Desert Kill Switch ~ a Nostalgia City Mystery ~ Book 2 Page 6

  “Makes sense. Amanda, my PR coordinator, is going to get some temp help, and she’ll manage the booth. I’ll see what I can find out about the whole organization.”

  “Be careful. To state the obvious--I’m good at that--the person who shoved the knife into Mr. Busick is still out there. Maybe someone involved in this crazy street fair.”

  “I know,” Kate said, “I’ll move cautiously.” She leaned over and kissed him on the nose.

  Chapter 13

  Lyle had been gone about twenty minutes when Bruce showed up at the door with a bear hug and a moist, lingering kiss. Unlike Lyle, Bruce stood eye to eye with Kate. “Are you okay? That must have been horrible being in jail. Were you hurt?”

  “No the cops didn’t give me a going over like you see on TV, but they questioned me for a long time, gave me a rest, then started again.”

  As they stepped farther inside Kate’s hotel, room Bruce embraced her again, this time slowly running a hand down her back to grab her buttocks with an increasingly firm hold, pulling her against him. She started to become aroused almost against her will. Their sex life formed a big part of their relationship, but this time, Bruce’s touch made her wonder if flying up to Reno was as much about getting laid as it was to console her. She forced the thought away. She wanted him too, but now was not the time. They’d met three years ago when they were both coming off failed relationships. Bruce gave her space when she needed it, though he could be a good, silent listener. They both believed in staying physically fit and worked out together. Despite Bruce’s size and brawn, a playful little boy sometimes emerged, an endearing quality.

  Bruce had flown up from Las Vegas where he was in the final stages of selling their condo. The plan was for Bruce to quit his job and join Kate in Arizona where she now lived temporarily in an apartment near Nostalgia City. Recently, however, Bruce’s little boy seemed increasingly uneasy about following Kate to Arizona.

  “Bruce, sit down. Let me tell you what’s going on.”

  “Aw, Kate, I was so worried about you,” he said still holding her, his right hand roaming around her waist and over her hip.

  Bruce felt good, but her temporary incarceration and desire to avoid it again overpowered everything else. “C’mon. Stop for a minute.” She moved his hands from around her waist and took a step back. “The police think I killed this guy.”

  “Busick, the car dealer on TV?”

  “Yes, the very one.” Kate explained the situation in more detail than she’d been able to on the phone, including her scuffle with Busick the day before and then finding the body. “There’s lots of other of people who could have done this, but right now I’m the chief suspect. I need to find out who really killed him.”

  “You going to play detective again?”

  “I’m not playing anything. This is about my life.”

  “Sorry. It must be scary.”

  “Damn right,” she whispered.

  She walked over to the table that still held the room service plates and glasses and reached for the notes she’d made as she and Lyle talked. She wondered if Bruce would be curious about the two place settings.

  “I don’t know what the police are doing,” she said turning back to Bruce, “but I want to help myself.”

  “Okay. What can we do?”

  Pleased that Bruce knew instinctively she had to do something to get the police off her back, Kate wondered how much help he would be following her around if she questioned people. But she couldn’t leave him in her hotel room, so she changed quickly--so as not to give Bruce any ideas--putting on a favorite Anne Taylor pantsuit, and then headed out. Bruce sat in the passenger seat of her rental car as she drove to the RSD’s office. Rockin’ Summer Days was situated in the middle of a row of offices facing the parking lot. All the buildings in the complex had beige stucco facades and tile roofs. Low green hedges lined the concrete walkways. Except for small signs above the doors, or sometimes painted on the windows, all the offices looked alike.

  It hadn’t occurred to her until she and Bruce had parked and started walking toward the RSD’s door, that the police would still consider it “the scene of the crime.” She saw a county crime lab van parked in front, and as they got closer, the office door opened and out walked Tom Polhouse, the young detective who had questioned her the night before.

  “What’re you doing here?” he said. “Did you want to give us more information? You didn’t think you could get back in here, did you?”

  Kate stood in the parking lot and stared at the detective.

  “Who’s this?” Bruce said in a mildly hostile voice.

  “I might ask you the same question,” Polhouse said pulling his coat aside to expose his badge.

  “I wanted to talk to Chris Easley,” Kate said.

  “No you’re not. You’re making a big mistake if you talk to any person involved in this case. Stay out of it. I could bring you back in for questioning right now. Understand?”

  Kate realized going right back to the RSD office--and scene of the crime--was not a brilliant decision. She and Bruce turned and walked back to her car.

  Before she got in, a white Suburban with the RSD logo on the side passed them and parked a few spaces away. Chris Easley got out. Kate walked over.

  “Chris, could we talk for a few minutes?” Kate looked toward the office and couldn’t see Detective Polhouse.

  “I just have a few minutes, but sure, pretty lady.” He pointed to a small independent coffee shop across the lot. “Let’s go over there for coffee.” Easley hadn’t noticed Bruce at first and seemed surprised when she introduced him as a friend.

  Easley set a tablet computer, papers, and his cell phone on the table in front of him as they sat down with coffee. He wore a sport jacket over black jeans and seemed distracted. “I got just a few minutes. Al’s murder turned things upside down. And the media’s been on m’ back, pointin’ cameras at me. They want to know if this is going to affect RSD. What do they think, we’re going to stop everything?”

  Kate thought he sounded like Busick’s death was just an inconvenience, like a commercial time-out on the basketball court, just when your team got up to speed. Perhaps Easley read something on her face.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I know the police arrested you. I’m glad to see you’re out. I’m sure you couldn’t have had anything to do with this.”

  “Did you know that Al, Mr. Busick, accused me of wanting to steal RSD?”

  “That’s what he sounded like the other night, didn’t he, when he talked about you being our competition.”

  “Then the newspaper story.”

  “That reporter, Forrester, just quoted me about our registration totals. I didn’t tell him anything else. Don’t know where he got it.”

  “Who would want to expand RSD outside of Reno?” Kate said. “Who would benefit?”

  Easley looked over at Bruce, then back to Kate, and shook his head. Easley’s mouth naturally turned up at the corners so that even when he was serious, his expression hinted at a smile not far away. His youthful looks and smooth Texas accent seemed to suit a job that required socializing, negotiating, and massaging egos.

  “Did you see Mr. Busick yesterday?”

  “Yes. I saw him late afternoon at the office, then I left for the Gander reception at the Gold Mountain Hotel.”

  “I saw you leaving the hotel early, remember?”

  “We had a minor crisis about the drag races. I had to work something out. It took a couple of hours.”

  “I don’t know any nice way to put this, Chris,” Kate said trying to be friendly but firm and wishing Bruce was not there so she might smile and lay on a little charm. Just a little. “You used to run a car event in San Antonio. Would they like to share some of Reno’s event?”

  Easley truly smiled this time. “Mmm, not likely. I don’t say I burned my bridges--I don’t believe in that. But when I left to come here, some of the directors of Hot Cars Texas--that’s what it’s called--were not h
appy. No, they would not like to make a deal--”

  Before Easley could finish his thought, his phone started blaring a country song. “Sorry,” he said, “I have to take this.” He picked up his phone. “No,” he said. “The convention center opening is fine as is. Nothing’s changing. I don’t know what Al told them, but just stick to the schedule. Yeah, I’ll be over in Sparks this afternoon.” He set his phone down. “I’m going to have to go pretty soon. Where was I?”

  “Your Texas event,” Kate reminded him.

  “Yeah. It just wouldn’t work. They wouldn’t need me involved. They’re working to expand their event in other ways. Totally different from RSD.”

  “Do you know who might have done this?” said Bruce, who had been silently listening. “Who had something against Al Busick?”

  Kate had been about to ask the same thing. Instead she just smiled sympathetically at Easley and waited for his response.

  “We have to find out who did it,” Bruce added before Easley could answer, spoiling the silence that Kate hoped Easley would fill.

  “He’d been fighting with the county for some time, no secret there. But nothing that serious. He’s had problems with his dealerships, too. Lawsuits and like that. It’s been in the papers. Al told me he didn’t worry about it. Said people don’t realize the car business has changed a lot.”

  Easley gathered his things and got up.

  Kate touched his arm. “Chris, you know the position I’m in. If you think of anything that might help me, please let me know.” She made eye contact. “Or you could call the police and tell them, too.”

  He glanced at Bruce then back at Kate. “Sure, I’ll help ya any way I can.”

  Chapter 14

  Driving south from Reno, Lyle saw the blue Firebird. It flashed by him just as he took an off-ramp from I-580 in Carson City. He couldn’t back up or swerve around so he looked for the on-ramp. Had to follow that car. Then reality set in. “Forget it,” he told himself. “Lots of Firebirds around. And this isn’t Arizona.” Gripping the wheel tightly he turned on to a frontage road, heading for his destination.

  Kate had told him about the area being flooded with car buffs and their retro wheels. Driving from Reno, listening to an oldies radio station, he’d noticed a variety of vintage cars from the ’30s to the ’70s.

  Lyle discovered, without much effort, that Larry Quick was managing director of the Consumer Coalition of Nevada, a nonprofit lobbying group that championed everything from nondiscrimination to product safety and, obviously, consumer protection. The group’s office was in Carson City, Nevada’s capital, a small town just a forty-minute drive south of Reno. Lyle had called ahead to see if Quick would be in the office. He said he was looking into Busick’s death and tried to sound as official, yet as vague as he could. Quick agreed to see him at one thirty.

  The Consumer Coalition of Nevada occupied a former residence on a tree-lined street not far from the state’s modest silver-domed capitol. Walking toward the door, straightening his tie, Lyle tried to decide how best to identify himself. Just inside, a young woman and man, about college age, were working at a table, staring at computer screens. Lyle glanced to the left at what appeared to have been the front room of the house and was now a spacious office. A man in his mid-forties, with light hair and a high forehead, sat at a desk with a large relief map of Nevada on the wall behind him.

  “Larry Quick?” Lyle said, sticking his head in the office.

  Quick greeted Lyle with a smile and offered him a seat. Dressed in a blue chambray shirt with his tie unfastened, Quick had a large nose and expressive mouth. Soft eyes behind oval glasses gave him a thoughtful look. Given the nature of Quick’s business--looking out for the little guy--Lyle thought he was probably altruistic and decided to play it straight.

  “I’m investigating the death of Alvin Busick,” he said. “Before his death, Busick slandered the organization I work for, Nostalgia City. Now a colleague of mine, Kate Sorensen, has been questioned by police.”

  Lyle explained that Busick had accused NC of wanting to steal Rockin’ Summer Days. “Kate Sorensen came here just to work in our booth and tell people about our theme park. All of a sudden, she’s a murder suspect.”

  “I’m familiar with Mr. Busick,” Quick said hesitantly, “but what is it you want?”

  “According to your website, Mr. Busick was not exactly an outstanding citizen.” Lyle offered a slight smile. “For example, you talk about fraudulent loans.”

  “That’s true. On the record. His dealerships have been sanctioned by the authorities.”

  “What for?”

  “A variety of illegal practices. Interest rate disclosures, deceptive advertising. Other things.”

  “So, he may have some irate customers out there.”

  “Huh.” It was halfway between a grunt and a laugh. “You might say that.”

  Quick was obviously--and understandably--wary. Lyle leaned forward in his chair holding his hands palms up. “Mr. Quick, Kate Sorensen is a friend of mine. Her fiancée flew in today to comfort her. I’m helping out because I’m an ex-cop and we want to find out who killed Busick. Kate didn’t have anything to do with this. She’s not arrested, but the media stories make it sound like she’s the chief suspect.”

  Quick took a breath and seemed to relax slightly.

  “I just want to find out who might have had a motive to kill him. This excuse about stealing Rockin’ Summer Days is silly. I’d never even heard of RSD until we came here.”

  “So you want to know who might have a grudge against Busick.”

  That’s the picture. Lyle’s mouth a straight line, he nodded slightly.

  “Quite frankly, Al Busick was a crook. I guess I made that clear on my website. But everything I listed was the truth. He never even threatened to sue. Do you know who we are, what the CCN is?”

  “Just from what I read.”

  “Nevada is heavily pro-business. Nothing wrong with that. But with few taxes to support public services and protect vulnerable groups--and consumers in general--the least fortunate have a hard go of it. CCN supports such things as raising the minimum wage, improving our impoverished schools, reforming juvenile justice. Mr. Deming, I love Nevada, but our explosive growth brought with it social issues never envisioned in the early days.”

  Lyle didn’t want to interrupt since Quick seemed to be rolling, but where was he going? Lyle just said, “Ah.”

  “Okay, what’s this got to do with you? See, Al Busick was an example of so many wrong things. He played up his humble beginnings in Vegas back in the late ’eighties. Tried to sound like a Horatio Alger story, but he’s really an underhanded guy--was an underhanded guy. Instead of being sanctioned, he should have been put in jail.”

  “What else did he do?”

  “What didn’t he do? Have you ever heard of kill switches?”

  Lyle thought for a second.

  “It’s on cars,” Quick said. “If you’re a low-income person and you buy a car today, chances are you’ll finance it through the dealership and pay an exorbitant interest rate. Actually there’s a finance company behind the dealer. In the case of Busick, it’s APC Acceptance Corp. And they let the dealer tack on extra interest points for himself. Just gravy. On top of that, the dealer tries to sell you add-ons. Stuff like paint protection, undercoating, extended warranty. You don’t need any of that. In Nevada they even sell heat protection. That means they wax the car for you.”

  Quick, warming to his subject, continued.

  “By the time you drive off the lot, you owe way more than the car’s worth.”

  “He was a car dealer,” Lyle said. “You kind of assume--”

  “Wait, here comes the scary part. Unbeknownst to you, the dealer has installed a kill switch in the car. You miss your payment--even by a day or two--and someone at the finance company flips a switch and your car is dead. It won’t run. Sometimes they throw those switches when a car is moving. Can you imagine what could happen?”

&
nbsp; “Really?” Lyle said.

  “Yes. More than two million kill switches have been installed in cars in the US. You never heard of this? I thought you were a cop.”

  “I never worked fraud. I did homicide.”

  “This is homicide. Take the case of Maria Martins. Less than a year ago she was taking her child to the hospital in Vegas. The child had an asthma attack and couldn’t breathe. Mrs. Martins stopped on the way and when she tried to start the car again, it was frozen. She’d missed a loan payment by a few days. Way over one hundred degrees that day. She finally got help and got to the hospital, but too late. Her child died.”

  Lyle shook his head.

  “The finance company disputes all of this, of course. But this is what we’re trying to stop,” Quick said, “and all of it’s legal--or most of it.”

  “So what does this have to do with--”

  “Busick? He was the master. That’s how his dealerships operate--have for years.”

  “I guess not too many flags will be flying at half-staff in Vegas,” Lyle said. “A lot of people suing him?”

  “Plenty. But see, Busick had protection.”

  “Attorneys?”

  “Yeah, and a team of lobbyists. A legislative committee headed by Senator Patrick Teague tried to investigate Busick and his practices several times, but it went nowhere.”

  Lyle remembered some of this from his research.

  “Quite frankly, Patrick did all he could,” Quick said. “We got strong usury legislation introduced, too. But it never made it to the floor. Busick laughed at us. A year later he contributed a lot of money to candidates running against the senators who supported the legislation. And the campaigns were dirty. For example, they claimed that Patrick received treatment for a mental disorder and that a North Las Vegas senator got kickbacks from a contractor. But now, finally, we’re going to get those dealerships.”

  “But with Busick dead...”