into the distance. He folded up the laptop and decided to rely on his own memory, shaky as it was. The dirt road looked vaguely familiar. He turned off the pavement and accelerated slowly but still kicked up clouds of dust like ghosts following his car, alerting everyone to his presence. When he reached the point where he thought he’d heard the gun shots, he stopped and looked on both sides of the road. He saw something he’d missed that night: a red sign read, No Trespassing -- Private Property. Below that it said, If you can read this, you’re within range.

  Lyle didn’t exactly feel as if he were in the cross hairs, but thought it would be prudent to turn around anyway. As he swung his rental car in the opposite direction, as he’d done three nights before, he noticed a small house on a hill overlooking the road. No vehicles were visible around it.

  When he returned to the last intersection, he turned right and continued up the larger, paved road. In less than a mile, he came to a house. The stucco might have been blue at one time. A dull aluminum trailer and a wooden shed occupied space near the house.

  Lyle saw no warning signs. In fact, the broad wooden porch ahead of him held a row of flower-filled pots. A colorful fabric pinwheel spun in the breeze. A brown and white dog lounged on the stoop. Lyle’s police training told him he should be cautious, especially since he had no weapon, but the place looked harmless, even welcoming. He pulled up and stopped.

  Before Lyle could get out of the car, a woman appeared on the porch. She wore shorts and a flowing blouse, her long brown hair tied in the back with a green ribbon.

  “Howdy,” she said, smiling and showing a row of even white teeth.

  Lyle smiled back as he approached. “Sorry to bother you. I got lost out here the other night and somebody took a shot at me.”

  “Really? Where were you?”

  The woman’s lissome movements and attractive, round face made Lyle think she was in her twenties or thirties. As he got closer, he saw her face bore more tiny wrinkles than he’d expect for someone of her age. Life in the high desert could do that, he supposed. He’d seen it in Arizona.

  “I was looking for somebody and got lost. I’m not from this area.” He spread his arms wide and pointed in the direction from which he’d come. “I stopped at the first crossroads down there.”

  “Oh. You know what? That’s Emilio’s place. You gotta watch out for him sometimes. He can be kinda trigger happy.”

  “I just saw the warning sign. I didn’t see it the other night. You can get in trouble randomly shooting at people.”

  The woman nodded. “The sheriff warns him and he lays off for a while. Then he’ll shoot at something again. When were you here, Sunday? I heard the shots. Were you alone?”

  “Not really. Why do you ask?”

  “’Cause Emilio told me he shot at two trespassers. Scared them both away. He said one was a car, maybe like yours. The other was a black pick up with big wheels.”

  Chapter 37

  Rick Stark was just the person Kate wanted to talk to, but he brushed past her in the hallway and disappeared into another office. She took the elevator down and returned to her temporary office in the cubicle farm. Still cautious, she was becoming more confident of her disguise, then a voice from behind startled her.

  “Here you are,” the office manager said. “Mr. Alexander said you were finished and I didn’t know where you were.”

  “He said I should really talk with Mr. Lamprey,” Kate said. “Is that the name? Said he knew Mr. Busick well.”

  “I can check to see when he might be available. Please feel free to get settled in here.”

  Shades of soft violet and purple dominated the color scheme for the cubicle offices. The four and a half foot walls were covered in burlap or likely something with a more glamorous or fashionable name. Burlap or not, the eye-shadow-lavender color and the irregular texture created a hushed atmosphere. Kate thanked the office manager then rolled her wheelchair forward. The arms fit neatly under the counter.

  She set down her purse and notebook then reached over her shoulder to get a grip on her laptop. As much as she stretched a long arm, the computer remained just out of reach.

  Obviously, she couldn’t stand up to grab it. She tried to pull up one of the straps holding the bag to her chair and muttered to herself.

  “Can I help you with that?” said a smooth female voice behind her.

  “Uh, yes, I’m trying to get at my computer,” Kate said.

  “Here it is,” said the young woman who came to her aid. “I’m Nina. Nina Ortega. Are you new here?”

  “Not really,” Kate said. “I’m a writer. I’m doing a story on Mr. Busick for Lifestyle Vegas magazine. I’m just going to be here a couple of days.”

  “A writer, huh,” Ortega said, leaning against the desk on the opposite wall. “Al Busick would make good story.”

  Kate set her laptop on the counter then moved her wheels back and forth several times, pivoting the chair so she could face Ortega. “Did you know Mr. Busick?”

  “Oh, no. I met him once, that’s all.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m in accounting. My cube is right next door. This is officially the overflow area from accounting. Guess we’re growing.”

  “What kind of a place is this to work?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “I’ve just been here a short time so I need to get to know everything.” Ortega had a way of cocking her head to the side ever so slightly when she spoke. As she did, her black hair brushed her shoulder. Her blemish-free, light brown skin set off her surprisingly deep blue eyes. In all, an attractive woman, probably not yet twenty-five.

  “Pardon me,” said a heavy-set man standing in the entrance to the cubicle. “Are you Jennifer Wicker? I’m Schuyler Lamprey. Did you want to talk to me for your story?”

  Ortega moved away from the desk. “Nice to have met you, Jennifer.”

  Lamprey led the way down the corridor but not before glancing back at Ortega. Her tight dress accentuated her hips and slender waist. She certainly didn’t look like an accounting department ink-stained wretch.

  “This is what I think Al would have wanted you to know about,” Lamprey said later as he stepped aside so Kate could roll into a long, windowless work area of glassed-in cubicle offices. She and Lamprey had talked for a half hour in his office. He admired and respected Busick who had brought him along as finance manager when he opened his first dealership. Al was hardnosed, but the car business was uncertain, and you could count on buyers to be flaky.

  The row of cubicle offices was empty except for one man working alone at the end of the room. Kate recognized this as the closing area.

  “This is where we tell our customers about the many loan and back-end products available to them when they decide to purchase a car with us,” Lamprey said.

  Yeah, closers.

&nb
sp; “Let me show you how all this works,” Lamprey said. He settled down at a desk in front of a computer. The middle-aged man had a trace of acne scars and his comb-over was plastered to his head. “We offer a great service. Because our operations are so streamlined--to cut costs--we can offer car buyers a loan when they might not qualify anywhere else. And you gotta have a car in Vegas to do anythin’, right? We can put just about anyone in a new car.”

  “Would these be low-income buyers?”

  “Sub-prime, yes.”

  “Rates?”

  “Commensurate with the risk, of course.”

  Lamprey swiveled the computer screen around and Kate rolled closer.

  “Our systems are set up to make it easy for the financial counselors and salespeople to walk a customer through a complete purchase. Simple. Smooth.” He clicked a mouse and a spread-sheet type form appeared on the screen.

  “We collect all the data here,” he said, “then we send it to APC. That’s APC Acceptance, the finance company we work with. Al helped restructure their system to make it easy for staff to complete a loan inquiry and sell the back-end. APC even sends training people here to do seminars on back-end products and services.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, loan protection insurance, extended service contracts, paint and fabric protection. It enhances the buying experience.”

  “Al’s system, huh?” Kate said.

  Lamprey spread his hands in front of the screen. “This is it.”

  “What about collections, repossessions when necessary?”

  “That’s handled by the lender, but again, the system is so smooth and seamless. Repos? Hardly need to do that anymore.”

  “How’s that.”

  “Simple, honey. We install a GPS tracker combined with a starter interrupt. They don’t pay, they don’t drive.”

  “Is that called a ‘kill switch?’ Can you stop a car while it’s driving?”

  “That’s just media scare stuff. Some people say we stop cars when they’re on the freeway. Not true. And we don’t call it a ‘kill switch.’ The device just stops them from starting their cars--and only if they don’t pay.”