Tahoe Hijack

by Todd Borg

  That night, after Spot and I had gone home and eaten dinner, the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Anna. Okay, I’m being hyper-vigilant like you said.”

  “Good.”

  “Earlier, when I came back to Lacy’s house, there was a vehicle down the road. A guy was standing behind it, leaning in the back, like he was looking in his toolbox or something. He had long white hair and a big white moustache. But he wasn’t real old. Maybe middle fifties. Thin and fit.”

  “Have you ever seen him before?”

  “No. Anyway, I went out a few minutes ago to get my book that I’d left in my car. The vehicle was still there, just down the street. The neighbor’s outdoor light was on. It was hard to see because there was reflection on the windshield. But his white hair and moustache were obvious. He’s just sitting in his car in the dark.”

  “Are the neighbors home?”

  “I don’t think so. The house is dark. Only the outside light is on.”

  “You think the man is waiting for them to come home?” I asked.

  “I would guess not. Earlier when it was light out, I saw some flyers stuffed into their front door. And on their sidewalk was a phone book in one of those plastic sleeves. It looks like they’ve been gone awhile.”

  “The woman you’re staying with, is she home, yet?”

  “No,” Anna said. “Lacy called ten minutes ago to check in and say that she was leaving Reno. But I don’t know how long that means she’ll be.”

  “You’re on middle Kingsbury. Another hour and ten minutes.”

  “Any chance you saw the license plate on the vehicle?”

  “No. It’s dark and it’s down the street a ways. I should mention that it’s the only other house on the street. So I’m pretty much all alone up here except for that stranger.”

  “What kind of vehicle is he in?”

  “I don’t know. One of those old, open-air things like what they use on a safari. Only, we’re talking fifty years ago. Sixty years ago. It’s rusted and ungainly-looking. It has a cloth top that doesn’t fit properly. Probably homemade. Knobby tires. Gas can hanging off the back.”

  “Like an old Land Cruiser?”

  “I have no idea what that is.”

  “Are your doors and windows locked?”

  “Yes. Well, I think so. I just have the one key, and I locked the door behind me when I came in.”

  “How many bathrooms are there?”

  “That’s a weird question. Two, why?”

  “I want you to double check the locks on the doors, then close the curtains and turn on several lights, inside and out, including the lights in just one bathroom. Turn on the water in the bathroom and let it run. Then lock the bathroom door knob and shut it from the outside.”

  “Oh, Christ, Owen. You’re scaring me.”

  “Turn your cellphone on vibrate only, then quietly slip out the back door. Go back into the forest and wait for me to pull up. Don’t come out until you actually see me and Spot. Hurry.”

  “Owen, aren’t you being alarmist?”

  “Anna, go now. Hurry!” I hung up.

  Spot was already looking at me, his brow furrowed and ears perked up at my tone of voice.

  “Let’s go, largeness.”

  He jumped to his feet, and we ran out of the cabin.

  I drove down the East Shore, running the Jeep up to 75 where the highway was empty and slowing to 55 where there was traffic. When I came to the South Shore, I turned on Kingsbury Grade and raced up the curves. Halfway up the mountain I found the turnoff, followed a twisty narrow road and made another turn onto the dead-end street that Anna’s friend lived on. The mini-neighborhood’s two houses were down by the end, one on the left that was dark except for a single light under the peak of the garage roof. Down about 60 yards on the right was Anna’s friend’s house. Light glowed in several of the windows.

  I pulled into the drive next to Anna’s Camry and came to a quick stop in front of the open garage, my headlights shining inside. One side of the garage was cleared for a single car. The floor on the other side was crowded with a snowblower, gas can, recycle bins, two mountain bikes, a kayak, and yard tools. In the corner leaned multiple skis and snowboards. Next to the corner was the doorway into the house. The door was kicked in.

  Where the knob and deadbolt had been was splintered wood and hanging screws. One large shard of wood leaned out across the doorway.

  I jumped out of the Jeep, jerked open the back door to let Spot out and sprinted in through the garage. Light spilled out past the broken door.

  “Anna!” I shouted as I pulled the splintered wood aside. “Anna!” There was no answer.

  Spot pushed his head in next to me.

  “Spot! Find the suspect!” I gave him a smack on his rear. He ran past me into the house, his head high, air scenting. But he stopped, swiveled his head left and right, turned and looked at me. Which meant that no one was currently in the house.

  The doorway brought me into the open area between the kitchen and the entry. Lights were on in the kitchen, but the entry was dark. Spot looked toward the kitchen. A quick glance revealed that it was empty. To the left, a hallway went down toward the bedrooms. Light shone from a doorway at the end of the hall. The sound of running water permeated the house. I ran down the hall and pushed open the door. The knob and latch were unbroken. The shower was running, and the rug was pushed up against the bathtub as if someone had sprinted out of the bathroom. I turned off the water to kill the noise.

  I glanced in the dark bedrooms, but they appeared empty. I ran back to the kitchen. It was neat and clean. The only thing out of place was the woodblock knife holder on the counter near the chopping block. It lay on its side, all the knives spilled out. Several of them sprawled across the counter. Two were on the floor. I counted the slots. Four narrow, three wide. Then I counted the knives. Four narrow, two wide. If the holder had been full, then one of the big knives was missing.

  Maybe Anna grabbed it to protect herself as soon as she heard the intruder. Maybe the intruder took the knife from her.

  Just to be sure, I ran out the back door. Spot followed me. I called out Anna’s name as I dialed 911. She didn’t respond.

  When the dispatcher answered, I gave a fast report. The dispatcher said a patrol unit would arrive soon.

  I hung up, ran back inside and looked in the bedrooms. Two were dark. One was lit. One of the dark ones was messy and strewn with lots of personal effects. The mess from a search is nothing like the mess from someone who doesn’t put everything away. This mess indicated owner rather than guest. This bedroom was Lacy’s.

  The lit bedroom was neatly made up. There was a small roller suitcase on the floor. I unzipped it and opened the flap. I didn’t want freshly laundered clothes. I needed something Anna had worn. To one side was a cloth bag that didn’t seem fresh like the other clothes. Inside was a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. I pulled out the shirt, returned to the back door of the house, and called Spot.

  When he came, I put the shirt on his nose. “Smell the shirt!” I said to him. I put excitement in my voice.

  Spot looked at me, realizing what I wanted.

  I pushed the shirt against his nose again.

  “Smell the shirt and find the victim!” I pointed him out the back door and gave him a pat.

  He trotted out behind the house while I held the back door open to watch. He looped around a pine, went past a Manzanita bush, took a big turn to the left, then came back to the house. He pushed past me, went inside and down to Anna’s bedroom. I told him how smart he was.

  I called Street and explained what was happening. “A woman from Fresno named Lacy Hampton is driving back from Reno to her vacation house on Kingsbury. She’s going to find that her houseguest Anna Quinn has disappeared, probably kidnapped, her house is damaged, and when she gets here it will be full of cops.” As I said it, a siren rose in the distance.

  “You need help,” Street said.

  �
�Yeah. Please. I don’t know if Lacy has friends in Tahoe. If so, they may be fellow vacation home owners and are probably out of town.”

  “It’ll take me a bit to get out of here.”

  “Thanks so much,” I said. I gave her the address, then went outside to the driveway to wait for the cops.

  Something sparkled in the faint light near the curve. I walked over and picked up a cell phone. It was severely scratched and one end was crushed as if someone had stepped on it. I opened it up. The screen stayed dark. I pressed the button to turn it on. Nothing happened. The battery seemed secure. My guess was that it was Anna’s phone. Her attacker found it and stomped it hard enough to kill it.

  An hour later, Diamond and a deputy and two crime scene technicians were at the house while Street sat with Lacy in the kitchen drinking coffee. Lacy put on a good face, but you could see her shake. I knew that when Street left, Lacy would fall apart. But Street had made a house full of cops tolerable for the moment.

  I called Agent Ramos and filled him in on the details of what happened.

  “No sign of the white-haired man?” he said.

  “No.”

  “Is the vehicle she described around?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have an idea of who may have taken her?”

  “Other than the white-haired man, no,” I said.

  “Have Sergeant Martinez call me when he’s done,” he said.

  We hung up.

  I found Diamond and told him that Ramos wanted a call. Diamond nodded and kept working.

  An hour later, Diamond gave his okay for Lacy to leave and she went with Street to Street’s condo. Diamond and the Douglas County deputies stayed behind to finish their business.

  I was driving away as my phone rang.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Hey, honey bunch,” a woman said when I answered. The voice was warm and smooth and had the polished, rounded tones of a professional actor. Which meant Glenda Gorman, the non-actor, ace reporter for the Herald. Her casual tone told me that she hadn’t been listening to her scanner, didn’t yet know about Anna and Lacy and the man with white hair and moustache.

  “Glennie,” I said. I was having trouble shifting from Anna’s kidnapping. But if I didn’t want Glennie to pick up on the stress, I had to speak with normal voice and normal words. “Since when am I honey bunch?”

  “Standard nomenclature for men in the back of my black book.”

  “I rate inclusion in the black one?” I turned off of Lacy’s neighborhood street and onto Kingsbury Grade.

  “The back of it’s for the men who are taken but should have met me first. I’m calling with something you might find interesting.”

  “Okay,” I said, knowing that with Glennie every favor was expected to be returned in kind with information. “All ears.”

  “Our advertising director at the Herald showed me an unusual classified ad that ran this morning. Made me think of you. I’ll read it, and you’ll know what I mean. It says, ‘I have information about Grace Sun’s daughter. Meet me on the beach-side lawn at Valhalla. Six a.m. tomorrow.’”

  “Why do you think I’d be interested?”

  “C’mon, Owen. You think I don’t have sources? I know that the hijacking was about the murderer of Grace Sun.”

  I realized that there was no point in protesting. “Valhalla is the grand hall on the Tallac Historic Site, right?” I said, still trying to sound casual, chatty. “Where people get married. I remember the stone fireplace that is so big you can walk inside the opening. But I’m trying to remember where the turnoff is.”

  “If you come around the South Shore and head out toward Emerald Bay, the turnoff is just past Camp Richardson.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Any idea about who placed the ad?” I asked.

  “No. I asked our receptionist and she said there was an envelope under the door when she came to work yesterday. It had the ad typed out and more than enough cash to pay for it. Like right out of a spy movie. Because it was unusual to get an anonymous ad, they ran it by the publisher who said there was no policy requiring an ID on the person placing the ad. They didn’t see any legal reason why the ad couldn’t be run. On one hand, they thought they should contact law enforcement. On the other hand, they didn’t want to infringe on anyone’s civil liberties.”

  “The paper takes its responsibilities as a member of the press seriously,” I said. I cruised past my dark office building, came to the bottom of the grade and turned north toward home.

  “Yeah. Anyway, now you can investigate and tell me what you learn.”

  “You are a bold woman, Glennie. The Tallac Historic Site is out of the South Lake Tahoe City limits. I’ll contact Sergeant Bains at El Dorado County.”

  “Oh.” She paused. “Hey, say hi to him, will you?” Glennie’s voice sounded wistful. I remembered their short, intense relationship from the previous spring.

  “Will do.”

  “You think you’ll go to Valhalla tomorrow morning?” Glennie asked. “See who turns up?”

  “Might be a good idea. But I have to ask that you don’t come.”

  “If I do, I’ll stay back. Don’t worry. I won’t mess anything up.” She said it in a jaunty way.

  “Glennie, I hear that tone and I worry that you don’t really mean it. I should tell you that I think the guy who placed the ad might be dangerous. Any person who would want to come to meet him might be dangerous as well. And it’s still dark at that hour this time of year. You could regret it.”

  “Okay, I promise that I won’t come close. Is that good enough?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “And you’ll reward my reserve by telling me everything you learn,” she said.

  “Yes, if I don’t think there will be dangerous repercussions. No, if I think it could put you at risk.”

  “But you’ll tell me eventually,” she said. “After any risk has died down.”

  “Yes, but only because I understand that that is a condition you’ll put on keeping your distance tomorrow morning.”

  “You are so onto me. I like perceptive men.”

  “Thanks for the tip, Glennie.”

  “Sure. What’s with the daughter, anyway? Probably most women who get murdered have kids, and half of those kids are daughters. Is this one special?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “And that’s all you’re going to say.”

  “Yeah.”

  We said goodbye and hung up.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I couldn’t sleep. I’d told Anna to stay undercover. Even so, I knew that she’d come to Tahoe because of a chain of events that I set in motion.

  I beat myself up for hours, wrestling the sheets, gritting my teeth. I got out of bed and paced. When I tried sleeping again, it felt like pressure was building in my head. I finally got up for good at 4:30 a.m. I gave Spot some dog food to nibble while I drank a two fast cups of coffee. Spot looked at his food with suspicion, then looked at me with melancholy.

  “I know. Wretched, miserable pretend food. But if you actually had to chase down an elk or something for your breakfast, you would appreciate it a little more.”

  He turned back and looked down at his food, then lay down and sighed.

  We left in the dark.

  While Spot is usually an asset when I need to make an impression on somebody, he is a detriment to any undercover operation. I knew I would be engaging in the latter, but depending on how things worked out, I might need the former as well. So I brought him along.

  We drove south down 50 and into South Lake Tahoe. The rest of the Tahoe world may have been asleep, but the Stateline hotels were brightly lit. Although it was still a couple of months away, two of them had signs advertising coming concerts for Thanksgiving weekend, the traditional beginning of ski and snowboard season.

  I headed across the line to the California side, drove through South Lake Tahoe, turned right at the Y and headed out toward Emerald Bay.

  The Valhalla turnoff
was just past Camp Richardson as Glennie had said, but I thought it would be best to approach from a less predictable direction. I continued on another quarter mile or so and parked near the Taylor Creek Visitor Center. I let Spot out, and we headed down the dark path, away from the highway, into the black forest. I held onto Spot’s collar as we went past the stream profile chamber where you can view the creek from underground and watch the Kokanee salmon and rainbow trout swim by at eye level.

  Spot didn’t hesitate as we walked through the darkness, his night-vision nose and ears filling in where his eyes left off. I took his lead, blindly thinking that he wouldn’t get me into trouble. But I put my free arm out in an effort to detect trees and branches before they knocked me down or ripped out my eyes.

  The forest near the Tallac Historic Site has multiple trails, fun for beach-goers and mansion-tour-takers to explore during the day, but confusing at night. At one point we came to a vague opening in the woods, which I took to be a split in the path. I was lost.

  “Okay, largeness,” I whispered. “You decide.”

  Spot pulled to the left, so I followed.

  We curved left and right and left again. Soon, the world opened up.

  Through an opening in the woods was the big black lake under a star-filled sky. We stepped through some brush and went down several feet to sand. The beach on this part of the shore is a narrow strip when the water is high in the spring. But in the fall, just before the onslaught of snow begins, the lake is at its ebb, and there is plenty of sand next to the frigid water.

  I guessed the time to be about 5:30 a.m., a half hour before the predicted action. The lake was a huge black swatch with a 75-mile-long ring of faint, twinkling lights, sparser to the west and northeast sides where much of the shore was park and wilderness. The neighborhoods to the southeast climbed up the Kingsbury Grade and Zephyr Heights hillsides like a modern American version of the French Riviera. Large vacation homes with broad decks stacked up three, four and five levels high were anchored into the steep slopes. Across the far north reaches of the water was a continuous curve of lights twinkling from homes and businesses 22 miles distant, from Incline Village on the right to Tahoe City on the left.