by Todd Borg
“I’m wondering about trying to track down any relatives of his in Mexico, people who might take him in. Did Cassie ever say anything to you about that? Is is possible that she did any research about Paco’s background?”
“If she did, I didn’t hear about it.”
“Is there any communication among doctors about these kinds of problems?”
“You mean, placing orphaned kids?” Mendoza said. “No. Not our business.”
“So you have no ideas.”
“No. Not unless you could get a response out of the Basque community.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“The kid’s Basque. The Basque in this country often stick together. Like orthodox Jews. Like Indian tribes. Like Puerto Ricans. They know each other. Maybe there are Basque people who take in Basque kids.”
“How do you know he’s Basque?”
“A little because of his looks. Eyes. Face shape. But mostly his name.”
“Paco?” I said.
“No. Paco can be a first name for Native Americans or anyone of Spanish descent. And looking at Paco’s skin color, I’d guess he’s got some Native Central American in him, probably Maya.
“The reason I think he’s Basque is that Ipar sounds Basque. Basque surnames are based on the family homestead. If I had to guess, I’d say that Ipar is short for Iparagirre. Which means, loosely, a house that faces the north wind, Ipar referring to north and agirre referring to a house exposed to the elements.”
“How do you happen to know so much about the Basque?”
“We Mendozas are Basque. I grew up in a household that strongly identified with Basque culture.”
“You say that Paco looks Basque, but you look nothing like Paco. How is that?”
“I know. I’m white and hirsute as a bear. Paco’s brown, and he probably won’t have much body hair. It’s like the Black Irish and the Red Irish. Different colorations in a common people. Incidentally, it may be that the darker Irish people have some Basque in them.”
“Forgive my ignorance,” I said, “but are the Basque from Spain?”
“We call our land the Basque country, a semi-autonomous land on the border between Spain and France. Our people have been there for many thousands of years. In fact, we are the oldest continuous people in all of Europe. That is probably why we have such pride in being Basque.”
“If I were to try to find a Basque family to take in Paco, where would you recommend that I start?”
“I’d contact the Center for Basque Studies at the University of Nevada in Reno. They might have an idea. You must be aware of the Basque presence in Tahoe.”
“I’ve heard of it, but that’s about all.”
“Well, briefly, the Basque, like everyone else, came to the California foothills in significant numbers during the Gold Rush. After that died down, many Basque stayed on. Traditionally, the Basque excelled as sheepherders and they realized that they could earn their living the old-fashioned way, tending sheep throughout the foothills. Then they discovered that the high meadows in the mountains around Tahoe were excellent places to run sheep herds in the summer. Like the Washoe Indians, they moved down to Carson Valley in the winter, bringing their sheep with them. This is how Tahoe and Carson Valley both ended up with a substantial Basque population.”
“Did you know Paco’s birth mother?”
Mendoza shook his head. “Never met her. The first time I met Paco, he was about one year old. His mother had already been dead for many months.”
“One more question and I’ll let you get back to work. These patients that you see, many of them are no doubt poor. Is this pro bono work for you?”
“It used to be. Then a benefactor came along and offered to pay for all of the medical needs of the town’s poor and uninsured. I bill out at a cheap rate compared to my colleagues in the city, but at least I’m now getting paid.”
“What’s the charity?”
“It’s called the Medical Freedom Foundation. Their mission is to provide health care for poor neighborhoods. They try to raise awareness in the corporate world to help generate more funds. The ultimate goal is to ensure that no person in this country goes without medical care for lack of money.”
“A good deal for all,” I said.
“Yes. Spread the word if you know people who work for other foundations.”
I thanked him for his time and went back out to the Jeep.
SEVENTEEN
Both Paco and Spot were sleeping, Paco stretched out across the front seat, and Spot across the back, comfortable in the shade of the palm fronds above.
I unlocked the Jeep and shook Paco to wake him up.
“What?” He sounded asleep.
“Where’s the library?” I asked.
He frowned. “It’s by the school.”
I started the Jeep and drove to the school.
Paco pointed at a tiny building adjacent to the school. It too was made of concrete block and looked like a converted one-car garage. I parked and went inside the one-room library.
A cheerful woman in her seventies greeted me.
“Glad to see that budget cuts haven’t closed you down,” I said.
“Well, if we cost anything to speak of, they would have,” she said, her eyes intense. “This facility is shared by the school and the community, so the idea was that half our funding would come from the county budget and half would come from the school district budget.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” I said.
“Ha!” she exploded. “Good idea, my ass. The county has decided that they have no money for libraries. Did you hear that number? None. And the school board has decided that what used to be the library budget should instead be spent on a football coach who goes around from school to school and teaches kids to butt heads and get concussions. Who needs a bunch of dumb books, anyway, when you can play football?”
“I’m sorry you don’t have a strong opinion about it,” I said and smiled. “How do you stay open?”
“Volunteers. We have a committee. Sixteen of us. We donate our time, and we pay the utilities. Fortunately, the mortgage on this gorgeous facility is paid for.”
“At least it’s too small to be turned into a football locker room,” I said.
She squinted at me. “You look like you could play football,” she said. “But can you read a book?”
“Am I allowed to move my lips?”
“You’re a funny guy. I like that. What can I get for you? We have books from Dr. Seuss to James Joyce and very little in between. But an ex-math teacher willed her entire library to us when she died six months ago, so we have a great collection of volumes on geometry and trigonometry and calculus.”
“Actually, I’m here because of bad news regarding Cassie Moreno.” I gave the woman a quick explanation. The woman was shocked, but she handled it well.
“Although her boy witnessed the assault, and we’ve verified much of his story, we haven’t found Cassie,” I continued. “Anything I can learn about her may help in finding her.”
“Whether she’s alive or dead,” the woman said.
“Right. I realize that a patron’s borrowing records are private and you are obligated to protect Cassie’s rights. But I’m hoping you’ll balance what could be gained against what is lost with her loss of privacy.”
“Who can vouch for you?” she said.
“You can call the sheriffs of any of the counties around Tahoe. You might also call Pam Sagan.”
The woman picked up the phone and dialed a number.
“Pam?” she said after a half-minute. “Got a guy in here, says he’s a detective working on an assault involving Cassie. You got a read on this guy? Is he legitimate?”
She watched me as she listened for a bit, then spoke, “’Course, if Cassie’s dead, she’s got no privacy rights. I read that in one of these moldy books.” She listened a bit more. “Thanks,” she said, and hung up.
“Pam thinks you’re okay. Which means that I’ll brea
k the law to the extent of telling you about Cassie’s book borrowing up to subject but not including title. You okay with that?”
“Yes. Thank you. What were the subjects of the books she borrowed?”
“In three words? Gardening, gardening, and gardening, which means she read all seven of our gardening books. She also borrowed books on farming, which amount to two titles. Let’s see, she had a little thing for romance novels, which, if you knew Cassie, is a bit of an eye-opener. That’s about it.”
“Does ‘about it’ mean that was all she borrowed? I don’t mean to be picky, but could you look in your records? Or do you have all of your patrons’ activity memorized?”
“Well, you are thorough, aren’t you? If you knew how many people come in here to borrow books, you would realize that I don’t need to consult the check-out notebook. This is a small town library, emphasis on small. Make that, emphasis on tiny.”
The woman walked down one wall, scanning the shelves, went across the back wall, came back up the third wall.
“Two more subjects come to mind,” she said. “Our vast literary resources include a book on how to run a small business as well as a book on the Basque people.”
“Both of which Cassie read,” I said.
“Can’t say that. Both of which Cassie checked out. There’s a difference.”
“Right. Tell me,” I said. “Dr. Mendoza just mentioned that he thought Cassie’s foster kid was Basque. Which makes me somewhat interested in the Basque people. I wonder if I might look at what you have on that subject?”
“Excuse me while I go search the stacks. It may take some time.” She pulled her lips back in a tight half-smile. Without moving, she reached out and pulled a book off the shelf.
“Perhaps you’d be interested in this volume,” she said.
I took it from her. It was a hard-bound book about the Basque country and general Basque information. As I flipped through it, nothing seemed applicable to Paco or California or killers who look like superheroes. I handed it back to her.
“I have a question that is a bit obscure, but you might be able to tell me where to look. There is a phrase that Cassie periodically says. It goes, ‘We are quick to flare up, we races of men on the earth.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
The woman made a quick grin. “Here’s where I should give my lecture about the value of a liberal arts education, which, of course, all of us library committee members have. But the truth is that I know about that phrase only because Cassie said it to me once, and I asked her where it came from.”
I waited.
“It’s from ‘The Odyssey,’ Homer’s epic poem.”
“Heard of it,” I said, “but that doesn’t count for much. What’s it about?”
“It tells the story of Odysseus, a Greek man who tries to find his way home after fighting in the Trojan War. One of those impressive feats of literature that pretty much no one other than Greek scholars ever reads. I looked through it once. Kind of rambles all over the place. But my strength is English Lit, so I shouldn’t judge. Besides, Homer influenced my guys.”
“Any idea why Cassie would quote it?”
She shook her head. “I think it’s just a good line, that’s all. But it shows that she has an ambitious intellect. She’s not what you’d called an educated girl – she used to clean houses, after all – but she’s real smart and has the mind for much more.”
“Thank you very much for your time.”
She nodded. “I hope you find that woman. Paco needs her.”
I nodded and let myself out.
Back in the Jeep, I thought about how enigmatic Cassie seemed, a former house cleaner who quoted Homer.
I said to Paco, “That line, ‘We are quick to flare up?’”
Paco looked at me.
“It comes from an ancient Greek writer name Homer. Did Cassie ever talk about Homer?”
Paco shook his head.
“She ever say other lines like that?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Wait. Sometimes she says, ‘The only thing that overcomes hard luck is hard work.’”
“Sounds like another quote. She say who originally said it?”
“No.”
EIGHTEEN
It was dark before we made it back to Tahoe.
The rain had paused in the valley, but resumed a light drizzle as we climbed back up the Sierra. The temperature dropped more than the average 4 degrees per thousand feet of altitude gain. The light rain turned to snow flurries as we went by Kirkwood at 7800 feet. The snow grew more vigorous as we drove higher. By the time we crested Carson Pass at 8600 feet above the warm Central Valley, it had gone from a 79-degree Stockton afternoon to 32-degree twilight at 8600 feet.
Although my cabin above Tahoe is lower elevation than Carson pass, the temperature kept dropping with the onset of nighttime. When we parked in my drive, we stepped out into frosty air. Paco hugged himself and looked around at the dark as if something was wrong with a landscape that has never seen a warm evening.
As we walked to the door, a small rabbit ran across our path and dove into a hole that I didn’t know existed. Spot ran after, sniffed the hole for a bit, then rejoined us at the door.
When we were inside my cabin, I said, “Now that you have some clean clothes, you should take another shower and put them on.”
Paco gave me a look of resignation, then picked up the paper bag with his clothes and carried it into the bathroom. When he was finished showering and had changed, he came out of the bathroom. The sunglasses were back on his head.
I said, “I have to make some phone calls. You can sleep in my bed so that I don’t wake you.”
“I don’t want to sleep in your bed,” Paco said. “I’ll sleep with Spot.” He hugged himself and shivered. He seemed eager to get into the sleeping bag and absorb some of the excess warmth from the giant dog next to him.
“Your call,” I said.
Paco pulled his sunglasses off his head, set them on the little table, and wriggled into the sleeping bag which was covering a good portion of Spot’s bed. Spot walked over and stared at Paco. His head was down, jowls drooping, trying to figure out his next move. He finally stepped onto the small portion of his bed that wasn’t covered by Paco and lowered his elbows until they touched the bed. With his butt still in the air, he looked at Paco who was instantly asleep. Then Spot lowered his rear, squatting on his haunches, looked at Paco again, and flopped over sideways, possibly crushing the boy’s side.
Paco yelped, jerked his limbs out from under Spot, and scooted away from him. Paco rubbed his elbow vigorously. His permanent frown was even more pronounced than normal. “He just rolled on me!” Paco smacked Spot hard on his chest with an open palm.
Spot made a big sigh and went to sleep.
Paco jerked on his sleeping bag and turned the other way so that he was back-to-back with Spot. Paco breathed the quick, huffing pants of a snorting animal. After thirty seconds, his breathing calmed. In another half minute, he was out.
I got on the phone and called Diamond and Mallory to ask if either had any news of the missing Cassie or the van or the possible shooter. Diamond wasn’t picking up, so I left a message. Mallory answered, but said that he had no news.
I opened up the sales journal I’d borrowed from Cassie’s desk. She had 31 customers for her Field To Fridge delivery business. She’d written a tiny JM next to 9 of the names. Those must have been the names that the man named John Mitchell had picked, the ones for which he wanted travel information.
There was no evidence that suggested that the people on the list were connected to her disappearance and possible murder. But I knew that graft was involved in John Mitchell’s travel-plans gig. It was a logical place to investigate.
I got out my laptop and began Googling the names, four of which I’d heard of.
I got lots of hits on all of them.
I made notes so that I’d be prepared when I visited them. Three of the names on Cassie’s list were people n
early everyone knew. One was a rock star. One, a late-night talk show host. Another, a famous baseball player. The less familiar names were successful people who were well known within their own circles. One was the CEO of a software powerhouse. One was a CEO of a national restaurant chain. One was a producer of documentaries. There was an owner of a medical stents manufacturer. There was an inventor who’d created several devices for NASA to use in the microgravity of earth orbit. The last person on the list, and the only woman, was a romance novelist.
My phone interrupted my research.
“You rang,” Diamond said.
“I was in Stockton today. So I wanted to check in and ask if you had any news. You find a van or a body? That sort of thing.”
“Nope on the van, nope on the body,” he said.
“Then let me run an idea by you. Today Paco gave me a letter that Cassie had written to me. Turns out she suspected that she was involved in something uncomfortable if not illegal or dangerous.”
I told Diamond about the man who called himself John Mitchell and his payment for travel information on Cassie’s customers. I went down the list of customers.
“Tell me what you think of this,” I said. “I’ve thought about how someone could make money using the travel plans of successful people who worked in disparate industries. The only possibility that comes to mind is playing the stock market. My idea is simple.
“Pretend that one of Cassie’s customers is a major software CEO, and he flies to a medium-smallish city. This John Mitchell guy finds out about it from Cassie. Mitchell does some research and discovers that the smallish city has a fast-growing company that produces software. Further research shows that the small company’s product might be useful to the large company.
“So Mitchell figures that the big company might be looking into buying the small company. Mitchell immediately buys a bunch of the small company’s stock. If Mitchell’s hunch is true, the small company’s stock will soon surge, and Mitchell will make a lot of money. Better yet, no one can accuse Mitchell of insider trading. He knows next to nothing about either company. He is insulated from the executives of both.”
