10 Tahoe Trap

by Todd Borg

  “Naturally, it seemed too much of a coincidence to have two such connections to Cassie at this townhouse development, especially considering that your restaurant chain also owns a produce distribution company. So my question is, do you know who the man in the red Audi is?”

  “Yes,” Schue said. He gestured at the man next to him. “Albert is the man you are looking for. The red Audi is his. Although I’m sorry to say that this knowledge won’t be the breakthrough you are looking for.”

  Albert spoke up, “Michael and I have been partners for many years, and we have worked side-by-side on several business projects. I’m a part owner of our company, California Produce Growers and Distributors. I heard about Cassie from Michael. Then, when I tasted her hybrid tomatoes and realized that they were delicious, I made some inquiries. I found out that she was simply selling them herself. She called them Cassie’s Amazements. So I visited her and explained that this new strain she’d developed could be marketed worldwide. But when I told her that this tomato could make her rich, she declined.

  “I was, frankly, very surprised. I was willing to hand her a fortune, and she responded with a kind of a speech about small business and hard work and how she was suspicious of big agribusiness.

  “I’m a salesman at heart, which means I’m persistent. So I came back a few weeks later and repeated my offer and explained that compared to the really big companies, our produce company was closer in size to hers. She was more amenable, but she still said no. When I told her that she wasn’t being practical and that eventually someone was going to get her secret and she’d lose her rights, she started talking about Kant and the moral imperative of an organic farmer. I didn’t even understand what she was getting at. So I decided to leave and let her calm down. I thought I’d go back in a year.”

  I talked to them some more, but when it was obvious that they had nothing to offer me, I left and went back down to my Jeep where Spot waited.

  FORTY-SIX

  I drove out of the garage, out through the fancy gate and headed up the West Shore, my speed increasing until I was going 60.

  The blackness closed in on me like tunnel vision until I could no longer see anything but the rushing, dotted line on the highway.

  Someplace out there was an orphaned boy whose last hope was me. But through the folly of a reckless plan, I’d let him be taken in the night. I’d made the worst decision a man can make, and as a result, Paco was in the possession of a killer whose identity and motivation and location I didn’t know.

  I was racing through the blackness without even knowing where I was going. I slowed, and where the highway passes next to the public beach, I stood on the brake and slid to a stop, gravel flying and dust clouding around the Jeep.

  I got out, let Spot out. The early winter rain was coming back, soft drops, but colder than before. I walked to the water, pounding my fist into my palm, talking to myself, shouting out loud about my idiocy. I struggled with outrage over how little I knew. And what I didn’t know was nearly everything important.

  I didn’t know why Paco was kidnapped. Without potential ransom money, it made no sense. Babies and toddlers were often kidnapped by people who were desperate to obtain a kid for themselves. Girls of all ages and sometimes boys were often kidnapped for unspeakable reasons. But who would want Paco enough to pay $30,000 for him? It was too much money for sex slavery. It was too much money for nearly anything. He had no valuable secrets. Many people wouldn’t even think him particularly likeable.

  Did he alone know Cassie’s trade secret about tomatoes that a corporation could use to make millions? That was a more reasonable notion, but still far-fetched. If someone wanted to steal Cassie’s tomato secret, they would break into her house and steal her notes, or break into her hothouse and steal the actual tomatoes. They wouldn’t take the kid.

  He had no villainous characteristics that would make him a target for any revenge. No one I’d met other than Paco’s landlord had any animosity for Paco at all. No matter how I thought it through, I couldn’t believe that Paco’s landlord had anything to do with it.

  Nothing made sense. Paco was just an unwanted kid, in the country illegally, with no value to anyone. Yet, a $30,000 price on his head meant he was hugely valuable to someone. Why? I tried to consider any possibility, no matter how outlandish.

  Did he have a piece of costume jewelry that was in fact made of diamonds? Had he learned incriminating evidence in some crime? In either case, he’d be targeted for murder, not kidnapping.

  I got out my wallet and pulled out the card Principal Sagan had given me, dialed the number.

  The message was long and detailed. At the end her voice said, “If this is an emergency, please dial the following two numbers.” She recited both home and cell.

  I dialed the first one.

  “Pam Sagan,” she answered.

  “Owen McKenna calling. I’m the guy who...”

  “Is helping Paco Ipar,” she interrupted. “Are you having any luck?”

  “No. I have a question. What could Paco possibly know that would be very valuable?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve learned that there was a thirty thousand dollar price on him. Now he’s been kidnapped by the person who hired Cassie murdered.”

  “What?!” she shouted in my ear. “Someone kidnapped him?!”

  “Yeah. But I can’t figure out why.”

  “That poor boy! Oh, no!” I could hear her crying.

  “Can you think of a reason why someone would pay money to kidnap him?”

  “No! Absolutely not! People kidnap for ransom money, right?” she said in a near shout. “There isn’t anybody who knows Paco who would have ransom money. This is a poor community.”

  “There must be something remarkable about Paco,” I said. “Some secret that he knows.”

  “I’m sorry to say it, but there is nothing remarkable about Paco. I think he has a good heart. I know he works very hard. But special, no. He’s like any other kid except for two things. One, he’s an illegal immigrant.”

  “What’s the other thing?”

  “I shouldn’t even say it. Other people wouldn’t think it is remarkable. And it certainly isn’t worth any money. But he is Basque.”

  “Why is that remarkable?”

  “I don’t really know. If you knew the Basque people, you’d understand. They are special. They have a heritage that is unique. They are Europe’s oldest people. And even the ones who’ve been on this continent for generations, it... I don’t know. It shows in their manner. I’ve seen it in our local doctor. He’s Basque, and he... Wait, you met him, right? Dr. Mendoza. Not only is he Basque, but he’s quite an expert on Basque people.”

  “Yes, he told me that Paco was Basque,” I said. “Do you think he would know anything else about Paco? Would he pay ransom money for Paco?”

  “I don’t know,” Sagan said. “You could call him.”

  “It’s late. He won’t be at the office. Do you have an emergency number for him?”

  “Yes,” Sagan said. “Let me look it up.” She read it off. “That’s his home number. He’s probably there at this hour.”

  I thanked her, hung up, and got Mendoza on the phone.

  I told him what had happened. I heard an intake of breath, but he didn’t exclaim.

  “Did you ever tell anyone anything about Paco?” I asked when he answered.

  “No,” Mendoza said. “I would never do that. I have complete respect for the privacy of my patients.”

  “The foundation that paid the medical bills for your poor patients, did you tell them anything that could be used to identify Paco?”

  “No. All I did was give them the medical reports for their researchers’ epidemiology study. It’s totally anonymous with regard to my patients.”

  “What does an epidemiology study do?”

  “It’s a standard approach to judging what is needed with regard to public health. Understanding the etiologies of disease, or the cau
sation, if you will, is central to making policy to improve health everywhere. So, in return for the funding for medical service for the poor people in our community, we gave them standard medical reports.”

  “What is in those reports?”

  “I’m not sure how to answer that,” Mendoza said. “There are many complicated components to health analyses, and they tell us many things about the patient’s physiology, any current diseases, biochemical imbalances, certain genetic information, drug use, and so on. We can also make predictions about heart disease, diabetes, and a host of other conditions based on aggregated community medical information. Great breakthroughs in health treatment worldwide have come as a result of these kinds of studies.”

  “I asked Pam Sagan what was so special about Paco, and she said nothing except that he is an illegal immigrant and he is Basque. When I asked her why being Basque is special, she said I should call you. So I ask you, what is so special about being Basque?”

  “Certainly nothing that would make someone kidnap a boy. What is special about being Basque is largely a matter of pride, of our history.”

  “How?” I said. “You must be able to describe it.”

  “I guess it’s about enduring. When all of Europe’s earliest inhabitants succumbed to invading forces, the Basque people survived. Even when Hitler and Mussolini committed the unforgivable atrocity of bombing a peaceful people, they still survived. Their endurance has been celebrated, and they...”

  “Wait,” I interrupted. “What you just said. What do you mean that their endurance has been celebrated?”

  “Just the whole brutal bombing. It was disgusting. Hitler’s men bombed Basque women and children, more than a thousand of them. It was even commemorated in a famous painting by Picasso.”

  “The painting. Do you know the name of it?”

  “Of course. It was named for the town that was bombed. It’s one of the most famous paintings in the world. It’s called Guernica.”

  My heart beat hard enough that I felt it bang in my chest. Guernica was the painting that I saw hanging above the mantle in Robert Whitehall’s house.

  “Doctor, the foundation that pays those medical bills. Tell me again, what was the name of it?”

  “The Medical Freedom Foundation.”

  “Who runs it?”

  “A philanthropist up at Lake Tahoe. A man by the name of Robert Whitehall.”

  “Thanks, doctor.” I hung up.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  I pulled up outside of Whitehall’s gate. I could try to crash through, but maybe I didn’t have to. I dialed his number. It rang five times. A machine picked up.

  I didn’t want to accuse Whitehall of kidnapping Paco. If I did and he was guilty, he would flee. Maybe I could make him think that I just needed information.

  At the tone, I said, “Mr. Whitehall, this is Owen McKenna. I’m parked outside of your gate. Cassie Moreno’s boy Paco has been kidnapped. You are connected to it in some way. Maybe you know that, maybe you don’t. I need to talk to you immediately. If you’re home, please open the gate. I need to find...”

  “I’m here, I’m here,” Whitehall’s voice said on the phone. “I was in the bathroom. I could only hear some of your words. What is this about?”

  “Cassie’s boy Paco has been kidnapped.”

  “Hold on while I open the gate.”

  I hung up. The gate opened. I drove in. The front door opened. I let Spot out of the Jeep. He trotted inside Whitehall’s house while I flattened myself against the outside wall of the house. If Whitehall was armed, maybe Spot would sense it and do something that would clue me in.

  Nothing happened. Spot came back out the door. He looked at me, his tail on intermittent wag.

  I went inside. Whitehall was over by the fireplace, pacing.

  “You said Paco’s been kidnapped. Why would he be kidnapped? I don’t understand. Is this connected to Cassie’s murder?”

  I pointed to a chair. “Sit,” I said.

  He sat on the edge of the chair, back straight, feet and knees together like a school girl. Spot sat, too, probably thinking that I was talking to him. Spot looked at me, then at Whitehall.

  “What do you know about Paco?” I said.

  “Nothing. He is Cassie’s son. Or stepson, or something like that. I believe she referred to him as her son. He helps with the vegetables. I never met him until you brought him by the other day.”

  I stood opposite Whitehall.

  “Paco and I set up a trap in a house on the West Shore. We succeeded in catching the two hired killers who murdered Cassie. But I was suckered. The person who hired them must have been there in the shadows as I worked my trap. When the commotion was over, Paco was gone.”

  Whitehall paled. “Why would someone kidnap Paco?” His voice was small. Frightened.

  “That’s what I want to know. It might have something to do with his being Basque.”

  “Paco is Basque?” Whitehall said. “He looks Mexican. Mestizo.”

  “I’ve learned that many Basque emigrated to Mexico. They married Mexicans the same way that the Basque who came here married Americans.”

  “What would being Basque have to do with Paco getting kidnapped?” Whitehall frowned. His concern seemed genuine.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But every time I learn something more about Paco, I hear something more about his Basque background. There are too many Basque connections for it to be a coincidence.”

  Whitehall’s frown deepened. “Speaking of which, the painting behind you.” He pointed toward the fireplace.

  I looked at the famous painting we’d discussed the last time I was in Whitehall’s house.

  “Picasso’s Guernica,” I said. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “It was a terrible attack,” Whitehall said. “You can see all the symbols of agony in the painting. The women and children and even the horses that were blown to bits.”

  I sat down. Put my fingertips to my temples. Pushed as if to force understanding into my brain.

  “What is your connection to the Basque?” I said, unable to keep anger out of my voice.

  “None,” Whitehall said. His fright had turned his face nearly white. He shook his head.

  “Then why do you have the painting? You just happen to love a painting that portrays the horror of an atrocity committed against the Basque?”

  “The painting pays honor to the victims and what they went through.”

  “I don’t buy it, Whitehall.” I was shouting. “A young Basque boy is kidnapped, and it turns out that you’ve been funding medical care in his community. I spoke to Dr. Mendoza. He says that one of the conditions of the medical funding was that he turn in medical reports on his patients. The school principal thinks that Paco’s Basque heritage is involved. You have on your wall a painting about the Basque.”

  Whitehall was sputtering, suddenly seeming old. He struggled to get the words out. “But it’s not even my painting. It belongs to my tenants. When they moved into the guest house, there was no wall large enough to hang the painting, so I said it could hang here for the time being.”

  “It belongs to your tenants? The retired vet and his son who has cancer,” I said.

  Whitehall nodded. “Yes, Dr. Andrew Garcia and his son Martin. You must remember meeting them. Andrew was wearing the running suit, and his son Martin was in the wheelchair. I never see the reports that Mendoza sends the foundation. I turn them over to Dr. Garcia. He gives them to medical researchers. In fact, it was Garcia’s idea that my foundation fund the medical services for poor communities. He’s a vet, but he’s deeply involved in medical charity for people. Now that I think of it, it was Andrew Garcia who first learned about Cassie and her business. He first met her at the farmers’ market.”

  “Was that before or after he directed you to fund medical services?”

  “After.”

  “So Garcia may have learned about Paco from the medical reports, then had you sign up for Field To Fridge just so he coul
d get to know Cassie and Paco better. Is Garcia home?”

  “No. Andrew left with Martin that day you and Paco came by. Andrew said they’d be out of town for several days.”

  I pulled out my cell phone. Dialed Dr. Mendoza one more time.

  “McKenna again,” I said. “I’m at Robert Whitehall’s house. Do you know a retired veterinarian named Dr. Andrew Garcia?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I’m wondering if he has any connection to the Basque.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about him. But Garcia is one of the most common Basque names, if that makes any difference.”

  “It does, yes. Can you think of a reason that a person of Basque heritage would kidnap a Basque boy?”

  “No, of course, not. From my perspective, there is nothing about Paco that would attract a kidnapper.”

  “What about a medical reason?”

  Mendoza was silent for a moment. “Well, I hate to think it because it is so horrible, but yes, there is a medical reason, and that would be to use Paco as an organ donor. I don’t have Paco’s blood work in front of me. But as a Basque boy, there is a good chance that he has type O negative blood. If so, that makes him what we call a universal donor because his tissues would be less likely to be rejected than donors with other blood types.”

  “Is forced organ donation something you’ve heard much about?”

  “Mostly, doctors hear about it the same way the general public does, in stories, in movies.”

  “Yet, you believe it happens?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. But it’s very uncommon because stealing an organ doesn’t do a thief any good unless it is a close tissue match to the recipient. The idea of someone kidnapping someone for the purpose of taking their organs is highly impractical for that reason. Even if the person is type O negative, there are many other factors that are necessary for an ideal match.”