10 Tahoe Trap (24 page)

Paco looked at Ramos’s shiny shoes.

I introduced Ramos and Paco. Ramos nodded at the boy. Paco stood silent and rigid and looked at the floor. Ramos gave no indication that he recognized the skin-color-match in the room. The other agent and I shared the pale skin of Irish brothers, while Ramos and Paco both had the rich brown coloring of Central American Indian-Spanish mix. They could have been uncle and nephew.

“So this is the boy who hid in the pickup bed,” Ramos said. “Brave kid.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Why I came by. I wanted you to meet the bravest kid in Tahoe.”

No reaction from Paco.

“Mallory is fast,” Ramos said. “He’s got some kind of new transcription software. He ran the recording of Paco’s statement into his computer and just emailed it to me. I also heard from Diamond about the kidnapping of this boy last night.”

Ramos tapped Paco on his shoulder.

Paco looked up at him, his frown mixed with concern. The sunglasses in his hair reflected a vivid gold in the fluorescent office light.

“It took real courage to hold it together during that,” Ramos said to Paco. “I’m impressed.”

Paco didn’t respond other than to pinch his lips together. He looked back down at the floor.

Ramos looked at me. “You think the murder of the woman and the boy’s kidnapping are connected.” It wasn’t a question.

“Paco said it was the same guys in both cases,” I said. “The kidnap attempt shows that they’re persistent.”

“More dangerous than a lot of their colleagues, too,” Ramos said. “Not because they’re smart – they’re not. But because they don’t know their limitations, and they have no governor. They think they’re some kind of underworld superheroes. They like to do unnecessary, grandstanding stuff just to get press and puff up their rep.”

I looked at Paco, wondered if he noticed that an FBI man saw the same superhero motif as he did.

Ramos continued, squinting at me. “Like Tasing you and dropping the fishnet on your hound. Diamond told me about it. What a ridiculous move. The only reason to do that is to get press. The media has already picked up the fishnet story. It’s not just another kidnapping, it’s The Fishnet Kidnapping by The Collectors. There are kids out there who will idolize these guys. Like famous gangsters. Like superheroes. Salt and Pepper might be stupid, but they have an instinct for press, and they’re building a legend.”

“Paco also said they looked like superheroes,” I said. I rubbed Paco’s shoulders. “How do you think these guys have evaded the law?” I asked Ramos.

“Mostly luck, a lot of bluster, and a vehicle disguise.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“There’s a man in – let’s say Detroit – who makes a clever device that shuffles up to six license plates. Works just like a fifties jukebox pulling records up and out of the stack. The whole contraption is only two inches deep, so it can be installed in most vehicles without any outward sign. We leaned on this guy, and he told us that the Collector boys purchased front and back units from him some months back and had him install them in their pickup.

“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.”