Desert Kill Switch

by Mark S. Bacon

  “I’ll start at Busick Motors and go from there.”

  “I’ll help,” Lyle said.

  “If you have time. But I have an idea how I can question some of the major players at Busick Motors. Depends on how much media coverage I got in Las Vegas.”

  “I’ll see if I can get something more on board members,” Lyle said, “then I can come down to Vegas. Customers and employees of the dealerships may be good suspects, but we’d have to find out if they were in Reno at the time.”

  “What about Rockin’ Summer Days?” Bruce asked. “Is this related to the murder?”

  “Good question,” Kate said.

  “Here’s two more good questions,” Lyle said. “Do we really know that anyone wants to move the event? And if so, who is it? Everyone we’ve talked to so far says they didn’t know a thing about it except what they read in the paper.”

  “Gale Forrester,” Kate said. “I have to call him. He started it. That’s what made Busick angry.”

  “So,” Bruce said, “does that mean that Al Busick was going to move the event to Las Vegas?”

  Kate stared at Lyle. He opened his mouth but no words came out.

  Chapter 28

  First thing Monday morning Lyle called Nick Markopoulos, his former partner at the Phoenix PD.

  “Marko, how are things in beautiful downtown Phoenix?”

  “Lovely, Lyle. Thanks so much for asking. How’s life in that retro fantasyland of yours?”

  “If you’re referring to Nostalgia City, the world’s most glamorous theme park, it’s fine. But I’m in Reno.”

  “Is that the biggest little city in...the world? The west?”

  “More like the wild west. I think they have more guns here than Arizona. Somebody shot at me just for tailing him.”

  “Really?”

  Nick was his best friend and his strongest supporter when Lyle’s marriage and then his police career started to unravel. Since Lyle moved to NC, they stayed in touch by phone and occasional dinners in Phoenix. Before he called Marko, Lyle had decided he’d give him the details of the Busick murder and blackmail, in simplified form, then tell him about his incident the night before with the blackmailer. The blue Firebird would have to wait.

  “This is a lot to digest,” Markopoulos said. “Your Amazon girlfriend is accused of murdering some car dealer and now you’re trying to track down people who blackmailed her with a video that shows her attacking the dead guy?”

  “Kate’s not my girlfriend, and she didn’t attack this guy. It just looked like it in the video. So what I need is, info on the plates of the two cars used by the blackmailers. Can do?”

  “You too cheap to get it yourself off one of those questionable websites?”

  “Actually I tried, but the site didn’t work. And here I thought you could trust the Internet.”

  “You can trust me. But I’ll have to get back to you. I’m in the middle of something.”

  Lyle put the phone down next to the large cardboard coffee cup on the table in his hotel room. He turned on his laptop and navigated to the Rockin’ Summer Days website. Headlights of a 1970 AMX flashed from the top of the screen, then dissolved into the blinking red and blue RSD logo. Lyle clicked on the about us button and found what he was looking for, a picture of the RSD’s board of directors.

  Lyle wrote down the names on a yellow pad. Had one of the other board members killed Busick over a plot to transplant RSD out of Reno? Or had several of them taken a stab at him?

  The website didn’t list phone numbers for the board members other than the RSD office number, and Lyle didn’t want to go through the office. He had a better idea. Clicking to the website’s schedule page, he found “today’s activities” included a show ‘n’ shine awards presentation. A board member would be there to hand out trophies. Lyle dressed in a sport coat and tie and found the awards venue.

  He recognized the stocky, red-haired man in a suit from his photograph. Sandy Eggers stood with several others to the side of a stage set up in the middle of Spark’s Victorian Square.

  A rock band finished a Three Dog Night hit with a flourish of drum and guitars. Hundreds of people, some in collapsible lawn chairs, others standing, surrounded the stage and gave the band an enthusiastic ovation. Polished and pampered vintage autos lined the streets. Lyle no longer looked for the blue Firebird. He now focused on the red-haired guy presenting an award.

  Lyle caught up with Eggers as he made his way off the stage. He introduced himself as an employee of Nostalgia City and asked Eggers if he could talk with him about RSD. Despite Egger’s obvious reluctance, Lyle managed to get his attention. He insisted that Kate had nothing to do with the murder while hinting that he had valuable information Eggers would want to know.

  “I’m disturbed about this murder,” Eggers said. “Everyone is.” He and Lyle took a seat at a nearby outdoor bar crowded with hot rod fans. “And Nostalgia City seems to have been dragged into it.”

  “That’s exactly what happened,” Lyle said. “My colleague, Kate Sorensen, was at the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all. Glad you can see that. She’d just been here for two days.”

  “I’ve never been to Nostalgia City, but I know all about it. What do you do there?”

  “I’m in transportation,” Lyle said slowly, “and security.”

  Lyle guessed Eggers was somewhere in his early forties, possibly older. His broad face held few lines but his eyes said he’d seen more than a few decades go by.

  “So what do you know about the murder that has to do with the board?”

  Reverting to his detective role, Lyle replied with a question. “Did you know Alvin Busick very well?”

  “Not as well as I knew the other board members. Al could be a little brusque, but we got along okay.”

  “Do you know his stepson, Ricky?”

  “I believe he prefers Rick.” Eggers looked past Lyle and seemed to be focusing on something in the distance. Then he looked back at Lyle. “I’ve met him once or twice. He sells muscle cars.”

  “You like him?”

  “Don’t know him that well.”

  If he didn’t know him well, Lyle thought, how does he know not to call him Ricky? “Could you tell me something about the other board members, Marge Drysdale, for example?”

  Eggers’s reluctance returned.

  “The reason I ask is that we have an idea about this business of relocating Rockin’ Summer Days.”

  “Ill-advised. It’s not going to happen.”

  “What would it take to split RSD or move it somewhere else? I mean officially.”

  “The board would have to vote on it, approve it. And even then there’d be heavy local pressure to stop any move. So what do you think?”

  “Just supposition on my part, but if say, Busick planned to move the event, maybe some of that ‘heavy local pressure’ got to him before he could do it.”

  Eggers raised his hands, palms out. “I don’t see it. Could be, I suppose, but no. Even Al wouldn’t try to move RSD. He’d have to persuade a majority of the board. And no one would vote for it.”

  Lyle raised his eyebrows.

  “Take Marge Drysdale,” Eggers said. “Marge is second generation Nevadan. Married to a well-known surgeon. She’s on the symphony board, Rotary, environmental groups, Washoe citizens’ advisory board. Knows everyone in town. She’d never vote to move RSD--even divide it between two cities.”

  Lyle shrugged. “Okay.”

  “And she couldn’t have stabbed him--I mean physically. And no other board member would have done it either.”

  “Someone did.”

  Chapter 29

  “I didn’t come back here to sit around while you go to work,” Kate said.

  “I just thought it would be better if you hid out for a while. What if the blackmailers found you again?”

  “I don’t care about the blackmailers. I came down here to find out who killed Busick. He had lots of enemies. Many of them are right here in Vegas
.”

  “Okay,” Bruce said. “I’ll see you this evening. The real estate agent should call today to let us know the closing date.” He kissed her and left their condo.

  Closing date on the condo. Moving to Arizona. Will the police please figure out who killed that bastard Busick? Kate’s thoughts floated in an irregular pattern for a few moments, then she focused on what she’d planned to do.

  She’d dressed casually in slacks and a light blouse; after all, it would be over one hundred in the Vegas Valley today. Seated at her kitchen table, she scanned her lengthy cell phone contacts list and found the number she wanted.

  “Gale? It’s Kate Sorensen.”

  “Kate. How are you on this beautiful day?”

  “Not so good, Gale. The Reno police think I killed Al Busick.”

  “I know. It’s horrendous.”

  “Whatever adjective you want to use. But I can’t help but think that your column started the whole thing.”

  “That story about moving Rockin’ Summer Days? It was unfortunate.”

  “Busick would probably say that. So would I. And I’d like to know where you got it.”

  “What I mean is, it’s unfortunate because my source got cold feet. Asked me to retract the story. I said it was a little late since it’s already in print.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Funny you should call, Kate. I’ve been thinking about doing a story on Al Busick and his murder. Could be politics involved.”

  A journalist protecting his sources? Gale avoided questions better than the pols he often interviewed. “Did Al Busick want to move Rockin’ Summer Days?”

  “I told you my source wants to retract everything.”

  “Can we talk about this before you run another story? Can I come over to your office this morning?”

  “Sorry, I’m taping a radio program soon. It will take a while.”

  “Would you postpone doing anything on the Busick case--in print or on air--until we can talk?”

  “I can do that. As you’re still a suspect, maybe we could talk about that, too. Get your side of the story?”

  At first Kate had thought she could deal with Forrester the way she talked to any reporter: be candid and tell the truth, at least about everything she was willing to discuss. But she could see Forrester would require different tactics--whatever was necessary to find out what he knew and get him on her side. It was possible.

  “Sure, Gale. When can we talk?”

  “Call me tomorrow and we’ll set up a time.”

  Kate needed another cup of coffee before she could make her next call. She wandered to the kitchen counter and looked at the familiar desert garden spread out beyond her window.

  Would she miss this place? Perhaps, but she’d lived by herself in Arizona now for months. That was becoming home, a place she’d be happy to get back to as soon as they found the person who stabbed big Al.

  With fresh coffee in her mug, she scrolled through her contacts again and found the number for her friend Barbara Orion.

  “Onion, you’re at the office early.”

  “This has got to be Kate Sorensen.”

  “Guilty. I don’t know why I call you that. Guess I’m the only one.”

  “Uh huh. And you call me that because of that night we were out at a club. You looked at my name on my credit card and said it looked like onion. As I recall, you thought it was hilarious--at the time.”

  “It’s all coming back to me.”

  “Where are you? In town? I read about the Busick murder. You okay?”

  “That’s what I was calling about. Did I make the papers or the TV news here?”

  “Yeah, that’s how I knew.”

  “I’ll check the papers’ archives, but do you remember if they had a picture of me?”

  “No. Just a story after he was killed. It said you were questioned. It identified you as a former Vegas PR person now working for Nostalgia City.”

  “Did they describe me?”

  “I don’t think so. That would have added to their story though. I mean, you’re not exactly inconspicuous.”

  “Thanks, Barb. Just what I need.”

  “Sorry. You’re a tall, beautiful woman, and people notice you.”

  “If the stories didn’t identify me further, then I can do what I came down here to do.”

  Barbara Orion was managing editor of Lifestyle Vegas magazine and one of Kate’s oldest friends in the city. Kate explained about being arrested and released by police, about Forrester’s column, and Busick’s accusations. Then she explained her plan to investigate Busick’s dealerships.

  “Louise Busick, Al’s not-very-distraught widow, told me some people at Busick’s Family of Fine Cars would benefit from Al’s death or might just want to whack him on general principles. Then there’s the customers suing him.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Well, love him or not, Busick was a big name in the community and I thought it would be appropriate if your magazine did an obit feature on him.”

  “Doesn’t exactly sound like our fare.”

  “But they won’t know that. What I’d like to do, Barb, is tell them I’m doing a story on Busick as an excuse to get in there and interview people.”

  “How can I help?”

  “You don’t have to do anything. Just be prepared to back me up if anyone from the dealerships calls to check up on me. I’ll say I’m a freelancer with an assignment from you. Probably they won’t check. And I’ll use a pen name.”

  When Barbara agreed, Kate hung up and started thinking how she would approach the Busick company. Being recognized--or remembered--by her height could be an obstacle. She curled a strand of long hair around an index finger. But then her height had always been an obstacle.

  “You’re just having a growth spurt,” her mother would tell her. “Boys will catch up with you soon.” But how could they “catch up with her” when she was nearly six feet tall in junior high school?

  “You’re tall,” boys would say to her. “Do you play basketball?” Or, “what size shoes do you wear, anyway?” Only one high school boy ever asked her to a prom and he was embarrassed to be seen with her since she was at least a half head taller. Even when she blossomed into an attractive young women, she still felt unapproachable because of her height.

  Thank God I was athletic. She remembered working out her frustrations and nervous energy on the court, practicing every day until she was the star of her high school team and started receiving recruitment letters from universities.

  Now she had a different challenge and, looking at her watch, she saw it was time to call the Busick Family of Fine Cars and figure out who she should talk to.

  Chapter 30

  Lyle walked into the meeting late. Washoe County commissioners were seated at a raised, semi-circular counter behind goose-neck microphones rising up toward their faces like black snakes about to strike. Commission chambers were nearly full with an assortment of people in all manner of dress, from men and women in business suits to one guy who looked like a panhandler. Below the commissioners’ shiny wood riser sat support staff, most hunched over laptop computers. Two television news crews stood at the back of the room, behind the audience, cameras trained on the commissioner who was speaking.

  “It’s been suggested that rumors about the event moving out of town are simply a means of--I don’t know--scaring us into changing the fee schedule, gaining concessions. We take this seriously. RSD is a Washoe County event. We can’t be co-opted and we must support the event while keeping trust with taxpayers.”

  Lyle took an empty seat near the aisle. He noticed the plaque in front of the speaker said, Patrick Teague, District Six. In his mid-to-late forties, he wore an off-white shirt with sleeves rolled up and a dark tie. His thinning blond hair was cut short. His square jaw added to his forcefulness as a speaker.

  “Well, Mr. Chairman,” Teague continued, “we need to hear from a representative of Rockin’ Summer Days.” As he ta
lked, Teague had his hand near the base of his microphone. He rubbed his thumb against his first two fingers, again and again. Was he nervous? Although he had something of a monotone, his voice was strong.

  “The tragic event five days ago,” Teague said, “is on all of our minds and I for one would like to know the official position of the organization. Have things changed now? If Mr. Easley would step to the microphone.”

  Kate had told Lyle about Chris Easley and Lyle had done a little background research, but he’d never seen the executive director of Rockin’ Summer Days. Easley wore a brownish gray suit and cowboy boots. He walked to the podium slowly with a glance and half-smile acknowledging the cameras.

  “Mr. Chairman, Mr. Teague, commissioners. First, I can promise you that Rockin’ Summer Days will stay here in northern Nevada where it was born. Mr. Busick was a local supporter.”

  Sure he was, Lyle thought.

  Easley paused and looked down for a moment. Was he choked up at the thought of Busick’s demise? Lyle had his doubts. Maybe he thought he should be emotional about it.

  “Naturally we’re all shocked at his untimely death,” Easley said, his accent hinting at his Texas origins.

  “You’re aware,” said the commission chairman seated in the middle of the dais, “that we’re proposing certain permit cost increases associated with maintenance and traffic control next year.”

  Easley faced the commissioners and thus had his back to the audience. Even from behind Lyle could see Easley’s relaxed stance; his voice did not belie any unease. Seemed to be a natural salesman.

  “Yes, sir, ah’m aware of that and understand the commission’s position. These sorts of increases, however, can have an effect on what we need to charge entrants in RSD, as our late chairman used t’ remind me. I’d like to ask you,” Easley said, “that you hold off on any increases at the moment until this year’s event is concluded and we have time to analyze revenue and expenses. I’ll be happy to give this board a complete report.”

  “That, I believe, is a requirement,” another commissioner said. “Or it’s been policy.”