10 Tahoe Trap (26 page)

“That looks great, Paco. You do good work.”

I took a few steps toward the living room to admire the monster cut-stone fireplace with a photo portrait of a man above. Framed in a modern, pewter frame moulding, the portrait showed an intense, homely, middle-aged man with substantial eye-bags.

“Admiring Luis Buñuel, are we?” a man said.

I turned to face an imposing man with a big grin and happy eyes. His head was shaved, an unfortunate cosmetic affectation given the thick, meaty shape of his head and neck and his pale, puffy skin. He was dressed as if for a photo shoot to advertise something casually elegant. Thin-soled, pointy leather shoes, linen pants and matching linen jacket that draped a silk shirt.

“I don’t know Luis Buñuel,” I said, shaking the man’s hand. “I’m Owen McKenna.”

“Mike Kalili.” He pointed at the portrait. “Famous Spanish-Mexican surrealist filmmaker. All film buffs are, of course, aware of his profound influence. But even you may know of his films. El Gran Calavera, Nazarin, El angel exterminador.” His tone was condescending.

“Sorry,” I said. “My taste in film runs to Spielberg, Eastwood, Scorsese, Allen. I’ve always thought they were pretty good, but perhaps the surrealists like Bunnell go another step beyond.”

“Buñuel,” Kalili corrected me, irritation pulling his mouth into a hint of sneer. “And, yes indeed, those boys you mention do a good job of keeping the film economy going with pedestrian fare while real auteurs make real art.”

“I’m sorry that I haven’t seen your films,” I said. “Or maybe I did but didn’t take time to notice the director credit.”

“No problem,” he said again. “I’m not familiar with your work, either.” Kalili made a loud laugh at his joke and smacked me lightly on the shoulder.

“So,” he continued, putting his hands on his hips. “Mom says that you have bad news about the veggie lady.”

“Yes.” I reiterated what had happened.

“That’s too bad,” he said in a cheerful tone. “Hate to lose my veggie delivery. What can I help you with?” He looked at his watch.

“Just a few questions, if you can spare the time.”

“Of course. Let’s sit.” He gestured toward a group of over-sized leather furniture arranged in front of the fireplace. We sat. Then he saw Paco. “Your boy doesn’t have to stay in the entry.” He raised his voice. “Hey, sport, you can come sit with us, if you like.”

Paco didn’t move.

“He’s Cassie’s boy. Name is Paco,” I said. “You’ve met him during the Field To Fridge deliveries.”

“Really?” Kalili squinted over at Paco. “Oh, sure, I remember now. The little brown-skinned boy. Mexican, no doubt.”

“Like Luis Bunnel,” I said.

“Buñuel,” Kalili corrected me again. “And yes, I get your intimation. Mexicans are often good at many careers. Even that boy might grow up to be good at something. So what are your questions?”

“How well did you know Cassie Moreno?”

“Not at all. She was the veggie lady. What’s there to know?”

“How did you learn of her Field To Fridge service?”

“Let me think. I have a documentarist’s memory. It’s like a photographic memory, only in three-D, both spatially and time-wise.” He closed his eyes and put his fingertips to his forehead. Then he raised his head and looked at me. “Yes, I recall. With documentary precision, I should add. It was my neighbor from two doors down. Robert Whitehall. He told me I should sign up, so I did. The lady makes good veggies, by the way.”

“Have you ever seen her other than when she made her deliveries?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had any other kind of written or phone contact with her?”

He shook his head. “Can’t imagine why I would. She wasn’t my type.”

“If she was?” I said, trying to be flip.

He must have thought I was serious. “I usually start with a chat over coffee,” he said. “When women discover the depth of my artistic vision, it is quite the aphrodisiac.” He winked at me then glanced at Paco.

“I bet,” I said.

“These things usually progress according to my plan. By the time they see my round bed, they’ve begun to sense what a gift the coming experience is about to be.”

Despite the impulse to throw Kalili through the window, I managed to keep control.

 “Other than your neighbor Whitehall,” I said, “has anyone else ever mentioned her?”

Another head shake.

“Did you know that Cassie was selling information about her clients’ travel plans?”

Kalili frowned. “What for?”

“Money. Somebody had apparently figured out a way to make money based on where movers and shakers like you travel. That person paid Cassie quite well for it.”

“Oh, I get it,” Kalili said. “Stock market fluctuations based on potential business plans by big companies, plans revealed or at least hinted at by executive travel. Good idea! Should have thought of that one myself! But I don’t see how I would fit into it. Certainly, people consider me influential in the world of film making. But how would you monetize it? Learn my screening schedule and be the first one to bring your hotdog stand to the theater?”

“Some variation, perhaps,” I said. “Any thoughts on why someone might target Cassie for violence?”

Kalili paused. “Maybe she developed a new strain of veggie, and someone else wants to use it in their business. It would be like stealing any artist’s production. Of course, the significance of my work was recognized from the beginning, but the truth is that really creative people often produce fabulous work and no one else knows about it for centuries, if ever. So if the creator is dead, and someone steals and markets the product, there is no one to come after the thief.”

Kalili looked pleased with himself. He continued, “I bet there’d be a lot of money in tomatoes if you could develop one for the trade that had the same luscious taste and color of home-grown. What do you think? If I didn’t have the vision of a documentarist, I could be tomato visionary.”

“I think you may have a good idea. I appreciate it.”

He grinned so big that the sides of his puffy shaved head stuck out. “I get such ideas because of the creative way I think. It’s a mark of my work as a...”

“A documentarist,” I interrupted, standing. “What was it? Three-D, spatially and time-wise. Impressive.”

Mike Kalili stood, pleased as a kid who’s just won the spelling bee. Like many self-absorbed narcissists who have no capacity for self-critique, he didn’t hear even a hint of sarcasm in my words.

I thanked him, and Paco and I left.

5) Mike Kalili – Documentarist jerk – Probably a trust fund baby or has additional income from something other than filming documentaries.

TWENTY-NINE

Next on my list was Kalili’s neighbor, Robert Whitehall, just two doors down. Whitehall was the owner of the medical stent manufacturing company. Whitehall’s modern manse was no bigger than Kalili’s, but because it was on the makai-lake side of the boulevard, he’d probably spent another few million for it.

The big gate swung open as we turned in. I cruised past two cameras at the gate and another one mounted on a tree thirty yards in. More cameras were visible around the sprawling low-slung, glass-and-concrete affair that looked like it had been plucked from the desert near Palm Springs.

A gentleman in his seventies emerged from the double glass doors as we pulled up. He was wearing a French blue cardigan sweater over a blue shirt, blue slacks, and blue slippers.

I parked.

“Can I stay in the car?” Paco asked.

He sounded weary and depressed. Maybe if I gave him a focus.

“Nope, you can’t stay in the car,” I said as I looked through the windshield at the man who stood in his entry looking at us. “Duty calls. You’re my six o’clock.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Noon on the clock is what’s in front of me. Six o’clock is what’s behind me. I need you to cover my back, be my eyes and ears, keep me safe.”

Paco made a slow nod and got out of the Beetle.

I jumped out, walked over to the man, and introduced myself and Paco.

He shook my hand and nodded at Paco. “I’m Robert Whitehall. I knew you might be coming because my neighbor Mike Kalili just called me and said that a man asking about Cassie’s Field To Fridge might be about to drop in.” Whitehall’s voice was soft and gentle and a bit tentative. The opposite of the brash Kalili. Whitehall’s eyes went to the back of Street’s Beetle where Spot was attempting to turn around.

“My, my,” he said. “You have a large, spotted animal in the back of your car.”

“That’s Spot,” I said.

“Ah,” he said. “Please come in. Is it okay not to invite Spot in?”

“Yes. It takes the two of us to shoe-horn him into the back seat, and our success rate is iffy. So once he’s inside, we’re reluctant to ever let him out.”

Whitehall nodded.

We walked into the concrete-and-glass box. The floors were polished concrete, stained in beautiful, muted, swirling blues. The lake side of the house was all glass, and there were no trees so that the blues of the swimming pool and the lake and sky would accentuate the blues of the floor.

At one end of the room was a simple fireplace, a rectangular opening in the gray concrete wall, lined above and below with a blue concrete hearth and mantle.

The large room had one group of four chairs facing each other with a low table between them, and another group with two chairs flanking a couch that faced the fireplace. All the seating was a 1950’s-modern design with orange upholstery and stainless steel legs. No frills. No patterns. The lamps were also the same modern design, made of the same steel. On the floor were several woven rugs, all orange.

I’d read about complimentary colors in one of my art books. It said that if you put blue next to orange, it would make your eyes flash. I wondered if Paco and I should worry if Whitehall sat his blue form down on one of the orange seats.

Above the mantle hung a large framed print of a painting that I’d seen in several books. Whitehall must have noticed me looking at it.

“Do you know the painting Guernica?” he said, his comment mirroring Kalili’s comment about the portrait of the film director above Kalili’s fireplace.

“I know that it is a famous Picasso, but not much else.”

“Yes, it is a Picasso. Although it is only a print. I could never afford an original. Most of the major Picassos are now over one hundred million. You obviously know a lot about art.” He left it at that. No boasting. No beating his chest about his exemplary mental skills and photographic 3-D Picasso memory.

“Please sit down,” he said.

I sat on the couch, facing the Guernica print. Whitehall took a chair. I expected Paco to take the other chair. Instead, he sat alone on a chair behind me.

He had my six o’clock.

I looked at Whitehall. He looked pretty cool against all that hot orange. But my eyes didn’t flash, so maybe the art book was wrong.

Whitehall said, “My neighbor Mike told me that the reason for your visit is that the proprietor of Field To Fridge died. I’m very sad to hear that.”

“Did you know Cassie Moreno outside of her delivery service?”

“I’m sorry to say that I’ve never even met her. But my tenant Andrew Garcia sung her praises. He referred to Cassie as a tribute to the profession of farming.”

“Your tenant was the one who saw her each week?”

“Actually, Cassie let herself in most weeks. I set up the schedule over the phone. Cassie came to this end of the lake on Tuesdays, and Andrew is often gone on Tuesdays. His son has a medical condition that puts them in Reno every Tuesday. So he didn’t see Cassie much, either.”

“So Cassie was alone most of the times she came.”

“That is correct.”

“Did you ever wonder about security? Giving the keys to the house to a stranger?”

Whitehall made a little smile. “I have a security system, of course. Cameras. Monitoring by a competent firm.” He glanced over at Paco. “I never had the pleasure of meeting Paco in person before today, but I know from the security reports that he accompanied Ms. Moreno on her rounds. I’ve seen from the video that this young man is always a big help to Ms. Moreno, carrying baskets of vegetables. Sorry, I guess I should say ‘was.’” He turned to face Paco. “Young man, I’m very sorry for your loss. If there’s anything I can do...” he trailed off. His eyes looked misty.

I proceeded to ask Robert Whitehall the same questions that I’d asked the others. He gave me the same answers that the others had.

Five minutes later, I’d learned nothing. I stood to go. I saw movement outside the windows. Whitehall turned. On the far side of the swimming pool, an older man was pushing a younger man in a wheelchair.

“Oh, here come Andrew and Martin. Please come outside and I’ll introduce you.”

Whitehall pushed open one of the huge glass doors in the glass wall, and we went out into the crisp air of fall in Tahoe.

The man pushing the wheelchair looked to be approaching seventy. In the chair was a younger man. They came around the end of the pool and over to us. As they got close, I saw that the older man’s snug, patterned outfit was an athletic uniform, a skin-tight, shimmery stretch fabric emblazoned with bright graphics and a large number 67 on the front. The man was thin and muscular.