I pulled a ten dollar bill from my wallet, laid it on the table, and angled for the door.
“I’m warning you, Mr. Logan, please don’t interfere with an active ongoing police investigation.”
“ ‘Active.’ Is that what you call it?”
I was out the door before he could respond.
The chill mountain air smelled of burning wood. A gray-brown smudge from hundreds of fireplaces clung to the tops of the pines. I sat in my truck. Maybe Streeter was right about Preston Kavitch. You learn while tracking terrorists that it’s easy to become myopic. You convince yourself that that unconfirmed shred of a lead from some illiterate goat herder is true because you want to believe it’s true. Soon enough, you’re racing down camel tracks in Somalia, ignoring intelligence assessments that say the killers are in Spain. Then, a bomb goes off on a commuter train in Madrid, killing and maiming dozens, and you spend what years you have left haunted by your own intractability.
Lesson learned.
My phone rang. It was Marlene, the receptionist at Summit Aviation. She was crying.
“I read in the paper they found her body. I’m just so very sorry. I can’t stop thinking about it.” She cleared her throat. Then she said, “There’s something I need to get off my chest.”
“What’s that, Marlene?”
“I wasn’t exactly being truthful with you.”
“About what?”
She hesitated. “You remember when you found Chad up near that plane?”
“Hard day to forget.”
“Well, Gordon, he was…” She broke down, sobbing like she was in pain.
“Gordon was what, Marlene?”
“I’d prefer not to discuss it over the phone.” She lowered her voice as though concerned she might be overheard — I assumed by Priest — and asked to meet in person.
“I’m here in Lake Tahoe. We can meet wherever you want.”
She told me she was waiting for a callback from her husband — they’d quarreled that morning again over what she said were “money issues,” and he’d stormed out of the house. She was hoping to hear back from him shortly and could meet me in thirty minutes.
“There’s a grocery store on Lincoln Avenue, just south of Apache.”
“I’ll find it.”
My old Tacoma didn’t want to start. I cranked the ignition for a solid five seconds before the engine finally caught, then turned southbound on Emerald Bay Road, while a solid stream of cars and trucks bearing skis and snowboards inched along in the opposite direction toward the slopes at Heavenly.
I glanced up in my rearview mirror and realized I was being followed.
TWENTY
Most rolling surveillances are intended to be clandestine. The best ones involve multiple vehicles rotated in and out of the point position, such that the person being tailed never sees the same car very long.
This was not one of those surveillances.
This one was meant to intimidate.
A black Pontiac Trans Am circa 1977 with tinted windows quickly closed the gap. We drove that way for more than a mile, me doing the speed limit, him drafting my back bumper the way it’s done at Daytona. A prudent driver might’ve put on his turn signal and pulled to the shoulder of the road to let the other driver pass and avoid a confrontation. Unfortunately, I’ve never been very adept at prudence.
I jammed on my brakes and he slammed into me. I cut the Tacoma’s steering wheel right, then, hard left, locking my rear bumper to his front spoiler. With his muscle car stuck to my less-than-muscular truck, he had no choice but to follow me as I pulled over. My intent was to introduce myself to the Pontiac’s driver by way of my fists to his face, before inquiring as to what he was doing, following me so closely. But it never got that far.
Deputy Woo threw open the Pontiac’s driver-side door and took cover behind it with his pistol leveled at me through the open window.
I raised my palms to show him I was unarmed. “Burt Reynolds just called. The Bandit wants his ride back.”
“Why’d you brake on me like that?” Woo demanded.
“Why were you following me like that?”
“To make sure you don’t do something stupid.” He holstered his weapon, closed his door, and walked forward to survey the damage. “Streeter texted me. He wants to make sure you stay out of trouble and stay out of the way as long as you’re up here.”
Cars speeded past in both directions without stopping.
“Sweet maneuver,” Woo said, inspecting the damage. “Where’d you learn to drive like that?”
“My previous employer. We learned all sorts of fun stuff.”
He asked me where I was going. I told him it was none of his business.
“I could make it my business,” Woo said.
“If you want to arrest me, arrest me. My first call won’t be to an attorney. It’ll be to the local newspaper, to tell them in intricate detail how the local sheriff’s department is incapable of making the slightest progress on a double homicide, and how the murderer is still out there, roaming free, capable of killing again at any time.”
Woo studied me, his face expressionless, trying to gauge the sincerity of my threat. Then he stared down at our two bumper-locked vehicles.
“How do we get unstuck?”
“Easy. I’ll show you.”
Back behind the wheel, I fired up the engine and shifted into gear. When I gave it the gas, my truck pulled forward — ripping away the entire front spoiler assembly of Woo’s Trans Am, while he stood there watching, wearing the same impenetrable expression.
I got out with the engine running and walked back to take a look.
“They don’t make ’em like they used to,” I said.
Woo didn’t say anything.
Lira’s supermarket off Apache Avenue was no Safeway, but it was clean and well-organized. I ordered chicken tenders from the deli counter and ate them outside while waiting for Marlene to arrive from Summit Aviation. I wasn’t really hungry, but I ate anyway. Chicken was protein. I needed protein to remain mission-focused. I wondered what part of the chicken a “tender” was and tried to block Savannah from my mind, the way her body looked in that ditch.
Marlene arrived within five minutes of the appointed time, driving a faded green Honda Civic with rusted sidewalls and a crumpled right front fender. She got out and looked around with noticeable trepidation, as if she, too, had been followed. From everything I could see, it appeared she hadn’t.
“You doing OK?”
“Not really,” Marlene said. “My husband’s behaving a little crazy.”
“Want a chicken tender?”
She shook her head no and glanced over her shoulder. Her face was flush. Her hand trembled when she ran it across her mouth.
“Can we go inside? I’d rather not be seen out here.”
“Sure.”
I followed her inside the supermarket. We stood in the bread aisle. There was bruising under her right eye. She’d tried to hide it with makeup, but you could’ve spotted it with a satellite.
“Does your husband hit you, Marlene?” I said gesturing toward her cheek.
“You mean this?” She blushed, embarrassed, and averted her eyes. “No. Of course not. I slipped on some ice, that’s all.”
“Somehow, I don’t believe you.”
“Look, I didn’t come here to talk to you about my husband, or being a klutz, OK? I came to tell you about Gordon, my boss.”
“What about him?”
“He wasn’t telling the truth.” Again, Marlene looked nervously over her shoulder. “You know how I told you he was at some big FAA meeting in Reno the day Chad died?”
“I remember.”
“Well, he wasn’t. Some guy from the FAA called, wanting operational stats from last month, takeoffs and landings, that sort of stuff. I told him Gordon took those stats with him when he went to the meeting in Reno. The FAA guy tells me, ‘What meeting? That meeting got canceled.’ ”