by Todd Borg
“Okay. The area code is three one six.” She read the number to me. “And you won’t tell anyone where you heard it? Please?” She was pleading.
“I won’t. Thanks.” I hung up.
I looked up the area code. Wichita, Kansas. I dialed the number.
“Ford Georges speaking.” Just three words and the soft voice sounded intelligent and arty and a bit pretentious. Like a museum curator or classical composer with a touch of drawl. He pronounced Georges as if it were the word gorgeous only beginning with a soft G.
“Ford, my name is Owen McKenna.”
“Oh my. Owen McKenna. I’d never heard of you before a couple of days ago,” he said. “But of course you are now a large figure in the Tahoe Dreamscape world. I’ve been meaning to call. I do hope you’re okay. That was a terribly stressful drama you got dropped into. And you handled it well.”
“I’m okay.”
“Special Agent Ramos said you would be. He said you’re tough, that you’d seen worse. By the way, how did you get this number?”
“My job. I’m a detective.”
“Oh. Of course. You know how to compromise the database. Or one of my people.”
“I’d like to talk to you. When will you be in Tahoe, and when can we get together?”
“I’m actually in Tahoe now, but my schedule’s awfully full. This week is tough because…”
“Ford,” I interrupted, still frustrated after talking to his ticket saleswoman. “I’m not going to play a schedule game with you. Pick a time today or tomorrow. Cancel an appointment. Or skip dinner.”
“Well, I normally check with Teri. Let me grab the calendar.” I heard some movement and shuffling noises. “How about an hour from now? We just got our liquor delivery here on the boat. I could open a bottle of Moet. Not that that would pay you back for your efforts on our behalf. But I owe you. Would that be good?”
“Fine. You want me to come to the Dreamscape?”
“Please. You know where it’s docked? Crystal Bay?”
“I’ll be there.”
I was on the road, heading north toward Incline Village when my phone rang.
“Hello,” I said.
It was Anna. “I keep thinking about my attacker,” she said.
“Me, too.”
“It’s been three years. I’ve been living with such fear,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“And from all indications, he is almost certainly the guy who drowned,” she said.
“Probably. But we don’t know for sure.”
She was silent a moment. “I’m thinking that I don’t need to hide anymore,” She said.
“I’d wait. I don’t yet understand what this is all about. Until I do, I think you should keep your head down.”
“You don’t really understand my situation, do you? You don’t have a clue how hard this is, living in hiding. To not be able to go home, walk the streets, eat at a restaurant, go out with old friends.”
“Anna, I know…”
She interrupted, “I email them, of course. And I’ve explained the situation to some of them. And some of them understand. Others think I’m crazy. But the ones I haven’t told? The ones I care very much about but who don’t have the kind of history with me where I could tell them what happened? They’re nice, but they think I’ve just blown them off. Like I don’t really like them at all, but I’m just communicating out of guilt or something. Do you know what that feels like? Do you have any idea what kind of pit you get in your stomach when you’re trapped by circumstances that you can’t explain? And if you broke your silence and did tell them what happened, they would think you’re a paranoid schizophrenic.”
“What I meant was…”
“It’s so easy for you to tell me to keep my head down,” she interrupted. “But I’m the one who has no life. I’m the one who has to look both ways before I even walk out my door. Well, I’m not going to do it anymore! I’m not going to live in fear, to let someone else control my life! I have things I want to do. I can create some good in this lousy world. I can start my Reach For The Sky tech school for girls. I can make a difference!”
“Of course, you can, Anna. Just wait a little longer. You are still doing good with your work.”
“No! You don’t get it, Owen! As long as I’m living in a straightjacket, I can’t do anything seriously good. If I come back to the real world, I can get those grants. I can go to the board meetings of those educational foundations. If I can make my presentations in person, I know I can get the funding for RFTS. But if I stay in hiding, whatever I have that’s special to offer the world is a moot point. I’m a nobody. I’m like a cat who won’t come out from under the bed. A life lived afraid isn’t a life, Owen!”
I tried to comment, she protested, and we said a terse goodbye.
TWENTY-TWO
The Dreamscape’s home was a pier near Stateline Point at the west boundary of Crystal Bay. I drove up the East Shore and went through Incline Village. It was a spectacular fall-postcard afternoon. The aspen were in full color, and the golden yellows shimmered against the sparkling blue water backdrop.
The road curved counter-clockwise around Crystal Bay. Where the road dipped down near the water, I got a glimpse of the Dreamscape floating at its pier out on the point. It was a pretty sight, and the yacht radiated an essence of luxury. In a mile, the road gradually rose up toward the little town of Crystal Bay where the line dividing California and Nevada came down through the middle of the Cal Neva Resort and was painted on the hotel floor. Once owned by Sinatra, the glitzy hotel was a meeting spot for people like Marilyn Monroe and the Kennedy brothers.
A couple of blocks before the main intersection in the one-stoplight town, I turned left to follow a twisty road that I thought would take me down to the Tahoe Dreamscape’s home pier.
I came instead to a small parking lot near a beach vendor with a tiny business shack sporting a sign that said Jackie’s Jet Boats. Nearby was a row of personal watercraft. The Dreamscape was not in view. I was in the wrong spot.
I got out and trotted over to the shack. A chubby man whose excessive tan was far down the path toward melanoma stood up from his tall stool and leaned out the shack door. His sun-bleached sandy hair was pulled into Rasta-man dreadlocks that looked like they’d been moistened now and then but not washed for a year or more. I didn’t want to get too close lest creatures like the ones Street studies leaped at the chance for a new host planet in a galaxy far away from their current home.
“Hey, bro,” dreadlocks said. “It’s still light out for another couple of hours. Beautiful afternoon for a thrill ride. The weather’s warm, and the tourists have gone home. You’ll have the lake to yourself.”
“No doubt. Are you Jackie?”
The man made a big grin. “One and only. You want a boat? I’ve got a late-season special on the rental.”
“Thanks, Jackie. I may take a ride. But not today. I have an appointment on the Tahoe Dreamscape. I thought it was down this road.”
Jackie looked very disappointed. He slowly backed up two steps, back into the mini-shack and sat down on the tall barstool. The impact made a little stand on the counter behind him shake. What looked like a selection of jet boat keys swung in unison like a display rack of dangly earrings.
“Dreamscape’s the next road down,” he said, stabbing his thumb over his shoulder.
“Thanks,” I said, and left.
I went back up to the highway, drove to the next turn, and headed back down to the lake.
The Dreamscape floated peacefully next to its pier. The buildings and houses of Incline Village dotted the woods across Crystal Bay. Above them were the ski runs of Diamond Peak, lonely and green, awaiting the snow and skiers that would arrive in hoards by Thanksgiving.
The Tahoe Dreamscape parking lot was tucked into the trees above the Dreamscape pier. Spot had gone a long time without movement, so I decided to bring him along.
He’s tall enough that I don’t need a leash. I
held his collar as we walked down the asphalt path to the timber steps, down and out to the pier where the Dreamscape floated, looking, in the warm glow of the setting sun, younger and more romantic than the boat on whose rust-streaked deck I had attempted to negotiate with the hijacker five days before.
Spot heeled like he was class valedictorian, as dogs often do when you have a good grip on their collar. We walked out the pier to the boarding ramp, a 36-inch wide gangplank with a roller apparatus under the end that rested on the pier. As the big boat rocked with the gentle lake swells, the ramp oscillated back and forth on the pier decking, its little wheels polishing well-worn grooves in the pier planks. Spot turned with me and walked up the ramp like he’d been walking gangplanks all his life.
I unlatched the little gate at the gangway opening and we stepped onto the foredeck.
It felt like a different boat to me post-hostage trauma. Without the terrified crowd and the heavy weight of life-and-death drama, the layout felt more comfortable, the aisles and companionways less cramped, the open decks perfect for showing the lake and mountain views. Yet the railing where Street had been tied, a thin metal tube that wouldn’t have been notable in the past, now looked frail and insufficient to the job of keeping people safe from the depths of the ice water. And the boat design, which I once would have admired for its interesting lines, appeared chunky and gawkish.
I tapped three times on the salon door, turned the latch, and led Spot inside.
“Hello?” I called out. “Anyone home?”
There was no response.
I walked past the corner booth where I had held Street close to me a few days before.
At the rear of the salon were two sets of double doors. I headed toward the portside doors and pushed through into the dining cabin. It was a small plush restaurant. Ten maple tables of Scandinavian design were each encircled with six matching chairs. I called out again, but got no response.
Spot and I weaved our way through the tables. At the rear of the dining area, also on the portside, were the swing-doors to the galley. I looked in, but the lights were off. On the starboard side was the exit to the lower aft deck and beyond it the tender deck where an inflatable boat was stowed. Spot and I went back outside. I glanced up both outer aisles that connected fore and aft decks. Nobody was present.
The aft deck had a large staircase that went both down and up. We went up, Spot’s nails clicking on the metal steps. The large upper aft deck projected rearward as far as the stern below. Around the perimeter of the deck were decorative torch lanterns on tall tapered rods. The lanterns and rods were painted with bold zebra-stripe patterns. With the lanterns lit, an evening cruise on the Dreamscape would be a very memorable affair.
At the front edge of the upper deck were two steps up to the bridge. We went up. A man was visible through the rear glass of the bridge. He stood between the captain’s chairs, facing forward toward a broad instrument panel with multiple rows of gauges, two small computer screens, a large old-fashioned analog compass, a stack of electronic stuff that was reminiscent of an old-fashioned stereo system, and other devices I didn’t recognize. The man held a phone to his ear, and as he spoke, he gestured with his free hand like a conductor directing the philharmonic.
I walked up and tapped on the glass of the rear door. He turned and waved me in as he kept talking. If he was surprised at Spot’s presence, he didn’t show it.
I pulled open the door and walked in.
The man closed his phone, slipped it into his pocket.
He walked up to Spot, his hand out, casual, not looking directly at Spot. “Somebody mentioned this guy in conjunction with you,” he said, as Spot gave him a sniff. “I see why they call this breed the Apollo of dogs. Wow. A watchdog this size doesn’t even need teeth.”
“But you don’t hesitate to approach,” I said. “You obviously know dogs.”
“Growing up on a ranch outside of Wichita, you learn animals. They’re mostly all the same when it comes to judging other beings. If you want to avoid aggression, you act indifferent. Of course, you have to feel indifferent, be indifferent, inhabit the whole concept of indifference, otherwise they will sense the charade. But if you succeed, potentially hostile animals will correctly perceive no threat and leave you alone. Bulls, roosters, mama coyotes. Even grizzly bears and music professors.” Ford crinkled his mouth into a half smile. “That is, if the music professors aren’t hungry, ha, ha.” He scratched Spot under his chin. “This guy must have been fed recently.” His hand moved up to finger Spot’s ear stud. He bent down so that his face was a few inches from Spot’s. “Love the rock, hon! You’re so cute!”
The man reached to shake my hand. “So you are Owen McKenna. Ford Georges. Good to meet you.” He gave my hand a gentle squeeze. As we shook, he touched my shoulder with his left hand. Then he looked me in the eye. “Thank you so much for saving our boat. We owe you more than we can say.”
“You’re welcome.”
Ford was a solid, rangy guy in his middle forties, maybe four inches and twenty pounds shy of me. He wore a purple silk shirt over black silk slacks. His sock-less feet sported woven leather shoes with very thin soles like what I imagined on an Italian movie director. Ford had one of those hip haircuts where the top hair was gelled, combed and parted down the middle. The back and sides of his head were cut so short that you could see his childhood scars, his adult pores, and a tiny vein that squiggled its way through the territory above his left ear like a creek meandering through the Kansas prairie. That same ear sported two small sparkling studs similar to Spot’s, although probably made of real diamonds.
“No doubt you’ve got many questions about what happened,” he said. “But I can’t be of much help. My wife Teri and I weren’t on the boat. We have stay-aboard quarters below decks, but we mostly office at home, and it turns out the business of running a boat is ninety percent business and only ten percent boat. We’ve never actually taken one of our cruises together as passengers. We keep saying that we should pretend we’re customers, eat the Emerald Bay dinner that we’re famous for, the whole works.”
“You haven’t always been in the cruise business?”
He shook his head. “Insurance business. I retired and bought this boat. Best way I could think of to get out of Wichita.”
“You did well in insurance.”
“When my dad finally accepted that a masters degree in music was a good indication that I wasn’t going to take over the ranch, he told me that if music didn’t work, I should pick a service career instead, preferably something with no lights, no excitement, no razzle dazzle to distract me, because that’s how a guy can make steady bank. Of course, I wanted the lights and the excitement and the razzle dazzle. I dreamed of taking my clarinet to a big city, eventually moving on to one of the premier orchestras and a recording career as a soloist. But in the end, I didn’t have the chops. So I took my dad’s advice and started a small insurance agency in Wichita. It turned out he was right. And in Kansas there isn’t much to waste your money on, so I built up a sizable kitty. Now I’m working twice as hard and barely making expenses, but I’m not bored. And the views here are at least as good as endless miles of wheat fields.” He made a big grin.
“Who else besides Captain Richards works as crew on the boat?”
“Chief Mate Allen Paul, and our three deckhands, Joshua Tolman, and the twins Andy and Warren. If you want Andy and Warren’s last name, I’d have to look it up. They are both new to our boat in the last month.”
“Were any of them onboard during the hijacking?”
“Yes, of course. Paul is always onboard when we sail. And that day, Joshua and Warren were our deckhands.”
“When is a good time for me to show them a photo?”
“The police already showed them mugshots, if that’s what you mean. Unfortunately, they couldn’t identify anyone.”
“We’ve got a new person we’re looking at,” I said. “I’d like you to take a look at him as well.”
&n
bsp; “Happy to. Of course, you remember that I wasn’t there. But you’re thinking that this guy may have been around at other times.”
“Right. Or involved with you in some other capacity.”
I pulled out the shot of Nick O’Connell that Agent Ramos had given me and handed it to Georges. He took it, held it close, scowled at it.
“It’s a blurry photo, hard to tell much. Guy’s got a lotta hair, that’s for sure. Makes it hard to see his face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him.”
He started to hand the photo back, then snatched it back and stared at it, his scowl deepening.
“Wait. I think I have seen this guy. I don’t know where. Maybe at the gas station. Or maybe he was on the boat on one of the few days when I’m pulling water duty. Something about the intense eyes seems familiar. It reminds me of when I was in Norway. Those people with piercing blue eyes.”
He handed me the photo.
“Not much blue color in the picture,” I said.
“Right,” Georges said. “But that’s the feeling I’m getting. Like I’m seeing that Norwegian intensity in his eyes.”
“And you have no idea where you saw him.”
Georges frowned, stared out toward the mountains on the far side of the lake, shook his head. “No. I can’t pull that out of my head. It could’ve been anywhere. Grocery store. Bank. Maybe it’ll come to me at three in the morning. I’ll let you know if it does.”
“I’d like to show it to your wife,” I said.
“Certainly.” He punched an intercom button. “Teri? You onboard?”
The answer was too scratchy for me to understand.
“Follow me,” Georges said. “She’s below decks in the forward stateroom. I can give you the tour.”
We retraced my steps down the staircase to the lower aft deck.
“The former owner of the Dreamscape was a Turkish businessman. Made his money exporting Turkish goods to the EU mostly and around-the-world partly. Rugs and other home furnishings. He found this boat rusting away in a Greek boatyard. So he bought it and rebuilt it sufficient to suit Cleopatra. A decade later he sold it to the comedian Sammy Tuley. They sailed it from the Mediterranean to SoCal, and Sammy kept it at Marina del Rey. But that all happened just before the big lawsuit where Sammy lost everything. You probably remember it.
