Tahoe Ghost Boat (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller) Read Free Page A

past life on the San Francisco PD. It said that she would try anything regardless of the bodily risk to her except for one condition. That condition was if she realized that she had no chance of escape.
    Without turning from the woman, I said, “Spot, c’mere.” I clicked my fingers and patted my thigh. He appeared at my side.
    I pointed at the woman and said, “Watch her.”
    He looked at her then looked up at me.
    “I know, I’ve never told you to watch a skinny woman before. But trust me, she’s a bad guy.”
    Spot wagged, but he watched the woman.
    “I’ve seen some hard women, but you’re not like most of them,” I said.
    “Yeah, I don’t go for girls,” she said.
    “A straight girl who kicks butt,” I said. “Who woulda thunk?”
    “Screw you,” she said.
    Without taking my eyes off the woman, I pulled her Glock from my pocket, released the magazine, and pulled the slide back to eject the round. I put the pieces back in my pocket.
    “What do you want with Nadia?” I said.
    “Who’s Nadia?”
    “The woman you’re following,” I said.
    “Not your business,” the woman said.
    “Yeah, it is. If you don’t want to talk, I’ll call Commander Mallory at the South Lake Tahoe PD and explain that I’ve got you and your sidearm, which I imagine will not be registered to you. What about a concealed carry permit? You got one of those?” I gestured out toward the highway and her Buick SUV. “Sweet ride, too. You must do well to afford that. Or did you borrow it?”
    She stared at me, her face unmoving.
    “Not good,” I said. “It won’t be hard to find your parole officer. You’ll be back inside as soon as they do the paperwork.”
    She thought about it, making a dismissive head-shake.
    “Nadia,” I called over my shoulder. “You better get your car before it gets towed. Call me later.”
    I heard the click of her heels as she hurried back out toward the gondola and the street beyond.
    I flipped open the woman’s wallet and pulled out the driver’s license. It was a California issue and said her name was Amanda Horner. The birth date put her age at 32.
    “Pretty good ID,” I said. “The photo is clear, but the bar code looks like it’s got Vaseline on it. And the stock isn’t stiff enough. Your boss needs to upgrade his provider.” I closed the wallet and put it in my pocket. “What’s your job?”
    She looked at me, thinking. If Spot weren’t at my side, I would have taken a step back to prepare for a surprise move. As it was, I stayed close, which maybe made my height more intimidating. But she seemed a hard case. Maybe nothing intimidated her outside of giant dogs with large teeth.
    “I was just supposed to follow her and report the time and her location,” she said. “I didn’t break no law. You give me my gear and let me go, I won’t tell my boss. You take my stuff, he’s gonna come after you.”
    It sounded like a calculated answer. But it could be true.
    “Consider me warned. Who do you work for?” I asked.
    She didn’t speak.
    “Answer my question or I call Mallory,” I said.
    She gave me the hard look of someone who’d grown up in juvie.
    “I don’t know his name,” she said.
    “How do you get assigned your jobs?”
    She hesitated. “Email.”
    “What’s the address it comes from?”
    “A Hotmail account. Some letters and numbers. I could never remember it.”
    “How do you report your progress?”
    “Email.”
    “How do you get paid?”
    “Cash drop on designated days,” she said. No hesitation now. “Three in the morning. Location changes each time.”
    “Where?”
    “Sacramento.”
    “How does it work?”
    “He puts my pay in trash cans. I wear old clothes, make like I’m homeless. Dig it out.”
    I pulled out the woman’s phone. “I can call your friends. Someone will know how to reach him.”
    “It’s got a pass-code lock,” she said.
    “That’s no problem for law enforcement,” I lied. “The carriers give them a universal