by Todd Borg
“He also said that Salt and Pepper boasted to him about their pickup topper. They got it from a sometime-military contractor that deals in techy material. Custom fabrics that can be mounted on most surfaces. Solar fabrics that generate electricity, bullet-proof Kevlar fabrics, fabrics that glow in the dark. It turns out, these boys had their topper laminated with a fabric that looks like a different color depending on what kind of light shines on it. It looks like white at night when it’s illuminated by man-made light. But under sunlight, the same fabric looks dark. Amazing stuff.”
“Paco said the pickup topper looked white,” I said. “But that was at night. So we should be looking for a dark topper during the day.”
Ramos nodded. He looked at Paco, then gave me a questioning look as if he was wondering whether or not I understood the seriousness of the danger to the boy. “From what our informant says, it sounds like Salt and Pepper act without hesitation. No moral code to get in the way. Doesn’t matter who the victim is.”
“Message received,” I said. “They ever work for themselves? Or do they only hire out?”
“Hire out, from what we’ve heard.”
“So, in addition to Salt and Pepper, we’re looking for someone else.”
Ramos nodded. “About whom we have no clue,” he said.
“There is one thing,” I said. I told him about the man named John Mitchell who paid Cassie for information about the travel plans of her clients. We talked about it for a few minutes, I thanked Ramos for his time, and we turned to leave.
Ramos reached out and rubbed Paco’s head. Paco’s sunglasses slipped sideways and caught on his ear. Paco grabbed them and shot Ramos an intense frown. He put the glasses back on.
“Sorry, Paco,” Ramos said. “Just want you to know that we’re glad you’re helping us put the finger on these bad guys.”
Paco looked away, and we left.
I was trying to think of something to say to lift Paco’s spirits. After we’d driven some distance, I said, “Now you’ve met a county Sergeant, a city Commander, and an FBI guy. They’re all trying to help catch Salt and Pepper.”
Paco shrugged like it was no big deal. “Seen ’em on TV,” he said, his face to the window.
“TV cops and FBI agents aren’t real. They’re just actors pretending. These guys are the real thing.”
A minute later, Paco said. “They got nice clothes.”
I nodded.
“They carry guns?” Paco asked.
“Probably,” I said.
“Cops have them on their belt,” he said. “Like Diamond.”
“Some cops have concealed-carry holsters,” I said. “Under their arms. Or in the arch of their backs. Could be, that’s what Commanders and FBI agents do.”
“Like undercover cops,” Paco said.
“Yeah.”
“Do you carry a gun?” he asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
It was always a difficult question. “Because a gun makes it easy to get yourself into a situation that you can never get out of.”
Paco didn’t say anything.
TWENTY-SIX
I didn’t dare go back to the cabin. It was too easy for Salt and Pepper to watch. They could sit at any of a dozen points in the forest and see vehicles coming and going on the drive up the mountain. I thought about going across the grade to Street’s lab, but my Jeep was easy to spot, and I didn’t want it sitting outside her workspace.
Instead, I called her.
I told Street about our day. “Diamond said we could stay at his place starting tomorrow night. We shouldn’t repeat at your place, so I’m thinking of a back street motel.”
“They could be watching for your Jeep,” she said. “You should rent a car.”
“I tried that once, but when the rental agent saw Spot, she said they were out of stock.”
“Then you should take mine.”
“They may know your car from when you blocked my road,” I said.
“Still better than the Jeep,” Street said. “Besides, I watched them as they came down the road. They turned off the road onto that trail a long way back. I doubt they could have noticed the make and color of my car. Where shall we meet?” Street said it as if the decision was made.
“I’ll park behind Harrah’s, and we’ll walk through the passageway by Embassy Suites. You can pull up on the main boulevard, and we’ll get into your car. If Salt and Pepper are following me, they’ll watch my Jeep, waiting for us to come back. By the time they figure out what happened, it will be too late to do anything about it. We can drop you at your condo.”
“I’ve got work to do. You can drop me at my lab and I’ll take a cab home. Or do a lab sleep-over.”
“Okay. Give us ten minutes.”
“Make it twenty?” she said. “I’ve got another call coming in.”
“You’re the best,” I said and hung up.
We drove over to the hotels and parked in the far back lot at Harrah’s. I was vigilant, but I saw no pickups following us.
We had some extra time before Street would arrive, so I called information and got the number of the Sacramento Bee. When the receptionist answered, I asked to be put through to a reporter who covered the farm economy in the Central Valley.
“Well, that would be any of several,” she said, “but they’re all out except for Kirk Chamone. Would you like me to connect you?”
“Please.”
“Kirk Chamone,” a man answered.
“Detective Owen McKenna calling with a quick research question, please. We’re working on a case that may connect to Central Valley tomatoes.”
There was a pause. “You mean, regular tomatoes? Like the vegetable?”
“Yeah. My question is about the potential value of a new kind of tomato. If someone created a tomato that was substantially better than what is currently available, would the value be enough to motivate potential theft or worse?”
“First, let me ask,” Chamone said. “If this turns into a human interest story with an agricultural component, will you give me the details first?”
“Promise,” I said.
“Okay. Let me describe what I know about tomatoes,” the man said, “and you can draw your own conclusion. I’m no expert, so take everything I say as coming from a layman.
“If you look at the three main types of tomatoes, the large, the cherry, and the Roma-plum type, you’ve got uncountable varieties of tomatoes out there. But I’d guess that the commercial growers get most of their sales from maybe two dozen varieties. You come up with any single variety that has some big advantages over what’s currently popular, and you could have a very large number of growers eager to put your new tomato into their production. So yes, there could be motivation to pirate your tomato.”
“How much could a single type of tomato be worth?” I asked.
“Good question to which I don’t know the answer. But the tomato market in the United States is around two billion dollars a year. Let’s say your tomato had the potential to claim five percent of that. One hundred million a year sounds like a motivating number to me.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“And you’ll remember to call me if a story comes out of this?”
“Will do.”
It was time to meet Street. Paco held Spot’s collar while we walked. As we went by the Embassy Suites, we had to stop for a bit so two women could pet Spot and exclaim and gush and hug him. But we were out in front of the hotel when Street pulled up. It was not easy to fit the four of us into her VW. Spot took up the entire back seat. So I jumped in the driver’s seat, while Paco grudgingly sat on Street’s lap in the passenger seat.
We dropped her at her lab.
“Even when we’re not with you,” I said to Street, “you are still at risk.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep the lights down and the blinds closed. Even if they know about my lab, my car won’t be here. They’ll think I’m out.”
“Merci very much,�
�� I said, kissed her, and we left.
We headed into town.
“You like Chinese takeout?” I asked Paco.
He shrugged.
I had the restaurant put the food into three sets of boxes so we didn’t need plates. The restaurant parking area was well blocked from the main boulevard by trees and buildings, so we ate outside in the lot, balancing our food on the curved hood of Street’s Beetle. Spot ate his rice and chicken on the ground. He made a mess of it, but was meticulous about cleaning up after himself, licking every grain of rice off the pavement.
We’d forgotten to bring supplies when we left my cabin, so we stopped and bought a change of clothes and toothbrushes for each of us, then checked into a motel where Salt and Pepper would be unlikely to find us even if they knew the make of Street’s car. I parked the car on the opposite end from our room.
The room was small but had a king-sized bed.
“Where do you sleep?” Paco asked.
I pointed to left side of the bed.
“Where do I sleep?” he asked.
I pointed to the right side.
“Where does Spot sleep?”
I kept my finger pointing to the right side.
He shrugged. Affirmative.
We were in bed early.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The next morning we began our route. The rain had stopped, but the forecast said that more precipitation was to come. I didn’t mind because they said the snow level would be at 7500 feet, the best situation for this time of year. I love snow, but it was too early in the season to get excited about shoveling. If the forecasters were right, the ski resorts could start building their base, while I’d only get rain at my cabin. Only the few people who lived above me would get snow.
In my pocket, I had my list of the Field To Fridge clients from Cassie’s sales journal. I’d put them in counterclockwise order around the lake. Paco could probably tell me how to drive to all of their customers, but the addresses would be good backup.
The first person was the inventor for NASA, a guy named Rob Tentor. He lived on the lake in Skyland. The house was easy to find, because as soon as I turned through the Skyland entrance, Paco said, “This is the guy who likes persimmons.”
“Let me guess. A fruit, not a vegetable.”
“Yeah. Go down to the lake.” Paco pointed, showed me where to turn at the end, pointed out the house.
I pulled into the drive and parked. “You should come with me to the door,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because you’re my credibility. They know you, right?”
“Not really,” Paco said.
“But they’ve seen you.”
“Yeah.”
“Then they’ll be more likely to talk to me. Your presence will give them comfort.”
Paco thought about it, then opened his door and got out. We left Spot crammed in the back seat and walked to the front door. I rang the bell. Chimes sounded far off.
Paco pointed at the lock. “Cassie has a key. We just go into the kitchen.”
I nodded.
The door opened. A woman wearing a smock and holding a rag and bottle of Windex said, “May I help you?” Then she saw Paco.
“Paco! What are you doing here?”
“Hi, my name is Owen McKenna. I’m a local investigator.” I handed her my card. “I’m here with Paco because we have bad news. I’m sorry to tell you that Cassie Moreno, your Field To Fridge woman, was murdered three days ago.”
The woman immediately paled, hugged herself, and looked horrified. “Paco! I’m so sorry!” She bent down and hugged him. He didn’t move as he was engulfed by her embrace.
The woman looked at me. She stuttered, “Wh... Wh... What can I do to help?”
“You work for Rob Tentor?”
“Yes, I’m his hou...housekeeper. Bridgett Jordan.”
“Is Mr. Tentor home?”
“No, he’s in Spain. He won’t be back for two weeks.” As she said it, I understood how easily Cassie was enticed into forwarding travel information that people gave freely.
“When did Mr. Tentor leave here?” I asked.
“A week ago last Tuesday.”
“We believe that Cassie’s murder may have something to do with her Field To Fridge business.”
The woman’s look turned to fear. “I... I... I can’t believe that. We all love her. She’s a dear friend. She feeds us.”
“Were Cassie’s arrangements with Mr. Tentor primarily handled by him? Or did you make the arrangements?”
“Well, Mr. Tentor first called her after Mrs. Swanson told him about Cassie. But after the first visit, I was the one who dealt with Cassie.”
“What was involved in your dealings?”
“Nn...Nn...Not a lot. Mr. Tentor was on her ‘Just The Basics’ plan. Every week she showed up with tomatoes and peppers and persimmons, broccoli, asparagus and spinach. The fruit was usually bananas, apples, and oranges. Now and then she would add other produce. She used her judgment on what was tastiest in any given season.”
“Did Mr. Tentor get along well with Cassie?”
“Oh, he loved her. I mean, he loved her service. He rarely ever saw her. But he was very taken with the whole concept. I loved what she did, too.”
“Any disagreements or tension?”
The woman shook her head.
“What about her as a person? Did you and Mr. Tentor find her to be as personally agreeable as her business service was?”
Bridgett frowned. “Well, I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
“Did you like Cassie?”
“Y... Y... Yes. Ab... Ab... Absolutely. She maybe wasn’t super chatty and friendly. Just real business-like. She did a great job.”
“How often did you talk to her?”
“Once a week when she came. That’s all.”
“Did Mr. Tentor see her each week?”
“N... Not most weeks. Cassie comes early. Mr. Tentor is usually still in bed.”
“Who paid Cassie’s bill?”
“I did. Every four weeks, she would bring an invoice, and I’d write her a check out of the household account.”
“Was Cassie’s weekly visit your only contact with her?”
“Of course. She lived down in the Central Valley. Where else would I have contact with her?”
“Where do you live?”
“Carson City,” she said.
“Did you ever tell Cassie about Rob Tentor’s travel plans?”
She frowned. “No. Why would I do that?”
“Maybe she just asked you casually. Something like, ‘So where is Mr. Tentor these days?’ Like that.”
“I c... can’t ever think of any time we talked about such a thing.”
“You’re sure.”
“Of course, I’m sure,” she said in an irritated voice.
“Tell me,” I paused, “did you consider the amount that Cassie charged a fair price for her product and service?”
“W... Well, I d... don’t know that I could judge that.”
“Why not? You buy fruits and vegetables in the store, right? If you add a delivery fee, and add for Cassie’s time, did the result seem appropriate to you?”
Bridgett Jordan paused. “I may just as well tell you the truth, Mr. McKenna. Cassie’s p... produce was probably the most expensive in the world. Many times I’ve wondered why I didn’t think of such a business. I mean, how hard can it be? You go and buy some nice veggies and deliver them in a nice-looking basket. Then you charge ten times what they cost. It was a real racket, this business of Cassie’s.” Bridgett stopped abruptly as she realized that her voice had gotten an edge to it.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued, her voice softer. “Mr. Tentor loves the service. He’ll be d... dismayed to hear that Cassie is gone.”
“And you?” I said. “Are you dismayed?” It was a pointed question to which I expected an angry, defensive response.
Instead, Bridgett said, “Yes,” her voice qui
et. “I’m very dismayed.”
I pointed at the card in her hand. “If you hear of anything that might be useful in our investigation, please give me a call.”
She nodded, and began to close the door. Then she opened it and spoke to Paco. “I’m s... so sorry, Paco.” She gave him another hug.
We left.
Back in Street’s Beetle, I started a new list.
1) Rob Tentor – Nasa inventor – Out of town. Housekeeper Bridgett Jordan was Cassie’s main contact. Envious of Cassie’s business success. No travel discussed.
The next person up the East Shore was romance novelist Jayleen Swanson, the Mrs. Swanson who Bridgett said first told Tentor about Cassie’s business.
Jayleen Swanson lived in Uppaway, the exclusive gated community just south of Glenbrook. I pulled up to the gate, punched Swanson onto the keypad and the machine dialed her phone. After five rings, her answering machine picked up.
At the tone, I said, “Hi, my name is Detective Owen McKenna. I have important information about Cassie Moreno, the owner of Field To Fridge. Please give me a call at your convenience.” I left my number and was about to push the disconnect button when I stopped. I added, “If you prefer, you can call Commander Mallory of the South Lake Tahoe Police Department. Thank you for your time.”
As before, Paco said, “Cassie knows the code. We just go in.”
“No doubt,” I said.
I updated my list.
2) Jayleen Swanson – Romance novelist – Unavailable.
The third person on my counter-clockwise trip around the lake was the ball player for the Oakland As. He lived in Glenbrook, just north of the Uppaway entrance. I drove to the Glenbrook gatehouse. The woman on gate duty gave me a stern look. With a Great Dane stuffed into the back of a little Beetle, I was clearly not someone she recognized. She probably spent a good part of every day asking house gawkers to turn around and leave.
I pulled close to her open window and gave her the name of the ball player and explained who I was.
