10 Tahoe Trap (28 page)

There were several buildings, each with its own underground garage. All the garage doors were shut.

“How did Cassie and you get in to make your delivery?”

“Garage door opener,” Paco said.

I drove around and looked at the outdoor parking areas. No Audis.

It didn’t leave me many options. I could dial everybody’s phone from the gate keypad. That would take a day or two. I could stake out the front gate and wait for the Audi to drive back out. But it could be hours. Or days. Or next spring.

We left.

8) Michael Schue – Restaurant business – Unavailable. Audi-driving tomato hustler at same residential complex. Maybe connected. Maybe not.

Further south down the West Shore, Paco directed me to turn into a long drive, marked only by No Trespassing signs. The drive wound through thick forest as it crawled toward the lake. It brought us to a wrought-iron fence with pointed spikes along the top. In the distance, we could glimpse the sprawling home of the comedian-turned-TV talk show host, known to all Americans and watched by millions.

There was no bell at the gate, no keypad, and no house number. Just cameras. Lots of them. On the fence and in the trees.

“Cassie have a transmitter for this gate, too?”

Paco nodded.

“When you got to the house, did the transmitter open the door to let you inside?”

“No. The butler let us in the house.”

I nodded. I waved at the cameras, backed up, turned around and left.

9) TV talk show host – Unavailable.

THIRTY-ONE

“We need to get some food and find a place where Spot can run,” I said.

Paco nodded.

“You okay with a deli sandwich in place of a burger?”

“Yeah.”

I went north. Before we got to Tahoe City, I turned into the Tahoe House Gourmet Bakery and got some custom deli sandwiches. Then we headed around the north end of the lake to the Mt. Rose Highway and turned up the mountain.

We cruised up the mountain, past the jaw-drop views at the vista overlook and climbed on up to the Mt. Rose meadows at close to 9000 feet. Clouds cloaked the summit of Mt. Rose, but the sun was out on the meadow.

I found a place to park, and we let Spot out of his back seat prison.

He showed his enthusiasm by running off into the snowy meadow. Paco and I ate another meal on the hood of Street’s car. When Spot smelled us opening our sandwiches, he came running and joined us.

When Paco was done, he got back in the Beetle, reclined his seat back and went to sleep. When Spot was done with his sandwich, he went back into the meadow.

I looked again at my notes about Cassie’s customers whose travel information she’d sold to the anonymous John Mitchell.

1) Rob Tentor – Nasa inventor – Out of town. Housekeeper Bridgett Jordan was Cassie’s main contact. Envious of Cassie’s business success. No travel discussed.

2) Jayleen Swanson – Romance novelist – Unavailable.

3) Ball Player – Unavailable.

4) Rock Star – Unavailable.

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

6) Robert Whitehall – Medical devices – and tenants Andrew and Martin Garcia – retired vet and son with cancer. Andrew knew Cassie some, they shared interest in biology.

7) Anthony Vittori – Software exec – Unavailable.

8) Michael Schue – Restaurant business – Unavailable. Audi-driving tomato hustler at same residential complex. Maybe connected. Maybe not.

9) TV talk show host – Unavailable.

Other than the red Audi, no information came up that gave me a clue about where I should look next.

But I still had possession of a kid who had no home. The doctor near Paco’s school suggested that I contact people in the Basque community.

I looked at my cell and saw that I had reception.

I called Information for The Center for Basque Studies at the University of Nevada in Reno, the organization that Dr. Mendoza had mentioned as a good resource for all things Basque. They connected me, and I told the young woman who answered that I was looking for general information that might help me find some family connections for a young orphan who is Basque.

“Well,” the woman said, thinking, “none of our professors is available. But you might want to speak to Marko. Sorry, but I can’t pronounce his last name, but it starts with a V so that’s what I call him. Marko V. He’s a student working on his doctorate in Basque linguistics. He just stepped out, but he’s due back shortly. I could have him call you.”

“Thanks,” I said. I gave her my cell number.

Paco was still sleeping when Marko V called twenty minutes later. I paced along the shoulder of the highway while I talked.

Marko V gave me his full name, but I also found the last name difficult to understand. Despite the unusual Basque name, Marko V spoke like he grew up in Long Beach.

After a quick introduction, I told him I wanted a quick education in those things Basque that might help me place an orphan boy who might be Basque and who had no family that I knew of.

“What’s the boy’s name?”

“First name Paco. He’s not sure of his full last name. He goes by Ipar. A Basque doctor near Stockton told me he thought Ipar was short for Iparagirre.”

“That sounds likely. Tell you what. I’m teaching a class in ten minutes. Then I have to run downtown. Could you meet me at the Nevada Art Museum in, let’s say, an hour and a half?”

“I’ll be there.”

“How will I know you?”

“Tall guy with a baseball cap.” I pulled if off to see which one I was wearing. “Red,” I said.

THIRTY-TWO

I woke Paco and helped him raise his seat back, then called Spot in from the meadow. Paco helped me coax Spot into the back of Street’s little car.

We drove into the clouds as we crested the Mt. Rose Summit, the highest year-’round pass in the Sierra. Then we popped back out of the gray soup and wound down ten twisty, switch-backy miles as we dropped 4500 vertical feet to the sunny desert in the valley that Reno and Sparks residents call The Truckee Meadows. As always, I kept my eyes on the rear-view mirror. I didn’t see any dark pickups.

We drove into a patch of sunshine. It got warm, and Paco had rolled down his window. Spot leaned forward to put his head out the window, testing how much air pressure he could take in his nose and ears. I’m always amazed at how dogs are unique among all other animals. If you took any other creature, from guppies to rhinoceroses, and held them out a car window at high speed, they would probably think it terrifying. Yet dogs think it’s the greatest thing since steak.

Paco hadn’t said a word in an hour.

Although humans and dogs are very different species, the comparisons between Paco and Spot were unavoidable. Quiet and shut down compared to loud and enthusiastic. Placid and without expression versus boisterous and expressive to a fault. Paco gave new definition to introverted. Spot was the essence of gregarious extrovert. If Paco had any dramatic personality qualities, they would be hard to discover. Whereas Spot was all drama, and his personality quirks and characteristics were inescapable. He imprinted himself on you even if you tried to ignore him.

At the desert floor, we turned north on the 395 freeway and took it up to downtown Reno. I got off 395 onto Mill and headed west to downtown, found a parking place near the Nevada Art Museum, and got out.

“C’mon, Paco. Time for a dose of art.”

He got out and stood, shoulders slumped, still lethargic after his lunch and nap.

I let Spot out and put Paco’s left hand on Spot’s collar.

“You’ve got hound duty, kid. Don’t let go of Spot. Remember how he heels? This is more practice.” As I said it, I worried that Spot might see something exciting and take off running. At 170 pounds to Paco’s 64, the result would be like a cowboy being dragged by a runaway horse.

We headed across the street and down the block. I walked on the other side of Spot. When we got near the museum, I saw a cop parked nearby, filling out what looked like a long form. She might be there awhile. Handy in case Salt and Pepper had managed to follow us.

We walked into the museum. They probably had a rule prohibiting dogs, but I didn’t see any sign.

I brought Paco over to a corner where we were out of sight from some of the windows.

Spot sat down, then slid his front paws forward, lowering himself to the ground. Paco was still holding onto his collar. He sank down to his knees as Spot lowered. Paco sat on the floor, then shifted a bit so that he could lean against Spot, his arm reaching sideways so that he could keep his grip on Spot’s collar.

A woman rushed up, scowling at me.

“Sir, I’m sorry but we don’t allow dogs in the museum.”

I gave her my best smile. “He’s a service dog. The law allows service dogs everywhere.”

She shook her head. “Service dogs have to wear the official bib. I know because my friend is blind, and she has a dog.”

“We forgot the bib. We had a meeting here with Marko V from UNR. I’m sure you know him. Anyway, we were half way down from Tahoe before we realized it. If I’d taken time to go back, we would have been late for our meeting, and Marko V would be annoyed.

The woman looked doubtful. “I don’t know any Marko V. What kind of a name is that, V? Anyway, my friend also told me that her service dog trainer says that service dogs are always from the medium size breeds so they can fit in elevators and such.”

“Usually, that’s true. But this dog was apparently so attentive to his job that the training school made an exception.”

As I said it, Spot rolled over onto his side, jerking his collar from Paco’s grip. Spot’s panting tongue flopped out onto the floor, the size and shape and look of a Kokanee salmon fresh-caught during spawning season when they turn bright red. He appeared to immediately go to sleep.

“You obviously don’t need a dog,” the woman said. “The dog serves the boy?”

I nodded. I tried to look solemn. “Yeah. Poor little William. Born deaf. And we haven’t had much success with sign language. But he’s smart. Trust me, I can tell these things. It’s only been a couple of days since William got the dog. But already they’re inseparable.”

The woman looked doubtful. “William can’t hear?” she said loudly, carefully watching Paco to see if he turned at the name. Paco didn’t show any reaction. He just stared at the floor.

I shook my head.

The woman’s reaction went from disbelief to sympathy. “We have a woman working here who signs. I’ll have her come out and work with William while you have your meeting.”

“Uh, no thanks. The boy is very shy. And he’s got, ah, a condition...”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s an unusual situation. The doctor says he should refrain from social interaction with strangers. It could really set him back.”

Behind the woman came a man in a suit.

“Tall guy. Red baseball cap,” the man called out as he raised up his index finger. “Gotta be Owen McKenna.”

“Marko,” I said, stepping past the woman to shake his hand. “Thank you for meeting me.”

The woman looked Marko over carefully, then raised her hand toward me in a little wave and left.

The man bent down in front of Paco. His shoes were black and freshly polished. “So your name is Paco Ipar.”

The boy wouldn’t meet Marko’s eyes. He looked vaguely at the floor.

I said, “As I mentioned on the phone, Dr. Mendoza, a doctor near Paco’s hometown, thought that Paco’s last name, Ipar, might be short for Iparagirre. He said that name refers to a house that faces the north wind.”

Marko nodded. “It is common for the Basque to name their houses like that. And in some cases, when a Basque family home is sold to new residents, the new residents will take the name of the residence as their new family name. Tell me, Paco,” Marko said. “Do you think that Iparagirre is a possibility for your last name?”

Paco shrugged. Affirmative version.

Marko straightened up and smiled. “If Iparagirre is Paco’s last name, this boy’s ancestors are certainly Basque. Many of the Basque, when they came west from the east coast of the U.S., headed to this part of the world, from Idaho down to Mexico City. They also went in significant numbers to Chile.”

I turned to Paco. “Has anyone ever said anything to you about being Basque?”

Paco made a nearly-imperceptible shake of his head.

I said to Marko V, “Paco was born in Mexico, orphaned in this country as a baby. We have no knowledge of any relatives. But we could look for other Iparagirres.”

“I’ve learned that some of the Basque in Tahoe eventually relocated to Mexico because their high-elevation range lands are great for raising sheep, and they don’t have the downside of heavy winters. So it’s possible that Paco is completing the circle. His lineage may include Tahoe. You could take him hiking up on the meadows of the East Shore mountains and show him the arborglyphs.”

“What are those?”