Authors: Todd Borg
“If I let you go, where would you go to look for this guy? Or the boy?”
“There’s a college kid in Vegas. Knows how to hack computers. He can track email.”
“Why’d the guy hire you to kill Cassie?”
“I dunno. Maybe the bitch screwed him over.”
I gave him the hardest jerk, yet. Something snapped loud and crisp in my ear.
He cried out in an ear-ripping shriek, ragged with terror, followed by a long moan. He sagged, knees bending, tape pulling tight around his neck. His breath was fast, short panting gasps, tense with desperation. Drops of sweat mixed with pepper juice on his forehead. The man turned a deep red, visible in the dim light spilling out from the house.
“You wrecked my arm. I’m gonna kill you for that.”
“Your other arm is next. Why’d he want you to kill Cassie?”
“I dunno.”
“Why did Cassie drive to meet you?” I asked.
“I don’t know! Guy who hired us set it up. He’d made some deal with her. She thought she was meeting him. All so we could do her and grab the boy. Then the little shit hid and ran. Kid runs like an animal or something. At least we got the woman. She was one tough bitch. Tried to fight when Pep pulled his piece. Guess she’s sorry now.”
He said it as a boast. I lost control. I bent my arm and put a hard elbow punch to his temple. With his head against the tree, it could not bounce away to lessen the blow. He went limp like I’d flipped a switch. He’d live, but he’d have a hell of a headache when he came to. I didn’t think I broke his skull, but thought he might end up with enough brain bruising and swelling to cause permanent damage. The possibility didn’t bother me.
I ran to the Jeep, ripped away the branches. Spot was at my side. I let him into the back, then jumped in, threw the shift into reverse, and backed the Jeep out from under the tree.
I grabbed my phone and dialed 911 as I raced down the road. When the dispatcher answered, I said, “Owen McKenna calling. There are two killers who are known as Salt and Pepper. They are wanted for three murders in Vegas. One of them just confessed to the murder of Cassie Moreno as well as the attempted kidnapping of her foster son Paco Iparagirre. Paco has now been taken by a third, unknown party.
“You will find the men tied to trees in front of a condemned house on the West Shore, not far from Chambers Landing.” I gave her the address. “Tell the officers to be careful. There’s pepper spray on the men and inside the house.” I hung up.
I called Diamond and got his voicemail. I explained what had happened. It was out of his jurisdiction, but I knew he’d want to know. Then I dialed Street. In crisis, phone home to your soul mate. She’ll have an idea.
I got her voicemail, too. I stumbled through a description of who, what, where, and when, but didn’t have the why.
When I hung up, I stared at my phone, trying to think of what to do next. After ten seconds, the phone lights went off. I felt like my world had just gone from dark to black.
I drove around the block, looking for Salt and Pepper’s pickup, but saw nothing. I circled the next block, and the next still. Still nothing. Maybe they’d hidden it. Or maybe they’d come with a third person, someone other than the guy who hired them, and that person took Paco and left in the pickup.
I thought about all the people who I’d talked to and the ones I hadn’t. Although I’d learned that Cassie didn’t have many friends, a lot of people knew her because they wanted her produce. They wanted Cassie’s Amazements.
Which made me think of the man Paco had mentioned, the guy who drove the red Audi. The guy who’d come to Cassie’s farm several times to talk to her about her hybrid.
The Jeep fishtailed as I pushed it on a curve, shot past Chambers Landing, and headed up through Homewood. A bit farther, I turned into the townhouse project where Michael Schue the owner of the restaurant chain and produce distribution company lived. He wasn’t in when Paco and I had stopped by before. Maybe he was in now. Maybe he’d know the owner of the red Audi, the man who’d turned into the same complex the day Paco and I had tried to visit.
FORTY-FIVE
I found Schue’s code on the keypad readout at the gate. His phone rang. This time he answered.
It took all of my control not to yell.
“Mr. Schue, my name is Owen McKenna. I’m a private investigator looking into the murder of Cassie Moreno, the owner of Field To Fridge. She delivers your fresh vegetables every week.”
“Yes, I heard about her death,” Schue said. “Very sad.”
“I need to talk to you about it. I’m at the condo gate.”
“Oh?” he said. “Well, perhaps we can set up a time if you send an email to my secretary. You can find it on the contact page of my company’s website. I...”
“Mr. Schue, I must speak to you now.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t allow unscheduled visits. So I’ll have to hang...”
“Michael Schue, if you hang up, I will have the Placer County Sheriff’s Office get a warrant, and a small army of deputies will be back to take apart your townhouse so thoroughly you won’t recognize it when they’re done. Not that you’ll care from your jail cell.”
There was static from the keypad speaker.
“What are you saying?” Schue finally said.
“You let me in now and answer a few questions, maybe we can avoid a warrant and a search, and future depositions and court appearances. If you don’t, maybe we get eager in our search, find something we think suspicious. Have you ever spent a night in jail while you’re waiting for your lawyer to call back from Grand Cayman?” I knew that few wealthy men like Schue had ever spent a night in jail. The idea would scare him.
More static.
Eventually, he said, “I’m in the Blue Lake building. I have the top floor. The garage code is ‘Beauty’.”
The gate began to open.
I found the Blue Lake building, typed ‘Beauty’ into the garage keypad, and drove down the ramp as the door rose up. The garage held a dozen cars. One was a red Audi quattro. There was an elevator at one end. I left Spot in the Jeep and rode to the top floor.
The door opened on a room with a window overlooking the beach and dark lake beyond. There was a small seating arrangement, a table and lamp, and copies of financial magazines. Opposite, was a grand door. I crossed to the door and pushed the button.
The door opened, letting out soft classical music. Violins and cellos stepping in a stately procession down a series of chords. Baroque, maybe. A man stood in front of me wearing leather slippers and burgundy pajamas underneath a dark green robe.
I showed him my ID.
He sniffed, wrinkled his nose at the pepper smell emanating from me.
“I’m Michael Schue. Come in.” I followed him to a semi-darkened living room with a grand view of the dark lake with its perimeter of twinkling lights. The only room light came from canned ceiling spots turned down to their lowest dimmer setting and three large candles on a low table. Near the candles was a bottle of wine and two half-full glasses.
Behind the table was another man lounging on a couch. He, too, wore night clothes, and he held a pipe that looked to be packed with unlit tobacco.
“Mr. McKenna, this is my friend Albert Zimmer,” Schue said.
Albert nodded and gestured with his pipe.
“Please sit,” Schue said as he joined Albert on the couch.
I took one of the big over-stuffed chairs that faced the couch. I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm myself, then gave a brief explanation about Cassie’s death, her foster son Paco, and his kidnapping a few minutes ago.
“That’s terrible!” Schue said.
“I’m here for two reasons. One is because you, Michael, were a client of Cassie’s. The other reason is that Cassie was periodically approached by a man at her organic farm down near Stockton. The man wanted to acquire an interest of some kind in her hybrid tomatoes. Among other things, Paco noticed that the man drove a red Audi quattro.
“Recently, Paco and I went around the lake visiting Cassie’s clients. When we came here to see you, there was no response to my keypad call from the gate. Yet, as we left, we saw a red Audi quattro pulling in. Paco got a look at the driver and said that it was the man who came calling at the farm and wanted to buy tomato rights.
“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?”